I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
It is quiet.
There is nothing but the long autumn shadows and the sound of wind.
Michael groans to life then; a calm breath in the cooling air, then another. Once more, he has woken up somewhere he doesn't recognize. Michael doesn't feel scared. He feels... tired. Once more, Michael has woken up when he had hoped to sleep, and sleep, until every sun burns down to ash. One calm breath turns into a sigh, heavy and sharp.
It's been a while, Michael thinks. So long since Kirk and Makenna and Eleven and Inwe. So long since the heavy weight of a crown or the looming threat of actual, biblical demons. So long since the Dark. So long since he's done... literally anything. Moving feels strange. Breathing feels strange. He had hoped to retreat to some long-forgotten corner and wait out the apocalypse but, as usual he had walked too far for too long and wound up in somewhere else completely new.
He is a dampened sun, molten gold and glittering white, and when he lifts his head and lurches to his feet, the thick curtain of his mane falls over his face in every awkward direction. Probably, he can't see as well as he should; probably, Michael no longer has it in him to care. He gives an unceremonious, full-body shake, and begins to walk.
Michael is always running from things. He didn't used to be like that. He used to be so bright and so vibrant and he wants it back, wants that carefree laughter and not having to question whether or not he sees color correctly because everything is hazy and gray anymore. He decides, at this point, he's done running. While he walks, it is not the frantic pace of a hunted man, but the graceless meandering of a long and worn-down traveler. He has set up camp in too many storms. He has walked too many deer tracks to not see the patterns.
So Michael walks, without purpose.
And Michael waits.
