I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
Morning dawns. The sun breaks over the horizon and Michael, dew clinging to his whiskery chin, breathes a visible sigh into the chilly autumn air. He's been walking all night and he's not really sure why. He hasn't slept in days and he's not really sure why. The exhaustion seeps into his marrow like the early morning chill, a taste on the back of his tongue like radio static.
Michael is barely there, hunched against the cold, a dusky yellow in the sleepy light. Though the dark is not much there, anymore, it hangs on him, soaks his hair and his face and his back. Michael feels so old sometimes--and he is. Now Michael ages every second. He can feel his cells groaning.
It didn't used to be like this. If Michael knew Pan he would think he was a mirror, the perfect reflection of everything that Michael has been and abandoned. All the people that Michael has loved--ferociously, sometimes jealously--and also abandoned, given enough time. He would think of Isra and her city on the hill and he would tremble, breathing in the way you do to be silent--small breaths that don't fill his lungs. She worries him and he's not sure why. Denocte worries him and he's not sure why.
You may have noticed that Michael is very rarely sure of anything.
He knows this: he cannot stop what will happen, for better or for worse, and far be it from him to try in the first place. He is happier, at home (wherever home is - wherever Michael is) and bedded down. He is happiest paging through his own imagination, searching the cavernous halls that echo when he walks, looking for... something.
He know this, also: Pan does draw his attention, when Michael finds him through the thick mess of his forelock. He looks like every ocean Michael has ever known and it makes him ache. He rushes to Pan, honestly; a graceless and frantic lope. When Michael lurches to a halt he is breathless.
"Hey!" he says, between breaths. There is the echo of laughter in his throat. "Who are you?"
Michael holds his breath.
@pan
Michael is barely there, hunched against the cold, a dusky yellow in the sleepy light. Though the dark is not much there, anymore, it hangs on him, soaks his hair and his face and his back. Michael feels so old sometimes--and he is. Now Michael ages every second. He can feel his cells groaning.
It didn't used to be like this. If Michael knew Pan he would think he was a mirror, the perfect reflection of everything that Michael has been and abandoned. All the people that Michael has loved--ferociously, sometimes jealously--and also abandoned, given enough time. He would think of Isra and her city on the hill and he would tremble, breathing in the way you do to be silent--small breaths that don't fill his lungs. She worries him and he's not sure why. Denocte worries him and he's not sure why.
You may have noticed that Michael is very rarely sure of anything.
He knows this: he cannot stop what will happen, for better or for worse, and far be it from him to try in the first place. He is happier, at home (wherever home is - wherever Michael is) and bedded down. He is happiest paging through his own imagination, searching the cavernous halls that echo when he walks, looking for... something.
He know this, also: Pan does draw his attention, when Michael finds him through the thick mess of his forelock. He looks like every ocean Michael has ever known and it makes him ache. He rushes to Pan, honestly; a graceless and frantic lope. When Michael lurches to a halt he is breathless.
"Hey!" he says, between breaths. There is the echo of laughter in his throat. "Who are you?"
Michael holds his breath.
@pan
