He has missed the ocean; his first home, his first love.
Michael's father told him when he was young that their family had always been pirates, and Michael had always figured it was true. The sea frequently calls his name, the lilting siren song of the deep and the wide. His bones are pulled toward it. His heart groans for salt grass and fine sand.
So he goes to the ocean.
Michael's lopes toward the end of the world, again. Michael does not hurry, and the hush that falls over him is ghastly. In it there are ghosts with their pale hands and their white eyes -- there is the silver and the blue of a girl he once knew and the time they cried together on the beach. This was after the end. Everything was after the end.
He is hesitant to slow. To slow is to think and to think is to invite the frankly foreboding sense of bigger thing than he wants to imagine that drapes him like a wet blanket. He has had it, he thinks, since he woke up in the mountains - it is the drums of ancient magic and the quiet rumble of deep hurt and he does not know quite how to categorize.
Michael doesn't like not knowing. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to tie himself to another world with another heart unless he can help it, but the not-knowing kills him. Why do his bones ache the way they do? Why does he feel so, very, very tired? Why is there a pit in his stomach that has never been there?
Why, when he reaches the shore, does Michael gracelessly lurch to a halt and hesitate to continue?
He gets no time to come to the answer; rather, something else comes to him. Well, someone, and she does not so much approach Michael as Michael almost trips over her when he turns to walk the shoreline.
His first thought is that she must be the sun. He squints to look at her through the thick white curtain of his mane, all bunches and mangled and wind-tossed. He cannot remember the last time he saw something so bright.
"Oh, hello." he says. "Hey, um..."
Michael pauses. He has gone so long without someone to talk to. Hundreds of years, surely.
It definitely feels like hundreds of years.
Finally, Michael tilts his head, and flashes her a smile. This is characteristic. This is normal. Finding normal again has not been easy. "Do you, um-- are you...? Hi. I'm Michael."
A set of eyes had pinned him,
became his version of a kingdom.
She's everything the devil can't be,
when she's singing to me, 'glory'.
It was almost funny how often she found herself traipsing across the sandy beaches of the Terminus Sea. In a way, it was a lot like the swamps in Terrastella; no matter how often she tried to avoid them, she inevitably ended up there. Honestly, Israfel hated it. She and water simply did not mix. Regardless, the day was a nice one for a quick sashay across the sand and it was hard to say just how much longer the good weather would hold out given that winter was just around the corner.
’And what a winter it will be,’ she groused, nonplussed by the fact that the Dusk Court would struggle through the frigid depths of winter because their patron Goddess was a colossal bitch. With Terrastella’s supplies still in the gutter, she had no idea just how well they would survive, but with Asterion’s masterful diplomacy skills, or by sheer luck, they had wormed their way into the good graces of Denocte. Maybe they could buddy up through the worst of the freeze, or something.
Regardless, the Sun Daughter’s focus was on the current day, standing tall and proud with gilded wings drawn close to her sides, posture rigid and collected befitting her station. Wind whipped strands of ivory and gold danced upon the ocean breeze, salt and brine coating her tongue and nose. Vermilion eyes peered out across the vast churning waves, watching the dreadful element of water rise and fall, rise and fall, white-caps crashing into the shoreline only to be drawn back by the sheer strength of the ocean.
No fucking thank you. She was a creature literally born in flames, the daughter of a Sun God. Fire could be manipulated and controlled at her whim; water was the opposing force.
Above her stationary sentry, Solaris circled lazily about in the air, the Phoenix’s great golden wings spread wide to glide effortlessly along the breeze in vast, wide circles. There was no alarm, no cause of concern, and the bird of fire was content to simply ride the waves of air coming off the ocean, dropping and darting upward, twirling about in the air in a beautiful display of alabaster and gold.
It was at the sound of another, hooves crunching in the tiny granules of white sand which caused a pale ear to flick behind her and for the first time lured eyes of piercing vermilion away from the churning blue ocean. She frowned, rose-kissed lips pulled downwards as she scrutinized the individual who seemed unaware that she had been stationed there. Turning about, cloven, golden hooves digging into the sand, she faced the stranger and gave a flick of the tail in nonchalance.
“Hey.” The greeting was spoken upon gruff vocals, her voice oddly raspy for a female. The Sun Daughter arched a pale brow, watching the way he shifted and listened curiously to the uncertain, meek way that he spoke. Golden as the sun she was born from, the stranger watched her with a tentative expression masked behind a curtain of white. He seemed at war with himself, caught in some kind of internal struggle before flashing her a smile that honestly looked far closer to a grimace, as though the action brought him physical pain. After spending so much quality time with Ulric, it was strange to be around a man on the completely opposite end of the spectrum. Interesting.
Michael. That was his name. A wild, rueful grin pulled up the shield maiden’s lips.
