"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
Nemeon is exhausted from waking up and finding that the world has changed. The fear he used to experience as a youth has only heightened over the last few years - ever since he woke up underwater once, his statue-self crumbling down with the land where he had thought he would be safe. The water hadn’t been terribly deep, considering, but he cannot forget what it was like to take that first breath and feel the water rush in - to see the moonlight but only as hazy rays filtering down towards him.
He has been on edge for the last few years - it feels like the lands change again just as soon as he begins to relax.
And here it has happened again. Some of the lands look the same as before, which bizarrely is more concerning than it is comforting. Now he's watching the trees and rocks, and the land beneath his hooves, wondering whether it's going to move again.
It's probably irrational for him to cast a sideways glance towards the autumn-coloured trees that are growing here, perfectly healthy, despite the fact that it is spring everywhere else. He has wandered this forest so many times in his life but this is new and now he is suspicious of it all.
A low, quiet grumble escapes him as he walks past a maple with fiery-red leaves and doesn't even pause to wonder what they must look like beneath the sun. It is early in the night still and he has many hours left to enjoy - or to spend in his usual disquiet, focusing on disagreements with moonlit trees rather than dig to any deeper thoughts that are hiding within his lonely soul.
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.
“Eros!” she calls into the dark, but the wolf is gone, dissolved into the shadows.
(He had turned his head so swiftly toward the horizon that it had startled her. But he had left her with no indication of what had drawn his attention, what it was that he chased into the night. And she had scrambled to follow him but he could not be slowed, could not be called back.)
In the silence that follows, her heart constricts, tightening like a fist in the cage of her chest. (And she remembers when her mother had spirited the Fates out of Pangea, how she had mourned the trio of shadow wolves they’d had to leave behind, how the girls had conspired to retrieve them. How, other than the fog, the wolf was the last thing that connected her to her father. Right now, she misses the wolf in the same way she misses her sisters, her mother.)
She blinks into the darkness and wonders, not for the first time, if she might find the Reaper watching her. But she finds something else altogether. Another dark figure, though this one is winged and shot through with gold.
“Oh,” she says, her mouth softening around a smile as she studies him and the eyes (unnatural, unhealthy) cast him in a soft glow even in the dark. “Hi,” she adds, “you haven’t seen a wolf come through here, have you?”
Nemeon is not left alone with his thoughts for long, which is a good thing even if it comes with other anxieties - like ones that keep him from drawing too close despite the joy that fills his heart the instant he is not alone even just for a moment.
The pale mare's soft smile is easy to match, coaxing a small one into his golden eyes. He’s fascinated by her glowing eyes, though he tries not to stare at them too directly or too much so he does not frighten her away. Any little bit of light in his world of darkness draws his attention just like it would to a moth - and he is just as likely to get burned by this impulse as those soft-winged creatures.
Luckily for these potentially spiraling thoughts, he’s distracted by her question - if he had guessed, it wouldn’t have been that. Nemeon blinks, and his smile disappears because he’s not sure how to react and his confusion is evident in his voice “A wolf?” And he looks around, just to be sure that his response is the absolute truth. “No.”
His curiosity quickly overrides anything else and then he cannot help but to ask quizzically. “Are they a friend or a foe?” She doesn’t look like she is frightened, but Nemeon knows fear can show many faces.
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.
How swiftly the smile dissolves! And how sweetly she laughs at his confusion.
(She forgets that there are things worth fearing. Dark things, evil things, things designed only to bring harm. She forgets because these are the things she has always loved the most, fiercely. Starting, perhaps, with her father.)
His confusion distracts her from the worry that plagues her, the thought that Eros might be gone for good this time.The soft peals of laughter dissolve around a grin as he glances into the darkness around them.
No, he says, and her heart twinges but she thinks it must be all right. She is a fully adult thing now, she cannot rely on the creature for comfort anymore, even if he is the last thing (other than all that fog) that connects her to her father. She must learn, eventually, how to be all right on her own.
“Friend,” she answers, smiling still. “My best friend,” she adds, though her pale cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought that her sisters might somehow know that she’s said this.
She draws in a breath and studies him then. “What are you doing out here all alone in the dark?”
