[P] the things that keep us apart

[Michael]

I

t goes like this: Michael follows Moira like a shadow, or less than that. A bright spot on the horizon. Something always humming and warm in a world often cold, and unfeeling, and cruel, even at the best of times. He says little, just smiles when she looks at him over her shoulder, and tips his head to the side when she asks how he is, what he wants, how he's doing.

It has now been years since he was drained of his immortality. He can feel himself aging. He promises to stay, over and over again Michael promises that he will stay with her, no matter the cost. She does not ask him why there's a "cost" to begin with, why he cannot just feel free because he is free, why he has to have it trembling in his fists to see that it is alive at all. 

He doesn't know how he's doing. He doesn't want to know. None of it matters.

Today Michael feels old, though nine years (give or take a few hundred) isn't all that bad, really, in the grand scheme of things. He didn't know it would hurt, that he would be so full of old, familiar aches that they settle back to a dull thrum in the back of his head when he's not actively taking stock of them. He supposes, it's hard not to feel old, sometimes.

(Moira is as young and as beautiful as she's ever been. He looks at her before he leaves her side for the day, meandering toward the market with a loaf of bread and a heavy feeling in all four of his legs-- and he thinks, now, maybe more than ever, that he had never wanted to be mortal at all. He'd stay for her. He'd stay forever, for her.)

Michael stops by the fountain, gold and white and blue against its white stone as he sinks onto the wide rim and the loaf cracks in half in his grip with a soft, satisfying crunch. Near him, there is a girl, not quite waifish but delicate in the bones, a dizzying smear of white and every soft, pale color he can think of. He is not prone, these days, to caring much about strangers. Even now his chest squeezes itself in a vice when he holds out half the loaf and gives her a wobbling smile.

He wonders if it will ever not be nerve-wracking, speaking. He hopes.
"This is too much for just me," he says, "we can share, if you'd like."

I am soft again.
There is water and it surrounds me.
There is feeling and I can feel it.

@Willoughby

[Willoughby]

the road less traveled

She thinks she is done for this day. Her purse feels a bit heavier than when she starts, able to jingle with coin before being spent. For the past year, this land has been her house. Whether she will call any court a home is beyond her knowledge. Ignorance is sometimes bliss, after all. Willoughby stands alone in the center of the area, by a fountain. 

But she is not alone for long. Just after wrapping up her routine - including begging for scraps - the simple act of kindness catches her unawares. It is welcomed, however, as the bread is extended to her. She feels her belly lurch with greed and restrains it. "How kind of you, sir" says the young woman, accepting the half loaf with a smile flashed his way.

For someone who does not earn much, the item is treasured. She holds it to her chest before admiring the golden loaf at a distance. It is free of rot, of ruin and decay. A healthy piece of bread. Her stomach would thank her for it. "Thank you" she adds to the stranger, bowing her head dutifully like a good little beggar. 

And in that instant, her purse spills.

Ah, of all the rotten luck. The signos are few and far between, but they spill regardless. "Ah" the bard says, shocked into near silence. They tumble in different directions, scattering the ground. The leather of her purse is worn and more drawstring than satchel. It chooses to break in this moment. Yet she is not perturbed. Willoughby sets the bread down and -

begins to pluck them back up.

@Micheal / speaks / yay