ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Andras is a fist, clenched tight like the set of his jaw, teeth grinding. A walking threat.
If he were anything but a fist, if he were an open palm - soft, trembling with the effort of touching things without touching them at all (instead of the vigorous trembling of a thing trapped within itself) - things may have been different. But things are not different. Andras is not an open palm, he is not soft and calm and wholesome. He is a coiled spring, a crackling wire, a black spot on the face of Delumine. And he is sorry.
He had spent some time watching, perched in Viride's tall trees, wings tucked carefully against his side, still as a crow and twice as silent. He has found he does not like the river, or the moss, or most of the people. He has found that he does like the library, and tucked himself away in among the shelves and the old, gnarled tables and the smell of dry parchment, even when everything else never stops smelling like rain.
So he stays in the library, holed away in an off-center study room: piled high with pillows and balled parchment smeared with graphite and ink, the table pushed unceremoniously against the wall and on it, a spilled bag and its contents - scraps of fabric, old leaves, small and empty bottles.
But today Andras is elsewhere buried in old scripts, things written so long before he was born that he worries that they will break apart as he unrolls them. He's spent hours so far, browsing the shelves, pulling one ancient piece of paper, skimming it, shuffling it back into its original home, and then moving on to pull out another. He isn't sure what he's looking for. He doubts it is here, if he did know.
He plucks a thin volume from the shelf and opens it, periodically glaring over the top of his glasses at a couple laughing on the other end of the room - the sound is grating. When they finally pass into the next room, Andras returns to his book with a sigh, paging through one or two pages before finding his place and settling in to read.
That is, until he catches a shape in his periphery.
Andras closes the book with an audible snap, glances upward. He feels like a fist.
He feels like his own clenched teeth.
"What do you want?" It isn't really a question. It isn't really a threat, either. It's a genuine question, strung tight by his gritting teeth. He is sorry - kind of.
If he were anything but a fist, if he were an open palm - soft, trembling with the effort of touching things without touching them at all (instead of the vigorous trembling of a thing trapped within itself) - things may have been different. But things are not different. Andras is not an open palm, he is not soft and calm and wholesome. He is a coiled spring, a crackling wire, a black spot on the face of Delumine. And he is sorry.
He had spent some time watching, perched in Viride's tall trees, wings tucked carefully against his side, still as a crow and twice as silent. He has found he does not like the river, or the moss, or most of the people. He has found that he does like the library, and tucked himself away in among the shelves and the old, gnarled tables and the smell of dry parchment, even when everything else never stops smelling like rain.
So he stays in the library, holed away in an off-center study room: piled high with pillows and balled parchment smeared with graphite and ink, the table pushed unceremoniously against the wall and on it, a spilled bag and its contents - scraps of fabric, old leaves, small and empty bottles.
But today Andras is elsewhere buried in old scripts, things written so long before he was born that he worries that they will break apart as he unrolls them. He's spent hours so far, browsing the shelves, pulling one ancient piece of paper, skimming it, shuffling it back into its original home, and then moving on to pull out another. He isn't sure what he's looking for. He doubts it is here, if he did know.
He plucks a thin volume from the shelf and opens it, periodically glaring over the top of his glasses at a couple laughing on the other end of the room - the sound is grating. When they finally pass into the next room, Andras returns to his book with a sigh, paging through one or two pages before finding his place and settling in to read.
That is, until he catches a shape in his periphery.
Andras closes the book with an audible snap, glances upward. He feels like a fist.
He feels like his own clenched teeth.
"What do you want?" It isn't really a question. It isn't really a threat, either. It's a genuine question, strung tight by his gritting teeth. He is sorry - kind of.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
