"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
Even though wandering out of Ischia during the winter had turned out pretty great last time, Eugene had easily adapted a habit of sticking to the more tropical regions of Beqanna during the colder months and only venturing out once the sun had decided to stop being so coy.
And now, FINALLY, he could wander and feel comfortable. He never had managed to grow a winter coat yet and he was happy to continue just not having that experience. Cut down on the shininess of his coat? No way!
The drawback was, of course, that Eugene gets to the rest of Beqanna and doesn’t know what to do or where to even start. It’s a little bit bigger than the islands, you know, and it’s easy for a boy to get lost.
Like today! Everything looked the same to him on the mainland and next thing he knew he was standing in a sea of flowers and grasses. Which was, of course, pretty - but also pretty damn inconvenient when it came to figuring out where he was. He couldn’t remember which side of the islands the sun set on so the fact that it was setting down didn’t even help either. I mean it all depended on where you were standing, right?
At least he has his trusty glow! The soft purple light extends around him, reliant and punctual as ever whenever the sun sets.
He lowers a muzzle and brushes idly at some of the nearby blossoms. “I don’t suppose you know where I am, do you?” He asks them as they stir in the dusk breeze. Unfortunately, flowers aren’t known for their conversation skills so he’s still sitting in his own silence, frowning at the sky as if that will help. It’s gotta help eventually, right?
— I’ve been falling through the dream-mine and I'm hoping at the bottom all the mountains of coins I've thrown have bought the wish I cast them for —
The sun is setting in the distance, but she does not pay it much attention.
The colors were all strange and warped, muted where she knows they are supposed to be vibrant. She knows, only because her sister used to tell her; Flower had always loved to describe the full beauty of their world to her, to paint her a better canvas than what her eyes showed her.
But when Tangled is alone, she does not let herself think too much about the colors. She can look at something and know it is lovely, no matter what color her eyes tell her it is.
Like him.
He is dark against the grass, with a peculiar glow that radiated from his skin. There are objects nestled in his mane, and it reminds her of the delicate flowers scattered throughout her red hair, but she does not think his are flowers.
She is drawn to him like a magnet, letting herself be pulled towards him by some strange gravity she was not familiar with. She almost wishes Flower were here, to find the words to adequately describe the color of his skin and the shells – she can see that now, they are seashells – that are tangled in his hair.
But there is also a small part of her that is secretly delighted to have this one treasure all to herself.
“The meadow,” she answers for him even though he is not asking her, and there is a smile on her face when his eyes lift to the seafoam green of hers. “Where did you get the shells in your mane?” She asks him, and unthinking, she reaches out to touch one with her red nose, mindful of the tines of her antlers.
There is a moment where Eugene is certain that it is the flowers responding to his question and letting him know he's in the meadow. He glances from the sky back down to them, his golden-yellow eyes widening a bit, and just as he's wondering whether he's somehow learned to talk to plants - he realizes his mistake and his eyes lift up again to meet hers.
There is another, shorter, moment where Eugene wonders if it was the flowers in her mane that spoke but this is quickly labelled nonsense and dismissed.
An easy smile quickly soothes away all traces of confusion. At least re: the flowers. Despite now knowing he is in the meadow, he has no idea what that means in relation to home.
But Eugene is really only focused on the proximity of the pretty girl before him as she leans forward to touch one of his seashells and he gets the opportunity to admire the delicate, star-like flowers in her mane up close.
It is then that he realizes he has been dazzled into silence and finally snaps out of it.
His voice is a little too loud at first but he quickly corrects his volume and it matches this casual but bright smile perfectly. "They're from my mom! They've grown there as long as I can remember but she's got them too." They make a fun clinking noise when he shakes his mane but Eugene refrains from displaying this, at least having enough sense to realize that'd be a good way to hit the antlered girl in the face. "What about your flowers?"
— I’ve been falling through the dream-mine and I'm hoping at the bottom all the mountains of coins I've thrown have bought the wish I cast them for —
His happiness is magnetic, and she finds herself glad to be drawn in by that gravitational pull. She is unfamiliar with hardships and darkness, having been raised in the warm protection of two loving parents on the bright sands of Tephra. The light is all she has ever known, and she finds herself cautious of things that feel heavy and dark. It’s why she did not venture out much beyond what she has grown comfortable with; the tales woven around Beqanna seemed more like nightmares than fairytales, and Tangled was content to tuck herself away from it all, spinning dreams and fantasies in her mind.
She is reminded though that it can be rewarding to breach the confines of her own imaginary bubble. Her dreams can only get her so far.
She laughs at his enthusiasm, a light and easy sound, and slowly she withdraws her nose from where it had lingered near his mane. “They’re beautiful,” she tells him earnestly, watching him with quiet but curious eyes. Her neck curves as if to try and touch one of the small white flowers that clings to a long tendril of mane, before she turns her seafoam-green eyes back to him and answers, “Mine are from my mother, too. I always thought hers were much prettier than mine.” She gives her head a small shake, sending the flowers rippling through the strands of her red mane. “My name is Tangled, by the way.”
