"I think we deserve
a soft epilogue, my love.
we are good people
and we've suffered enough."
a soft epilogue, my love.
we are good people
and we've suffered enough."
The churn of the populace has dwindled to a steady trickle. Somewhere the last few shops hung in candles and gold fabric are waiting out the end of the season, though everyone else has boxed their decorations and tucked them away for the next celebration. At long last, Denocte lets out a breath - no more strangers, no more masks, no more of the itch at the back of their neck that says fear, fear, fear in an endless loop.
Michael is among the first to leave, tired of ghosts and drinks and the roar of the crowd (loud like the ocean, loud like thunder, loud like words spoken in an empty room) and nobody watches him go.
Here we are, says his chest, in the mountains again. Here we are in the tall pines pocked every hundred meters or so with the reds and yellows of deciduous autumn. Here we are in the early morning fog that clings to the canopy and the air so cold it hurts to breathe.
Michael likes it here.
He likes that he can think.
Two days after the end of the festival Michael is winding through the woods - the timberline is about a hundred yards uphill and the cold wind blowing down the mountain has Michael shielding his face with his scarf, blue and shimmering as it slaps at his cheeks. Below the whole of Denocte is spread against the sea, smudged in all the colors of an earth bedding down before winter.
It starts to occur to Michael that he can't remember the last time he felt truly warm, that there was not some breath of this mountain wind in him, circling endlessly because it cannot escape. He wonders if he will ever feel warm again.
He wonders if he will ever feel anything, again.
Michael frowns. The wind flaps his scarf against his cheeks and he does not move. The trees creak with its blustering and he does not move. Only a shape, barely visible downwind, climbing the narrow path, draws his attention. It is a large type, hulking and solemn. Somewhere, the sun is crawling ever closer to noon. Michael assumes this shape is a soldier on rounds.
"Hello," he calls, "Are you headed this way?"
He cannot telll if the answer he wants is yes, or no.
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