for the hunted ones.
there is no safe place
when your body is
the site of the storm.
T
he attendant looks worried. Across the room, Andras has been standing for hours, propped up against the far wall. He squints periodically as the heavy wood door creaks open like a mountain coming to life and light and sand spill into the small chamber. It is a familiar place. The groan of the crank, the shuffling of feet, and the unmistakable ring of anticipation is a cool hand smoothed over his cheek when the whole of the world outside this little pocket of space seems to have caught fire while his back is turned.
Next to the door is a sheet, which is the source of all the furrowed brows and the grim expressions. Andras hasn't read it. He has tried,, but was swatted away before his lenses would focus the words. Matches are not to be known in advance, the same attendant had said. The Solonia is about spontaneity.
Spontaneity.
As if the past few weeks have not been spontaneous enough.
The attendant looks worried, glancing from Andras to the sheet and back until he has to turn away, to look over the few Solterrans still left to participate. He imagines their matches across the arena, waiting quietly in the same vein, tense and stiff-backed and clenched in every muscle from head to toe. He breathes. The attendant still looks worried. When Andras looks back at her she stares at him, brows knit.
He is about to ask why, when there is a loud clunk in the sand past the door, and she breaks his gaze to lean into the crank, lurching the door open inch by inch. This time, the light falls on his face, his chest, and the warm air that pools into the doorway goes straight to his head.
"Hold on," says the same attendant, as he passes. He does, and she hands him a smooth, red arc of wood-- which he sees, as he turns it in the light, is a shortbow-- and a quiver to buckle to his shoulder. Suddenly, Andras is also worried. The girl wishes him luck, and the dawn king steps into the hot sun. It is all very familiar in a sad way. It is all very strange at the same time, as he runs one ghostly finger through the fletching of one arrow. He can't even remember the last time he shot a bow.
Somehow worse, still, is when he squints through his glasses at the growing shape opposite him, white and gold like the Solterran sun itself. Andras almost laughs.
Adonai, Sovereign of Solterra and Andras, Sovereign of Delumine!"
It probably says more, that he's dead quiet, not even the unsteady crack of electricity to keep him company. When the cheering dies down, there is nothing but sun and silence. Andras bows his head low. "Your highness."
He wastes no time, after. They move away from each other again, circling back to a safe distance, and the match is called to start. Andras opens his wings and lifts into the air, raising his weapon. The bow shakes in his grip until Andras draws the string and forces himself to hold steady and breathe. He aims at the ground in front of Adonai, hoping only to buy himself some time. A man with anything to lose should flinch, he figures. He is thinking as far as getting Adonai moving and no further. Andras closes his eyes after he lets go. The idea that it hits nothing and the idea that it hits anything are equally unthinkable. He doesn't think about how the tips are probably blunted for safety (especially in a match that involves their king-- and another).
The only thing he can think, truly the only thing, is that he hopes Adonai is a better shot than he is. He didn't come here to leave without a scratch.
(Also if there is a way to give Andras disadvantage on rolls where he uses the bow because his knowledge of archery ends at "load, point some direction and shoot" it would truly and completely make my day thank you <3)
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
