He's watching his king fall to pieces--in a surprisingly subtle way, helped along by the fact that Andras is seeing just red, and black, and electric blue. He's watching his king fall apart but he doesn't know it, cant quite see the sad slope of his shoulders or the cruel merging of fear and anger and bottomless grief. Maybe that's for the best.
Because Andras is only anger, once the shock gives way. He turns from the cold shine of black steel to a furnace belching smoke and lightning, a mechanical whine rising higher and higher over the oncoming roll of thunder. Maybe it should worry him that he doesn't question. Maybe it should worry him that Ipomoea lays down in the floodwater but Andras dives in headfirst. Maybe it should worry him that for just a second he is as loud as the storm overhead, rumbling and rumbling and rumbling.
But he would never have done a thing different. Andras would never have made a move if it were not to look Ipomoea in the eyes and believe him. He would have led himself to the guillotine, if Po had asked.
Such is the way of dogs. Slobbering, savagery, gnashing teeth-- and obedience.
"You should decide." he suggests, or begs, or howls. Rain is falling in sheets now, soaking into the skin and sliding in fat drops off the watertight cup of his wings. When he looks down at the tracks, their clumped ridges softening, their grooves filling with muddy water, it looks more like a road than a deer track. Suddenly his magic is hungry, and wild, and though he is hot, hot, hot he is just lucid enough to know that's a tragedy waiting to happen.
You should decide, he had told the king. Andras' eyes lift from the ground to Ipomoea's face, again. His own is as dark as the dead of winter, and sharp like the blade of a knife. You should decide. "Because I know what I'd do."
Because he knows what he'd do. Blood, and thunder, and delicious catharsis.
Andras is silent for a long moment, trying to break the surface of all his magic and rage. "As your Warden," he asks, trying not to sound like he's choking, though he is--"what would you have of me?"
He hopes, he hopes, he hopes--
Because Andras is only anger, once the shock gives way. He turns from the cold shine of black steel to a furnace belching smoke and lightning, a mechanical whine rising higher and higher over the oncoming roll of thunder. Maybe it should worry him that he doesn't question. Maybe it should worry him that Ipomoea lays down in the floodwater but Andras dives in headfirst. Maybe it should worry him that for just a second he is as loud as the storm overhead, rumbling and rumbling and rumbling.
But he would never have done a thing different. Andras would never have made a move if it were not to look Ipomoea in the eyes and believe him. He would have led himself to the guillotine, if Po had asked.
Such is the way of dogs. Slobbering, savagery, gnashing teeth-- and obedience.
"You should decide." he suggests, or begs, or howls. Rain is falling in sheets now, soaking into the skin and sliding in fat drops off the watertight cup of his wings. When he looks down at the tracks, their clumped ridges softening, their grooves filling with muddy water, it looks more like a road than a deer track. Suddenly his magic is hungry, and wild, and though he is hot, hot, hot he is just lucid enough to know that's a tragedy waiting to happen.
You should decide, he had told the king. Andras' eyes lift from the ground to Ipomoea's face, again. His own is as dark as the dead of winter, and sharp like the blade of a knife. You should decide. "Because I know what I'd do."
Because he knows what he'd do. Blood, and thunder, and delicious catharsis.
Andras is silent for a long moment, trying to break the surface of all his magic and rage. "As your Warden," he asks, trying not to sound like he's choking, though he is--"what would you have of me?"
He hopes, he hopes, he hopes--
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
