It is like dying, when Pilate turns--and not in a poetic way, not how some men look in the mirror and curse their demons for their sharp teeth.
It is like dying because Andras goes cold, because he goes numb, because the voice of all gods say oh shit in his ear in tandem. It is because Andras looks at him, at his knotted snakes like the upturned roots of an old tree full of poison, and he looks away too because one pair of eyes is bad but several, all serpentine and cold, all on his own--that would undo him.
'I hate to break it to you, babe--'
Andras jumps to I hate you. Andras cartwheels through the fog of his anger and lands in the dark, where there is nothing but him in the sludge and the baritone roar of his magic, rising. Outside he is shaking, rattling like a box full of bones, booming like thunder as larger and larger forks of electricity nip at his ears, his hocks, and his spine.
Neither of them see they are ugly reflections of each other, when Pilate leans in and Andras glares down the bridge of his nose and for a moment they stand, all writhing snakes and lightning like writhing snakes. Like cats with lashing tails. There is a building pressure in Andras that he knows is explosive.
There in all their damn pride and all their damn anger Andras does not know until Pilate is dumping his drink with a sneer that there is something else in that black fog. Something heavy and cold, something that uncorks and all his anger drains out of him in a stream.
It is fear, he thinks, and not the kind he felt when he looked at Isra and saw the god in her magic. Not like every time he has has squared his shoulders and spit his blood and wondered if he is going to die. No-- it is the fear that sits in his chest like a rock and says oh no, oh no, oh no, until they stop being words.
It is fear that makes him still, makes the black of his coat just black and not backlit with blue. He thinks at first he is scared of the silence, the stillness, the way his magic just closes its eyes and leaves him behind. He'll realize later, too much later, that he is afraid because Pilate is leaving and Andras can't stop him - and he wants to, more than he thinks he has wanted anything. Ever.
Wait-- he tries to say but can't open his mouth. It comes out in a whimper. But Pilate is already gone. Still there are the servants, leering conspiratorially in his direction until he meets their eyes and remembers that he is not at home, not anywhere close. Without a word--as if he could speak in the first place--Andras turns to go. He has barely cleared the front door before he is wheeling into the air.
He has thinking to do.
It is like dying because Andras goes cold, because he goes numb, because the voice of all gods say oh shit in his ear in tandem. It is because Andras looks at him, at his knotted snakes like the upturned roots of an old tree full of poison, and he looks away too because one pair of eyes is bad but several, all serpentine and cold, all on his own--that would undo him.
'I hate to break it to you, babe--'
Andras jumps to I hate you. Andras cartwheels through the fog of his anger and lands in the dark, where there is nothing but him in the sludge and the baritone roar of his magic, rising. Outside he is shaking, rattling like a box full of bones, booming like thunder as larger and larger forks of electricity nip at his ears, his hocks, and his spine.
Neither of them see they are ugly reflections of each other, when Pilate leans in and Andras glares down the bridge of his nose and for a moment they stand, all writhing snakes and lightning like writhing snakes. Like cats with lashing tails. There is a building pressure in Andras that he knows is explosive.
There in all their damn pride and all their damn anger Andras does not know until Pilate is dumping his drink with a sneer that there is something else in that black fog. Something heavy and cold, something that uncorks and all his anger drains out of him in a stream.
It is fear, he thinks, and not the kind he felt when he looked at Isra and saw the god in her magic. Not like every time he has has squared his shoulders and spit his blood and wondered if he is going to die. No-- it is the fear that sits in his chest like a rock and says oh no, oh no, oh no, until they stop being words.
It is fear that makes him still, makes the black of his coat just black and not backlit with blue. He thinks at first he is scared of the silence, the stillness, the way his magic just closes its eyes and leaves him behind. He'll realize later, too much later, that he is afraid because Pilate is leaving and Andras can't stop him - and he wants to, more than he thinks he has wanted anything. Ever.
Wait-- he tries to say but can't open his mouth. It comes out in a whimper. But Pilate is already gone. Still there are the servants, leering conspiratorially in his direction until he meets their eyes and remembers that he is not at home, not anywhere close. Without a word--as if he could speak in the first place--Andras turns to go. He has barely cleared the front door before he is wheeling into the air.
He has thinking to do.
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
