someone says: i have forgotten how to pray; this is not to say that there is no divinity between us, in this; merely that i do not know what to do with it.
Pilate laughs again, ragged and breathless. It is a tangible sound that hurls past his head as he flies, almost too fast to have heard at all. Not that it matters; he will hear it in weeks, rising in every silent moment with reams of parchment and clenched teeth. He will hear it in years, when this winter has gone to the past with his youth and he has only the sound like a bird in his chest. The force with which it hits him almost hurts in his own ragged throat, his own burning lungs.
He tells himself he's tired, sleep-deprived. To his credit it's more than half the truth.
The other part--- well.
Pilate stumbles and in the way of beasts Andras is leaping before he knows it, forward and up with one quick stroke of his night-dark wings, leaving the clattering of his own hooves behind. If he laughs, like his rage coming out in waves, it is lost entirely to the wind; his stinging lungs can't push it forward, just let it go and hear it twirl like a rag toward his back.
Andras feels his hooves scuff on the pavement, a vibration that wracks up his legs to his aching shoulders. Divinity is not all churches and hymns. There are gods of war, of vengeance, deities as savage and ruthless as his black little heart. His shadow crawls up Pilate's back, spilling over the heaving ribs and the rolling hills of the spine. He could tie his dark ankles in bobbing snakes, tick the edge of his one pink hoof on the back of his head. Andras has perhaps never felt more like a predator than he does now, a dark spot against the sun.
"That's big talk for a dead man!" Andras roars in a puff of steam. Pilate might not hear it at all. Somehow it doesn't matter as much as the act of saying it.
If anything is holy, or unholy, it is the rage or joy that dumps into him all at once. He is glad Pilate can't see him grinning. He is glad no one at all can feel his chest, full to bursting, and his stomach, clenched so tight it hurts, and hot as molten steel.
(Part of him wishes for the opposite -- he wants someone, anyone to see him coming alive. He wants a witness to whatever this is, salvation or damnation or something altogether different. It feels like flying in a way that flying never has, more than just the wind fingering its way through his feathers or the rims of his glasses dug into the bridge of his nose. He hates it. He hates Pilate for it.)
His shadow falls now on the cold street; Pilate ducks out of the way and it takes Andras longer to bank around the corner, skidding across a far wall and pushing off to send him hurling toward the ground, than is does for Pilate to dodge out of the open. Andras thinks if he hates him he has never hated him more, filling with something like disdain but not quite as sharp -- elation, maybe. Anticipation, definitely, that follows him to the ground and sits on his back as he takes first one breath, then two, before folding his wings neatly over his back and ducking through the still-swinging fabric that hangs over the door.
It's dark, and quiet, full of strong, thick incense that does nothing to ease his lungs, worn raw by cold, wet air. Andras tries not to see the shopkeep, a stern woman that glowers over the counter, says "Good afternoon, Warden," with no small amount of disdain, then turns back to her book. In its own, ridgidly mild-mannered way, Delumine often ignores Andras, or at least only looks once he's left, throwing sparks in his wake.
Andras huffs. It is heavy and sharp and hurts his throat, his chest, as it comes out. "Pilate," he demands, leaning around first one shelf, then the next. Listening. Hunting. "Glasses, now."
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 the spear and say yes as it flashes.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
