and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding
that never stopped exploding
Andras and Po raise their heads in unison, though one of them meets her with some vague but palpable strain and the folds his ears against his head and gives her a long, withering stare.
She has a lot to say about Andras' decisions, a lot to say about corpses in the woods--more corpses in the woods--and he listens like a hackled dog. There is no appreciation in the lines of his face, no admiring her bravery, no gratitude, no forgiveness. When he draws a breath to compose himself it is with a businesslike coldness, as if it is all he can do to keep from turning to ash where he stands.
He exhales, loudly. "That is... what the patrols are for, yes. To stop it from happening again." he says, and if his voice shakes it is not with fear but with seething anger, the rumbling of a boiler in a dark, dark room with only his own coals to see by. He considers adding if you'd like to hunt the killer blind, be my guest, but in a rare moment of temperance, decides against it. Ipomoea knows, of course--knows the beast in him that howls day and night with the voice of both sirens and ghouls--and Ipomoea might ask a lot of Andras, like patience that he doesn't have, or objectivity when he is so very opinionated--but Ipomoea knows that he is a snarling thing, a roaring thing, and Ipomoea does not move to stop Andras, himself.
It is telling, perhaps, that Andras' eyes don't shift from Maerys until Ipomoea addresses Kindred, and even then it is only to watch the king out of the corner of his eye, collecting the documents that had been sifted through in a haze, busying himself with stacking them up again, scanning through as he does.
"Medic," he says, tapping the table with the stack of parchment, not looking up from the clean line it creates. The satisfaction eases his nerves, just a little. "You're welcome to come with me, when I go."
What follows is a rush of energy: the regent blustering into the room with his creaking lantern and his ancient eyes and Andras stepping out of his way, eyes still trained on the documents until Seir begins to speak and the pure vitriol with which he does so takes the warden by surprise. Every word is dripping with venom and if Andras were not so angry himself he might find it in him to be impressed, raising a brow and pursing his lips while laying his neat little stack back on the table--but Andras is not the type, and instead he listens in silence, to Po, to Seir, to Maerys, again.
He states: "Ipomoea is in the room. We don't have to stand here and say 'whatever he chooses,' like it's a mystery." Andras raises his head, sweeping his gaze across the room, over nervous faces, angry faces, some ineffable expressions that he has neither the time nor the patience to decode in full, and, finally--their king. He sees now that he looks... haunted. Andras gets a sinking feeling in his gut, and looks away as quickly as he can without drawing attention.
"Now, unless someone is going to go ask the forest if it knows what the fuck is going on, we're going to find out information the old-fashioned way. Call it a hunt, if you want to. I don't care."
Andras, having said his part, goes back to reading through reports. "Who will go with our Champion of Battle?"
(Unless there are specific questions for him Andras has nothing else to say so feel free to skip me going forward <3)
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