“Good to meet you, and stuff. Israfel.” Hopefully he understood her crass introduction. Rolling a shoulder, which popped in a satisfying way, the Warden pressed on almost curiously. “… Am I what?”
It would always have gone like this, Michael traipsing back into existence at the precipice of winter when he at his quintessence is a child of the summer sea.
He still feels disoriented and tired for a purpose that he can't quite place. The ground beneath him hums with magic and history and it pounds in his head. Michael's brows are furrowed when she greets him; he doesn't frown often, not really, but his expression toes the line between ambivalence and frustration.
Is she... what? He hadn't really considered.
How do you tell a person that they're breathtaking when you can barely breathe for the weight on your chest? How do you look someone in the eyes and casually mention that you're drowning in their fire, that it brings you to life in ways that are entirely uncharacteristic? How do you do all of that and also explain that none of this matters, not really. Michael is not known for being hard to impress. He is drawn to poetry and cathedrals and her presence echoes like every marble chamber he's ever seen.
Israfel's fire is a crackling spark in his eyes and when he breathes in to speak it's a flash of the Michael he used to be and wants to be again. It passes quickly.
"Israfel," he starts, pauses, sighs. "um."
Ever eloquent. Michael can live as many lifetimes as he'd like but he is still at a loss for small talk. All of Michael's strength lies in songs about the yawning jaws of the ocean and things plucked from daydreams and he is honestly good for little else.
Michael squints upward. He is searching for words.
What he finds instead is the phoenix, huge and bright. "Hold on, is that yours? Well, as much as anyone can be anyone else's. You know."
The palomino smiles to himself, still squinting into the sun. "Breathtaking."
He had meant it as a reply to her earlier question.
His head hurts.
A set of eyes had pinned him,
became his version of a kingdom.
She's everything the devil can't be,
when she's singing to me, 'glory'.
Standing there in the sand and facing a would-be stranger, Israfel watched him with a touch of caution. There was something about this fellow, about this Michael, that she couldn’t exactly put her hoof on. There was a meekness about him, a fragility, almost as though he was waiting for belittlement with every look. His lack of confidence was apparent in his stammering and stuttering, but she found that her patience did not wane. That was perhaps the strangest thing of all.
Typically she held no time for such blabbering, pointless squabble, but… Well, Israfel wasn’t sure why Michael wasn’t bothering her. Maybe it was because all of the time she had been spending in Delumine. Maybe she was just a bleeding heart. It was hard to say. Perhaps the answer would reveal itself in time.
Lifting her head, she regarded the Phoenix gliding lazily above them once Michael took note. Her smile grew and vermilion eyes immediately shifted to dart back to the palomino’s gilded body. “Something like that,” she answered cryptically, knowing that she and Solaris held a special, unexplainable relationship, “Although I would consider myself more hers than she being mine. Her name is Solaris.” There wasn’t a day that passed where Israfel wondered how she could have gotten so lucky, being Solaris’ chosen one. There were hundreds of theories that she could cast into the wind, a plethora of sleepless nights spent wondering why she was worthy, but in the end, it was just too much work. The Sun Daughter accepted her blessing and left it at that.
Letting her jaw lower and her posture straighten, the gilded shield-maiden began to approach the palomino man with his curtain of thick white hair, her leisurely gate a confident sashay as cloven hooves guided her through the white beach sand. He reminded her of someone. Maybe her father.
Maybe herself.
Stopping only a width away, Israfel felt her smile curl with amusement, curiosity shining with vast vermilion eyes. Intrigue blossomed within her pale breast, and she tilted her pretty head slightly to the right. “Michael, you said. Where do you call home here in Novus?”
Michael thinks he could stand here forever, eyes squinting against the pale autumn sun. Perhaps if he stood until his insides burned out, until his eyes and his tongue turned to ash...
It could never be that easy.
Michael has met a phoenix or two in his long, long life. He has only ever known them as vain and fickle creatures. They had not helped him find the peace that he so desperately craves, but he appreciates them all the same. Every phoenix is beautiful and heartbreaking in their own way. Michael hopes that someday he too can be reforged from his own dust, crafted again into something stronger. Something happier.
Solaris. Michael smiles, one ear cocked toward Israfel. "It would be," he says, not to be rude but because of course her name is Solaris. How could it be anything but? He hopes that his kind--if melancholy--smile conveys that his statement was meant in utmost sincerity. "I love it."
Michael grows visibly tense as she approaches. He doesn't feel tense but he has yet to wrest his flight instinct back in order. You run from enough things in your life and you become the running. If Michael is anything he is the wind as it blows. He's not sure what that means.
Israfel blooms before him, settling into curiosity rather than the guarded skepticism of moments past. The golden horse doesn't doubt that he'll bring it back out of her at some point. He is not particularly complicated but he can be hard to understand. He doesn't particularly understand himself.
