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 would be easier, in the short term, to go back to sleep– he knows this. Somehow the worst outcome is knowing
Andras rises in a pained but deliberate motion, regarding the door with some vague sense of apprehension.
(There is a room with two doors.
Behind one is the lady: beautiful, soft, smiling. She laughs when you joke and coos when you call her beautiful. Someone tells you that your life will be full of light, with baskets of apples to slice into pieces until apples are all you can see, think, smell, taste.
The other door hides a tiger, crouched in the tall grass, mouth full of teeth and fire. When it purrs it sounds like rolling thunder. It has been hungry as long as it has lived and now it is ravenous.
Someone asks you: which door do you choose? There is no way of knowing– there is no way to see but to act.)
The door doesn’t creak as he pulls it open. There is just the gentle rush of wind, the moulding edged like sharp knives in the yellow glow of his lantern, and Pilate. (Which is he? – Andras doesn’t know.) Pilate doesn’t wait to say ‘Warden.’ Andras is shocked by the silence that follows, a hollow space where there should have been small cracks of thunder, or the quiet whff of books pulled from shelf after shelf, day in and day out. Why is Pilate here? Why is Pilate here now?
Andras’ mouth twitches, something close to a smile if there wasn’t ice cold dread pouring out of his head down his neck and his legs and his back. He is thinking whyisPilatehere? so fast that the words lose their meaning, just a panicked jumble of sounds. Sometimes he dreams Pilate’s cloak floating behind as he walks up the stairs. Sometimes he dreams the short but impossibly long flight home. Usually these are nightmares.
But he is here. Andras did not have to crawl back to Solterra on his bruised and bloodied knees. Andras did not have to grovel and whimper– though he tried.
No, rather the prince came to him–Andras smiles like he’s not sure if he’s won or he’s lost. Is Pilate the lady, or the tiger? Which would Andras prefer?
“Pilate,” he says, fluctuating wildly between relief and panic every half-second. Before he can ask what are you doing Andras steps out of the way and invites the man in. The room is not cramped with the two of them in it but close enough: the single desk pushed against the far wall to make room for the bed of pillows, the low shelf perpendicular to it, and the surfaces cluttered with parchment and discarded pens. It is clearly an organized chaos, on further inspection–each book is wedged wherever it can fit but carefully stacked from one to the other, the pillows are tucked neatly against each other so that there is no daylight between them, the corners are free of cobwebs and the single windowsill is bereft of dust.
“After you. Sorry, about the space,” he says, “and— everything.” Andras’ smile widens, for a moment that flickers like candlelight and then dies away just as fast. He steps away from the door and the wind rushes back out and the finality of the action is alarming to say the least.
Andras rises in a pained but deliberate motion, regarding the door with some vague sense of apprehension.
(There is a room with two doors.
Behind one is the lady: beautiful, soft, smiling. She laughs when you joke and coos when you call her beautiful. Someone tells you that your life will be full of light, with baskets of apples to slice into pieces until apples are all you can see, think, smell, taste.
The other door hides a tiger, crouched in the tall grass, mouth full of teeth and fire. When it purrs it sounds like rolling thunder. It has been hungry as long as it has lived and now it is ravenous.
Someone asks you: which door do you choose? There is no way of knowing– there is no way to see but to act.)
The door doesn’t creak as he pulls it open. There is just the gentle rush of wind, the moulding edged like sharp knives in the yellow glow of his lantern, and Pilate. (Which is he? – Andras doesn’t know.) Pilate doesn’t wait to say ‘Warden.’ Andras is shocked by the silence that follows, a hollow space where there should have been small cracks of thunder, or the quiet whff of books pulled from shelf after shelf, day in and day out. Why is Pilate here? Why is Pilate here now?
Andras’ mouth twitches, something close to a smile if there wasn’t ice cold dread pouring out of his head down his neck and his legs and his back. He is thinking whyisPilatehere? so fast that the words lose their meaning, just a panicked jumble of sounds. Sometimes he dreams Pilate’s cloak floating behind as he walks up the stairs. Sometimes he dreams the short but impossibly long flight home. Usually these are nightmares.
But he is here. Andras did not have to crawl back to Solterra on his bruised and bloodied knees. Andras did not have to grovel and whimper– though he tried.
No, rather the prince came to him–Andras smiles like he’s not sure if he’s won or he’s lost. Is Pilate the lady, or the tiger? Which would Andras prefer?
“Pilate,” he says, fluctuating wildly between relief and panic every half-second. Before he can ask what are you doing Andras steps out of the way and invites the man in. The room is not cramped with the two of them in it but close enough: the single desk pushed against the far wall to make room for the bed of pillows, the low shelf perpendicular to it, and the surfaces cluttered with parchment and discarded pens. It is clearly an organized chaos, on further inspection–each book is wedged wherever it can fit but carefully stacked from one to the other, the pillows are tucked neatly against each other so that there is no daylight between them, the corners are free of cobwebs and the single windowsill is bereft of dust.
“After you. Sorry, about the space,” he says, “and— everything.” Andras’ smile widens, for a moment that flickers like candlelight and then dies away just as fast. He steps away from the door and the wind rushes back out and the finality of the action is alarming to say the least.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
