I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
So, here it is: home.
This jagged, bleeding wound. Another wound tossed on the wood pile to burn for winter.
Another mouth that grits its teeth. The voice says, "come home. I know you are a coward and you have been running."
The voice says, "I know you are a coward," and Michael knows in his heart that it is true. If fear is a church Michael is robed in silk at the pulpit, belting hymns at the top of his lungs. If reluctance is a bell his is clangorous and clear in the hazy summer, the one shard of him that is not smeared or splintered. It chimes in him day and night, and on this, the day he birthed again into the heart of summmer, it rings loud and fast (an alarm) with the pounding of his heart.
Michael does not know what he will find. He does not know what will be waiting. He knows only that he has been running his whole life and that he had run again though he doesn't know to where or from what - just that his most recent memories of Denocte are streets wreathed in flame, of a dragon with rage in his belly and a queen with rage in every bit of every cell. And Michael had run. Because Michael is a coward.
He is standing alone, baked honey gold in the sun, listless and heavy. His heart is a solemn prayer for peace. The voice in the sun says he is hungry. The voice in the sun tugs at his long mane and beckons him forward, but Michael cannot for the life of him will his body into motion. It is only when he sees her, dark against the grass and the lake reflecting the summer sky, that he remembers to breathe at all.
"Hey stranger," he mumbles through some attempt at a nervous smile. He is clawing desperately for something to hold on to, something that makes him feel real and brave and alive. He greatly doubts there are such things left in the world. "I'm... sorry. I went... away."
@isra but anyone else is welcome to join :)
