I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
A thing can look like a thing without becoming it. Michael has taken this into his heart and wrapped it lovingly in colorful paper. Every fold is just so. Michael hopes that someday he can again feel as bright as he looks on the outside. He hopes that, at some point, he will see things like dragons and queens and the fire that flares in his chest will last longer that minutes. He feels emptied out already. Michael is a dying flame but he is trying to ignite. Every second of his life he is trying to ignite.
Michael is electric before the dragon and the queen, life breathed into his ancient bones by some humming voice that promises him things he doesn't dare to entertain. All his nerves feel ready to run but perhaps not away, this time. Perhaps toward this dragon and this unicorn and their city that comes alive in the moonlight. Perhaps Michael's away has shifted in the wind and his away is from everything that is not them, their Court, their night-sky city.
"Are you kidding?" Michael says breathlessly. He reaches a pink nose toward the dragon, always afraid but never hesitant. "Hi, Fable. You're sort of making me want to cry."
And he does want to cry. Proverbial arms outstretched, Michael is hit like a meteor; everything crashes at once. Isra and her dragon and her city and all the unpsoken things between Michael and every horse he's ever met and the alternating chill and sun of autumn and the vicious, raw delight he feels in this moment--each leaves a crater deeper than the last. If Michael does cry, it's because he's too happy. If Michael does cry, it's because he hasn't been anything in what has to be decades. If Michael does cry he wants it to be under the mess of his hair but it's still brushed back by the settling wind from Fable's landing.
If he does cry it's because he knows that this, too, is a fleeting and dull emotion. The only thing that he feels properly is frustration.
Michael retracts his reach, lowers his head and shakes it so the tangle of his mane falls back over his face. He sniffs. Michael's eyelids sting and when he exhales his breath is shaky and wet.
"Um," he begins, suddenly overcome with the urge to flee. Run fast and run far. Michael cann't for the life of him decide why it is that he doesn't. "Thank you. Did you say the Sovereign?" A long second passes where Michael is trying to compose himself and can't quite seem to do so.
"Thank you," he says again. "Thank you." A third time.
"I think it's time I go." Michael had meant to at least try for an excuse. Michael had meant to say 'time I go introduce myself to everyone else,' 'time I get the lay of the land,'--literally anything but what he does say. Alas,
He hasn't stopped smiling. It is the one constant. "Seeing as I'm yours now, I'm sure I'll find you again soon." Michael is not satisfying. He is not whole. Michael is erratic and inconsistent and he hurts in more ways than he can give a name to. He thinks he'll try writing. Michael sniffs one last time, nodding at Fable as he turns to go. He turns to bump Isra's shoulder with his muzzle as he goes.
Michael is electric before the dragon and the queen, life breathed into his ancient bones by some humming voice that promises him things he doesn't dare to entertain. All his nerves feel ready to run but perhaps not away, this time. Perhaps toward this dragon and this unicorn and their city that comes alive in the moonlight. Perhaps Michael's away has shifted in the wind and his away is from everything that is not them, their Court, their night-sky city.
"Are you kidding?" Michael says breathlessly. He reaches a pink nose toward the dragon, always afraid but never hesitant. "Hi, Fable. You're sort of making me want to cry."
And he does want to cry. Proverbial arms outstretched, Michael is hit like a meteor; everything crashes at once. Isra and her dragon and her city and all the unpsoken things between Michael and every horse he's ever met and the alternating chill and sun of autumn and the vicious, raw delight he feels in this moment--each leaves a crater deeper than the last. If Michael does cry, it's because he's too happy. If Michael does cry, it's because he hasn't been anything in what has to be decades. If Michael does cry he wants it to be under the mess of his hair but it's still brushed back by the settling wind from Fable's landing.
If he does cry it's because he knows that this, too, is a fleeting and dull emotion. The only thing that he feels properly is frustration.
Michael retracts his reach, lowers his head and shakes it so the tangle of his mane falls back over his face. He sniffs. Michael's eyelids sting and when he exhales his breath is shaky and wet.
"Um," he begins, suddenly overcome with the urge to flee. Run fast and run far. Michael cann't for the life of him decide why it is that he doesn't. "Thank you. Did you say the Sovereign?" A long second passes where Michael is trying to compose himself and can't quite seem to do so.
"Thank you," he says again. "Thank you." A third time.
"I think it's time I go." Michael had meant to at least try for an excuse. Michael had meant to say 'time I go introduce myself to everyone else,' 'time I get the lay of the land,'--literally anything but what he does say. Alas,
He hasn't stopped smiling. It is the one constant. "Seeing as I'm yours now, I'm sure I'll find you again soon." Michael is not satisfying. He is not whole. Michael is erratic and inconsistent and he hurts in more ways than he can give a name to. He thinks he'll try writing. Michael sniffs one last time, nodding at Fable as he turns to go. He turns to bump Isra's shoulder with his muzzle as he goes.
@isra I forgot how to write OOPS
