I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
He has missed the ocean; his first home, his first love.
Michael's father told him when he was young that their family had always been pirates, and Michael had always figured it was true. The sea frequently calls his name, the lilting siren song of the deep and the wide. His bones are pulled toward it. His heart groans for salt grass and fine sand.
So he goes to the ocean.
Michael's lopes toward the end of the world, again. Michael does not hurry, and the hush that falls over him is ghastly. In it there are ghosts with their pale hands and their white eyes -- there is the silver and the blue of a girl he once knew and the time they cried together on the beach. This was after the end. Everything was after the end.
He is hesitant to slow. To slow is to think and to think is to invite the frankly foreboding sense of bigger thing than he wants to imagine that drapes him like a wet blanket. He has had it, he thinks, since he woke up in the mountains - it is the drums of ancient magic and the quiet rumble of deep hurt and he does not know quite how to categorize.
Michael doesn't like not knowing. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to tie himself to another world with another heart unless he can help it, but the not-knowing kills him. Why do his bones ache the way they do? Why does he feel so, very, very tired? Why is there a pit in his stomach that has never been there?
Why, when he reaches the shore, does Michael gracelessly lurch to a halt and hesitate to continue?
He gets no time to come to the answer; rather, something else comes to him. Well, someone, and she does not so much approach Michael as Michael almost trips over her when he turns to walk the shoreline.
His first thought is that she must be the sun. He squints to look at her through the thick white curtain of his mane, all bunches and mangled and wind-tossed. He cannot remember the last time he saw something so bright.
"Oh, hello." he says. "Hey, um..."
Michael pauses. He has gone so long without someone to talk to. Hundreds of years, surely.
It definitely feels like hundreds of years.
Finally, Michael tilts his head, and flashes her a smile. This is characteristic. This is normal. Finding normal again has not been easy. "Do you, um-- are you...? Hi. I'm Michael."
Michael's father told him when he was young that their family had always been pirates, and Michael had always figured it was true. The sea frequently calls his name, the lilting siren song of the deep and the wide. His bones are pulled toward it. His heart groans for salt grass and fine sand.
So he goes to the ocean.
Michael's lopes toward the end of the world, again. Michael does not hurry, and the hush that falls over him is ghastly. In it there are ghosts with their pale hands and their white eyes -- there is the silver and the blue of a girl he once knew and the time they cried together on the beach. This was after the end. Everything was after the end.
He is hesitant to slow. To slow is to think and to think is to invite the frankly foreboding sense of bigger thing than he wants to imagine that drapes him like a wet blanket. He has had it, he thinks, since he woke up in the mountains - it is the drums of ancient magic and the quiet rumble of deep hurt and he does not know quite how to categorize.
Michael doesn't like not knowing. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to tie himself to another world with another heart unless he can help it, but the not-knowing kills him. Why do his bones ache the way they do? Why does he feel so, very, very tired? Why is there a pit in his stomach that has never been there?
Why, when he reaches the shore, does Michael gracelessly lurch to a halt and hesitate to continue?
He gets no time to come to the answer; rather, something else comes to him. Well, someone, and she does not so much approach Michael as Michael almost trips over her when he turns to walk the shoreline.
His first thought is that she must be the sun. He squints to look at her through the thick white curtain of his mane, all bunches and mangled and wind-tossed. He cannot remember the last time he saw something so bright.
"Oh, hello." he says. "Hey, um..."
Michael pauses. He has gone so long without someone to talk to. Hundreds of years, surely.
It definitely feels like hundreds of years.
Finally, Michael tilts his head, and flashes her a smile. This is characteristic. This is normal. Finding normal again has not been easy. "Do you, um-- are you...? Hi. I'm Michael."
@Israfel heeeere you go LOL
