I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
Michael thinks he could stand here forever, eyes squinting against the pale autumn sun. Perhaps if he stood until his insides burned out, until his eyes and his tongue turned to ash...
It could never be that easy.
Michael has met a phoenix or two in his long, long life. He has only ever known them as vain and fickle creatures. They had not helped him find the peace that he so desperately craves, but he appreciates them all the same. Every phoenix is beautiful and heartbreaking in their own way. Michael hopes that someday he too can be reforged from his own dust, crafted again into something stronger. Something happier.
Solaris. Michael smiles, one ear cocked toward Israfel. "It would be," he says, not to be rude but because of course her name is Solaris. How could it be anything but? He hopes that his kind--if melancholy--smile conveys that his statement was meant in utmost sincerity. "I love it."
Michael grows visibly tense as she approaches. He doesn't feel tense but he has yet to wrest his flight instinct back in order. You run from enough things in your life and you become the running. If Michael is anything he is the wind as it blows. He's not sure what that means.
Israfel blooms before him, settling into curiosity rather than the guarded skepticism of moments past. The golden horse doesn't doubt that he'll bring it back out of her at some point. He is not particularly complicated but he can be hard to understand. He doesn't particularly understand himself.
Where do you call home? Michael thinks, Liridon. Michael thinks, Ilir and the weight of a crown that was too heavy for his tired head. Michael thinks, Eleven. Michael very quickly thinks, not Eleven. Not for a long time.
"I'm from Denocte, I guess." Michael answers, and in his head there is the queen and her dragon and her city you don't know if you live in. Something quiet stirs inside him. Perhaps that ever-elusive concept of home stirs. He doesn't know. "Well, I'm from...
somewhere else. I walked here. I think."
He falls into a tense silence. There are balloons in his chest and the tingle of things unsaid in his throat. "--Anyway, what about you? And how's it, uh, going there?"
@Israfel
It could never be that easy.
Michael has met a phoenix or two in his long, long life. He has only ever known them as vain and fickle creatures. They had not helped him find the peace that he so desperately craves, but he appreciates them all the same. Every phoenix is beautiful and heartbreaking in their own way. Michael hopes that someday he too can be reforged from his own dust, crafted again into something stronger. Something happier.
Solaris. Michael smiles, one ear cocked toward Israfel. "It would be," he says, not to be rude but because of course her name is Solaris. How could it be anything but? He hopes that his kind--if melancholy--smile conveys that his statement was meant in utmost sincerity. "I love it."
Michael grows visibly tense as she approaches. He doesn't feel tense but he has yet to wrest his flight instinct back in order. You run from enough things in your life and you become the running. If Michael is anything he is the wind as it blows. He's not sure what that means.
Israfel blooms before him, settling into curiosity rather than the guarded skepticism of moments past. The golden horse doesn't doubt that he'll bring it back out of her at some point. He is not particularly complicated but he can be hard to understand. He doesn't particularly understand himself.
Where do you call home? Michael thinks, Liridon. Michael thinks, Ilir and the weight of a crown that was too heavy for his tired head. Michael thinks, Eleven. Michael very quickly thinks, not Eleven. Not for a long time.
"I'm from Denocte, I guess." Michael answers, and in his head there is the queen and her dragon and her city you don't know if you live in. Something quiet stirs inside him. Perhaps that ever-elusive concept of home stirs. He doesn't know. "Well, I'm from...
somewhere else. I walked here. I think."
He falls into a tense silence. There are balloons in his chest and the tingle of things unsaid in his throat. "--Anyway, what about you? And how's it, uh, going there?"
@Israfel
