The day, gray and cold and bitter as old paper, passes first through time, then through memory, as if it had never happened at all. Magic settles to a dull hum in the back of his head where he tastes it between his tongue and his throat but cannot feel it, crackling over his skin like-- well, electricity. From day to day life becomes dull and bland and empty and Andras himself becomes a knot of ugly anger and frustration that sits in the pit of him like a heavy, black rock.
At some point between then and now, the dam breaks. There is no investigation, no murder, no kindom, no king, no catastrophic and tangible fear that screams louder than the hissing of snakes. Andras cannot focus, cannot search, cannot do anything because he is raw and angry andobsessed preoccupied.
So he leaves.
As if he is nothing. As if his country is nothing. As if everything is not chaos and he is not perched in the center of it, buffeted on all sides by the winds of fear and murder and the persistent and ever-louder question of who? A day trip, he tells himself. Just a chance to stretch his wings. He stretches his wings so far that the sea of spring grass gives way to dry, brown blades which in turn give way to the baked sand of the Mors. He eyes it, waves of deep red smeared into the dusty yellow, blue-gray shadows cast on the backside of each dune.
Andras clenches his teeth. Andras tells himself no, no, no until his hooves scuff on the street and it is too solid a feeling close his eyes and wish away-- but still he does. The gate to the city creaks as it opens, a loud, sort of aching noise that echoes the one his heart is making as it claws its way up his throat and into his mouth.
He doesn't realize he's holding his breath.
At some point between then and now, the dam breaks. There is no investigation, no murder, no kindom, no king, no catastrophic and tangible fear that screams louder than the hissing of snakes. Andras cannot focus, cannot search, cannot do anything because he is raw and angry and
So he leaves.
As if he is nothing. As if his country is nothing. As if everything is not chaos and he is not perched in the center of it, buffeted on all sides by the winds of fear and murder and the persistent and ever-louder question of who? A day trip, he tells himself. Just a chance to stretch his wings. He stretches his wings so far that the sea of spring grass gives way to dry, brown blades which in turn give way to the baked sand of the Mors. He eyes it, waves of deep red smeared into the dusty yellow, blue-gray shadows cast on the backside of each dune.
Andras clenches his teeth. Andras tells himself no, no, no until his hooves scuff on the street and it is too solid a feeling close his eyes and wish away-- but still he does. The gate to the city creaks as it opens, a loud, sort of aching noise that echoes the one his heart is making as it claws its way up his throat and into his mouth.
He doesn't realize he's holding his breath.
sleep like dead men, wake up like dead men
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
