rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
He looks at his wreath before setting it in place: dried grass, but expertly wovenn by any means but still holding together-- something he made with his own hands, something he touched carefully and with intention, something now more beautiful because he had come in contact with it. Andras places it next to hers with a reverent quiet, like he is capable of anything of the sort, and turns to look at her again.
The king asked her to come see the garden. A part of Andras says, of course, loudly enough that he hears it through the roar of his magic in his ear. The rest of him watches her face as it moves, searching for something that makes sense of her quiet, her gentleness. It surprises him that he can't understand. It surprises him more that he wants to.
"Ipomoea would know." Andras says, almost smiling, the light like a film on the lens of his glasses. He does not see it, himself, but he imagines the king spends most of his time in his garden, trimming hedges and carefully touching the early-autumn rose petals still clinging to their stems, as if just by holding on to them, to him, a little longer, they can stave off the dead cold of winter.
If only they could. If only any of them could.
"I used to like winter best. Not as much anymore, but it's still nice, I suppose." He does not say why-- does not mention the blood in the snow or the ragged, wet breathes of their emissary as the group bore down on her cabin. He does not say anything, but his mouth is a tight, flat line, and the crackle of his magic has picked up again, and the red-hot hole in the pit of his stomach is roaring its way back to life.
It's a comfortable anger. A familiar one. He does not like winter so much, anymore, at all.
"Well," he begins, but does not quite know how to finish-- to say anything about himself, to acknowledge anything about his perceived importance always feels like nails on a chalkboard, like dredging something up from his pits that would rather stay drowned. He doesn't like to see it gasping when it comes out of the water. He makes a point at not looking at most of his pieces, if he can help it. Usually it's easy.
Usually there are not girls with rings of grass and white-pink dahlias, arranging the already-gathered offerings at the statue's feet so that each can be seen from a distance. He feels a strange, unfamiliar knot in his throat as he watches her. Something close to comfort, but not quite. He only knows it is warm, and soft as it spreads to his chest.
Andras blinks, and looks to the side, and begins picking up their pieces of cut grass and green, topless stems, plus a lengthy strip of ribbon that he rolls carefully back into place as he speaks. "A warden keeps the law, and watches for trouble." In his sleep. Every moment of his life. Even when it's not there. "Which is why I'm here, and not in the library, as usual."
The king asked her to come see the garden. A part of Andras says, of course, loudly enough that he hears it through the roar of his magic in his ear. The rest of him watches her face as it moves, searching for something that makes sense of her quiet, her gentleness. It surprises him that he can't understand. It surprises him more that he wants to.
"Ipomoea would know." Andras says, almost smiling, the light like a film on the lens of his glasses. He does not see it, himself, but he imagines the king spends most of his time in his garden, trimming hedges and carefully touching the early-autumn rose petals still clinging to their stems, as if just by holding on to them, to him, a little longer, they can stave off the dead cold of winter.
If only they could. If only any of them could.
"I used to like winter best. Not as much anymore, but it's still nice, I suppose." He does not say why-- does not mention the blood in the snow or the ragged, wet breathes of their emissary as the group bore down on her cabin. He does not say anything, but his mouth is a tight, flat line, and the crackle of his magic has picked up again, and the red-hot hole in the pit of his stomach is roaring its way back to life.
It's a comfortable anger. A familiar one. He does not like winter so much, anymore, at all.
"Well," he begins, but does not quite know how to finish-- to say anything about himself, to acknowledge anything about his perceived importance always feels like nails on a chalkboard, like dredging something up from his pits that would rather stay drowned. He doesn't like to see it gasping when it comes out of the water. He makes a point at not looking at most of his pieces, if he can help it. Usually it's easy.
Usually there are not girls with rings of grass and white-pink dahlias, arranging the already-gathered offerings at the statue's feet so that each can be seen from a distance. He feels a strange, unfamiliar knot in his throat as he watches her. Something close to comfort, but not quite. He only knows it is warm, and soft as it spreads to his chest.
Andras blinks, and looks to the side, and begins picking up their pieces of cut grass and green, topless stems, plus a lengthy strip of ribbon that he rolls carefully back into place as he speaks. "A warden keeps the law, and watches for trouble." In his sleep. Every moment of his life. Even when it's not there. "Which is why I'm here, and not in the library, as usual."
@solstice
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
