Summary: They all thought he was overly paranoid. The voices in his head didn’t. But maybe that was why the others thought he was crazy. Honestly? He didn’t care. If he had to, he would be the one to save them when his ‘paranoia’ paid off.
AN: Uhhhh, I remember at some point someone, maybe fans?, were talking about how ironic it was that people called Andor paranoid when he seemed to have some basis behind his paranoia? Lol, i dont remember at this point, but i can make fanfics from it! Anyway, this is for your birthday, Andor, but that was like, two days ago…. Whoops XD Happy late Birthday! At this point, Merry Christmas? I hope this wasn’t too bad, and that you liked it! Also, i tried to stay on topic, but tangents. Many tangents. Also, i dont reaaaally know how much your character is based on the Prince from the Fallen Kingdom, so i kinda… picked what I wanted out of it? Like, more than i should have? Oops.
@lolfzter
He wasn’t paranoid. Despite what the others may think, he did have a reason for his actions, he wasn’t just some child learning the ways of the world. He had learned the ways of the world. Maybe not all of them, but enough.
From a young age, he learned the necessity of work, of doing things yourself. That often times you could only safely rely on yourself, could only safely trust yourself to push through. But that wasn’t to say he was taught against making friends, against making alliances. There were, afterall, strength in numbers, in allied forces. And there was something nice about having friends.
It was only a little older that he learned that naivety could kill. That blindly trusting, recklessly brushing off your initial misgivings of someone could be dangerous. There was a strange knowing in your gut, some instinctual urge that judged on more than appearance. It wasn’t like he trusted many people anyway. Doing so made it too easy to be betrayed.
He learned to fight at that age. The whisper of air that curled around his swings, the pings of metal striking metal, the hissing of an arrows smooth arc past him. It all came eerily natural to him, irked some of the people who saw him in action. It was necessary, but it was somehow freeing.
To be so clearly in his element, to know each movement he needed to make, to fill that need to move, to become thoughtless, to fight. It was almost addicting. The way his enemies fell before him, the challenges he overcame, the triumphs he experienced. Battle enthralled him, called to him.
But, he conceded much later, he could only partake in it in moderation. Societal rules dictated that such conflicts were not agreeable, and that fighting, killing, just for the sake of it was morally wrong. As much as he felt the pull of battle, the yearning to see people crumple before him, part of him knew that he shouldn’t pursue such activities. Not if he wanted to maintain a semi-normal life. Not if he wanted to be a hero.
At least, that's what the voices in his head argued. If anyone asked of them, he’d scoff, telling the person of their childishness, of their strange conversations, of the weird way they seemed to think. Of course, this would only label him as crazier than he was, so he didn’t mention them. But if someone were to take that at face value, to ignore the thought that, this man must be insane, they would find it funny how ironic it was he considered his voices to be as such.
But no one wanted to hear about his head voices, and they were too busy thinking of strange ideas to care about being noticed. It was probably for the better that they had stayed below the radar. They would not have been well received.
It had only been a few years after he learned to fight that he found an excuse to. An excuse, and a real reason. Vengeance was, afterall, one of the more acceptable terms for battle. And it was what drove him forward, what set him before a being of inhuman strength and power.
Despite the more dedicated, perhaps even righteous, nature of his desire to fight he found himself slipping into another thought. The challenge this being gave him, the pure struggle that he could feel in his bones, that shook his core with each strike, that nearly blinded him with each clash, it sang to him. His voices had been rendered silent, whether awed or concerned, and the silence was peculiar. But it was the most silence his head had felt in such a long time. Though he had come to care for his voices, he found himself treasuring the silence.
Sharpened diamond pinged against sharpened diamond, a sound much different from metal, and for the first time in a long time, the sounds of battle were all that filled his head. Muted popping came from below as he was forced dangerously closer to the lava boiling below, yet the heat came as a comfort. His muscles burned with the same intensity, yet he relished the strain. Two pairs of eye connected, before lava blazed between them, and a ghastly cry was heard.
