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.
There she is, Isra and her rage, Isra and her black hatred, Isra and her teeth like swords when she smiles. All of her is swords when she smiles.
Michael is not swords and he has never been, never could be. Sometimes he is a candle. Sometimes his ocean roar echoes hers, fathomless and terrible and dark, but he cannot make himself sharp. Michael's broken edges are rubbed soft by the current of his suffering. He is all rounded corners. He is all safe places and warm light - he just cannot reach any of them for himself.
Here is Isra and he wishes so desperately that she would smile at him, that she wouldn't fold into the kind and timid smile that he offers in return. He doesn't want to be forgiven. He doesn't want to forgive himself.
Her hearts asks his, why?
And Michael's heart sings, because I must.
And he must. He must burn himself away in Isra's city by the sea, must hum himself to sleep by the light of each small and distant star, must write and write until he is swallowed whole by each thing he is not and will not every be brave enough to say. He is heavy with them today, heavy with guilt and with sorrow and with the pure, raw please don't that is screaming in him when she meets his gaze. Her voice breaks and he breaks with her, a glass dropped in the kitchen, and his devastation is clear even through his heavy mane.
"Of course--" he stammers before she has even finished. Michael looks at her for a long moment, level and heavy. He would do anything. He thinks - hopes - she knows this. He hopes too that it will be the death of him. He reaches forward, touches the skin of her shoulder with the soft pink of his muzzle, does not say so many things. Somewhere are Fable and Isra's daughters and he does not see them, does not see anything, sees only the air closing in around him.
Michael turns his head. Her magic hums in his bones. He is a thing on fire and when he looks away it is certainly not with the easy grace of a man forgiven. The pit in his stomach only grows and grows.
(Hidden by his thick and messy hair: the tight set of his jaw, the grinding of his teeth, and hard furrow of his brow. He is a man at the window and he is trying to talk himself into jumping. Michael never jumps.)
"You did," he says to her, "I will."
Michael is not afraid of Isra's swords. Michael is not afraid of Isra. He is afraid of so many things, but she is not one of them.
Michael is not swords and he has never been, never could be. Sometimes he is a candle. Sometimes his ocean roar echoes hers, fathomless and terrible and dark, but he cannot make himself sharp. Michael's broken edges are rubbed soft by the current of his suffering. He is all rounded corners. He is all safe places and warm light - he just cannot reach any of them for himself.
Here is Isra and he wishes so desperately that she would smile at him, that she wouldn't fold into the kind and timid smile that he offers in return. He doesn't want to be forgiven. He doesn't want to forgive himself.
Her hearts asks his, why?
And Michael's heart sings, because I must.
And he must. He must burn himself away in Isra's city by the sea, must hum himself to sleep by the light of each small and distant star, must write and write until he is swallowed whole by each thing he is not and will not every be brave enough to say. He is heavy with them today, heavy with guilt and with sorrow and with the pure, raw please don't that is screaming in him when she meets his gaze. Her voice breaks and he breaks with her, a glass dropped in the kitchen, and his devastation is clear even through his heavy mane.
"Of course--" he stammers before she has even finished. Michael looks at her for a long moment, level and heavy. He would do anything. He thinks - hopes - she knows this. He hopes too that it will be the death of him. He reaches forward, touches the skin of her shoulder with the soft pink of his muzzle, does not say so many things. Somewhere are Fable and Isra's daughters and he does not see them, does not see anything, sees only the air closing in around him.
Michael turns his head. Her magic hums in his bones. He is a thing on fire and when he looks away it is certainly not with the easy grace of a man forgiven. The pit in his stomach only grows and grows.
(Hidden by his thick and messy hair: the tight set of his jaw, the grinding of his teeth, and hard furrow of his brow. He is a man at the window and he is trying to talk himself into jumping. Michael never jumps.)
"You did," he says to her, "I will."
Michael is not afraid of Isra's swords. Michael is not afraid of Isra. He is afraid of so many things, but she is not one of them.
@isra
