 Hunger is swarming at her. A corpse made of insects instead of vegetation is blooming in her. Canopies of wings are spreading across her insides, thick enough to devour every inch of night that threatens to creep inside the holes of her. Roots of larva are digging in, spreading and spreading, and Eshek already knows what will blossom in the rich grave-dirt of her soul.
She wonders what she could grow form the wine and blood soaked soil of Lysander. What could a god grow in a heart heavy with blood instead of Ichor? Eshek looks at his tines like altars and adornments. She looks at him like hunger is swarming, and blooming, and rooting inside her like a forest.
The roll of his jaw beneath his skin looks like a prayer when he cannot meet the gaping holes of light the world around her calls eyes. Eshek feels flowers sprout in her forest. They are sharp and full of stars. She grins back at him and it's how a universe grins at the black trapped between its gravity.
There is a forest in her but she is not wolf in a wood. She the space in which a hundred forests live. And in those forests a million predators look at each other, licking at their teeth like worry is not blooming in their hearts.
Lysander turns away from the obscene constellations of blood shining between them. “Willing.”She laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The bonfires and the music all seem quiet (hushed like dead things) in the echo of her laughter. A meteor lives in the violent forest and roots of her amusement.
Some gods...
Some gods are not universes. This Eshek has always understood (even as she wished it wasn't true). Universes are always willing, but gods... gods are not.
eshek
“a fathomless chaos of eternal night.”
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