andras
i am angry.
i have nothing to say about it.
i am not sorry for the cost.
A
ndras is a creature of habit.Every day he wakes and walks through the library. Every day the same walls, the same railing, the same endless shelves of books and lanterns. Every day door frames twisted into the wood itself, windows that are drafty but in what seems to be an intentional way.
Every day Andras looks out the window, at the woods, now covered in newly fallen snow (and enough of it to stick to the carpet of pine needles and crumpled fern), and Andras thinks nothing. There is always that single, beautiful moment of absolute emptiness that he drinks like he's a parched man in the desert. Andras takes that moment into the woods with him, toward the city.
Every day the city and his stillness dissolving and falling through the cracks in his hands. Every day the curved streets, the tall arches of the capitol, and Court building that Andras looks balefully at for a moment before wandering to some book store or another. He realizes the irony in his going to book stores when he lives in the library. Andras is a creature of habit.
Today is not like every day. Today Andras wakes, strolls the library, stares out the window, and walks to the city, but when he arrives just around noon and he is staring toward the heart of the Court, something unexpected stirs in him. There is not much to do, without-- well, the unending nightmare of the past year-- just his manic research, the enormous trial of wrestling his magic into something like order so it does not one day splatter him on the wall, and think, and think, and think.
Andras does not like thinking. Andras is too full of bombs to look any of them in the eye. If Andras thinks anything, regularly, it is that as long as he can't see the shrinking fuses they might as well not be there at all.
--But, in spite of his desperate attempts, he has been thinking. Something has been growing in him. It is missing them: the people, the purpose, everything. And, it is is this distinct hole that he feels that brings him to the garden: each hedge capped with snow, still surprisingly vibrant considering the season. We probably have the king to thank for that, I think.
When they do find each other, either by circumstance or divine intervention or a sprinkling of both, Andras looks at Ipomoea for longer than he should, searching for what to say. What does one say? "Good morning, sir." is what he decides, nodding curtly, face drawn into the typical grim lines. "I came to see how you've been."
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
