🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in repose, @ 2018-05-28 23:09:00 |
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It was cold, and Misha had no idea how much time had passed. Minutes. Days. Weeks. Years. It felt like forever, which was a whole lot more than minutes, but he couldn't be sure any. There wasn't no telling. He couldn't look on down and decide, on account of the entire timeline of folks was there. He wasn't grounded in any time, not naturally. He'd cleaved out his own time, and he'd done so by doing the math and attempting to put himself back to where he would've been after the death of his foster daddy. He'd probably been off some, but it hadn't mattered then. He didn't have folks he wanted to get back to and just right, and now he did. It was all a blip, and heartbeats were minuscule. Places, strung all over time and realities, they were infinitesimal and infinite, and he had to find one specific moment in one specific reality and with one specific soul. If he got it wrong, he might end up weeks later or weeks earlier, and he might end up in the wrong reality altogether, and it wasn't always easy telling. Deviations in timelines, they could be so damned tiny, and he was scared. Cold and alone, he was scared, and he hadn't wanted this any. But here he was all over again, and he couldn't reckon when to put himself back. He tried to assuage himself with the fact that he'd helped some, but he wasn't even sure he'd done anything that wouldn't have got done on its own. It was cold, but could be that was already mentioned. But it was cold. It was a real crisp kind of cold, pure and without stain. There were voices all over in his head, but his ears didn't hear a damn thing. Not that there wasn't sound, on account of there was, but it was usually song or lessons of discussions. Discussing, it was real big, and Misha hated the white pristineness. He was pristine. Nothing bothered him here. It was all fine and insulated, like he'd been wrapped in cotton balls until he couldn't see or feel anything strong. That wasn't to say that there wasn't feeling plenty. There'd been raised voices and debate 'bout whether or not the war would be lost if non-human, altered folks were ignored by Heaven, while being focused on by the Big Guy Downstairs. It wasn't that angels weren't passionate, but the passion was for here. For down there, for the real world and its folks, there was a cushion, a buffer, a distance that made feeling strongly hard. Feeling was for The Host, and angels could be real snobby dicks some. Not to say that loving mortals didn't happen. It happened, and Misha knew it happened, but those angels didn't go 'round proclaiming. No one wanted to fall; Hell was a real pain in the ass for newly fallen angels, and falling to earth wasn't easy how it was in the books. But it did happen, and Misha reckoned he could always find someone older, wiser, someone with wings tarnished by sinful loving, and could be they'd help him get where he was going. On account of no one else here was inclined to help; he couldn't blame them. His daddy, who hadn't never met, was a real important dominion, and no one was willing to help his offspring run off again. And, Misha, he just tried not to fusss or worry, and he convinced himself that he'd be able to put himself right back where Damian had last seen him. He convinced himself, and that was on account of there not being any other option. He'd lose his mind otherwise, and life wasn't no better for an insane angel than it was for any other folk with a mind gone mad. No matter how long it took, he'd find a way, and he'd get himself home. |