"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
Perhaps it is better for them to engage in these half-truths with one another. These half-truths that are folded into lies. They give each other just enough to promise that it’s not a complete falsehood. Just enough to be believable, but they soften it. They pretend his tragedy is fun, even though the discuss the tragedy itself. They pretend she is making sense when she can barely keep her emotions straight.
And perhaps that is the way it is meant to be.
Perhaps it is the only way things can be.
So she doesn’t call out the strangeness of their interaction or question him when he smiles and lies with his eyes about the game he plays. And she smiles in return when he tells her that what she is saying makes sense. Even if what he says makes sense, in its own way. “We do,” she affirms and then questions herself again. Did the night choose her? Did the darkness? Or did she chase after it? Did it matter which was the pursuer in the end? Or was the only thing that mattered the end result. Who she was.
She smiles, rolling a delicate shoulder and glancing up to confirm that it was indeed still night and that they had several hours to go before he would have to play his game once more.
Nemeon is grateful for the fact that Baptiste does not make an excuse to leave - just the opposite, she asks what he'd like to do and says they have some time left. Will she stay with him until he turns in the morning? So far no one but his family has witnessed it, and while it does feel a little personal - he doesn't think he'd mind having someone else there.
Or maybe she'll disappear before the night truly ends, off to find some shadows somewhere where she will wait out the day.
There's still several hours to go before that decision needs to be made and there is one facing him right now that demands his attention. He’s never tried to entertain someone else before (his twin hardly counts, she didn’t have a choice but to humour him) and he has no idea if his usual ways of spending the night would be considered boring by anyone else.
Old enough to recognize that he could easily get lost in those self-conscious thoughts if he didn’t stop them, the bat-winged colt decides to just try. Either she’ll find him boring or she won’t, no point in worrying about it (too much).
His voice is thoughtful as his gaze moves from the shadows around them back to her - looking at her rose-gold eyes now instead of her halo (and it isn’t even with that much effort). “Have you seen much of this forest? I could show you my favourite spot.” The weather is good for where his mind goes but he’s not sure about the hour. He’s usually there a little earlier but there should be plenty of time.
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.
Is it kinds for her to stay? Is it kindness for her to want to be there when the sun hits him and strikes him down? To hold him in a place of stone? She isn’t certain. There is an oily uncertainty in her belly that it is selfish and wrong for her—that she is staying for the wrong reasons. There there is a darkness in her that is drawn to such terrible things and that she has a gift for masking them behind a pretty smile.
But she is too weak to suss out the truth so quickly.
Too weak to face such demons just yet.
So she smiles at him and dips her head and follows his gaze to look at what captures his attention. When it lands back on her, she does her best to not fidget or shuffle her wings or try to draw his gaze anywhere else again. She just stands pinned beneath it, hoping that he doesn’t see more of her than she offers.
“I haven’t,” she answers and it is mostly honest—mostly the truth. She has wandered through much of the trees and shadows but it is usually when she is deep in thought. When she barely knows where her legs are taking her. She hadn’t been paying attention then and so she feels little guilt over this white lie.
She tips her head to the side in consideration.
“Would you show me? I’d like to see the good here.”
Even though she had been the one to ask what he would like to do with the time they had left, Nemeon still feels a bit of relief when Baptiste shows interest in seeing his favourite spot. “Of course, follow me.”
Nemeon doesn’t make many attempts to fill the space between them with words as he leads Baptiste through the woods. He is not normally prone to idle chatter though he probably would be tonight if he could think of a single topic. But he can’t, he’s too worried about whether there will be anything interesting in the spot he’s leading Baptiste to. Even without his voice, though, the night is not silent. There are other creatures moving around in the woods, making faint rustling noises as they pass over leaves and by branches. There’s the occasional rumble of a conversation but Nemeon is too focused on not getting lost that he does not focus enough to eavesdrop.
Finally the trees ahead clear and he glances over to Baptiste with a small, nervous grin. Now's the point where he’s about to find out whether the things that bring him joy are boring or not.
“It’s probably not surprising why I like this spot.” He tells her in a quiet voice as he stops just outside of the treeline. Ahead of them is a small clearing and it is dancing with the firefly colony that lives here. He’s glad they are still out - the bright little yellow lights fade when it gets too late. “A little bit of light in the darkness.”
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.
If he doesn’t fill the silence, then she certainly feels no urge to do so. She is content to sit in the quiet, to walk alongside him and let the rest of the world fill up those spaces where they do not. She is grateful, in a way, that he does not chatter at her—does not force such conversation upon her. Baptiste is such a quiet, serious girl that she is not certain that she could handle such a thing. Not certain she would allow it.
(Would she run? Would she just end the conversation? She’s not sure.)
But he doesn’t and thus she says. She walks idly, tail flicking behind her, her wings folded gracefully over her slender back. Every once in a while, her rose gold eyes slide to him and she studies his young profile, wondering what exists beneath the surface. Once or twice, she thinks that she might feel something. A whisper of emotion that is not her own. Something that feels alien. But she tells herself it is imagined.
She could not possibly know what he is feeling.
Could not possibly pick up on such things.
It is only when they come to the place where he leads that she says anything at all. Her eyes widen with youthful wonder, a glimpse at the girl she was made to her perhaps, and she steps forward into the dancing lights. Her nose lifts and she closes her eyes in pleasure as they dance around them.
“It’s like magic,” she whispers under her breath. “Absolute magic.”
