It had been three weeks since he had hid in Mots house, three weeks until they walked back out of the walls, and now they were back in Anyas house. Andor draped his cloak over his lap, and sewed with a needle and thread Anya gave him. The stitches were small and neat. Sewing always calmed him down, the rhythmic, tiny motions, the ability to undo any mistake…
“Where did you learn to sew?” Anya asked. Andor looked up from his sewing. Anya sat backwards in a chair, facing him.
“Oh, I made some of my own clothes as a kid.”
“Really? I thought you said you were a duke or something.”
Andor smiled, looking back to his cloak.
“I was a prince. But I, uh. See, I wasn’t born as I am now.”
“Nor was I, I used to be a little baby.”
Andor flushed, needle slipping.
“So why sew your own clothes?”
Andor paused in his stitches. He looked up at Anya… he’d kept so much from her. What would one more secret mean?
“I… wasn’t born the way I am. I was. Uh. Born a man, but not my body?”
“You’re transgender?” Anya asked.
Andor nodded, a smile lighting his face.
“Yeah! So my dad thought he had two daughters. When I was younger I really hated dresses and having my hair long. When I told my sister, Alva, how I felt, she said ‘then why not be a boy?’ And everything clicked. That night, I took some thread and needles from my mother, and tried to sew myself a pair of pants out of a skirt.”
Anya laughed, snorting as she did so.
“It looked like shit!” Andor exclaimed.
“I’m sure you looked dashing.”
Andor huffed. “My father didn’t think so at first. He was really angry about the skirt until my sister explained how I felt… next thing I knew, my auntie Martha was dropping off a bunch of potions, and I sat next to her for sewing lessons, and actually learned how to sew pants. Then my mom cut my hair, and my dad and I went hunting.”
Andor sighed at the memory. He had been too little to use the bow Helgrind used, but he had a tiny crossbow. They didn’t get a single thing. But afterwards, they went to the dock and threw a boomerang, watching it soar high, then come back down. They talked. They talked so much, and Andor explained himself, how he felt for the past ten years of his life. Of course, he was only 12, but Helgrind listened. He cared.
And now where was his father. On the roof of the nether— no. He probably had died. All those terrible things he had done were juxtaposed with the good in Andor’s mind. The man who cut his wings was the same who hugged him on the dock. The voice that sent him to Inertia, the voice that said ‘I’m proud of you, my son,’ for the very first time.
“I used to go hunting with my parents all the time,” she said, “we used to go out into the forest, and kill rabbits or squirrels, brought them back and made stew. I do assume, though, that you got better? At sewing, I mean.”
Andor looked at the cloak, the neat stitches, the embroidery… And the torn places, from Celia’s sword. Even then, it could be fixed, though it would never be the same.
“Yeah. I’ve gotten better.”
When I was younger, Trans Andor was my favorite headcanon of all time, so of course I had to write something for it. Now I’m a bit older, and it still is one of my favorite headcanons, especially since now I am out as a trans man. So, happy transgender day of visibility!!! Praise be to Mianite!
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