Her laughter is bright and sweet and he does not feel foolish for having caused it. The wolf is a friend - a best friend - and Nemeon feels more jealousy than anything else in that moment. He finds he does not want to hold onto that harsh emotion as soon as it arises, at least, and so he buries it quickly where it will needle at his brain later once they have parted.
“In that case, maybe I can help you find him?” It feels only natural for him to offer - at the very least, they could wander a little and heighten the chances of finding him. “Do they…” He pauses for a moment, a little taken aback by the realization that he doesn’t know whether ‘does he look like other wolves’ is a helpful question or not. Perhaps this is all a little embarrassing to admit but Nemeon finds that he doesn’t mind, and grins a little at his own lack of knowledge. “Do wolves come in different colours? Will your friend be easy to spot?” Nemeon had never paused to wonder this before. He knew wolves existed and occasionally heard their serenades during his moonlit wanderings, but he had never been up close with one before.
When she asks about what he’s done alone at night, Nemeon does his best to keep from wincing externally.
His denial about how truly lonesome he has runs deep within him, and he is unwilling to confront that now - when his company offers sweet smiles. So he gives her a small smile in return, and hopes it comes across as warm instead of sad. “Oh… well. The night is when I can be out looking for friends. Or wolf-friends. I couldn’t be much help at all if you were looking for your wolf during the day.” Considering their activity during the night he could reasonably assume wolves were nocturnal like him, though he also assumed it was safe to bet they could move in daylight if the need arose.
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 softens her (though, this is no huge feat for a thing so soft already) that he should be so eager to offer his help. (Remember that she is more familiar with the dark things, the menacing things, the things more prone to showing their teeth. But she is a thing built for love, softness, and how her heart swells to be on the receiving end of such selflessness!
Her delight shows on her face, she’s certain of it, as she makes absolutely no attempt to hide it. There is no sense in being embarrassed by her joy. “I would love that,” she says. Though he is a perfect stranger. Though she knows for absolute certain that Eros will be even more evasive if she has company. (Always such a jealous thing, Eros, always a thing more prone to showing his teeth.)
Nothing about his question strikes her as silly, perhaps because she knows that Eros (and the two others just like him) are not ordinary wolves. “He’s quite easy to tell from other wolves, but might not be quite as easy to spot in the dark. He’s a shadow-thing,” she glances into the darkness rolling softly away from them. Eros throws a soft glow sometimes, too, though not in the same way that solid things do. Not in the same way this winged stranger does.
There is something troubling in his answer. Something that furrows her soft brow, briefly wrinkling the twin threads between her eyes. She turns to him then, fine head tilted, and studies him. “Are you not allowed out during the day?” she asks, though he looks as adult as she feels and she cannot imagine who might have power enough to stop him. “Or is that you simply don’t like it?”
She accepts his offer of help, and Nemeon is thrilled for the chance to attempt to be useful. Even if it may be difficult - considering her description of her friend - but he is fascinated by the idea of such a creature so he hopes they are able to find them.
The grey and gold stallion begins to move off to begin (for him, continue for her) the search for the shadow-wolf, pausing only to make sure she joins. But he is careful, as always, to ensure a polite amount of space exists between their bodies. His desire for companionship does not cancel out the fact that he is inherently dangerous. Their time together has already begun to run out, a timer ticking constantly in the back of his mind as he has to remain conscious of proximity and exposure length.
There is so much, too much, twisting in his mind all the time - but whatever anxiety it causes him, at least he can do his best to not harm anyone else.
And does his best to make sure as little of that constant anxiety seeps outwards as possible - trying to appear completely calm. His wings are folded neatly at his sides and his golden eyes begin to scan the shadows around them, waiting to see if something wolf-shaped stands out from the rest. It is good to have something to talk about as they travel, even if that thing is his complicated relationship with daylight.
“The first of those, I suppose. I have never seen it to know whether I would like it or not.” Just once has he seen the sun, in a memory that has turned fond for him now that time has passed but was so painful at the time - a friend who accidentally made herself into the sun. The image of it haunts him still, appearing in his mind, and he wonders if he would dream of it if he could sleep.
It is a sweet haunting more than a malicious one. Sometimes it even brings him comfort, knowing that he has at least once known what it felt like to be touched by the sun’s light.
Now he explains his reality to this friend of shadow-wolves. Although it does pain him, it is the least painful of the curses he bears. He will always long for the sun because he can never see it, but the radioactivity is so much worse. “I turn into stone when the sun rises, and do not become a conscious breathing thing again until it sets.”