Where do you call home? Michael thinks, Liridon. Michael thinks, Ilir and the weight of a crown that was too heavy for his tired head. Michael thinks, Eleven. Michael very quickly thinks, not Eleven. Not for a long time.
"I'm from Denocte, I guess." Michael answers, and in his head there is the queen and her dragon and her city you don't know if you live in. Something quiet stirs inside him. Perhaps that ever-elusive concept of home stirs. He doesn't know. "Well, I'm from...
somewhere else. I walked here. I think."
He falls into a tense silence. There are balloons in his chest and the tingle of things unsaid in his throat. "--Anyway, what about you? And how's it, uh, going there?"
A set of eyes had pinned him,
became his version of a kingdom.
She's everything the devil can't be,
when she's singing to me, 'glory'.
Israfel wondered, but for a quick moment, just how long Michael must have been standing there among the beach and ocean spray to not carry the stench of Denocte upon him. Once the citizens of the Night Court stank like jasmine incense and heady perfumes, but that might have changed in the seasons since the new Queen’s ascension. Instead, he smelled of sun and sea breeze, salt and brine, and for some strange reason she knew that even if she asked him how long he had been out there, he might not be able to give her an answer.
Odd. Michael seemed strangely befuddled, as though he was present, yet not.
Leaving Solaris to glide and arc elegantly through the sunlit air and dance upon the ocean breeze, the Sun Daughter directed her gaze to the golden skinned man and his curtain of alabaster hair. She stood at attention, slender ivory shoulders rolled back, and arched a brow at his return in inquiry. Was this the game they were to play? Very well.
“Terrastella,” she answered sensually, rose-kissed lips twisting upwards in a knowing, tactile sort of grin, the rubies of her eyes glittering mischievously in the light of the day, “The Dusk Court. We’re neighbors.” Technically all of the courts were neighbors in one way or another, despite the sparse pocks of land interrupting the borders of each solar province.
A petite ear tipped forward, her grin slowly fading but not entirely leaving her face. There was a look of genuine curiosity upon her face now, true and honest despite the banter carried easily in her tone. This man was not like Ulric, who could take her words, fuck with them, and toss them back at her in jest and games. Michael was far more meek, and while she understood that much about him, there was something else, something far deeper than what he was exhibiting to the world. A defense mechanism, perhaps? Maybe he himself did not know.
The look of intrigue was replaced once more, and the Warden’s pretty face turned towards the churning waves and whitecaps of the ocean, letting her gaze get lost tracing the contours of the horizon where ocean met sky. She was not unaware of how Michael, in his gold and snow-white glory shifted uncertainty beside her, as though troubled by her proximity but quite uncertain what to do about it. “I won’t pry into your private life, Michael. That would be rude.” Even though it hadn’t stopped her with a certain Warden of Delumine, but, ah. Semantics. Israfel went on, letting her body shift as the hair whipped around her face from the breeze of salt and brine. “So let’s start easy; what’s your favorite color?”
An innocent question, but one strangely profound. There was a lot you could learn from someone by the most simple of details, after all, and Israfel was slowly learning how to do just that.
If Michael is meant to be playing some game he is surely losing, sweating there on the beach before the phoenix and her phoenix, feeling too heavy and too light, a metronome rocking between panic and exhaustion at a pace that makes him ill. It used to be so much easier just to be alive. Everything used to be so much easier.
Michael is a comet adrift in space, arms outstretched and fingers reaching to catch whatever he can, to hold whatever he must to maintain his admittedly strained sense of self. He grabs her words as he passes by and they pull him from the existential deep.
The waves roar in his ears. Gulls are crying above him. A phoenix circles. Another phoenix stands, expectant.
“Neighbors, huh? Interesting.” and he returns her gaze with one of his own, tepid but not unkind. “Maybe I’ll visit. At some point. If… it happens, I guess.”
Michael purses his lips, tucks the corners back just a little. His brows furrow. All of this is obfuscated. He is thankful for it. His is an expression of veiled frustration.
Anyway,
He is spinning, an entire galaxy crushed and compacted until it doesn’t look at all like it did when he first began. Michael follows her gaze outward to the cresting waves, the lapping ocean. If he has ever felt like he’s at home in Novus it’s got to be here, and it’s got to be now, and for whatever reason it’s got to be next to Israfel, a sylph set on fire.
What is your favorite color, Michael? Do you remember how to love anything, anymore? Do you remember what it means to have any sort of opinion that matters? To care at all about anything that isn’t the stars or the ocean? If he’s going to answer truthfully, “that one,” is what he says while tilting his head down, toward the sand below their feet.
“Whatever you’d call that, I’m pretty sure it’s my favorite color. It reminds me of home. That, or red.”
Michael lifts his head again, shakes the hair out of his eyes for once. They are blue and sharp. “You’re welcome to prying questions, as long as I am, too.”
