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."
Andras can hear fire crackling in an adjacent room. He can hear the buzz of insects and the quiet chatter of birds, and something else he can't quite name.
(Andras will come to know this as the sound of the earth coming to life, of flowers bending their stems to look the king in the eye - the laughter of tall trees and tiny bushes and the clatter of leaves as they whisper his name over and over, as if it's the only name they know. As if it's the only name they care to know. But now it is an alien sound and it raises the hairs on the back of his neck.)
He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, looking at this spotted king and his thin smile, his surprisingly kind eyes. It occurs to him that he hasn't really been looking until now, that it took the silence in him to really see. But now he feels like a dark cave full of dark water with only the trickle of drops coming in from the ceiling to act as the soundtrack to his living, and he can see Ipomoea as he is.
Embarrassed?
Andras thinks, no. That can't be. Why?
But Andras knows, because it sinks into him too. He doesn't realize he's stretched one wing out until he hears the shff of his own feathers as he touches the covers of the stack of books, sliding their edges along each spine.
"It can be hard," he says, and he does not sound quite as guarded but he is still not friendly, or welcoming, or anything of the sort, "to find what you're looking for. Speaking from experience."
There is a long silence, or at least it feels long. And in it he can hear his heart start up again, the drumming and the incessant growl of being alive. He almost sighs outwardly instead of the private clenching of his stomach. He almost looks like he's suffering.
He has never suffered under the weight of his affliction. He is sure he is meant to be this way - he is sure that it is all he lives for. But sometimes he comes close.
I can leave, Po says suddenly, and Andras jumps in spite of himself, rattled when he turns his attention back to the king and his heart swims back into focus. "You don't have to." Andras says, too quickly, almost before Ipomoea has finished speaking. "I'd hardly call it studying. It's more like... staring. I could use the interruption--if I'm honest." And he smiles - it isn't a particularly charming smile, and while it touches his eyes it looks like it causes him genuine pain.
"So," he says, removing his wing from the book before picking it up and settling back into his nest of pillows, "What do you think you're looking for?"
(Andras will come to know this as the sound of the earth coming to life, of flowers bending their stems to look the king in the eye - the laughter of tall trees and tiny bushes and the clatter of leaves as they whisper his name over and over, as if it's the only name they know. As if it's the only name they care to know. But now it is an alien sound and it raises the hairs on the back of his neck.)
He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, looking at this spotted king and his thin smile, his surprisingly kind eyes. It occurs to him that he hasn't really been looking until now, that it took the silence in him to really see. But now he feels like a dark cave full of dark water with only the trickle of drops coming in from the ceiling to act as the soundtrack to his living, and he can see Ipomoea as he is.
Embarrassed?
Andras thinks, no. That can't be. Why?
But Andras knows, because it sinks into him too. He doesn't realize he's stretched one wing out until he hears the shff of his own feathers as he touches the covers of the stack of books, sliding their edges along each spine.
"It can be hard," he says, and he does not sound quite as guarded but he is still not friendly, or welcoming, or anything of the sort, "to find what you're looking for. Speaking from experience."
There is a long silence, or at least it feels long. And in it he can hear his heart start up again, the drumming and the incessant growl of being alive. He almost sighs outwardly instead of the private clenching of his stomach. He almost looks like he's suffering.
He has never suffered under the weight of his affliction. He is sure he is meant to be this way - he is sure that it is all he lives for. But sometimes he comes close.
I can leave, Po says suddenly, and Andras jumps in spite of himself, rattled when he turns his attention back to the king and his heart swims back into focus. "You don't have to." Andras says, too quickly, almost before Ipomoea has finished speaking. "I'd hardly call it studying. It's more like... staring. I could use the interruption--if I'm honest." And he smiles - it isn't a particularly charming smile, and while it touches his eyes it looks like it causes him genuine pain.
"So," he says, removing his wing from the book before picking it up and settling back into his nest of pillows, "What do you think you're looking for?"
@ipomoea
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
