He had been drunk on the fear.
An easier fear, the kind that laughs with him. The kind of comfortable fear that spits blood in the dirt with his mouth and makes his magic tremble between his ribs. The kind of fear he calls rage when he dreams. The kind of fear that drives him into the woods with a death wish. The kind of fear he can handle.
So he goes, when it's dark and the dark is a hand around his throat, squeezing. He goes and he laughs and he squares his shoulders against beasts and when he has had his fill his magic rolls its eyes and calls the game, and when Andras' head hits the ground he is still laughing, just not the mad, drunk kind of laughter. He cannot tell if the ache in him is the bone-deep bruises or wild magic sizzling over his skin and belching smoke or if it is something else entirely, something he doesn't want to touch.
The fear does not leave him, not when his head hits the ground, and not when he wakes, a week later, and pain floods him so fast it makes him dizzy.
His room is dark, except for an oil lamp on the table, with a flickering glow warped by the bulb of the glass. It is the king of dark that sits in his bones and sucks out the marrow. It is the kind of dark that hunches over his shoulders and digs its thumbs in each bruise laid over his back, or his ribs, or his neck. Outside the wind is blowing hard enough that it rattles the window. There is a storm coming and Andras wonders if Oriens is mocking him.
It is always so quiet without the electric hum of his magic. He hates days like this, in the aftermath of ruin, when he is drained of all strength and there is nothing to say yes so loud he can't hear himself think.
His mother would say that he screams because the quiet scares him. He has never really thought it was true until now, in the dark and the unholy silence, when there is something in him that keeps asking him why and he can't find the answer. Why? Why? Why? But he always comes back to a morning in Solterra and that fear with his heart in its fist.
Why? Because it is all he ever thinks about.
Why? Because it is like being in hell. Because it is like ice has inched its way into his lungs and he can't breathe, can't think--and the genuine, physical pain he feels when he breathes does not mask it the way that it should.
Why? Because it is new. Because it is terrifying. Because it is fear compounding on fear until he has driven himself mad.
Why?
Because when there is a knock on the door, in the quiet where there should have been magic, rumbling like thunder, there is only a voice that says I hope--
An easier fear, the kind that laughs with him. The kind of comfortable fear that spits blood in the dirt with his mouth and makes his magic tremble between his ribs. The kind of fear he calls rage when he dreams. The kind of fear that drives him into the woods with a death wish. The kind of fear he can handle.
So he goes, when it's dark and the dark is a hand around his throat, squeezing. He goes and he laughs and he squares his shoulders against beasts and when he has had his fill his magic rolls its eyes and calls the game, and when Andras' head hits the ground he is still laughing, just not the mad, drunk kind of laughter. He cannot tell if the ache in him is the bone-deep bruises or wild magic sizzling over his skin and belching smoke or if it is something else entirely, something he doesn't want to touch.
The fear does not leave him, not when his head hits the ground, and not when he wakes, a week later, and pain floods him so fast it makes him dizzy.
His room is dark, except for an oil lamp on the table, with a flickering glow warped by the bulb of the glass. It is the king of dark that sits in his bones and sucks out the marrow. It is the kind of dark that hunches over his shoulders and digs its thumbs in each bruise laid over his back, or his ribs, or his neck. Outside the wind is blowing hard enough that it rattles the window. There is a storm coming and Andras wonders if Oriens is mocking him.
It is always so quiet without the electric hum of his magic. He hates days like this, in the aftermath of ruin, when he is drained of all strength and there is nothing to say yes so loud he can't hear himself think.
His mother would say that he screams because the quiet scares him. He has never really thought it was true until now, in the dark and the unholy silence, when there is something in him that keeps asking him why and he can't find the answer. Why? Why? Why? But he always comes back to a morning in Solterra and that fear with his heart in its fist.
Why? Because it is all he ever thinks about.
Why? Because it is like being in hell. Because it is like ice has inched its way into his lungs and he can't breathe, can't think--and the genuine, physical pain he feels when he breathes does not mask it the way that it should.
Why? Because it is new. Because it is terrifying. Because it is fear compounding on fear until he has driven himself mad.
Why?
Because when there is a knock on the door, in the quiet where there should have been magic, rumbling like thunder, there is only a voice that says I hope--
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
