in my mouth
turning
my tongue into
rivers of blood.
I
t’s easy, to get lost in the library– metaphorically, of course, but also literally. The structure is labyrinthian and seemingly endless, each turn branching into another, and another, and another, like the very arms of the trees wound together to make up its shell. –but Andras could walk it blind. He often does, in the dead of a summer night when the cicadas are too loud to allow him to sleep, accompanied only by the warm glow of a single candle.
This is not one of those times. Today, the sun is high and new, bright buds grow on the fingers of each sapling trying to worm its way into the light. In the library, it is surprisingly busy, alive with the hum of Deluminians and tourists alike, all come to the woods after the long, cold winter. (A quiet winter, too, he thinks– which is a blessing compared to the one before.) On days like this Andras retreats, wound too tight for his own good or anyone else’s, stalking through each hall until he reaches a dusty, unused room with the typical bookshelves but also a hearth, and a crackling fire, and hanging pots of monstera.
After the festival–after every festival, Andras lays on one of the plush, green pillows laid out beside the fire and opens a book. It is a thick, leather tome with yellowed vellum pages, at least a dozen generations old if not a little bit longer. The pages tell him something about Terrastella’s rulers since its inception.
It does not really matter what. The Warden is not reading anyway.
As usual, instead, the Warden is staring at the crease in the middle, the gray mortar of the hearth where the bricks don’t quite line up in the same pattern each time, the shaft of slightly green light coming in through the windows after being filtered through more leaves to count– really, anything but what he’s trying to focus on.
Focus, peace, privacy– these things don’t come easy in Delumine these days. Least of all when Willfur barges through the door shoulder first, and Andras is almost glad for an excuse to look up from his book, over the rim of his glasses, and leer.
Almost.
“Do you need something?” he asks, mirthlessly. A fork of blue static float off his shoulder with an electric buzz.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
