I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
It would always have gone like this, Michael traipsing back into existence at the precipice of winter when he at his quintessence is a child of the summer sea.
He still feels disoriented and tired for a purpose that he can't quite place. The ground beneath him hums with magic and history and it pounds in his head. Michael's brows are furrowed when she greets him; he doesn't frown often, not really, but his expression toes the line between ambivalence and frustration.
Is she... what? He hadn't really considered.
How do you tell a person that they're breathtaking when you can barely breathe for the weight on your chest? How do you look someone in the eyes and casually mention that you're drowning in their fire, that it brings you to life in ways that are entirely uncharacteristic? How do you do all of that and also explain that none of this matters, not really. Michael is not known for being hard to impress. He is drawn to poetry and cathedrals and her presence echoes like every marble chamber he's ever seen.
Israfel's fire is a crackling spark in his eyes and when he breathes in to speak it's a flash of the Michael he used to be and wants to be again. It passes quickly.
"Israfel," he starts, pauses, sighs. "um."
Ever eloquent. Michael can live as many lifetimes as he'd like but he is still at a loss for small talk. All of Michael's strength lies in songs about the yawning jaws of the ocean and things plucked from daydreams and he is honestly good for little else.
Michael squints upward. He is searching for words.
What he finds instead is the phoenix, huge and bright. "Hold on, is that yours? Well, as much as anyone can be anyone else's. You know."
The palomino smiles to himself, still squinting into the sun. "Breathtaking."
He had meant it as a reply to her earlier question.
His head hurts.
@Israfel
He still feels disoriented and tired for a purpose that he can't quite place. The ground beneath him hums with magic and history and it pounds in his head. Michael's brows are furrowed when she greets him; he doesn't frown often, not really, but his expression toes the line between ambivalence and frustration.
Is she... what? He hadn't really considered.
How do you tell a person that they're breathtaking when you can barely breathe for the weight on your chest? How do you look someone in the eyes and casually mention that you're drowning in their fire, that it brings you to life in ways that are entirely uncharacteristic? How do you do all of that and also explain that none of this matters, not really. Michael is not known for being hard to impress. He is drawn to poetry and cathedrals and her presence echoes like every marble chamber he's ever seen.
Israfel's fire is a crackling spark in his eyes and when he breathes in to speak it's a flash of the Michael he used to be and wants to be again. It passes quickly.
"Israfel," he starts, pauses, sighs. "um."
Ever eloquent. Michael can live as many lifetimes as he'd like but he is still at a loss for small talk. All of Michael's strength lies in songs about the yawning jaws of the ocean and things plucked from daydreams and he is honestly good for little else.
Michael squints upward. He is searching for words.
What he finds instead is the phoenix, huge and bright. "Hold on, is that yours? Well, as much as anyone can be anyone else's. You know."
The palomino smiles to himself, still squinting into the sun. "Breathtaking."
He had meant it as a reply to her earlier question.
His head hurts.
@Israfel
