and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding
that never stopped exploding
And it is loud, with their lips presses together, all crackling lightning and heat and he hates it, the way Pilate smiles, the curve of his mouth, the hissing snakes--but he has maybe never known hatred in his life, not suffering, not rage, until Pilate leans back and he looks-- something. Whatever it is, it isn't good.
Andras can't think, not that there is time to, because the air is sucked out of his lungs when he sees--really sees--the lopsided smirk, as if barely held together. His rage is asking if Pilate sees it too, reflected in the shine of Andras' glasses, cold as as the icy woods. It is too close to fear to be anything but.
Andras knows because for perhaps for the only time since Isra, and her festival, and her beastly, godlike magic, his fear is a sinking feeling, not one that sets him on fire.
Pilate steps forward. When is tail stings the Warden's chest it is worse than any broken bone. He feels something in him, breaking for the first time. Breaking like waves. Breaking like glass.
Andras watches him go. The library is colder than he remembers. Colder than he has ever been. He thinks, out loud: "Coward."
Andras walks to his room, a long walk with his head down and face burning. His steps sound so, so loud in the suddenly far, far too crowded hall. He steps through his door, throws his glasses on the table, and sinks into a bed of pillows.
He does not fall asleep.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
