“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”
She looks up at him: round eyes, weighed by bags. The notch of her brow is more pronounced than he remembers, the cut of her cheek is sharper. He looks at this and feels himself smiling like someone might smile at a funeral-- and isn't it kind of mourning, to stand here with her and to know that it was all for nothing. Hasn't he been mourning himself since the day he was born?
There is nothing to do but stand, and search for a word more than 'sorry,' a word more than 'please' and 'I know' and 'Caligo help me I'm cracking in half and I'm going to die.' Moira pulls a few handfuls of his mane, brushing out knots and weaving light in their place. Michael thinks only that his hair smells like saltwater and old wood, which is fitting, because he isn't much more than a sunken ship, covered head to toe in black barnacles and urchins, groaning away on the seafloor.
Or, at least, that's what it feels like.
She's not coming back, is she? Moira asks, and Michael has to find his way out of the fog of his thoughts to answer. He looks at her, at her sharp edges, her delicate frown, her bottomless patience for men who don't deserve the time of day, and he tells her the truth: "Of course she is."
He doesn't know who she'll be when she returns. He doesn't know if he'll look at her and see Isra, the unicorn, or Isra, the young god, or Isra, an old god, full of too much power to be anything but. He doesn't know if he'll look at her at all. He doesn't know if he can, after-- well, this.
Michael says none of these things. Instead he watches her halo, and the spears of light it casts around the room. In the window's reflection there is just Michael: and a ball of white and gold-- but he sees her, he thinks. More than he should.
"You know, you're beautiful." he says--there's that smile again, something placid and sad, something far too warm for a room full of sadness. Suddenly he can't help himself. It occurs to him that he's very, very tired. "--and you should probably go back to bed."
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BRING ON THE DRAMA BABEY
