AND I KNOW THAT ROME WASN'T BURNT IN A DAY
BUT IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK
BUT IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK
E
very day is simple. Comfortable. He tells himself this.The routine is simple: walk through the library, brushing the tips of his wings against volumes far older than he is, and far older than anyone else he knows; walk through the woods to the court, where the street lanterns aren't lit for another few hours yet; wait, and wait, and wait until his favorite book shop, the one with wide, square windows rimmed in black wood and ivy, opens its doors with a "morning, Warden," tossed in.
The routine is simple. The routine is comforting. Andras is a creature of habit.
--And, yet, the more he walks, the more he waits, the more the fall and then the winter wears on, and on, and on... the stiffer his stride, or the louder his crackle, or the faster the thumping of his heart in the back of his head.
Today, Andras makes tea before leaving the library, pours it into a ceramic cup before leaving the fire for the creatures that tend to its shelves. He carries it through the woods toward the city and tries not to think about blood in the snow or frozen to trees, and tries not to think of the Solterran sun and the smell of spices and the desperate longing that beats at him whenever he does.
It is so much easier, not to think. The routine is simple. Follow it soundlessly. Follow it thoughtlessly. A movement of the body through time and nothing more. It should be easy. It should be so easy.
Andras looks at the looming court, just a darker shape against an already dark sky, lifts his mug to his lips, and sips. He stares for a long moment. He decides, not today, and turns toward the meadow, where there is a distinct tinkling sound, like glass knocking together, that sounds at once familiar and not.
He supposes he has nothing better to do, these days.
"This is unexpected," Andras says quietly, from a few yards behind. His tea has gone mostly cold in the dark morning air but he sips again anyway, holding the mug close to his chest, wrapping his wings around himself much like the other does.
In retrospect, he should have known it was Septimus. The warden doesn't know the man well, and, frankly, wonders where he's been, but the turning of pages and the studious, diligent intensity with which he's been scouring the meadow while Andras approaches seems like the only possible option for him. Andras can't breathe and doesn't quite know why.
It might be that he realizes, almost all at once, that he admires this man, face down in the gold winter grass, paging through a notebook. Once opened, his heart has been full of surprises.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asks, still quietly, so as not to disturb Septimus' work, taking one last drink of cold tea before tucking the mug under his wing for safekeeping. The winter wind blows through him like ice.
ANDRAS, WARDEN OF DELUMINE
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
