Michael is walking, stiff and wet and trying so hard to be whole and right and happy. In a city full of laughter, full of floating light and the music of bliss, Michael has never felt so alone. The full-body shiver that wracks its way through him is not from the cold.
Snow has bunched up against the city walls but he can barely feel the cold anymore - it has become some far-off numbness in the base of his neck, a distant ache through his whole body that follows him toward cluster of shops on the outskirts that are thick with the scent of cinnamon-sugar and pine. The river of festival-goers flows through and left in its wake is only Michael, soaked and somber, carefully picking up little wooden carvings painted in gold and white and green, admiring each intricate edge.
(He does not see the shopkeep staring at him with some vague look of concern, or distrust, or maybe even sympathy. He also does not see that same shoopkeep when her eyes are drawn over toward the Commander and that look smoothes into one of half-hearted relief.)
When Marisol finds him it is like every god at once reaches down their long arms and pulls him from the dirt, sifting through to find the bits that have gone astray, cast out over the street as if someone was scattering birdseed. He is not sure his expression properly conveys his gratitude, and especially when he turns to see her and she is full of this deep-seated longing to protect him and Michael's heart says like Isra, but then the rest of his heart says, but without the big hungry thing in her.
He remembers the harvest festival, and Isra perched on the wall like a gargoyle, hungry and volatile. Breathtaking. He wonders if she will find peace. He thinks he knows she doesn't really want to.
You look cold, Queen Marisol says.
"I'm very cold, Michael agrees. As she tries, in vain, to wick him dry, fat drops tumble off the sopping mass of his knotted mane and land on the plane of her wing. He smiles apologetically at her.
She says, we'll get a hot drink (and he sees her mouth curve into a mischevious smile, one that makes him grin) but before he can even think she is tugging him away, and he has to toss the carving back on the shopkeep's counter to return it. "I have literally never needed a hot drink so badly in my life." he says as they're already in motion, diving into a crowd that calls to her at every corner, laughing and raising their drinks and all those general, vague celebratory sounds that large crowds of rowdy party-goers are wont to produce. Michael has not stopped grinning.
He isn't even looking at the shops as he passes by.
"I take it you're queen Marisol?" he says when they've slowed enough for him to breathe again.
Snow has bunched up against the city walls but he can barely feel the cold anymore - it has become some far-off numbness in the base of his neck, a distant ache through his whole body that follows him toward cluster of shops on the outskirts that are thick with the scent of cinnamon-sugar and pine. The river of festival-goers flows through and left in its wake is only Michael, soaked and somber, carefully picking up little wooden carvings painted in gold and white and green, admiring each intricate edge.
(He does not see the shopkeep staring at him with some vague look of concern, or distrust, or maybe even sympathy. He also does not see that same shoopkeep when her eyes are drawn over toward the Commander and that look smoothes into one of half-hearted relief.)
When Marisol finds him it is like every god at once reaches down their long arms and pulls him from the dirt, sifting through to find the bits that have gone astray, cast out over the street as if someone was scattering birdseed. He is not sure his expression properly conveys his gratitude, and especially when he turns to see her and she is full of this deep-seated longing to protect him and Michael's heart says like Isra, but then the rest of his heart says, but without the big hungry thing in her.
He remembers the harvest festival, and Isra perched on the wall like a gargoyle, hungry and volatile. Breathtaking. He wonders if she will find peace. He thinks he knows she doesn't really want to.
You look cold, Queen Marisol says.
"I'm very cold, Michael agrees. As she tries, in vain, to wick him dry, fat drops tumble off the sopping mass of his knotted mane and land on the plane of her wing. He smiles apologetically at her.
She says, we'll get a hot drink (and he sees her mouth curve into a mischevious smile, one that makes him grin) but before he can even think she is tugging him away, and he has to toss the carving back on the shopkeep's counter to return it. "I have literally never needed a hot drink so badly in my life." he says as they're already in motion, diving into a crowd that calls to her at every corner, laughing and raising their drinks and all those general, vague celebratory sounds that large crowds of rowdy party-goers are wont to produce. Michael has not stopped grinning.
He isn't even looking at the shops as he passes by.
"I take it you're queen Marisol?" he says when they've slowed enough for him to breathe again.
"Tell me how all this,
and love too, will ruin us."
and love too, will ruin us."
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