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.
Michael is chronically eyed with suspicion. She is not the first to do so and she will certainly not be the last.
Perhaps it is the tense curve of his neck, or the high and wild way he laughs, or that each motion seems mechanical and forced. Even as is he searching the tree line for any sign of Morrighan's wolf, he is doing so deliberately to avoid her eyes, her face, and what he might find there. Anger? Surely, even if it is not pointed directly at him. Disappointment? He thinks the disappointment might be worst of all, though he can't fathom why.
(Because you ran, says a voice in the wind. A voice that rides on the backs of leaves blowing off the trees. Because you are a coward.)
God damn the wind, anyway.
"A companon, huh? Should we... go after him? It? Him?" Michael muses.
He knows these. Irsafel and her phoenix. Isra and her dragon. He cannot imagine being tied so closely to something else, tight cord strung between him and any other living thing, so close they can hear the beat of each others' heart from miles away. Michael has never wanted something like this. He never will. Perhaps he is selfish. There are too many deep and dark holes in him, too many things that he cannot say to himself, let alone some other, separate part of him. To open himself would be to invite too many things that he cannot bring himself to face.
He is wounded. Irreparably.
It is how he prefers it.
Michael shrinks as she looms closer. "Sorry, my name is Michael." he answers.
Perhaps it is the tense curve of his neck, or the high and wild way he laughs, or that each motion seems mechanical and forced. Even as is he searching the tree line for any sign of Morrighan's wolf, he is doing so deliberately to avoid her eyes, her face, and what he might find there. Anger? Surely, even if it is not pointed directly at him. Disappointment? He thinks the disappointment might be worst of all, though he can't fathom why.
(Because you ran, says a voice in the wind. A voice that rides on the backs of leaves blowing off the trees. Because you are a coward.)
God damn the wind, anyway.
"A companon, huh? Should we... go after him? It? Him?" Michael muses.
He knows these. Irsafel and her phoenix. Isra and her dragon. He cannot imagine being tied so closely to something else, tight cord strung between him and any other living thing, so close they can hear the beat of each others' heart from miles away. Michael has never wanted something like this. He never will. Perhaps he is selfish. There are too many deep and dark holes in him, too many things that he cannot say to himself, let alone some other, separate part of him. To open himself would be to invite too many things that he cannot bring himself to face.
He is wounded. Irreparably.
It is how he prefers it.
Michael shrinks as she looms closer. "Sorry, my name is Michael." he answers.
@morrighan
