. . .

‘𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏’ 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝?  He’d roll his eyes at himself if Mallory would not already glance up at him. Michael will face Cordelia’s lectures for skipping today’s lessons later, his priorities certainly warped compared to everyone else’s. The steps downard are taken sans hesitation. With nervousness still putting his stomach into a knot, Michael halts at the stairway’s foot and glowers at the cat before it runs off; silly creature.  ❛ Yes, everything’s okay, just— ❜, he trails off, attention swaying over to Zoe who clearly doesn’t care about what’s going on. A deep breath heaves his chest and he withdraws his hand from the rail.

❛ I need to talk to you alone.❜  Enough time has been wasted on being distant since their little fallout and his three-days-absence. Which only opened doors to new revelations.

Promptly, Michael takes one of Mallory’s hands to lead her away and into the nearest unoccupied room. Sadly, shutting the door won’t shut out the thoughts running rampant in his head. That’s best concealed with a sheepish smile the moment he’d lay eyes on the witch again. ❛ While I was gone, I had a lot of time to think … ❜  He struggles to find the right words, although he previously mapped them out.  ❛ About you. ❜  Then an idle shrug accompanies a twitch upward of his brows.  ❛ And me. ❜

The plan is to act upon the feelings she’s kindled in him. A plan combining sincerity and making their bond a means to an end. She won’t try to kill him again if they’re close, right?

Michael shrinks the remaining distance between them with one step and despite the growing desire to cradle her face in his hands, he can’t bring himself to do it just yet. He’s gradually becoming more and more irritated with himself. Glances away to recollect thoughts, then back into her doe eyes.  ❛ I- I don’t want a You And Me anymore. ❜  The admission drops with a sigh, as if he gave up on searching his mind for pretty words. And if she lets him, that’s where he takes her hands into his own. Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fu—   ❛ I want an Us. ❜

light follows shadow through the sun streaked halls of the academy.    his hand is unnaturally warm,    clasping around her’s urgently as he pulls her along until they are alone.    it is a hard thing to manage,   being alone in a house full of women,    yet the the chorus of voices grow muffled when he shuts the door and it is just the two of them.

mallory suddenly finds herself feeling nervous.    why is she feeling nervous?    (   maybe it’s because he’s been distant,    or maybe it’s because she’s been running through every potential conversation the two of them could possibly have the last four nights until she has to throw herself from her bed and into the chilly midnight air just to get her brain to shut up.  )

he starts to speak and mallory catches herself staring at the wall behind him,      afraid that if she looks him in the eye the carefully crafted   ‘i am fine!’   facade she’s been holding up will crumble into a million pieces.   she is strained beneath the weight of trying to remain composed,    prepared for whatever words he’s going to utter next.    he hates her.    he loathes her.    he wants her to rot in hell.

I STRETCH OUT MY HAND,     THERE IS ONLY DARKNESS.

IS THIS WHAT MY MOTHER ENDURED?    MONTHS SPENT IN THE DARKNESS OF A LOWLY CELL,   PITIUS,    PIAUS,     NO LIGHT BUT THAT WITHIN.

HOW AM I TO KNOW WHAT IS LIGHT?     IS THERE EVEN LIGHT WITHIN ME?

THEY TELL ME A MAN WILL COME,     A SERPENT IN HIS RIGHT HAND,     A HUMAN HEART IN HIS LEFT.      THEY TELL ME IT WILL BE LIKE LOOKING UPON THE FACE OF GOD AND ALL WILL BE AFRAID.      THEY SAY HE WILL BE NEITHER MAN NOR ANGEL,      BUT THAT HE WILL WEAR A CROWN OF BONES AND IS TO BRING ABOUT THE DESTRUCTION OF THE EARTH.

THE ANGEL SAYS IT IS I WHO WILL SLAY HIM.     THAT I WILL SLAY HIM AND THE TEARS OF HIS FOLLOWERS WILL TURN THE EARTH AGAINST US IN THE LAST DAYS.

THEY DO NOT SAY I WILL LOVE HIM.    THEY DO NOT SAY I WILL WEEP.

MY FINGERS SEARCH IN THE DARKNESS,      THEY FIND ONLY DUST.

HOW AM I TO KILL THE ONE WHO I LOVE?      HOW AM I TO END HIM?

..........           IN THE ABBY,     ON THE SIDEWALL,     IS A PORTRAIT OF THE FINAL BATTLE SCRIBED BY SISTER SIGEWISE IN HER LAST YEARS.    A WOMAN SITS,     A MAN LAYS DYING IN HER LAP.      HIS CHEST IS RED WITH BLOOD,     HER FACE IS SMEARED WITH THE SAME RED.     I DO NOT KNOW HIS FACE,    BUT I KNOW HER’S. 

IT IS MY LIKENESS.      IT IS MY BODY.