"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."
Michael is watching her, over the rim of his glass, and he is wondering how she sees him.
If he knew, oh if he knew, he might tell her that she never had to do anything, never had to speak a word, or look his way, and he would still have sworn himself on the altar of her friendship. But Moira doesn't ask, and at this point it is well known that Michael doesn't say, wouldn't say.
When he looks at her he thinks of the big pocket left in the wake of Isra's kidnapping, of Moira who called Denocte back to its feet and urged them to move, to do, as the sun set over her back just as it does now. When Michael looks at her he sees her face at the festival, drawn and tense and miles below the surface of some water that he cannot see but its rhythm is the same as the one that thrums in his heart throughout the centuries.
It is a song of love, and loss, and it is keening and raw.
So Michael smiles patiently when Neerja knocks Moira's glass off the table and it shatters at their feet (me too, he jokes--privately) and still as the staff swoops through the bar with a broom and a dustpan and wishes them well.
"Just alright," he confirms. He is only ever "just alright."
Michael is a patient listener, gold in the ever-fading sunlight. When she finishes, he takes a moment to give his drink a gentle swirl before sipping.
"Can you die of terror?" he asks, and then, "Is that a good thing? Seeing an old friend?"
He lapses into silence, listening and thinking. Someone brings Moira another drink and hurries away from the table as fast as they can while still looking composed, and somewhere the singer has left her corner of the bar to mingle, so it is painfully, painfully quiet when Michael lifts his drink, downs the rest of it in one gulp, and after setting it carefully back down on the table, as one might a small bird, says: "Well, I think you're worthy."
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