AND I KNOW THAT ROME WASN'T BURNT IN A DAY
BUT IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK
BUT IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK
H
e sees Zayir from across the room-- Andras is a few drinks in and still feebly clinging, with hands that slip and shake, to the insistence that he does not want to be here, though contrary evidence is stacked so high it dwarfs even this glittering desert mansion. The more he opens his mouth the more fuel gets added to that fire.He does want to be here. He has so many reasons. Pilate. His fickle and, frankly, strained acquaintance with Adonai. The dark room in the library that's waiting for his return, with snow pushed up against the outside walls, and frost on the windows, and a single candle to stave off the dark.
Andras would never say he feels cold. He would never say he feels so separate, but it is becoming impossible to ignore-- at least, according to the drink Pilate pushes his way to start the night, and that Andras' remarkably low tolerance still hasn't quite chased out of his system,, much to his dismay.
--No, he thinks, that's not it either. The problem is not that he's so hollow. The problem-- the big, looming teeth waiting to snap him up at his first wrong move-- is that, right now, he isn't. Somehow that's so much worse than the alternative.
Nevertheless, Andras sees Zayir from across the room, all white and red and gold, and he thinks of blood, and pain, and sand. Andras sees Zayir and something sparks in him, either camaraderie or respect or a small twinge of fear or all three at once. Andras sees Zayir through the film of intoxication and wanders his way over, touching the man's shoulder with the tip of one night-dark wing.
"You certainly look better than when I last saw you," he says, grinning. "Must be time for another round."
Andras folds his wing back alongside his ribs, tucked carefully into place. "I'll settle for a conversation if I have to, I guess."
ANDRAS, WARDEN OF DELUMINE
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