Getting some distance away from the otherworldly entity, a smirk, more of a smiling grimace, graced his mildly burnt complection. This was a fight he was determined to win, but the mere experience of it was exhilarating. To be nearly on par with some wretched creature of human likeness? It buffed his ego, but also called out to his inner warrior. Another enemy to trump, another person to best. He wanted to finish him, but not finish the fight. For once, his mind felt clear, felt in complete working order. As if fighting was what he was made to do.
But that too, ended. He won, rode off into the sunset like some cliche hero. Except it was more of a sunrise. The dawn of something new. Perhaps the yearning for battle had been quelled then. Maybe the lust for conflict found it's release. For a while after that, he was nearly content with the peace that held over his town of sorts.
Except… an urge in the back of his head was growing. His voices were anxious. Something wasn’t quite right. Someone wasn’t quite right. Though his gut told him to be wary, he brushed the thought aside. This was his home, his domain. Surely no one would be foolish enough to encroach upon it.
Well, he had been wrong. Wrong to assume it was safe. Wrong to deny the feeling he had. And now people he suffered for it. His voices didn’t accused him. They almost berated themselves, for not convincing him. But they knew, as he knew, that none of that mattered. That they could only push forward to rectify this. Afterall, what point is there on dwelling in the past?
Each fight pulled at him more. Like there was something he was… missing. Not anything tangible, but something he should know. But he didn’t. And there was something else going wrong behind him, behind the scenes. There was something getting ready to strike him, to rear its ugly head. No one else thought so. They could only see the end of this struggle coming out. It seemed to be in their favor, but something was getting close to breaking it. But they just didn’t see that.
And then it was too late. It struck while his back was turned. Literally. There was some great force, something seizing his muscles, strangling his cry, rendering him useless. Useless. And he lay there, motionless, confused, angry. And his world became enveloped in black.
That too, had been a while ago. That had been his first plunge into the void. Into nothingness. It It had been his first time meeting the strange person he knew now as Taylor, who couldn’t get rid of the flowers on her skin. (He didn’t think she wanted to anyway).
Back then was when he met his now closest friends, found that fighting was okay, that killing wasn't permanent. He had so many new experiences, was introduced to the cryptic priest he didn’t know he’d hurt to see die, helped revive the broken man he knew was going to die but pained over anyway.
So many new people, different rules, strange customs. Who needed a god? Apparently mortals. But he wasn’t going to conform to some pretentious sounding gods, and he wasn’t going to fold under the pressure of some weird old man.
And he didn’t. And he still wouldn’t. Back then his gut said to be wary of Birdy. It was right. Later, it said to be wary of the shadows. So far, he wasn’t sure if he was right. He wasn’t wrong.
Now. Now his gut said not to trust what he was told. Something in his head pulled at him. He refused to remain naive. And when Spector showed up, strange and crazy, he was going to listen to that pull. But he wasn’t going to let it drive him.
Much later, when he, along with the others, were left reeling, scurrying through the end, wondering what Hector really meant to Dal, he felt the pull. His voices muttered about, speaking of Dallas, of Spector, or was it just Hector at this point? They spoke hushedly about why she chose to stay with Spector.
But that wasn’t the real pull.
No. His head warned him of something else. It wasn’t something he could fight, or anyone could fight. There was no harm, well, physically harm he could see coming. Just like Sky, this was something fought within someone’s own mind. But not his. Hers. When it really came down to it, he wondered.
What would Spector do to Dallas?
(AN: Yeah, at some point i switched tense, on accident, and then it went back, but then it switched again. So. Well. Whoops. Supposed to be all past tense in the beginning. I think. And kinda present at the end? I should go back and edit, but its getting closer to one in the morning than i should get to, and tbh it prolly wouldnt help. Anyway, Happy (late) Birthday again Andor! I know at this point its Christmas, but ya know..... )
