rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
It's fitting, kind of: hands full of cracked stone and the tools used to break it, hands full of things crumbling and blowing away like dust. Andras thinks, this mut be what it's like to be the king, to feel haunted and hunted everywhere he goes.
Everything is too heavy. Everything is too dark and too bright all at once. The girl that takes his offering is the same dusty gray as the sky after dawn where she is not the same blue and orange as mountain jays and peaches. She looks frightened, at first-- her eyes are wide, her mouth in a short, tense line, the same sort of stiffness that Andras gets in his wings when he can't quite decide where to put them.
The warden almost apologizes, opens his mouth to do so, even, but she sets his "gift" down far more gently than he thinks he's done anything and it's like someone takes their hand and smoothes over the pleats in her face, rubbing each worry line into butter.
Part of him is jealous. A far larger part than he wants to admit. How does a person smile so softly? How does a person smile at all without looking like a dog baring its teeth? He doesn't make an attempt to return hers--
--but maybe his silence says enough. Maybe it is written in the stiff curve of his neck, the cold gray of his eyes behind the lenses. Andras hopes he does not look as lost as he feels.
What will you build? she asks. Andras takes another moment to think, looking from her to the jagged hunk of rock on the table, at the chisel and hammer still poised to strike, and then back again. She is weaving grass into something-- well, something at all, and that's the problem. Andras' grip on the chisel turns white-knuckled and hot; a spark rolls off the back of his wings, fizzling out over his head.
"What do you mean?" He asks, flatly.
He's silent for a long moment, giving the block one or two experimental chips before setting the hammer and chisel down and turning back to the girl.
"I don't know. I'm building nothing, I think.
What are you doing?" Andras answers, at last, before leveling that stare on her. He has been called bitter, and mean, and rude--and for the most part this is true--but there is none of that in his face now. It may be that the closest he comes to genuine interest is stern silence. It may be that he is intense, and private, and far too serious for a man at a festival. It may be both.
Either way, it is a winding and rock-addled path toward the inevitable: in spite of his best efforts she has endeared herself to him, such as it is.
Everything is too heavy. Everything is too dark and too bright all at once. The girl that takes his offering is the same dusty gray as the sky after dawn where she is not the same blue and orange as mountain jays and peaches. She looks frightened, at first-- her eyes are wide, her mouth in a short, tense line, the same sort of stiffness that Andras gets in his wings when he can't quite decide where to put them.
The warden almost apologizes, opens his mouth to do so, even, but she sets his "gift" down far more gently than he thinks he's done anything and it's like someone takes their hand and smoothes over the pleats in her face, rubbing each worry line into butter.
Part of him is jealous. A far larger part than he wants to admit. How does a person smile so softly? How does a person smile at all without looking like a dog baring its teeth? He doesn't make an attempt to return hers--
--but maybe his silence says enough. Maybe it is written in the stiff curve of his neck, the cold gray of his eyes behind the lenses. Andras hopes he does not look as lost as he feels.
What will you build? she asks. Andras takes another moment to think, looking from her to the jagged hunk of rock on the table, at the chisel and hammer still poised to strike, and then back again. She is weaving grass into something-- well, something at all, and that's the problem. Andras' grip on the chisel turns white-knuckled and hot; a spark rolls off the back of his wings, fizzling out over his head.
"What do you mean?" He asks, flatly.
He's silent for a long moment, giving the block one or two experimental chips before setting the hammer and chisel down and turning back to the girl.
"I don't know. I'm building nothing, I think.
What are you doing?" Andras answers, at last, before leveling that stare on her. He has been called bitter, and mean, and rude--and for the most part this is true--but there is none of that in his face now. It may be that the closest he comes to genuine interest is stern silence. It may be that he is intense, and private, and far too serious for a man at a festival. It may be both.
Either way, it is a winding and rock-addled path toward the inevitable: in spite of his best efforts she has endeared herself to him, such as it is.
@solstice
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
