Andras Demyan
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
Don't worry, Mateo says, and Andras takes off his glasses, rubbing them against the wrist of one night-dark wing. Breathe in (quietly, deeply, as if this statement has stolen something from him) and breathe out (louder this time, a sharp sigh, a tired sigh - and this has already made him so tired).
It's fine. This is fine.
Everything is fine.
"Perfect." he says. He isn't typically sarcastic - in fact Andras tends to lean toward heartbreakingly blunt, - so it falls out of him like a sour note. He can practically hear the brassy sound of the word hitting the ground and bouncing down the shallow stairs. Above the sun is rising, around the fog has thinned, and with it Andras' polite smile has thinned, too.
(I wouldn't blame Mateo, for turning and leaving. I wouldn't blame Mateo for the angry itch that palms his heart. It's like pulling teeth, talking to Andras. It has to be. I cannot imagine a world in which it isn't.
I wish I could say he wasn't always like this. I wish I could paint a picture of some happier time with the cool wind of spring and the sun on his back, with his brothers in the dirt. I wish we could point to some single, defining moment, the a-ha that bent Andras into what he is - but he is not touched by tragedy, is not traumatized by circumstance, is not hateful because he was wronged but because he is wrong, there in the heart of him.
Not evil, maybe, and not malicious--god no--but he is one prolonged snarl and it's possible he will be until he dies.)
The warden watches Mateo work through a series of attempts at being chipper, but also watches as each smile eventually fades into some obscure but beautiful frown. And, in spite of himself, in spite of everything and everyone, he is charmed--though he would never admit it.
Are you lost? Mateo asks, and Andras looks from him, to the sign overhead denoting the name of the inn (The Leaning Tree, painted in looping font - a little on the nose, but what isn't in Delumine) then back to Mateo. He doesn't like this inn as much as the library, would rather have the dark and the candles and the ringing silence, but it is in fact the inn he'd been staying at since he followed the king to the city. Somewhere over their heads is a room stuffed with pillows and pens and scraps of fabric he uses to clean his glasses.
"Sure," he says. It's his turn to smile this time, and it isn't manic, or mean-spirited, or sarcastic though the statement in itself is decidedly untrue. "I'm probably lost."
But then, wonder of wonders, sin of sins, Mateo says 'want to get a drink with me' as if it's all he has to say, as if it just falls out of him before he notices. This is when Andras untucks his wings, face drawn into some expression of vague discomfort. "Yeah, let's do that. I'll buy."
It's fine. This is fine.
Everything is fine.
"Perfect." he says. He isn't typically sarcastic - in fact Andras tends to lean toward heartbreakingly blunt, - so it falls out of him like a sour note. He can practically hear the brassy sound of the word hitting the ground and bouncing down the shallow stairs. Above the sun is rising, around the fog has thinned, and with it Andras' polite smile has thinned, too.
(I wouldn't blame Mateo, for turning and leaving. I wouldn't blame Mateo for the angry itch that palms his heart. It's like pulling teeth, talking to Andras. It has to be. I cannot imagine a world in which it isn't.
I wish I could say he wasn't always like this. I wish I could paint a picture of some happier time with the cool wind of spring and the sun on his back, with his brothers in the dirt. I wish we could point to some single, defining moment, the a-ha that bent Andras into what he is - but he is not touched by tragedy, is not traumatized by circumstance, is not hateful because he was wronged but because he is wrong, there in the heart of him.
Not evil, maybe, and not malicious--god no--but he is one prolonged snarl and it's possible he will be until he dies.)
The warden watches Mateo work through a series of attempts at being chipper, but also watches as each smile eventually fades into some obscure but beautiful frown. And, in spite of himself, in spite of everything and everyone, he is charmed--though he would never admit it.
Are you lost? Mateo asks, and Andras looks from him, to the sign overhead denoting the name of the inn (The Leaning Tree, painted in looping font - a little on the nose, but what isn't in Delumine) then back to Mateo. He doesn't like this inn as much as the library, would rather have the dark and the candles and the ringing silence, but it is in fact the inn he'd been staying at since he followed the king to the city. Somewhere over their heads is a room stuffed with pillows and pens and scraps of fabric he uses to clean his glasses.
"Sure," he says. It's his turn to smile this time, and it isn't manic, or mean-spirited, or sarcastic though the statement in itself is decidedly untrue. "I'm probably lost."
But then, wonder of wonders, sin of sins, Mateo says 'want to get a drink with me' as if it's all he has to say, as if it just falls out of him before he notices. This is when Andras untucks his wings, face drawn into some expression of vague discomfort. "Yeah, let's do that. I'll buy."
@mateo
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
