and wrecks ships in its wake,
but you're a siren, too, somewhere
deep in the aching heart of you.
H
is is an owl: black discs for eyes, the heart-shaped dish of its face, nothing but the quiet tap of its claws on the sill to announce its arrival. It watches him for a little short of an hour, holding his breath in the doorway, facing out into the hall as he tries to wrestle with-- something. Whatever it is, the owl doesn't know, and the owl doesn't care; it does not wait for him to open the envelope before turning its moon face back to the woods and disappearing into the dark.Meet at Veneror Peak tomorrow.
Try as he might, Andras has not blinded himself to the rest of the world seemingly turning upside-down overnight. The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, certainly. There has been too much tragedy for one lifetime, let alone one year, and in spite of himself, he is struggling to cope, though he'd never say so. Three new kings and a queen to sit at the head of each Court. Surely one letter has gone to each of them. He cannot imagine being called to the holy mountain alone.
When the reports started coming in, and the wax-sealed letters, and the notes of congratulations, Andras had accepted them graciously and stacked them on his desk, unopened. It was a trouble for another time, he told himself. There was much to do before he worried about mingling. The castle is so quiet and so empty he can hear his thoughts bounce off of each side of his skull on repeat until he has gone mad. He wanted to just one or two nights of rest before the proverbial ground dropped out beneath him. He thought it only fair.
Life, and politics, as they are eternally wont to do, had other ideas. Now, on the eve of the summit, after the owl has flown back into the woods, Andras scrubs his face with his wings and sits down to read, opening enveloped at the crease instead of the seal:
Adonai, his friend in most cases, Pilate's brother, taking a throne that had stood empty, crowned by Solis himself as he stood in the light of the sun. (He wonders, briefly, what the brother must think about that, or the rest of their family-- the whole thing seems so tense at the best of times, though he can't imagine why.)
A stranger, Ira, come from somewhere to Denocte now that its previous queen has-- disappeared? Died? The letter is understandably vague and Andras doesn't read it closely, in the first place. Ira is a mystery, he supposes, for the lot of them. Maybe even his own country. He wonders what that's like.
Of course, Elena, taking Marisol's place after-- something that the letter is, again, skirting with the grace that he comes to expect from the people in Elena's company. He reads her name twice, then a third time, and levels a long look out the window. He hasn't seen her since the previous fall, and their meeting was strained, to say the least... though I suppose that should come as no surprise.
Andras doesn't sleep that night. A page brings him water, just before dawn, and he sets it, still full, on the corner of his desk, next to the shrinking pile of unopened envelopes, mouths his thanks, and half-heartedly lobs the letter-opener across the room. The sun starts reaching toward the caps of Viride's trees, silhouettes in the distance. At the tips of their branches, the cold blue of the night has started turning a warm purple. Time to go.
He flies until the treeline breaks and he is grounded by great gusts of wind vaulting off sheer rock faces and glacial ice. The thin air is a dizzying sort of comfort, something to think about that is not the meeting ahead, or the faces of his fellow sovereigns, or his empty castle and the knot full of anger that sits, untouched, in his stomach until he can bear to look at it. By the time he crests the peak, and there is nowhere for the steep path to turn except to the clearing, where two of them already stand in the shade of their gods' shoulders, Andras has almost settled himself into a pleasant hum that starts in the back of his head and runs straight toward his nose. He is thankful that his magic is quiet in Oriens' presence, for now.
Elena is one of them, already speaking politely with the man he assumes to be Ira because he is unfamiliar. Andras doesn't turn their direction except to duck his head in greeting, and to introduce himself-- "Andras."--to Ira as he passes. It's easier, to take his place in silence, and to tick his wings tight against the green wool of his coat, and listen. So he does.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
