“The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.”
It has taken Michael this time, these months in the autumn of Denocte, this morning in the snow, to realize something he had found long ago but lost, somewhere along the way: none of us are doing alright.
He supposes it must be this way. Denocte is a kingdom perched on its own alarm bells, hanging itself on the ropes of vengeance or maybe just reclamation and each toll rolls out louder and louder within Michael until it is all he can hear or think. He does not know what he can do about their captured queen or the whispers of war on the mouths of the people. He knows what he wants to do and what he will do and they are not the same thing.
Michael is looking at her and he is thinking of singing blades and the thick mud in which his soul is sinking so yes, he is pensive. He is still smiling, the kind of effortless creasing of the corner of his mouth that seems at once impossible and self-sustaining. He is, certainly, the breaking dam. Michael says, “Something like that.” Michael doesn’t say, I feel like I’m dying. Michael doesn’t say, I wish that I were.
Speech is always inadequate. Every molecule in Michael’s body is inadequate. It was inadequate beneath the heavy weight of a crown under which prosper already bloomed and it is heavy now, in the cold and the snow and the thick, wet, gray sky closing in on them. Because of this he forgives her. Because he has had to forgive himself, he forgives her over and over and he will continue to forgive her until this and every other universe burns down to dust. This is a promise.
She smiles, then, and he feels something deep inside him start to shake. It is indefinite but it is warm, and so his does not fall, yet. It does not touch his eyes.
“Mmm,” he hums in agreement.
He knows.
The sea whispers. The sea wails. It is a never-ending song in the back of his ribcage and he suspects that to some extent it rings in every body. His is the cry of the summer sky and saltwater grass. His is the bed of cold sand and the shfff of crabs scrambling for cover. His is a relentless and ever-louder prayer to some deity with no name that lives at the bottom of the ocean.
Michael angles his head away from her and in the direction of the court, (his court, he reminds himself) and beyond it the tempestuous beaches.
He knows.
“Well,” he begins, and how do you tell someone that you don’t know why you’re anywhere? How do you look another thing in the eye and say to it: I am here because every other planet may have rotted away as I stood, I am here because I am an endless loop only now winding down toward its end, I am something far older than even I can any longer cope with understanding? “I don’t think so. It’s just… easier to breathe, I think. I have a lot to deal with, kind of in general.”
Michael draws in a breath. The chill of it stings his throat. The irony is not lost on him. He turns back to her only to see her gaze averted, pulled toward the horizon. There is mist in the mountains and in the space between them and in her eyes.
“You look pensive. Tell me what makes you the way that you are.”
He supposes it must be this way. Denocte is a kingdom perched on its own alarm bells, hanging itself on the ropes of vengeance or maybe just reclamation and each toll rolls out louder and louder within Michael until it is all he can hear or think. He does not know what he can do about their captured queen or the whispers of war on the mouths of the people. He knows what he wants to do and what he will do and they are not the same thing.
Michael is looking at her and he is thinking of singing blades and the thick mud in which his soul is sinking so yes, he is pensive. He is still smiling, the kind of effortless creasing of the corner of his mouth that seems at once impossible and self-sustaining. He is, certainly, the breaking dam. Michael says, “Something like that.” Michael doesn’t say, I feel like I’m dying. Michael doesn’t say, I wish that I were.
Speech is always inadequate. Every molecule in Michael’s body is inadequate. It was inadequate beneath the heavy weight of a crown under which prosper already bloomed and it is heavy now, in the cold and the snow and the thick, wet, gray sky closing in on them. Because of this he forgives her. Because he has had to forgive himself, he forgives her over and over and he will continue to forgive her until this and every other universe burns down to dust. This is a promise.
She smiles, then, and he feels something deep inside him start to shake. It is indefinite but it is warm, and so his does not fall, yet. It does not touch his eyes.
“Mmm,” he hums in agreement.
He knows.
The sea whispers. The sea wails. It is a never-ending song in the back of his ribcage and he suspects that to some extent it rings in every body. His is the cry of the summer sky and saltwater grass. His is the bed of cold sand and the shfff of crabs scrambling for cover. His is a relentless and ever-louder prayer to some deity with no name that lives at the bottom of the ocean.
Michael angles his head away from her and in the direction of the court, (his court, he reminds himself) and beyond it the tempestuous beaches.
He knows.
“Well,” he begins, and how do you tell someone that you don’t know why you’re anywhere? How do you look another thing in the eye and say to it: I am here because every other planet may have rotted away as I stood, I am here because I am an endless loop only now winding down toward its end, I am something far older than even I can any longer cope with understanding? “I don’t think so. It’s just… easier to breathe, I think. I have a lot to deal with, kind of in general.”
Michael draws in a breath. The chill of it stings his throat. The irony is not lost on him. He turns back to her only to see her gaze averted, pulled toward the horizon. There is mist in the mountains and in the space between them and in her eyes.
“You look pensive. Tell me what makes you the way that you are.”
