The forest was the ever stretching portion of this land that Manhattan had never seen, and yet he had always known was here. Unlike his parents, who had the abilities to see things past their own cognition, Manhattan had only what he had been born with, and with this, he was once again led away down from the mountains and back in the direction of the Meadow…
He had a gut feeling to follow. The blood in his ears pricked him and he had flexed his muscles, left Oakheart—his daughter--safely ensconced within the clutches of the Hidden Tundra.
He slid a hoof into the dirt, pulling his body through the trees as silent as a cat. He had all the balance and ability of someone much more than he, but this magician’s son was neither a wizard nor a muggle. He was a bitter man reaching out for something, trying to eke out a measure of success that has thus far eluded him in his many long years upon this earth. As the rotations around the sun began to stack against him, he found that he was neither experienced, nor wise.
He was just lost.
And so, as he continued to follow this gut feeling that he was missing something, Manhattan tossed back his fine head to look ahead to what was in front of him. He had slept little, and ate even less as his body had pounded the ground to bring him to this place. And yet, even with the sound that had drowned out his thoughts, he now found the silence of the wood deafening to him. What was he looking for?
The dark colored man broke through the underbrush, a cool feeling of regret and pure sadness rushing over his body as he heard the rustling of leaves just a little ways from where he was standing. It was then that he no longer had any doubts as to his gut reaction. He, the untraited son, had followed his senses to a place that he had known existed. She was here, and she was alive. And he had known it. He’d always known it.
Manhattan snorted and approached her, flicking his tail behind him as he looked to October, to see her frail, broken body and her shattered expression. His heart broke in that moment, and he found that he could not wait to re-introduce himself to her. He would have known her anywhere—and he was sure she would have known him in return.
He wrapped his head and neck around the gentle curve of her beautiful, slender back, his breath curling around her as he took in her scent. There was nothing he could say for what he had done to this poor, twisted creature that he now held, like a baby bird who had broken her wing. Nothing to fix the hurt, nothing to repair the damage. Nothing except the words “I’m so sorry, October.”
He had a gut feeling to follow. The blood in his ears pricked him and he had flexed his muscles, left Oakheart—his daughter--safely ensconced within the clutches of the Hidden Tundra.
He slid a hoof into the dirt, pulling his body through the trees as silent as a cat. He had all the balance and ability of someone much more than he, but this magician’s son was neither a wizard nor a muggle. He was a bitter man reaching out for something, trying to eke out a measure of success that has thus far eluded him in his many long years upon this earth. As the rotations around the sun began to stack against him, he found that he was neither experienced, nor wise.
He was just lost.
And so, as he continued to follow this gut feeling that he was missing something, Manhattan tossed back his fine head to look ahead to what was in front of him. He had slept little, and ate even less as his body had pounded the ground to bring him to this place. And yet, even with the sound that had drowned out his thoughts, he now found the silence of the wood deafening to him. What was he looking for?
The dark colored man broke through the underbrush, a cool feeling of regret and pure sadness rushing over his body as he heard the rustling of leaves just a little ways from where he was standing. It was then that he no longer had any doubts as to his gut reaction. He, the untraited son, had followed his senses to a place that he had known existed. She was here, and she was alive. And he had known it. He’d always known it.
Manhattan snorted and approached her, flicking his tail behind him as he looked to October, to see her frail, broken body and her shattered expression. His heart broke in that moment, and he found that he could not wait to re-introduce himself to her. He would have known her anywhere—and he was sure she would have known him in return.
He wrapped his head and neck around the gentle curve of her beautiful, slender back, his breath curling around her as he took in her scent. There was nothing he could say for what he had done to this poor, twisted creature that he now held, like a baby bird who had broken her wing. Nothing to fix the hurt, nothing to repair the damage. Nothing except the words “I’m so sorry, October.”
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.