"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
“For what?” She asks and Nemeon does not answer right away. He lets that question hang in his mind for a few moments. It has not ever gotten easier, explaining that side of him. Because it is vicious and cruel and Nemeon has no desire to be either of those things. That his body could cause harm that he does not consciously wish to inflict is of the highest betrayal.
He forgets, for a moment, what it is that they are searching for - because he is so thickly wrapped up in his own thoughts. Half enjoying having the company, half reminding himself that he should, at the very least, warn her. Because he wants to be her friend, but he can't be - not if she doesn't know the dangers of it.
And as tempting as it always is to avoid the subject just to enjoy someone's presence for a while - not saying anything makes him feel cruel, because then he is taking a more active part in the harm he can cause.
It is both possible to hurt someone by not telling them, and by telling them, and Nemeon grows bitter over this trap of an existence.
“I’m glad to have met you too, Neuna.” And though he does smile when he says this, because it is true, it fades away. “I wish I could spend the whole night searching for your friend with you, but I… I shouldn’t stay too much longer.” He knows he still has more time, or at least he’s pretty sure - it’s been a while since he’s had any more than quick, passing conversations with someone else.
A shadow ahead causes him to pause, distracts him, but it is merely an overly large raccoon that passes through a shrub and them works its way up a tree, it’s eyes glinting in the low-light.
NEMEON
Nemeon is radioactive
Those that touch him may experience metallic taste, nosebleed, nausea, headache, hair loss and/or skin lesions.
Symptoms become worse with prolonged exposure and onset is accelerated when exposed to his blood.
It’s not lost on her that he does not answer or that the quiet that follows stretches and stretches until she feels no urge to disturb it. She is a simple thing, certainly, but she is not foolish. She knows that there must be some reason he doesn’t want to elaborate, so she does not press him. She merely accepts the silence as an answer in itself.
He returns her sentiment, drawing her gaze back to his face, and she notes that his smile flickers and fades so quickly that it’s as if it had not been there at all. (She feels her heart twinge, feels it sink, knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that she’s said something wrong. She’s done something wrong. And the reality of it tangles itself into an anxious knot in the pit of her gut.)
He says then that he shouldn’t stay and her throat constricts. (She remembers, in flashes, an encounter at the edge of the river. The anger she’d found there and how it had stung like rejection. But the creature she’d met that day had not tried to disguise his anger, his bitterness, he had made absolutely no effort to be her friend. He certainly had not told her that he was glad to have met her). She draws in a shuddering breath just as he startles and she follows his gaze to the raccoon.
And, despite the sudden ache in her chest, she laughs.
She laughs out loud at the sight of the thing as it shuffles up the trunk of a tree.
She laughs and the knot in her gut dissolves.
And the smile remains even after she’s gone quiet, even after she’s turned her focus back to him. “You’re a mystery, Nemeon,” she tells him. “Will I see you again?” she asks, tilts her head. “I promise I won’t ever try to touch you again,” she vows, that smile turning crooked, self-conscious.
