[open] The dark of December

[Pteron]

and since you’re the only one that matters,----------------
----------------tell me: who do i run to?

Around them, snow begins to fall.

It is soft but heavy, and glittering so prettily that Pteron half wonders if Aegean had followed him after all. But no, the flakes that land on his nose are cold and real enough, and he wonders if they feel better or worse on Neverwhere’s ruined hide. With her not likely to give a coherent answer anytime soon, the pegasus flares his broad wings until the wrists of his wings meet. The two of them are shielded by a feathered canopy, and while the position is not especially comfortable for the dun, he imagines it is far less than the pain Neverwhere feels.

She seems to be waking up, or at least she meets his eyes. They are not clear, he thinks; she looks like she is still mostly asleep. But at least the mare nods and begins to draw her legs beneath her. At her cough (Pteron doesn’t recognize it as a laugh) he steps back, allowing her what space she might need to stand. Hesitant to move too far away lest she need him, the olive-eyed stallion nods to affirm her recognition.

“The one and only,” he tells her with a charming smile. It’s Wolfbane’s smile, but not the many-toothed one he had worn when ripping into the white-faced mare. It has taken him a rather long time to recognize the scent, but when Neverwhere asks if he wants to know what his father’s eyes taste like, everything clicks into place.  The smile disappears as quickly as it had arrived, and perhaps that is part of why Neverwhere apologizes so quickly. Pteron’s stomach clenches uncomfortably, but the flood of guilt that might have once overtaken him at the thought of leaving Taiga undefended is now little more than a soft lapping at his ankles.

Not his fault, he reminds himself.
Not his responsibility. He had warned them when he left nearly two years gone that they were unprepared and the news of monsters freely roaming in the north and east confirms they had not heeded his words.
Not his fault.

Neverwhere has managed to stand, though she still leans heavily for support against the blood-marked tree. Pteron takes a slow breath, and glances beneath the fathers of his wings. The snow continues to fall, and the thick clouds overhead promise an impressive amount of accumulation come nightfall.

“Do you think you can walk to a healer?” he asks, forcing himself to focus on the most immediate needs. “Do you know of a healer, even? Rumor says there’s a waterfall hidden in the Tephran jungle; it might be magical enough to fix you.”

@[Neverwhere]

-- pteron --