Andras Demyan
"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 your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
"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 your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
Andras follows, as Andras will. He does not look out into the crowd and he does not raise his proud black head to see Denocte alight, Denocte by the warmth of a much friendlier fire than it had known. There is mumbling about them, at their backs, and a gasp here or there, but Andras pays no attention to any of it.
He didn't really come to see Denocte at all, did he?
Andras does lift his head when she speaks, accompanied by the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. He came here to see her, he thinks. And there she goes.
Jaw clenched, Andras unfolds his wings and lurches forward, gliding after her in the shadow of her dragon (and there is that feeling again, a salivating at the thought of danger, a salivating at the thought of pain) with his wings night-dark against the yellow glow of the city. He doesn't know if he's forgotten her warning, or if he is just far enough overhead that he does not scatter her civilians. He does not know if he wants her to notice. Either way, she doesn't.
Isra wheels to a stop at the door to her castle, tall and dark and glittering. Seconds later Andras lands at her heels with his head low, already adjusting his glasses as she heaves open the door and it roars like the beast that she is - something too powerful, something that does not belong. He follows in silence, through the foyer, down a corridor, through another tall archway that opens to the library.
It is the first time Andras starts to feel homesick for Delumine in a way that is not his black hatred feeling less severe in the shade of its tall trees.
Find out for yourself, says Isra, less a suggestion and more of a command, and Andras nods silently. Behind him there is the telltale flutter of pages blown open by the wind (but he is not stupid enough to think it is the wind that does it) and Andras looks back at it.
"Thank you," he breathes, casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder, but Isra is already gone, back to her festival, back to her city, back to the demons that sing at her from the alter. Andras does not pause to worry about her, even as he settles down in her pile of pillows, unceremoniously flicking the rusty chainmail one out of his way. He stares for a long moment at the journal, laying open and wanting in the cold light of the moon.
Andras reaches forward, and starts reading.
He didn't really come to see Denocte at all, did he?
Andras does lift his head when she speaks, accompanied by the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. He came here to see her, he thinks. And there she goes.
Jaw clenched, Andras unfolds his wings and lurches forward, gliding after her in the shadow of her dragon (and there is that feeling again, a salivating at the thought of danger, a salivating at the thought of pain) with his wings night-dark against the yellow glow of the city. He doesn't know if he's forgotten her warning, or if he is just far enough overhead that he does not scatter her civilians. He does not know if he wants her to notice. Either way, she doesn't.
Isra wheels to a stop at the door to her castle, tall and dark and glittering. Seconds later Andras lands at her heels with his head low, already adjusting his glasses as she heaves open the door and it roars like the beast that she is - something too powerful, something that does not belong. He follows in silence, through the foyer, down a corridor, through another tall archway that opens to the library.
It is the first time Andras starts to feel homesick for Delumine in a way that is not his black hatred feeling less severe in the shade of its tall trees.
Find out for yourself, says Isra, less a suggestion and more of a command, and Andras nods silently. Behind him there is the telltale flutter of pages blown open by the wind (but he is not stupid enough to think it is the wind that does it) and Andras looks back at it.
"Thank you," he breathes, casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder, but Isra is already gone, back to her festival, back to her city, back to the demons that sing at her from the alter. Andras does not pause to worry about her, even as he settles down in her pile of pillows, unceremoniously flicking the rusty chainmail one out of his way. He stares for a long moment at the journal, laying open and wanting in the cold light of the moon.
Andras reaches forward, and starts reading.
@isra and done
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
