responding to x
@get-anders
“There can be no peace.”
Roland’s face is very, very white. He moves frantically, mechanically, limbs jerky like a puppet on tangled strings, feet too large and clumsy for his dexterous ankles. His lips burn and feel bruised from his kiss, and the clammy wrist in his grip touches a cold finger to his already bright nerves. His spines feels as if it would leap from his body to run faster than him. His stomach growls in hunger, in stress, in primitive fear to run and flee.
He flees: he grips Anders’ wrist as if ‘twere a lifeline, a sealed limb not ready to detach. He has no room to mention, to depart of primal urge and truly think on what has happened.
So much has happened.
“Anders,” his lips are numb. He detaches his soul from his bones, and looks down at his body fleeing, at his mouth moving and sounding words, at the white wrist in a white-knuckled grip that seems too hard. “I love you. I am so sorry this had to happen. I am so sorry I didn’t make you leave when it was important to leave.” No poetry runs through his veins. He is stone-cold and sober in verbose.
His mind bumbles in elvish, sounding off in his Father’s hard-gritted voice, debasing back to simpler, childish importance to drown out the sound of demonic, warping voices and cindering, falling buildings. He reforms beneath his skin to feel tears burn his eyes. Roland flees, and breathes rapidly, eyes flicking from place to place, finding nooks and crannies in important places.
He takes them to Darktown. He takes them to the Clinic. Roland pauses before the doors, the welcoming lantern extinguished, and an almost childish confusion warps Roland’s face as he breathes, breathes, blinks rapidly. He turns to Anders’ like a lightning strike, eyes bright and face white.
“Get what you can, quickly. Get food, clothes, blankets,” he rattles them off. “Important things, quickly.” His heart is fit to burst. He releases Anders’ wrist.
