Mikael was glad to be back in Lawrence's house though he'd be loathe to admit it out loud. The fact of the matter was that deep down he hoped to be able to reconcile with his father, even if the chances were incredibly small and to achieve that end he had to at least be in the vicinity of him. Malkam wasn't happy about it at, kicking up a fuss about Lawr's history, but his brother had never really lived with Lawrence. Though he was a bit strict and abrupt the older man was ultimately a very polite and tolerable housemate and they could do a lot worse in the grand scheme of the island than a very pleasant and well furnished house whose only real demand was to tolerate a not very bright old man. They didn't even pay rent.

There was just the matter of Melody.

Mikael had cared about her of course he had, but unlike Malkam he found it hard to truly blame his father for what had happened. Sure, he had gone out there even when warned against it but Mikael understood the reasoning, he'd even considered going back to his mum in defiance of all advice when he was recruited until he'd been told the story of what had actually happened to Melody. His anger had turned not to his stupid and curious father but instead had twisted viciously towards the horsemen, the ones who were the reason why none of them could have family outside this island, the jailers who kept them here.

His hatred for them ran deep and bitter, surpassing the hate he felt for his dad, his dad had tried to kill his mother back then in a pathetic show of knee jerk jealousy and possession but with the horsemen it wasn't rooted in emotion or anything personal, it was just pruning them off like animals.

<> Fenrir said.

Mik loved most things and it was easy to love the world around him even if he struggled to trust any of it or let anyone really close. He wanted to see more of the world and to share the amazing and terrible things he'd seen with his mother and family. Now he had Malkam back he had no intention of ever letting him go again.

Being back in the house had one great advantage and that was the ability to paint again. For a while his paintings had been mostly desolate landscapes populated only with solitary figures or wolves but now he'd taken up drawing cheery and vibrant images of still life - a cast aside bundle of clothing in the morning, a beam of sunlight cutting through a window looking out onto the jungle beyond - adorned his canvas. They spoke of life and of love and for once in his life he felt like his insides matched his outsides.

Speaking of outsides, he'd gotten some new clothes, and deciding to dress like a self proclaimed artist really should, he had bought himself lots of rainbow attire. In spite of this he couldn't quite seem to let go of the family attachment to white, refraining from going full rainbow and instead opting for a more restrained pale hue against and trimming white clothing. He felt better, a bit more himself, but he knew that there was still a very long way to go.