I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
Michael is not a stranger to sadness.
It sits in his bones like melting ice, drips through each and every cell of his trembling body. Michael runs not to escape this feeling of deep hopelessness but in spite of it; he is driven forward by his one, thin shred of self control, that little voice deep in the desert of his heart that tells him if he never stops, he never loses. He's not sure what game he's meant to be playing, only that it is tiresome.
He is familiar with desert animals, has a special fondness for dry grass and dunes. Makenna was a desert flower that came to him at his desolation, breathed life into his dusty bones and rekindled the fire in his ancient soul. Makenna is a long time gone. To some extent, everyone Michael knows is a long time gone. Probably for the best.
The mare that approaches is not unlike her, honestly. When Michael hears the thrum of her hooves he turns his sunshine face toward her, giving one last vigorous shake of his body before donning the armor of delusion - a smile that quietly pleads against questions he either can't or won't answer.
She looks sad, he thinks, or at least something is off; he can see it even from behind the wind-mussed mess of his forelock. He knows that expression well. It rides him day and night. The whiff of her motion startles him into clarity.
Have you been walking long, the sovereign asks, and this makes Michael laugh. His smile is stunning, if manic, and his laughter sounds like soft blankets and apple cider in the dead of winter. He's been walking for so, so long.
He says, "Probably have been," and winks, even if she can't see it. "How long have you been running?"
And then, a moment's pause before he adds, "Michael, by the way. I, uh, guess I live here." This he tacks on with some approximation of a shrug, where he tilts his head and smiles again, softer now. Finally, silence. He's comfortable in silence. Always has been.
@isra
It sits in his bones like melting ice, drips through each and every cell of his trembling body. Michael runs not to escape this feeling of deep hopelessness but in spite of it; he is driven forward by his one, thin shred of self control, that little voice deep in the desert of his heart that tells him if he never stops, he never loses. He's not sure what game he's meant to be playing, only that it is tiresome.
He is familiar with desert animals, has a special fondness for dry grass and dunes. Makenna was a desert flower that came to him at his desolation, breathed life into his dusty bones and rekindled the fire in his ancient soul. Makenna is a long time gone. To some extent, everyone Michael knows is a long time gone. Probably for the best.
The mare that approaches is not unlike her, honestly. When Michael hears the thrum of her hooves he turns his sunshine face toward her, giving one last vigorous shake of his body before donning the armor of delusion - a smile that quietly pleads against questions he either can't or won't answer.
She looks sad, he thinks, or at least something is off; he can see it even from behind the wind-mussed mess of his forelock. He knows that expression well. It rides him day and night. The whiff of her motion startles him into clarity.
Have you been walking long, the sovereign asks, and this makes Michael laugh. His smile is stunning, if manic, and his laughter sounds like soft blankets and apple cider in the dead of winter. He's been walking for so, so long.
He says, "Probably have been," and winks, even if she can't see it. "How long have you been running?"
And then, a moment's pause before he adds, "Michael, by the way. I, uh, guess I live here." This he tacks on with some approximation of a shrug, where he tilts his head and smiles again, softer now. Finally, silence. He's comfortable in silence. Always has been.
@isra
