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 returns to the Library because he doesn't know what else to do.
He had walked its halls for days in the wake of the meeting, whispering warden over and over, until all he can hear is his own voice, and not his blood singing yes, yes, yes! in a hymn to blood and bruise, bent at the altar of his rage. The library is hushed, as it always is, between its labyrinthian layout and the old forest that surrounds it. People have told him it's magic. People have told him it's ancient and sad and all-knowing. The forest is anxient, and all-knowing, but when he looks out the window and sees the rain slapping against the thick, rubbery leaves in the underbrush, Andras sees that it is anything but sad.
It is joyful. It is angry. It crackles with the same undercurrent of volcanic rage that he does. And so Andras folds himself into the shade of its tall trees, a ceiling that barely keeps out the cold of first frost.
Truth is, he had expected--something.
Maybe for Ipomoea to look him dead in the eye and say Warden, and he would feel proud and justified and dutiful. Maybe Warden and the ever-expanding fan of his rage would be funneled into a point that he could aim at the heart of Delumine, passionate and brave and protective. Maybe Warden and something--anything at all--would change. But the sky did not open up and call Andras warrior, protector, noble, and the bottom of his well of anger did not rise up to meet him where he is at. He does not feel different at all, really.
And this is why he flies back to the library in the wake of the meeting: because there is nothing else to do but hope, no defining line between the old Andras and the new, no morning in which he wakes up and says ah, yes, this is what I was looking for.
Probably because the word Warden was not what he was looking for at all.
There is a hush through the library and the fog outside chases him in through the doorway and gathers in the corners, swirling around his ankles like water. The only sounds, besides the clatter of his footsteps as he lands and tucks his wings neatly against his ribs, is the skittering of little paws and a voice, somewhere in the labyrinth of rooms, coming his way.
He is already steeling his nerves, already tucking away his chattering teeth and his racing heart and listening only to the churn of his blood, only hearing the sizzling that says yes and Warden in intervals, so loud that he barely hears her voice at all when it is addressing him directly. Can you help me? she asks, and Andras wants to say no, wants to turn his hard gaze on her and ask what she's doing here (as befits a warden, probably) but instead he says "Probably."
And this isn't to say that he looks approachable, or welcoming, or glad to be here. His mouth is a tight, firm line and his eyes behind those glasses are grim and dark.
"What are you looking for?"
This is fine, he thinks. He could use the distraction.
It's all fine.
He had walked its halls for days in the wake of the meeting, whispering warden over and over, until all he can hear is his own voice, and not his blood singing yes, yes, yes! in a hymn to blood and bruise, bent at the altar of his rage. The library is hushed, as it always is, between its labyrinthian layout and the old forest that surrounds it. People have told him it's magic. People have told him it's ancient and sad and all-knowing. The forest is anxient, and all-knowing, but when he looks out the window and sees the rain slapping against the thick, rubbery leaves in the underbrush, Andras sees that it is anything but sad.
It is joyful. It is angry. It crackles with the same undercurrent of volcanic rage that he does. And so Andras folds himself into the shade of its tall trees, a ceiling that barely keeps out the cold of first frost.
Truth is, he had expected--something.
Maybe for Ipomoea to look him dead in the eye and say Warden, and he would feel proud and justified and dutiful. Maybe Warden and the ever-expanding fan of his rage would be funneled into a point that he could aim at the heart of Delumine, passionate and brave and protective. Maybe Warden and something--anything at all--would change. But the sky did not open up and call Andras warrior, protector, noble, and the bottom of his well of anger did not rise up to meet him where he is at. He does not feel different at all, really.
And this is why he flies back to the library in the wake of the meeting: because there is nothing else to do but hope, no defining line between the old Andras and the new, no morning in which he wakes up and says ah, yes, this is what I was looking for.
Probably because the word Warden was not what he was looking for at all.
There is a hush through the library and the fog outside chases him in through the doorway and gathers in the corners, swirling around his ankles like water. The only sounds, besides the clatter of his footsteps as he lands and tucks his wings neatly against his ribs, is the skittering of little paws and a voice, somewhere in the labyrinth of rooms, coming his way.
He is already steeling his nerves, already tucking away his chattering teeth and his racing heart and listening only to the churn of his blood, only hearing the sizzling that says yes and Warden in intervals, so loud that he barely hears her voice at all when it is addressing him directly. Can you help me? she asks, and Andras wants to say no, wants to turn his hard gaze on her and ask what she's doing here (as befits a warden, probably) but instead he says "Probably."
And this isn't to say that he looks approachable, or welcoming, or glad to be here. His mouth is a tight, firm line and his eyes behind those glasses are grim and dark.
"What are you looking for?"
This is fine, he thinks. He could use the distraction.
It's all fine.
@corrdelia
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
