I'M JUST THE PRODUCT OF A LIVING HELL
and i don't want to live like this anymore
and i don't want to live like this anymore
If he is discomforted by the snow, and the mud, and the trees, he doesn’t show it except for the slightly stiff way one leg swings forward with every step, a well-hidden limp caused by the way the cold gnaws at old wounds. Despite the way he marches despite this catch in his gait, he has never been a soldier. A soldier required discipline, obedience -- they were traits that had been strangled out of him young, giving rise to obstinate disobedience and the burning hatred of anything that resembled order. He had been a mercenary at best, a criminal at worst, always, always so fiercely independent and broken that he’d been unable to remain with any one group for too long.
For Andras, he thinks… he might be, might be willing to bend beneath the will of another, to serve a court with his body and his blood. Not just Andras, but for the king with feathers on his feet who smiled at him as though he weren’t some broken, bastard creature, for the birds who gathered around him every morning and sang for their breakfast as though they trusted him not to hurt them, for Sam who smiled at him every morning and reminded him of all the ways he could be gentle when his blood sang with rage.
His body is howling now, a chorus of wolves slipped loose of their bindings -- except the chain that connects them to Andras, because they heel to his command in a way they have rarely if ever been tamed, his body turning towards the trail without a second thought. He does not acknowledge the command otherwise, does not smile or respond, only unsheathes his sword from its scabbard and continues to march forward with grim determination.
(He will panic later, in the safety of his own space, when there are no curious eyes around to pry into what might make the soldier tremble so -- that he might react so quickly, without even a snarl of opposition, without any of his trademark defiance.
He is changing, and it involves Sam, and Andras, and the way Dawn itself has welcomed him, this bastard creature that smells of smoke and war, without questioning him on where he has come from and what he has seen.)
The scent of blood hangs in the air, and it sends a ripple of anticipation across his skin. There is something ahead of them -- a trap, or perhaps even an enemy -- and he holds his sword at the ready.
For Andras, he thinks… he might be, might be willing to bend beneath the will of another, to serve a court with his body and his blood. Not just Andras, but for the king with feathers on his feet who smiled at him as though he weren’t some broken, bastard creature, for the birds who gathered around him every morning and sang for their breakfast as though they trusted him not to hurt them, for Sam who smiled at him every morning and reminded him of all the ways he could be gentle when his blood sang with rage.
His body is howling now, a chorus of wolves slipped loose of their bindings -- except the chain that connects them to Andras, because they heel to his command in a way they have rarely if ever been tamed, his body turning towards the trail without a second thought. He does not acknowledge the command otherwise, does not smile or respond, only unsheathes his sword from its scabbard and continues to march forward with grim determination.
(He will panic later, in the safety of his own space, when there are no curious eyes around to pry into what might make the soldier tremble so -- that he might react so quickly, without even a snarl of opposition, without any of his trademark defiance.
He is changing, and it involves Sam, and Andras, and the way Dawn itself has welcomed him, this bastard creature that smells of smoke and war, without questioning him on where he has come from and what he has seen.)
The scent of blood hangs in the air, and it sends a ripple of anticipation across his skin. There is something ahead of them -- a trap, or perhaps even an enemy -- and he holds his sword at the ready.
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