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."
"Leave me alone," Andras says, to no one in particular.
(It had been someone in particular: one of these things he has come to understand is a 'faerie,' a small creature as black as he is, something that looks both too much and too little like a spider with three large, yellow eyes and four small, feathered wings. It had come to him on a sigh of the wind, some cold gust that blew in from the north end, from the bridge, and it had been following him for what feels like days but must have been no more than an hour or so.
"What are you doing," it had said to him, not so much in words but in the tilt of its infinitely small head and the chittering of sleigh bells.
Andras, to his eternal credit, had walked in silence through first a stand of winter trees that dumped snow on his back, on his outspread wings, and then back toward the bridge--all with this thing literally following in his footsteps, hopping in diagonals from one print in the deep, white snow to the next.
Always, the sleigh bell laughter.
Always, the what are you doing? repeated until it is all he can hear in the soft crunch of snow underfoot, in the howl of the winter wind that is even louder here than it has ever been back home in the woods.)
So Andras had said, Leave me alone. It was not a suggestion. It was not a command. When he says it the words bounce off the trunks of surrounding trees, and on their way back to him they sound... desperate, or panicked. But the second he had opened his mouth to speak, there was no winged spider, there were no sleigh bells, only Andras and his clenched teeth and his outspread wings, and more footsteps in the snow.
Andras does not sigh as much as he huffs. I hate this island, he thinks.
"You better not be a faerie or whatever," he warns, before the girl seeps into the clearing like a star-freckled ink, spread against the white snow and the white trees like he imagines he must be.
The warden does not smile, and does not greet her as she stumbles upon him.
He does say, "Oh." And it hangs in the cold air like snow.
(Somewhere a faerie like a spider with four tiny wings and three big, yellow eyes is laughing.)
(It had been someone in particular: one of these things he has come to understand is a 'faerie,' a small creature as black as he is, something that looks both too much and too little like a spider with three large, yellow eyes and four small, feathered wings. It had come to him on a sigh of the wind, some cold gust that blew in from the north end, from the bridge, and it had been following him for what feels like days but must have been no more than an hour or so.
"What are you doing," it had said to him, not so much in words but in the tilt of its infinitely small head and the chittering of sleigh bells.
Andras, to his eternal credit, had walked in silence through first a stand of winter trees that dumped snow on his back, on his outspread wings, and then back toward the bridge--all with this thing literally following in his footsteps, hopping in diagonals from one print in the deep, white snow to the next.
Always, the sleigh bell laughter.
Always, the what are you doing? repeated until it is all he can hear in the soft crunch of snow underfoot, in the howl of the winter wind that is even louder here than it has ever been back home in the woods.)
So Andras had said, Leave me alone. It was not a suggestion. It was not a command. When he says it the words bounce off the trunks of surrounding trees, and on their way back to him they sound... desperate, or panicked. But the second he had opened his mouth to speak, there was no winged spider, there were no sleigh bells, only Andras and his clenched teeth and his outspread wings, and more footsteps in the snow.
Andras does not sigh as much as he huffs. I hate this island, he thinks.
"You better not be a faerie or whatever," he warns, before the girl seeps into the clearing like a star-freckled ink, spread against the white snow and the white trees like he imagines he must be.
The warden does not smile, and does not greet her as she stumbles upon him.
He does say, "Oh." And it hangs in the cold air like snow.
(Somewhere a faerie like a spider with four tiny wings and three big, yellow eyes is laughing.)
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
