Morning dawns. The sun breaks over the horizon and Michael, dew clinging to his whiskery chin, breathes a visible sigh into the chilly autumn air. He's been walking all night and he's not really sure why. He hasn't slept in days and he's not really sure why. The exhaustion seeps into his marrow like the early morning chill, a taste on the back of his tongue like radio static.
Michael is barely there, hunched against the cold, a dusky yellow in the sleepy light. Though the dark is not much there, anymore, it hangs on him, soaks his hair and his face and his back. Michael feels so old sometimes--and he is. Now Michael ages every second. He can feel his cells groaning.
It didn't used to be like this. If Michael knew Pan he would think he was a mirror, the perfect reflection of everything that Michael has been and abandoned. All the people that Michael has loved--ferociously, sometimes jealously--and also abandoned, given enough time. He would think of Isra and her city on the hill and he would tremble, breathing in the way you do to be silent--small breaths that don't fill his lungs. She worries him and he's not sure why. Denocte worries him and he's not sure why.
You may have noticed that Michael is very rarely sure of anything.
He knows this: he cannot stop what will happen, for better or for worse, and far be it from him to try in the first place. He is happier, at home (wherever home is - wherever Michael is) and bedded down. He is happiest paging through his own imagination, searching the cavernous halls that echo when he walks, looking for... something.
He know this, also: Pan does draw his attention, when Michael finds him through the thick mess of his forelock. He looks like every ocean Michael has ever known and it makes him ache. He rushes to Pan, honestly; a graceless and frantic lope. When Michael lurches to a halt he is breathless.
"Hey!" he says, between breaths. There is the echo of laughter in his throat. "Who are you?"
Michael holds his breath.
Pan always woke with the sun, and went to sleep when the sun went down. He was quite the creature of habit, and found himself roused with a renewed sense of energy (despite the autumn chill that stung his lungs as he breathed the cave-air of his home). As he woke, he shifted about on his makeshift bed of animal furs and leaves, shivering as he rose to his feet and began to dance about to stave away the cold. Only once he was warm did he dare to leave the comfort of his home, shuffling off with his mind toward a new adventure.
Today, he headed back toward the Veneror Peak, desperate to meet a god. He’d been told of them, long ago… but now, their names were foggy. The only one that he knew of since his return was Caligo, who he’d already paid homage to a couple of times. Still, she’d yet to show. Perhaps she was just waiting for the perfect gift, he mused, tapping at his satchel absentmindedly. As he wandered that direction, he stopped to pick up a fossilized piece of bark, and an insect trapped in amber. Nature had a way of presenting him with lovely gifts, and the boy gladly collected them for his cave.
Humming with a pleased sort of song (for Pan is quite happy with his prizes), he detours a bit more, delving deep into the Eluetheria Plain. It had been here, not long ago, that he’d found himself drunk from the golden magic. Shuddering as he remembered the helpless feeling that had washed over him and his lack of control, the boy skittered far from that particular corner of this land, choosing instead to walk along the fringe of the forest. It is here, where he notices the other stallion barreling toward him.
Instead of being alarmed at a stranger coming up on him so quickly, and breathlessly asking him questions, Pan just takes it in stride. I’m Pan! His voice is bright and cheerful, and he offers the second male an easy smile and a jaunty sort of bow. Who are you?
Quirking an eyebrow, the boy decides to have a bit of fun with the golden stallion. Is the crocodile after you?
Pan turns to face Michael with the same expresion that he used to wear, somehow unsurprised and full of wonder at the same time, and Michael does see a mirror, but not in the way it should look.
Because while Michael and Pan are very much the same they are very different, and Michael feels now perhaps more than in the hundred or so years he's been alive that yawning chasm that separates him from everyone else. Perhaps it is time. Perhaps it is the indefinite heaviness that he can't shake no matter how hard he tries. Perhaps it is just that Michael was not meant to exist. He tries not to dwell. He rarely succeeds.
Still, Michael says "Pan," with a placid smile. Maybe not placid. Sedated. He is so, so tired. "You know, I like that."
Michael's ocean eyes are dull and dark as he searches Pan for---something. He doesn't know what he hopes to find but he does know that he doesn't find it. The light that glints off his scales is close. The quirk of his eyebrow and the easy smile are closer.
(This stallion reminds Michael of a girl with silver skin and eyes like the summer sky. For a moment his head is filled with her sun-freckled cheeks and her laughter like cinnamon sugar. It hurts.)
Perhaps it is these dusty trails from many years ago that cause Michael to look behind him on either side, squint, and say, "A... crocodile? Oh. I'm Michael. Tell me about this crocodile, though."
Honestly though, yes. Its snapping jaws and the steady drum of time bite at his heels with every new second. Suddenly his cells are dying again. Maybe that's the reason he can't sleep.
Michael. He liked the sound of that too – simple. Once, he knew a boy named Michael… the youngest of the Darlings. He’d come from somewhere called London to Neverland, but then… Pan couldn’t remember much about his time there. It was only now coming back to him, after his memories had been faded for quite some time. Amnesia was kind of a bitch. Still, he smiles at the golden stallion, his eyes lit with a mischievous sort of energy. Clearly pleased that the grown up was in for playing with his games, the boy continued his playful train of thought.
Oh, well you must not worry about the crocodile… he’s mostly looking for pirates. And you can hear him coming, with a tick tock tick tock. As if illustrating the rhythm of this sound, Pan swings his head this way and that like a pendulum, grinning through the story. The crocodile fixates on the one he wants to eat, having a taste for flesh and wanting more. I should say that you’ll be safe with me though… the crocodile knows to stay way from ole’ Pan. Nevermind that the boy looked like a strong wind could blow him over. In the boy’s imagination, he was a brave and noble knight… but the reality remained that Pan could hardly hurt a fly.
Where are you from, Michael? Do you here, among the flowers? He gestures widely to the field, enjoying the way the breeze danced in the long grass. It had quickly become one of Pan’s favorite haunts in Novus, partially for the wide variety of flowers and herbs that could be found here… but more importantly, he’d found a rather dense grove of apple trees hidden behind a hilly ridge, and he regularly came here to indulge in his favorite snack.
