ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
How is he not in awe, Atlaas wonders.
How can he stand in this hall of arcane knowledge and not be moved the way the earth moves, hurling at dizzying speed through black and empty space? Andras wonders this, himself.
He wants to say, yes. He wants to say, I wouldn't call it home but it's the only place that makes me feel real. He wants to say, I would die for this library and this country and I don't even really know them. He wants to say, I would die for anything.
He says, "I guess."
Oriens help him, he has never felt more alone than he does now, guarded against an amicable stranger, charmed in spite of the fact that he wants to rip that awestruck look right off his face. His smile is a tense line that does not break to show his teeth - he must look like a spring, bunched together and trembling with the enormous effort of not combusting where he stands.
And when Atlaas shrugs the little black pegasus forgets he is a little black pegasus and becomes some nameless beast with a heart like burning coal and teeth clenched so tight he worries they might break. He feels sick and hot and whatever is bubbling in him is louder than the wind, than the ocean, than his own voice saying: "Whatever I can get my hands on."
Andras opens his wing, now, and the book that had been tucked beneath it floats to the table, where the other can see it. "This is a book on magic. It's as vague as it sounds." At the same time he points toward the back of the room, where another archway opens into a room rimmed by the same sturdy shelves and waving lantern-light.
"Your nature books would be back here, probably." A moment's hesitation, and then, "What - I mean, what are you looking for? I could help, if you want."
How can he stand in this hall of arcane knowledge and not be moved the way the earth moves, hurling at dizzying speed through black and empty space? Andras wonders this, himself.
He wants to say, yes. He wants to say, I wouldn't call it home but it's the only place that makes me feel real. He wants to say, I would die for this library and this country and I don't even really know them. He wants to say, I would die for anything.
He says, "I guess."
Oriens help him, he has never felt more alone than he does now, guarded against an amicable stranger, charmed in spite of the fact that he wants to rip that awestruck look right off his face. His smile is a tense line that does not break to show his teeth - he must look like a spring, bunched together and trembling with the enormous effort of not combusting where he stands.
And when Atlaas shrugs the little black pegasus forgets he is a little black pegasus and becomes some nameless beast with a heart like burning coal and teeth clenched so tight he worries they might break. He feels sick and hot and whatever is bubbling in him is louder than the wind, than the ocean, than his own voice saying: "Whatever I can get my hands on."
Andras opens his wing, now, and the book that had been tucked beneath it floats to the table, where the other can see it. "This is a book on magic. It's as vague as it sounds." At the same time he points toward the back of the room, where another archway opens into a room rimmed by the same sturdy shelves and waving lantern-light.
"Your nature books would be back here, probably." A moment's hesitation, and then, "What - I mean, what are you looking for? I could help, if you want."
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
