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.
Andras wants, more than he wants anything, to love this forest the way it is meant to be loved: kindly, protectively, openly--but he's beginning to think it is an exercise in futility.
He is these things. Kind--barely, but he has kindness in him, and if not kindness then at least obedience, which is a sort of kindness in its own right; protective, probably to a fault, the way that bears are protective, or sharks, or feral dogs, protective without reason, protection for the sake of protection.
But... open? No. This is not Andras. If he is an open book--and he is, unfortunately--it is in spite of his endless wresting, the iron grip that yanks the chain, the foot that keeps grinding at the coals of his heart when it roars to life in some form other than lightning and fire.
Andras wants to love the forest this way, though. He wants to feel agape with appreciation, breathless with awe. It is just that he doesn't. Time after time he comes out to the woods and sees only death and blood, red poppies like a river of it beneath his feet. It is easier to turn his face, to go up to the canopy and sit in the boughs of an old sturdy tree and read. It is easier to grind at the coals of his heart. It is easier than trying to warm himself on its fire.
It is one of these days that he comes to Sereia, bright even against the verdant light of the woods. It is one of these days that the twig snaps underfoot, that Andras looks down at his feet with cold, hard disdain, and then back up when he hears movement, more snapping, and the crunching of dry dirt underfoot.
She calls, who goes there, to nothing in particular. A bolt of electricity runs from his poll to the base of his tail. When he sees her, when he stops, when he inclines his head in greeting--more than most people get--he thinks to himself that the forest is large, and empty--except for the monsters.
"The Warden." he answers. "Are you from here? Are you new?"
He is these things. Kind--barely, but he has kindness in him, and if not kindness then at least obedience, which is a sort of kindness in its own right; protective, probably to a fault, the way that bears are protective, or sharks, or feral dogs, protective without reason, protection for the sake of protection.
But... open? No. This is not Andras. If he is an open book--and he is, unfortunately--it is in spite of his endless wresting, the iron grip that yanks the chain, the foot that keeps grinding at the coals of his heart when it roars to life in some form other than lightning and fire.
Andras wants to love the forest this way, though. He wants to feel agape with appreciation, breathless with awe. It is just that he doesn't. Time after time he comes out to the woods and sees only death and blood, red poppies like a river of it beneath his feet. It is easier to turn his face, to go up to the canopy and sit in the boughs of an old sturdy tree and read. It is easier to grind at the coals of his heart. It is easier than trying to warm himself on its fire.
It is one of these days that he comes to Sereia, bright even against the verdant light of the woods. It is one of these days that the twig snaps underfoot, that Andras looks down at his feet with cold, hard disdain, and then back up when he hears movement, more snapping, and the crunching of dry dirt underfoot.
She calls, who goes there, to nothing in particular. A bolt of electricity runs from his poll to the base of his tail. When he sees her, when he stops, when he inclines his head in greeting--more than most people get--he thinks to himself that the forest is large, and empty--except for the monsters.
"The Warden." he answers. "Are you from here? Are you new?"
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
