ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Thunder cracks in him, loud and deep, and all Andras can think is yes.
Andras in the belly of the beast, Andras in the rush of the storm and the wind in him is rising until all he can hear is its song - some blend of fear and bliss like the sting of broken skin and the chorus of breath hissed through teeth. If he is electricity than he is blue, bright and crackling. He wonders if she will unmake him, pull him apart thread by thread with her angry little hands. He wonders if she will be as savage as his racing heart. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.
For a moment her howling magic touches the sword of his hot rage but Isra doesn't spike, or slice, or unmake him. Isra turns her grim face on his (manic, desperate) and sees into the pit of him, the black and the thunder and the white-hot fury, and if she undoes him at all it is by stepping backward and sucking all the air out of the pocket she left behind.
If only everyone were like her.
If only everyone were an engine that hums in tune with his, some bleak and hungry thing that they do not move as much as it moves them. He watches her through the flash of his lenses and he wonders what it's like, to come face to face with that part of yourself and call it off like a barking dog.
She welcomes him. For a brief second, he is quiet inside. For a blink Andras is hollow and when he laughs (nervous) it does not roar in him but bounces off the walls of his cavernous heart in a loop that goes on forever. "It's a pleasure," he says, fixing her with a sharp and unsettling expression.
"I wasn't going to walk all the way from Delumine," he mutters, "but--"
But, Isra is blooming in the orange glow of her market and Andras sees now that she is a unicorn with the sea in her throat and if she is a beast at all it is not her but whatever is in her (and can you separate those? Is she not just the sum of her parts? He doesn't know.) Each face of each delicate blade of diamond grass dances in the light of the thousands of candles, and his glasses reflect it back at them. He doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved.
"And you're queen Isra, I assume." he says, not quieter but softer, more thoughtful. "Do you have time to give me a tour?"
Andras in the belly of the beast, Andras in the rush of the storm and the wind in him is rising until all he can hear is its song - some blend of fear and bliss like the sting of broken skin and the chorus of breath hissed through teeth. If he is electricity than he is blue, bright and crackling. He wonders if she will unmake him, pull him apart thread by thread with her angry little hands. He wonders if she will be as savage as his racing heart. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.
For a moment her howling magic touches the sword of his hot rage but Isra doesn't spike, or slice, or unmake him. Isra turns her grim face on his (manic, desperate) and sees into the pit of him, the black and the thunder and the white-hot fury, and if she undoes him at all it is by stepping backward and sucking all the air out of the pocket she left behind.
If only everyone were like her.
If only everyone were an engine that hums in tune with his, some bleak and hungry thing that they do not move as much as it moves them. He watches her through the flash of his lenses and he wonders what it's like, to come face to face with that part of yourself and call it off like a barking dog.
She welcomes him. For a brief second, he is quiet inside. For a blink Andras is hollow and when he laughs (nervous) it does not roar in him but bounces off the walls of his cavernous heart in a loop that goes on forever. "It's a pleasure," he says, fixing her with a sharp and unsettling expression.
"I wasn't going to walk all the way from Delumine," he mutters, "but--"
But, Isra is blooming in the orange glow of her market and Andras sees now that she is a unicorn with the sea in her throat and if she is a beast at all it is not her but whatever is in her (and can you separate those? Is she not just the sum of her parts? He doesn't know.) Each face of each delicate blade of diamond grass dances in the light of the thousands of candles, and his glasses reflect it back at them. He doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved.
"And you're queen Isra, I assume." he says, not quieter but softer, more thoughtful. "Do you have time to give me a tour?"
@isra
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
