andras
i am angry. i have nothing to say about it.
i am not sorry for the cost.
S
omeone smiles. Someone hands Andras a glass of hot apple cider and claps him on the back. Someone else laughs as he takes it–warm laughter, friendly laughter. Andras never quite learns their names but he likes them, as much as he can. He likes this, as much as he can.And though Andras tries, though he smiles or else schools his expression into one of quiet nonchalance, though pride swells in him to see the streets full for the first time in–months? years?–he was not born with emotional stamina. It is exhausting to be a bubbling cauldron from the day he leaves the womb to the day he dies but it has never been more draining than the simple act of enjoying himself. The man with the cider turns to say something over his shoulder.
When he turns back, the warden is gone. His friend says, “I hear he does that.” Both of them shrug, and continue their celebration.
From here the cheer of the city is quieter than the wind blowing through, and the winking lights of the lanterns are yellow specks in the sky. Andras realizes now just how tired he is. Andras realizes, too, that it is a comfortable sleepiness, that he breathes out a sigh and it is not in anguish but contentment.
–and that contentment turns to icy fear, which grows and grows because he doesn’t know what it is and it hurts in the pit of his chest–
–but that is a journey for another time. It is a stitch to undo at another moment. Andras breathes (in, hold it, then out) and Andras tries not to think that contentment is so close to that feeling that rules him when he thinks about snakes and gold and the Solterran sun.
‘Do you hear them?’Andras turns his head to hear it, turns his head to look. It is almost familiar. It is almost like someone he knows but can’t pick out of a crowd. And at first it’s so quiet he’s not sure he heard it at all. What he finds is bright eyes, like molten gold, and a shape that steps out of the woods like it’s been there for years, haunting them. Watching. Waiting.
Andras purses his lips and draws his brows together. Andras leers down his nose at the shape in the dark. Andras quietly thanks Oriens for something to haunt him that is not his own heart running away with him. At this point he’d take anything–he had meant to go home, sink into bed, and curl in on himself until the sharp pain of being subsides–but he’ll take anything.
‘They’re only the voices of the lost,’ the shape says with that voice that he almost remembers but isn’t quite sure he hears at all. ‘Some say they only sing to those who are also lost.’ Andras clenches his teeth and tucks his lips tighter. There is anger growing in him. Comforting anger. Safe anger. So much safer than everything else.
‘I suppose you’ve come for the festival path?’ The stranger begins again. His voice is a whisper in the warden’s ear though he’s so far away. When he speaks Andras feels the rising and falling sun, the cool mist of the woods. Each sentence is punctuated by some effervescent glow that sets his teeth on edge. His anger turns to vague fear before shifting back. Andras steps forward dismissively, breaking his stare, and ducks his head.
The voice follows him still, like it’s just behind his head. The voice tells him of ghosts and their secrets. The voice tells him there are old things in the woods, things made of dust and satin, things with quiet mouths that smile or cry–and then, like it had never been there at all–everything around him is silent.
Andras sets his jaw. Andras narrows his eyes–the bright sun is a speck in the distance, weaving its way between trees. He regards it for a moment, before refolding his wings over his back and saying “Fine. I’ll play your game.”
What’s one more?
@Official Dawn Account
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
