I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
And so, as it always has been and always would, civilization pitches Michael back into the embrace of chaos.
He does not find it comforting. Rather the opposite.
Michael does not sleep much, anymore, so when the first bell clangs in every cavity of his body, a tremulous sound that sets his teeth on edge, he is already half awake. He doesn't know from whence he comes, just that he does. His steps are urgent and hesitant. He's holding a breath that he doesn't realize he's holding - it burns hot in his throat.
When you peel away the many layers of fog, the dreamer is and always has been moved to help others. It is a trait buried deep, but one that he holds fast to all the same. So it is, when Michael strides first through the doors and follows the sound of Moira's voice, the wave of citizens that have come to heed her call, that the golden horse does not shy from whatever he may find when he arrives. He is breathing again but just barely.
He tells himself he's ready; and if he knew that it was Isra in trouble, he would have doubled down on this statement. She is, quite literally, the only familiar face in this whole place.
He tells himself that, no matter what, he is tied to Denocte.
He tells himself that he should listen next time, when there is a pit in his stomach and he feels the roaring of something bad on the horizon. There is always something bad on the horizon.
Michael doesn't look like his many misgivings. He slows to a stop in the growing crowd, a firm frown tucked into the corner of his mouth. The thick sheet of his mane falls in ringlets over his face. He says nothing because he has nothing to say.
And, so, as he always had and always would, over and over until time eats him alive, Michael stands at attention. Anything for home.
He does not find it comforting. Rather the opposite.
Michael does not sleep much, anymore, so when the first bell clangs in every cavity of his body, a tremulous sound that sets his teeth on edge, he is already half awake. He doesn't know from whence he comes, just that he does. His steps are urgent and hesitant. He's holding a breath that he doesn't realize he's holding - it burns hot in his throat.
When you peel away the many layers of fog, the dreamer is and always has been moved to help others. It is a trait buried deep, but one that he holds fast to all the same. So it is, when Michael strides first through the doors and follows the sound of Moira's voice, the wave of citizens that have come to heed her call, that the golden horse does not shy from whatever he may find when he arrives. He is breathing again but just barely.
He tells himself he's ready; and if he knew that it was Isra in trouble, he would have doubled down on this statement. She is, quite literally, the only familiar face in this whole place.
He tells himself that, no matter what, he is tied to Denocte.
He tells himself that he should listen next time, when there is a pit in his stomach and he feels the roaring of something bad on the horizon. There is always something bad on the horizon.
Michael doesn't look like his many misgivings. He slows to a stop in the growing crowd, a firm frown tucked into the corner of his mouth. The thick sheet of his mane falls in ringlets over his face. He says nothing because he has nothing to say.
And, so, as he always had and always would, over and over until time eats him alive, Michael stands at attention. Anything for home.
