and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding
that never stopped exploding
His magic is up to the ceiling of his heart, now, clawing at the underside of his mouth, the back of his teeth, digging at Andras' tight-lipped frown with fingers like batteries. It rises like bile, searing his throat, burning his tongue--and then, when its fists hit the ceiling and its howling rage is so bright and so hot even it cannot see its dirty hands, suddenly there is nowhere left to go. He is surprised when he doesn't combust, far more surprised when he steps forward and the rest of it discharges, and the quiet that fills the room is bone-chilling.
Pilate shruggs. It is silent, and dismissive, and muscles of his neck tighten and contract in a way that makes one last wave of static roll down his own. He wonders why he notices.
He thinks back to Isra in the yellow glow of the lanterns, surrounded by spice and bent metal and sharp edges. He remembers the look in her eyes that said yes the same way his does, the same way Andras prays for swinging fists and spitting blood on the ground. Her magic had risen like a sword and she had swallowed it down. He cannot see his as a tool, cannot see himself as a vessel, or a prisoner, or whatever he is.
His magic is just a thing that happens. He, himself, is just a thing that it happens to.
Someday Andras will realize, what it means to be powerful, and deadly. Someday he will putt his grubby little hands on the wheel and pull. For now the thought doesn't even cross his mind.
Their eyes meet again, molten gold like the heart of a volcano and some color that is not quite steel but is not quite a thunderhead, something like the dark rock in the hearts of mountains. And then, as if they had never met at all, the Solterran turns his down to a new book, and Andras is standing as the crossroads, naked, angry and, in a word, stunned. A road diverged in a yellow wood, and so on, and so on. This feels like a game Andras doesn't want to play, one where there are just two pieces and no winning moves. One that Andras isn't any good at. The only reason he sees the eyes roll back to him and stroll toward his own at a pace that makes him dizzy, is because he is looking, himself, with this dour, long-suffering expression on his dark, dark face. It only gets darker.
Why does anyone? He wonders, narrowing his eyes. Thought you were worth a stare, Pilate says, and Andras' frown only deepens until it is more of a grimace of disbelief than anything else. He had expected--something? Anything? Fists? Teeth? Literally anything but the unholy hush of the library when he makes a quiet, frustrated noise and turns his head away with a huff.
Why does he want it?
"Convincing." he says, eyes fixed on a wall of shelves stuffed top to bottom with identical, leather-bound books. "Who are you?"
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
