in my mouth
turning
my tongue into
rivers of blood.
S
ometime, but not often, it occurs to Andras that he will be written about, in some capacity, if it hasn't happened already. He has never stopped to ask what will be said of him, if it will be a few short lines (Andras lived as Andras died: snarling) or some prolonged peek into his particular brand of long-suffering anger.If he were the type, he might wonder what they would say about him as he is now: tired, strained, crushed to death by the weight of his heart and its year-long fixation with a certain Solterran prince. Maybe it would be more insight than he is capable of having, himself. But Andras isn't the type to ask questions, or wonder, especially about himself. As far as he's concerned, he is the same as he has always been. Andras is Andras and he never changes.
I didn't realize anyone was in here, the mule says, and Andras closes his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself to breathe. In, hold it, out. In, hold it, out. He is waiting for Willfur to leave, kick the door softly shut on his way out, but when the eyes open again there is no change in his new acquaintance, just a sort of nervous skittering on the threshold. Willfur isn't going anywhere, he now sees.
It's fine.
Everything is fine.
Willfur then says, you're Andras, aren't you? and Andras takes a moment to draw then exhale another deep breath before he folds his book closed and sets it on the floor next to him. "I am." He says this with the strain of a wine bottle trying not to blow its cork. "Where are you from, Willfur?" His eyes skim over the long ears, the mottled brown-gold of his coat. Not here, he thinks. But who knows.
The man offers to help, and now Andras heaves himself up from his bed of pillows to stand with a stiff shake of his neck, curling one wing over his chest to brush the dust off his elbows. "Would you like to do some cleaning?"
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
