His king asks him why? and though he has asked, late at night, bruised by his magic and smothered by a body-wide ache, he does not know the answer.
Ipomoea tracks step by step, the curved edge of each hoof nestled up to the rim of every deep-set print. Andras is so tired of the fear and the loathing that he pretends not to see the red flash of the king's eyes when he speaks, or the strange hunch of his shoulders, or the stiff line of his back. Everyone is afraid. Everyone is tired, and angry, and hurt. Andras clenches his teeth like it will keep him alive, like he has a white-knuckled grip on a cliff's edge with nothing but blood and dark water below.
It feels strangely like flying. It shouldn't. But it does.
His king asks him, why? and Andras looks sideways through the rain that drums its fingers on his back. Without the shield of his lenses he worries Ipomoea will see all that raw anger and fear and and the bone-deep sting of exhaustion on Andras' face as plainly as it is written on his.
And that unnerves him.
He isn't sure why.
Andras looks ahead, and down, following the king's feathered heels through the mud and brush. "I don't know, incompetence?" he suggests, unfolding his wings just to fold them again, laying each in a neat tuck over his back. His king asks him why and Andras hears his heart skip, hears for the first time the way the rain had grown quiet like it was waiting for an answer, hears each tree hold its breath.
He looks, sideways again, at the king and his tracks and he does not pause to worry about all the ragged parts of him that it shows. "But that's not your opinion, apparently."
The trees are still holding their breath. The storm-rumble is closer than ever, shaking the canopy with its voice. Suddenly Andras knows this storm like he knows his own name. Suddenly he knows the tense flash of Po's eye, the worn lines of his face. "I guess there... isn't a reason." He shuffles his wings again. They throw sparks when they touch. The thing is unthinkable. Impossible. He is buzzing so loud he feels it. Incompetence isn't the answer. They have been walking for months, tramping through tall green fern and thick blackberry bushes, from one dark corner of Viride to the next. If it were just them--and it isn't--that alone should count for something, shouldn't it?
There should be more than tracks, more than the smell of rain and blood and rot.
"Maybe--" but, no. Unthinkable. Impossible. Or maybe he wants it to be.
Ipomoea tracks step by step, the curved edge of each hoof nestled up to the rim of every deep-set print. Andras is so tired of the fear and the loathing that he pretends not to see the red flash of the king's eyes when he speaks, or the strange hunch of his shoulders, or the stiff line of his back. Everyone is afraid. Everyone is tired, and angry, and hurt. Andras clenches his teeth like it will keep him alive, like he has a white-knuckled grip on a cliff's edge with nothing but blood and dark water below.
It feels strangely like flying. It shouldn't. But it does.
His king asks him, why? and Andras looks sideways through the rain that drums its fingers on his back. Without the shield of his lenses he worries Ipomoea will see all that raw anger and fear and and the bone-deep sting of exhaustion on Andras' face as plainly as it is written on his.
And that unnerves him.
He isn't sure why.
Andras looks ahead, and down, following the king's feathered heels through the mud and brush. "I don't know, incompetence?" he suggests, unfolding his wings just to fold them again, laying each in a neat tuck over his back. His king asks him why and Andras hears his heart skip, hears for the first time the way the rain had grown quiet like it was waiting for an answer, hears each tree hold its breath.
He looks, sideways again, at the king and his tracks and he does not pause to worry about all the ragged parts of him that it shows. "But that's not your opinion, apparently."
The trees are still holding their breath. The storm-rumble is closer than ever, shaking the canopy with its voice. Suddenly Andras knows this storm like he knows his own name. Suddenly he knows the tense flash of Po's eye, the worn lines of his face. "I guess there... isn't a reason." He shuffles his wings again. They throw sparks when they touch. The thing is unthinkable. Impossible. He is buzzing so loud he feels it. Incompetence isn't the answer. They have been walking for months, tramping through tall green fern and thick blackberry bushes, from one dark corner of Viride to the next. If it were just them--and it isn't--that alone should count for something, shouldn't it?
There should be more than tracks, more than the smell of rain and blood and rot.
"Maybe--" but, no. Unthinkable. Impossible. Or maybe he wants it to be.
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
@ipomoea
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
