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 hates that look in his eyes. Peace.
He wonders what it's like, to feel anything worthwhile, to feel anything that isn't this choking anger with its entire hands stuffed in his mouth. It must be like singing. It must be like rain outside the library windows, rain in the dead of night, rain on his back and his face - cold, but not too cold, with a thumping that echoes that of his frantic heart - except all the time.
The black horse would reach for it, but he doesn't. Andras is tired of disappointment.
Andras is tired of almost everything.
He shifts the book's weight under his wing to hold it more safely - an act of settling, an act of rest.
Magnificent, Atlaas says. Truly magnificent.
"Sure," answers Andras, the way someone might take a backhanded compliment, or give one. The undercurrent of spite is swift and strong and it is so easy to get carried away. Here they are, opposite sides of the same charmed coin. Andras runs his tongue along the back of his teeth.
Were you reading? Again, "Sure. That too." but he doesn't offer anything else. Andras is a man on a cliff, watching a conversation trip off the edge, and he is too busy wondering what it's like to fall like that, to fear something so entirely, to snap and crack at the bottom in a chorus of pain and apocalyptic suffering. He forgets to hold out his hand at all.
Still he is touching his teeth with his tongue. Still he is wound tight, a grim expression carved into his face as if it had been there for centuries.
"Well, it is a library. I think most of them are. Unless you think I own it, in which case--wow, nice, but also inaccurate."
Andras smiles. It's as pleasant as he can manage, which is to say not pleasant at all, but stunningly neutral. "I'm curious how a person gets here without knowing what they're looking for. Viride isn't exactly easy to navigate."
He wonders what it's like, to feel anything worthwhile, to feel anything that isn't this choking anger with its entire hands stuffed in his mouth. It must be like singing. It must be like rain outside the library windows, rain in the dead of night, rain on his back and his face - cold, but not too cold, with a thumping that echoes that of his frantic heart - except all the time.
The black horse would reach for it, but he doesn't. Andras is tired of disappointment.
Andras is tired of almost everything.
He shifts the book's weight under his wing to hold it more safely - an act of settling, an act of rest.
Magnificent, Atlaas says. Truly magnificent.
"Sure," answers Andras, the way someone might take a backhanded compliment, or give one. The undercurrent of spite is swift and strong and it is so easy to get carried away. Here they are, opposite sides of the same charmed coin. Andras runs his tongue along the back of his teeth.
Were you reading? Again, "Sure. That too." but he doesn't offer anything else. Andras is a man on a cliff, watching a conversation trip off the edge, and he is too busy wondering what it's like to fall like that, to fear something so entirely, to snap and crack at the bottom in a chorus of pain and apocalyptic suffering. He forgets to hold out his hand at all.
Still he is touching his teeth with his tongue. Still he is wound tight, a grim expression carved into his face as if it had been there for centuries.
"Well, it is a library. I think most of them are. Unless you think I own it, in which case--wow, nice, but also inaccurate."
Andras smiles. It's as pleasant as he can manage, which is to say not pleasant at all, but stunningly neutral. "I'm curious how a person gets here without knowing what they're looking for. Viride isn't exactly easy to navigate."
@
ooc: thank you <3 I love Atlaas
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