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.
They move through the darkness in a companionable sort of quiet, each of them peering into deep pockets of shadow. (She does it almost purely for show, as she knows that they will not find him like this. He may be lurking nearby, but he will not reveal himself unless he senses some kind of danger. Overprotective by design, he flashes his teeth at the slightest provocation. But this stranger, whose name she realizes rather abruptly she does not know, does not seem to pose any sort of threat. No, they will not find him tonight, not like this.)
And then he answers and she shifts her focus from the darkness to her companion. As they walk, she studies him more closely. The gray shot through with all that gold, the folded wings, the curve of horns. She studies him, every inch of him cast in that soft halo of white light, and blinks back her surprise.
Her expression, which had been passive, buckles. (It is not pity, though. Neuna is a thing of love, first and foremost, but she is also a proud thing. She would never sink so low as pity. Empathy, certainly. Because, for as much as the sun makes it so difficult for her to see much at all, she adores it. For as much as she loves the dark things, she finds comfort in the day.)
She is quiet a long moment in the wake of his admission, pondering. Finally, she lets loose a breath and searches his face in the dark. “That must be lonely,” she says, shifting her focus then to the moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, “that must be so terribly lonely.”
She reaches for him then. (Unaware, oblivious to the danger of it.) She does not need to touch him for the metallic taste of blood (why blood? Iron?) to gather on her tongue and she pulls abruptly away. Does not mention it. Thinks perhaps it is merely some sort of defense mechanism because there are so many forms of magic she does not understand. It had been foolish of her to try to comfort someone who had not indicated that they needed any comforting at all.
Terribly lonely is the perfect way to describe Nemeon’s life - though that has very little to do with the fact that he is a night-creature. “There are worse things.” He quietly says in response to her - and he never would have guessed how quickly that worse would come up.
But of course he should have. His guard should never be down. He knows this.
She reaches for him and although Nemeon knows better he does not move away fast enough. She cannot know how it is not his prison of nighttime that makes him lonely, but his own poisonous body - and he so desperately wishes to exist in a world where he can be comforted, or give comfort, and not cause more harm.
There is so much that he would give for a friendly touch to his shoulder but of course it is never him that makes the sacrifice - it is always them. And though she does not say anything, she pulls abruptly away and he knows why.
Nemeon never thinks he has enough heart left to break but here he is, after thousands of small tragedies, and there is still a piece left to shatter.
All the rationality about how she is (presumably) fine because she has not collapsed, or run off, or even said anything about it cannot stand against the shame he feels. “I’m sorry.” Should he explain? Or should he just be more careful, because he is weak and lonely and wants so dearly to help a new friend for a little while longer?
He will tell her if it happens again, which it won’t because he will be more vigilant. It means not paying as much attention to their surroundings, not looking for the wolf, but he thinks this will be worth it.
“I’m Nemeon.” He offers instead, his manner subdued but still this foolish stallion does does not leave.
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.
She knows what it means to be brave. She knows exactly what it means that he says, ‘there are worse things’ because she had pretended once not to be absolutely shattered that, when their mother had spirited the Fates away from Pangea, the wolves had been left behind. It had taken her sisters days to notice, but Neuna had gritted her teeth and blinked away tears as she’d watched Eros dissolve into the shadows of Pangea.
She studies him a long moment, even after the metallic taste in her mouth has driven a larger wedge of space between them. (She should have asked, she knows. But how her heart aches to think of how lonely he must be! How she cannot help the impulse to help, to nurture.)
She rolls the bitterness of it across her tongue and then swallows it down, where it singes the soft tissue of her throat and she exhales. He apologizes and her brow furrows, darkens. “Sorry?” she echoes, “for what?”
Still, they wander deeper into the forest. Now neither of them are particularly focused on the search that set them walking in the first place. There is a change in him when he offers his name and she smiles sweetly, fiercely resisting the urge to reach out and touch him again, to coax out another smile. Perhaps she could even draw out a laugh.
Instead, she respects his space, maintains her distance, and hopes that her smile will be enough to get him to smile in return. “Nemeon,” she echoes, liking the shape it makes in her mouth, “my name is Neuna. I’m happy to have met you.”
