ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Oh, he is rotten. Andras is flies and brown, sticky blood. He is soft fruit, black fruit, black like the void between stars. But he is not rotten how she thinks.
And if he is one long snarl then she is the teeth at his throat, gnashing and needy. If his is the song of survival then hers is the song of violence. If it has ever been used, just to survive, it has become something else entirely. It has become hungry. Deep and wide as the ocean. Sharp as the point of a pin.
He hates it.
Andras feels her, reaching out with her night-sky hands, molding the very earth that turns around him. It starts at the base of his tail and rolls up his spine in waves, pulse after pulse of something more than magic, something more than her pain or his. Something that is altogether another animal. Something knots in him that he cannot name, some faceless fear with a yawning canyon mouth and teeth as big as a house.
The ghosts are out. They are so much worse than your nightmares.
A bird in an alley, a black bird, and a cat meet in the dead of night. Ten feet ahead of him, Andras watches as Isra reaches out with her night-dark hands and her night-dark thought and the scarf laid overhead first whips like a snake, then coils into boards that clatter as they fall in a neat stack. Andras startles upward, as birds do, unfolding his wings and floating back on the rush of cold air and wheeling five feet off the ground.
Ah, and here is Isra, queen of Denocte. He has read about her.
She is as terrible and beautiful as he imagined.
Who are you, she asks, and he wonders why, even as his blood starts to sizzle, even as the crackling starts in his brain, the fizz and pop of oil bubbling below the surface. Later Andras may wonder why they'd throw a party at all, if their queen is so volatile, if she roars with the force of the gods. Later, he may wonder what they'd think, their gods, if they saw what she is up close. He does not think any of this now.
He thinks the thoughts of a trapped animal. Closed spaces. Teeth closed tight around his tongue, so tight it hurts. He thinks things like the gutteral moan of thunder and the lighthing that burns in him, brighter and brighter. He thinks that he may die if it does not leave him but it has nowhere else to go. Andras levels his gaze on Isra. It is unwavering and full of bile.
"Andras Demyan. From Delumine." He says, tense and forced. "I'm just here for the festival. I'd assume everyone is here for the festival."
He thinks, he can already taste the blood. He thinks, what he wouldn't give to sees himself trapped, angry, feral. Maybe from outside he does not look like he is eating himself alive.
And if he is one long snarl then she is the teeth at his throat, gnashing and needy. If his is the song of survival then hers is the song of violence. If it has ever been used, just to survive, it has become something else entirely. It has become hungry. Deep and wide as the ocean. Sharp as the point of a pin.
He hates it.
Andras feels her, reaching out with her night-sky hands, molding the very earth that turns around him. It starts at the base of his tail and rolls up his spine in waves, pulse after pulse of something more than magic, something more than her pain or his. Something that is altogether another animal. Something knots in him that he cannot name, some faceless fear with a yawning canyon mouth and teeth as big as a house.
The ghosts are out. They are so much worse than your nightmares.
A bird in an alley, a black bird, and a cat meet in the dead of night. Ten feet ahead of him, Andras watches as Isra reaches out with her night-dark hands and her night-dark thought and the scarf laid overhead first whips like a snake, then coils into boards that clatter as they fall in a neat stack. Andras startles upward, as birds do, unfolding his wings and floating back on the rush of cold air and wheeling five feet off the ground.
Ah, and here is Isra, queen of Denocte. He has read about her.
She is as terrible and beautiful as he imagined.
Who are you, she asks, and he wonders why, even as his blood starts to sizzle, even as the crackling starts in his brain, the fizz and pop of oil bubbling below the surface. Later Andras may wonder why they'd throw a party at all, if their queen is so volatile, if she roars with the force of the gods. Later, he may wonder what they'd think, their gods, if they saw what she is up close. He does not think any of this now.
He thinks the thoughts of a trapped animal. Closed spaces. Teeth closed tight around his tongue, so tight it hurts. He thinks things like the gutteral moan of thunder and the lighthing that burns in him, brighter and brighter. He thinks that he may die if it does not leave him but it has nowhere else to go. Andras levels his gaze on Isra. It is unwavering and full of bile.
"Andras Demyan. From Delumine." He says, tense and forced. "I'm just here for the festival. I'd assume everyone is here for the festival."
He thinks, he can already taste the blood. He thinks, what he wouldn't give to sees himself trapped, angry, feral. Maybe from outside he does not look like he is eating himself alive.
@isra
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
