ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS DANCE OUT OF YOUR SKIN
INTO ANOTHER SONG NOT QUITE ABOUT HEROES,
BUT STILL A SONG WHERE YOU CAN LIFT THE SPEAR
AND SAY "YES" AS IT FLASHES."
INTO ANOTHER SONG NOT QUITE ABOUT HEROES,
BUT STILL A SONG WHERE YOU CAN LIFT THE SPEAR
AND SAY "YES" AS IT FLASHES."
As the city grows in the distance, a bright spot against the black sea of the foothills and the dark rock of the mountain range, he thinks how he has not seen it since before he was Warden, just after the death of Raum. He had been sharper, then, with his magic beating like bird's wings in his chest, drumming on the inside of his ribs like a thing knocking, trying to claw its way out of the pit of him.
He had known, then, what he does not know now: that he can take his sharp edges and grind them away if he wants, smooth his body down like a river rock, shining and red in the palm. He hadn't wanted to, then, and now, when he does, when he has been losing sleep for weeks because he cannot figure out how to stretch into his new shape, it seems like some great secret, always perched just behind the back of his head.
He is gritting his teeth as he lands just outside the heavy wood door of the city gate and, though it is open, it leers down at him like a dragon, mouth ringed with teeth set in gem-speckled gums. There is an empty study room in the library, reclaimed by the crowd. Last week he carried his single bed of pillows and his lone candle and his stacks of hastily scrawled notes to another empty room in the court proper, a parlor off the emissary's office that is, on its own, at least three times the size. He had not realized until he set it out again that the candle smells like pine and honey.
Andras steps through the tall gate and climbs the hill toward the citadel, every line drawn in bold, grim strokes. At the Citadel's doors, he is asked, "You are the new Emissary from Dawn?" and he nods, a short duck of his head before it is tucked back into his chest.
“Andras. Just here to see the sovereign,” Andras half-mumbles, half sighs against his own skin. There is a prolonged, punctuated silence as he is led through the door and asked to wait. In the hall, with its vaulted ceiling and its tall, blue-gray structure, he must look very small. A black speck on the carpet. An ant in the home of a lion. He grits his teeth tighter, and waits.
He had known, then, what he does not know now: that he can take his sharp edges and grind them away if he wants, smooth his body down like a river rock, shining and red in the palm. He hadn't wanted to, then, and now, when he does, when he has been losing sleep for weeks because he cannot figure out how to stretch into his new shape, it seems like some great secret, always perched just behind the back of his head.
He is gritting his teeth as he lands just outside the heavy wood door of the city gate and, though it is open, it leers down at him like a dragon, mouth ringed with teeth set in gem-speckled gums. There is an empty study room in the library, reclaimed by the crowd. Last week he carried his single bed of pillows and his lone candle and his stacks of hastily scrawled notes to another empty room in the court proper, a parlor off the emissary's office that is, on its own, at least three times the size. He had not realized until he set it out again that the candle smells like pine and honey.
Andras steps through the tall gate and climbs the hill toward the citadel, every line drawn in bold, grim strokes. At the Citadel's doors, he is asked, "You are the new Emissary from Dawn?" and he nods, a short duck of his head before it is tucked back into his chest.
“Andras. Just here to see the sovereign,” Andras half-mumbles, half sighs against his own skin. There is a prolonged, punctuated silence as he is led through the door and asked to wait. In the hall, with its vaulted ceiling and its tall, blue-gray structure, he must look very small. A black speck on the carpet. An ant in the home of a lion. He grits his teeth tighter, and waits.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
