ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
The library is quiet today. No long, black and white faces with bags of bird seed. No kings. No birds. Just Andras, alone in a pile of pillows, flipping diligently through the yellow pages of a book so worn he's afraid its bunding might unravel in his hands. Each page he gently dusts off with the tip of one inky wing, perhaps the only loving gesture of which Andras is capable.
He has found it finally, he thinks. Some book about old magic (magic like Isra, like the roar of the sea and the rumbling of armageddon) and older gods. Its words make a home in his stomach, wrapping his bones in ink and old songs, words so ancient that Oriens himself wouldn't recognize them.
Andras smiles, and the roar of his blood grows louder, louder, until he cannot hear it. He thinks he must feel like Isra, tangled and black, so full of something that wants out. Something that breaks him open each day in a new seam. Something that crackles under his skin like electricity.
He wonders if this beast in him is magic.
He wonders if there's a way to get it out.
Steps in the corridor, steps rounding the corner to the room in which Andras is curled. He is waiting for the rhythm of someone diligent, someone in search of some old scroll or maybe even Mathias, coming and going as he does - but the sound is disjointed, chaotic, just a creature drifting from place to place in rapt silence except for the ringing of his hooves.
Andras leers over the top of his book, over the top of his glasses, and when he meets Atlaas' eyes it is not with a kind and welcoming smile. "You look new." he says, and almost laughs. Almost. Andras sounds more bored, than anything; no clenched teeth, no tense and angry laughter. He tucks the book under one wing and lurches to his feet.
"Is this the first time you've been in a library, or just this library? I'm Andras, by the way."
He has found it finally, he thinks. Some book about old magic (magic like Isra, like the roar of the sea and the rumbling of armageddon) and older gods. Its words make a home in his stomach, wrapping his bones in ink and old songs, words so ancient that Oriens himself wouldn't recognize them.
Andras smiles, and the roar of his blood grows louder, louder, until he cannot hear it. He thinks he must feel like Isra, tangled and black, so full of something that wants out. Something that breaks him open each day in a new seam. Something that crackles under his skin like electricity.
He wonders if this beast in him is magic.
He wonders if there's a way to get it out.
Steps in the corridor, steps rounding the corner to the room in which Andras is curled. He is waiting for the rhythm of someone diligent, someone in search of some old scroll or maybe even Mathias, coming and going as he does - but the sound is disjointed, chaotic, just a creature drifting from place to place in rapt silence except for the ringing of his hooves.
Andras leers over the top of his book, over the top of his glasses, and when he meets Atlaas' eyes it is not with a kind and welcoming smile. "You look new." he says, and almost laughs. Almost. Andras sounds more bored, than anything; no clenched teeth, no tense and angry laughter. He tucks the book under one wing and lurches to his feet.
"Is this the first time you've been in a library, or just this library? I'm Andras, by the way."
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
