"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
Still, the shadow-wolf has not revealed himself. It has been days now since she last heard the soft, sardonic edge of his voice in her head. She aches for him, the shadow-thing, as he had been the last thing tethering her to her father. (Other than her innate ability to manipulate the fog, though she so rarely exercises this ability because the fog had always seemed to belong exclusively to him.)
And she knows now that she should not miss her father as fiercely as she does. But she is a thing of Love, Neuna, and he had designed her that way, hadn’t he? Doesn’t that have to mean something?
She has stopped looking for the wolf by now, though it pains her to admit defeat. He will come back someday, she thinks, or has to believe. But she does not know exactly what it was that drove him off in the first place. How can she call out an apology to him if she does not know what she is apologizing for?
She wanders now through the meadow, the creatures here cast in that white halo of light by the wrongness of her eyes. (Eros would not cast the same glow, she knows, but it does not stop her from scanning the landscape in search of him, just once.)
In her cursory glance, her eyes land on something else entirely. A winged stallion racing across all that open space, bucking, happy. For a moment, she merely watches him, her own mouth bent softly around a smile. (She is a girl born from dark things, but there is a light in her, too. A light she’d inherited from her mother.) She ventures closer, head tilted, smiling still. And then she laughs out loud, her worry momentarily forgotten.
“You’re happy!” she calls to him, as if he does not already know this. And she tilts her head, studying him, and asks, “are you in love?” Because what else could inspire such happiness?
The laugh is soft as a cloud and quiet like the gentle babble of a nearby brook, but it is enough to capture his attention. He comes to a stop and a quick glance around reveals several others occupying the meadow, but there is only one looking directly at him, moving toward him, speaking to him.
Happy? If left to his own limited emotional vocabulary, it is not the word he would have chosen to describe his current frame of mind, but now that she mentions it, it seems rather appropriate. And recent in development, as well.
He had moped for some time after returning from his quest, lamenting the loss of the only lifestyle he’d known while coming to terms with the fact that he was an ineffectual man in more ways than one. But things are different now, he is different now. Yes, a scrap of his old self remains, for it is virtually impossible to fully scrub away years of one’s constitution, but his new self is at least open to the constant changes that Beqanna brings.
He opens his mouth to respond to her, but it quickly snaps shut and his jaw sets tightly when her question flicks out quick as a frog’s tongue after a tasty morsel. He is not angry, but he is caught off guard by her query, as it is the one thing that he’s not been willing to address yet.
This is the second time in a relatively short span of time that someone has asked him about being in love. First, he’d been asked about Demise, his favorite partner from the old days. He hadn’t admitted to loving her because that just didn’t seem like the right way to describe the chaos that they had created together. It didn’t fit with the kind of man he had been then.
And now.. now his thoughts drift back to the red and gold woman once again, not that they’d strayed far from her anyway. It feels dishonest to say that he loves her, for they are still strangers in the grand scheme of things, but he certainly enjoys passing the time in her company. Perhaps someday they might find themselves in love’s embrace, but for now,
“No, I can’t say that I am in love.. but I suppose I am rather happy.”
His eyes skim over her distinct form, appreciating the uniqueness that Beqanna’s new blood has stamped on her. He is still adjusting to such otherworldly appearances, but he does not stare in shock quite as much anymore. He smiles gently, both in the pleasure her aesthetic brings, and in friendly greeting.
“My name is Assailant. Thank you for bringing the happiness to my attention…?”
His head tips toward her, leaving a questioning gap so that she might fill it with her own name.
No, he tells her, it is not love that has brought him such happiness. Her brow furrows in confusion, her fine head tilted, as she considers this. (She is a thing constructed of love, though not from love, and love is perhaps the only thing that makes any sense at all.)
He tells her his name, thanks her for something that requires no thanks, invites her to share her name in turn. “Neuna,” she tells him, smiling still, despite the way she frowns with the effort it takes to understand what else might have inspired such unfettered happiness.
There is a pause then as she casts a glance around them, as if she might find the answer to her unasked question in the swaying meadow grasses. (She feels a sharp stab of guilt, too, as she realizes that she has interrupted his coltish display, the freedom that had seized him. But she does not dwell on this. For once. For, as a thing of love, she is also a thing made to let her guilt fester, to overwhelm her, to eat at the meat of her heart like some kind of vicious rot.)
She stares at the horizon, studying all of the things her bright white eyes cast in that soft glow, and then finally asks, “what is it, then?” It’s asked in some far away voice, thoughtful, introspective. Because love is the only thing that has ever brought her any significant kind of happiness. Because love is perhaps the root cause of any happiness (and sadness, too, but she does not allow herself to think of this now) she has ever felt. Love for her sisters, her parents, the shadow-wolf she has only recently lost.
“If it’s not love,” she elaborates, finally drawing her gaze back to him, “what could have possibly made you so happy?” It is not an accusation. She asks it shyly, curiously. Because she wants to understand the things that matter to others.
He watches the stringed markings seem to tangle between her eyes as she processes what he’s said. It does seem strange that he would thank her for drawing attention to the joy behind his antics, but it makes perfect sense to him. After spending a lifetime in complacency and another interred by sheer accident, happiness is a new feeling for him and he is quietly pleased that it is apparent to others.
As her eyes move along the landscape, he allows his own to do the same, letting the silence swell in the space between them. He does not mind the quiet, for he never has at any point in his life, and he takes the opportunity to appreciate the simple beauty of the meadow.
His old life had revolved around very few things, none of them included stopping to notice the subtle pops of color that the flowers painted against the lush green backdrop, the gentle aromas stirred by the slightest movements, the mindless drone of insects dashing to and fro, the mostly pleasant calls of the birds swooping to the next branch.
There are a lot of things that he has missed out on, and though resistant at first, he is now grateful for the events that have begun to reshape his way of thinking.
And here, perhaps, is the most logical answer to her question.
“Well, maybe I should rephrase. Not in love in the typical sense, but rather, falling in love with life itself.”
“It’s hard to describe, but I’ve spent a long time just scraping by.. never really paying attention to things that should matter. Now I am, and I’m surprised to find that I rather enjoy it.”
He turns slightly and gestures subtly toward a partially obscured path in the grass. “Walk with me, Neuna? Tell me what makes you happy..”
assailant
"The comfort zone is always the most desirable place to be. But in settling for comfort, there is a price to pay and it comes in the death of ambition, of hope, of youth, and the death of self." -Simon Barnes
