“The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.”
He would stand among her stones. He does stand. He would beg for sharp edges and blood and a baptism in rock and saltwater if only it meant that she was not on the other side of some deep and cold crevasse, drowning herself in her fire. Michael would make her soft again and carry her home except that he does not know how to.
Now and again he is struck by just what he does not know. They must number in the millions.
He is searching her eyes, now, and he does not know what he hopes to find. She is spinning at the end of her rope and searching for his hand, but he does not know what she hopes to find.
Before he can speak she finds… probably not what she sought, but something nonetheless. Her wishes become hard and bitter things that bruise his ankles (I won’t, he thinks, I won’t run from this. I won’t.) but it is not until Fable that he speaks. Fable, who rises from the swells as if he were just a beast from the sea. Fable, that leans down toward Michael and drips sea water and algae onto him. Fable, that Michael angles his head toward, mouth still drawn in that straight, grim line – he is a thing out of storybooks and so is Isra and so is Michael and they stand, for a moment, together and tense, burdened by so many things that they do not say.
Michael looks back toward Isra. The wet blanket of his mane is still bunched about his face but his stare is hard (pained) nonetheless.
His voice shakes when he whispers “Don’t do this.”
Here are the breaking waves. Here are the gulls fleeing the scene though they still do not say a word to the unicorn and the dragon and the horse that walked out of a dream and never stopped walking. Here are several ships at once, dashed against Isra’s stones. Here are the gray rocks and the red ache of them amongst their ankles.
Michael clears his throat. Michael prays to at least ten gods that he doesn’t believe in. To his knowledge none of them belong to Novus. The tide and the clattering beach and the water dripping from Fable, from Michael, sing the dark reprise of some ancient hymn. Michael says: “Let me tell you a story,” and the breath he draws in preparation is made louder by a trembling that rolls from his lips to his knees.
“It begins like this: something groaning to life, something probably long dead, or at least it feels like it. Something that has been dead but in motion for more years than it can count. It has been broken and reforged a thousand times but it is always either too heavy to move or too light to keep from floating away. It begins with this and it begins with you and your city. Somehow.”
“And it should end there, by the lake, with Fable, or weeks later, under the night sky, naming each and every star still visible in the market glow. Anything but how it did. before you and your city and your people were gripped by tragedy and before you… ” Michael pauses. He feels like the ragged edges of a deep wound. “Survived. And I’m so, so glad you survived. And I’m sorry that you survived at such a cost. I get it. You have to. I know you have to.”
“Please come home, though.”
Now and again he is struck by just what he does not know. They must number in the millions.
He is searching her eyes, now, and he does not know what he hopes to find. She is spinning at the end of her rope and searching for his hand, but he does not know what she hopes to find.
Before he can speak she finds… probably not what she sought, but something nonetheless. Her wishes become hard and bitter things that bruise his ankles (I won’t, he thinks, I won’t run from this. I won’t.) but it is not until Fable that he speaks. Fable, who rises from the swells as if he were just a beast from the sea. Fable, that leans down toward Michael and drips sea water and algae onto him. Fable, that Michael angles his head toward, mouth still drawn in that straight, grim line – he is a thing out of storybooks and so is Isra and so is Michael and they stand, for a moment, together and tense, burdened by so many things that they do not say.
Michael looks back toward Isra. The wet blanket of his mane is still bunched about his face but his stare is hard (pained) nonetheless.
His voice shakes when he whispers “Don’t do this.”
Here are the breaking waves. Here are the gulls fleeing the scene though they still do not say a word to the unicorn and the dragon and the horse that walked out of a dream and never stopped walking. Here are several ships at once, dashed against Isra’s stones. Here are the gray rocks and the red ache of them amongst their ankles.
Michael clears his throat. Michael prays to at least ten gods that he doesn’t believe in. To his knowledge none of them belong to Novus. The tide and the clattering beach and the water dripping from Fable, from Michael, sing the dark reprise of some ancient hymn. Michael says: “Let me tell you a story,” and the breath he draws in preparation is made louder by a trembling that rolls from his lips to his knees.
“It begins like this: something groaning to life, something probably long dead, or at least it feels like it. Something that has been dead but in motion for more years than it can count. It has been broken and reforged a thousand times but it is always either too heavy to move or too light to keep from floating away. It begins with this and it begins with you and your city. Somehow.”
“And it should end there, by the lake, with Fable, or weeks later, under the night sky, naming each and every star still visible in the market glow. Anything but how it did. before you and your city and your people were gripped by tragedy and before you… ” Michael pauses. He feels like the ragged edges of a deep wound. “Survived. And I’m so, so glad you survived. And I’m sorry that you survived at such a cost. I get it. You have to. I know you have to.”
“Please come home, though.”
@isra
