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.
One moment: He smiles. It's soft. Warm.
"Moira."
The next: Something feral headed their way, a toothy, wolfish grin. Moira wheels to face him and Michael only tilts his head back to see them. Ahead, the corn yawns open, black stalks on either side of a black, muddy trail. Behind, a phoenix turned cold, and a predator. He thinks, he could just go. He thinks, he cannot help anyway.
If Michael had hands to hold her, he would. If he had hands to hold Isra, he would. All of Denocte. He would. But Michael's hands are made of sand and when he reaches for hers, they crumble and drop in heavy lumps. He feels them land in his stomach, wet and cold. She is looking at Ramses but Michael is looking at her, her clenched teeth, and goosebumps raise along his back.
This is a litany: this gold thing, bowed back by the weight of all that holds down everyone else. He has never been his own. He never can be. It is a tiresome existence.
Allow me to join you, Ramses asks. Insists?
You smell of day, Moira answers.
The look that Michael gives the stallion is disdainful.
"Maybe you shouldn't. But I'm sure you will." says Michael. As if he were the kind to say 'maybe you shouldn't.' As if he were any kind at all.
He is still breathing so they cannot hear him - his nostrils tremble with the effort. An audible wind blows through the corn field. It is asking. Begging. The emissary and her tiger breeze past Michael in a flurry of cold air. She has sucked everything out of the space and still he dances on this razor's edge, between a tiger and a coyote, before he sees that he is the deer, small and meek.
So be it. Michael follows Moira, as Michael always would.
"Another maze."
Another maze.
He is used to feeling lost.
"Moira."
The next: Something feral headed their way, a toothy, wolfish grin. Moira wheels to face him and Michael only tilts his head back to see them. Ahead, the corn yawns open, black stalks on either side of a black, muddy trail. Behind, a phoenix turned cold, and a predator. He thinks, he could just go. He thinks, he cannot help anyway.
If Michael had hands to hold her, he would. If he had hands to hold Isra, he would. All of Denocte. He would. But Michael's hands are made of sand and when he reaches for hers, they crumble and drop in heavy lumps. He feels them land in his stomach, wet and cold. She is looking at Ramses but Michael is looking at her, her clenched teeth, and goosebumps raise along his back.
This is a litany: this gold thing, bowed back by the weight of all that holds down everyone else. He has never been his own. He never can be. It is a tiresome existence.
Allow me to join you, Ramses asks. Insists?
You smell of day, Moira answers.
The look that Michael gives the stallion is disdainful.
"Maybe you shouldn't. But I'm sure you will." says Michael. As if he were the kind to say 'maybe you shouldn't.' As if he were any kind at all.
He is still breathing so they cannot hear him - his nostrils tremble with the effort. An audible wind blows through the corn field. It is asking. Begging. The emissary and her tiger breeze past Michael in a flurry of cold air. She has sucked everything out of the space and still he dances on this razor's edge, between a tiger and a coyote, before he sees that he is the deer, small and meek.
So be it. Michael follows Moira, as Michael always would.
"Another maze."
Another maze.
He is used to feeling lost.
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