------------------I have seen the dark universe yawning ---------------------------------Where the black planets roll without aim, He acts like a stallion might, a man, a stag corned on the cliff-side who thinks that the wolf before it with snapping, dripping jaws is nothing more than just a wolf. The ring of his hoof against the marble sounds slick enough to be a sword drawn between them, a testimony to his courage to bleed and ache. But she no wolf and she smiles for the patterns of promise that his whittled and bloody antlers might brand into that pale, hollow curve of her shoulder. Come. Those titanic wings seem to coo as they reach towards his weapons, speaking in tones of down and light eagle bones. Come, coat me in your blood and horn. They speak as no wings should seem to, fluttering so heavy a way in that dusky, star-dusted wind. A hymn roars from those feathers and her teeth scrape out a sharp ring when she grinds her grin fang to fang, bone to bone. In the moonlight, she thinks, his blood would be like luminescent, ancient spirals of a dread language on her bone-white skin when she takes herself from this temple and leaves his corpse, clean and hung with only ribbons of his sacrifice behind. “Ah.” It sounds like wave from her lips, white-water carrying up eels and sharks and things that feed. The word could be a sigh for the way her ribs expand and contract like the tide over a rock set way out past the shoreline. “You must know little of sacrifice.” Perhaps it's the wings that chime the words. Perhaps it's her lips that stretch and pull and sting over her ravenous fangs and form sounds louder than that rumble of hunger that beats from her belly like a pulse. He moves, lunging towards her wings and she forgets everything but the promise of the weapons upon his head and the hunger, the need of her nature. She needs as holy things need, without end, like the abysmal darkness of space that reaches on and on and out behind every universe that has ever been. Wormlust only needs. His flesh calls just as much as his rage does, that blackness beneath his skin that wants to bleed her out. She welcomes his rage like a mother, tossing her wing against his antlers ever as he plunges towards her. She embraces him that left wing, cocooning him with all of her. His hooves do little more than glance against her leg and scrape her skin like a dull knife when she lunged towards him with those rabid feathers. His antlers feel like fire as they run through the edges of her feathers, plunging deep into the salt-licked down. There is no defense against his attack, no step away from his violence. There is only consumption, only devouring, only sacrifice. She moves against him as a holy thing might, a monster that cares little for the sanctity of her own flesh when there is so much more blood and bone in her that one mere wing cannot hold. A mistake to think she cares for pain, for the sound her feathers and the drip, drip, drip of her blood make against the marble when pieces of her fall like meteors. It's her gaping jaw that follow as she drops her wing and lets him bear the weight of her mighty span that has once blotted out worlds. Let him carry her holiness, she thinks, let him feel the weight of wings that are too heavy even for a monster as eternal as she to hold upon the earth for more than moments at a time. He will taste sweeter for the salt of his sweat and the red, red violence of his blood that made him think he fought a monster that knew how to be mortal. She will season him with the tang of her own iron blood, coat him in her own suffering, tie them together in a fury of survival that might have but one end. monster of the sea |
@Lysander
