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.
He spends perhaps too much time here, fixed pensively on the lake, watching how light bobs up and down in the shadows, glinting off fish and dragon scales and lost things for which their kind has no name.
He spends perhaps too much time considering lost things in general, either names he can no longer recall after years adrift in the void of running, or some bigger, nameless thing with a face he cannot stand to look upon. It is easier, then, to lose himself in the refraction of light, the rings where fish have been swimming. It is easier to do almost all things but the only one he seems truly capable of forcing himself to do is stare at the lake and mourn his own miserable existence.
The wind hums. Michael is spilled out of his stupor with all the ceremony of a bucket of dirty dishwater. It is instinct only that drives him toward the sound.
"--finish what the gryphon started," the voice says, but this time is is not the sea singing him to its shores or some voice in the heat waves wondering where he has been, why is he so cowardly. It strikes him that this is a real and tangible voice and the tension crackles off it like a hissing wire. He pauses. It is far too late to pause.
"Who goes there?" it yells, too loud for Michael who is already close enough to see Morrighan and her wolf in the clearing, Michael who is damp and quiet and visibly startles when the latter slinks away.
"Me," he says, verbally throwing up his hands, offering her a bashful smile from the only part of his face that isn't buried deep beneath a blanket of heavy white curls.
"I had no intention of interrupting, trust me. I prefer to be alone, honestly." Michael explains, turning his head in the direction her wolf left, trying to see him through the woods that only get thicker as they go. "Is that going to be a problem? Your wolf, I mean."
He spends perhaps too much time considering lost things in general, either names he can no longer recall after years adrift in the void of running, or some bigger, nameless thing with a face he cannot stand to look upon. It is easier, then, to lose himself in the refraction of light, the rings where fish have been swimming. It is easier to do almost all things but the only one he seems truly capable of forcing himself to do is stare at the lake and mourn his own miserable existence.
The wind hums. Michael is spilled out of his stupor with all the ceremony of a bucket of dirty dishwater. It is instinct only that drives him toward the sound.
"--finish what the gryphon started," the voice says, but this time is is not the sea singing him to its shores or some voice in the heat waves wondering where he has been, why is he so cowardly. It strikes him that this is a real and tangible voice and the tension crackles off it like a hissing wire. He pauses. It is far too late to pause.
"Who goes there?" it yells, too loud for Michael who is already close enough to see Morrighan and her wolf in the clearing, Michael who is damp and quiet and visibly startles when the latter slinks away.
"Me," he says, verbally throwing up his hands, offering her a bashful smile from the only part of his face that isn't buried deep beneath a blanket of heavy white curls.
"I had no intention of interrupting, trust me. I prefer to be alone, honestly." Michael explains, turning his head in the direction her wolf left, trying to see him through the woods that only get thicker as they go. "Is that going to be a problem? Your wolf, I mean."
@morrighan
