Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Perhaps she should wonder at the way her blood does not pause to think before it roars. Or maybe she should worry that her bones know this pattern, of violence and fury and war, with hardly a thought between the marrow and the brain. And there is no one moment in which Thana decides to maim, there is only the doing.
It takes less than a meeting of their gaze or a bellowing of their blood. It takes less than a star falling dead into the dunes for the war to wage. There is nothing in her that believes in fate, or prophecy. There is only purpose, only rage that still has no direction in which to sing.
Her blood recognizes the monster. Hello, it says. Shall we see which of us is monster and which is corpse,it sings like a graveyard bell. It tolls and bellows between the moon and the plume of sand rising up around the two of them like a cage.
Thana does not want out. She wants through, by blood and gore she wants through.
By the time the creature is leaping for her (and she almost pauses to wonder at the way he cuts through the darkness like a sickle moon) Thana is already rearing up to meet him. Like a lash her tail swings forward, the blade whistling through the sand-cage, aiming for his side. Her horn feels like an aching, raging thing upon her brow, the only crown a unicorn with wrath and death instead of innocence needs. And that horn sighs when she swings her savage mouth full of dull teeth to rip at the monster as it drags claws down her side.
She can feel the sting of the wound, and the blood running down her side like tears of magic, when she swings to meet the creature before it can lunge again. The pain only makes her smile and her own violence rise to a fever pitch below the blood-red surface of her skin. Thana snarls at the beast, all tooth and blade and hunger.
When she lunges for the beast, and this time she is the first to move, there is only the need of a dying thing for a meal driving her onward. Her hooves want bone and fur instead of sand Until the end then. Her blood says.
Even wounded Thana still wants through, not out. Only through.
"Speaking."
It takes less than a meeting of their gaze or a bellowing of their blood. It takes less than a star falling dead into the dunes for the war to wage. There is nothing in her that believes in fate, or prophecy. There is only purpose, only rage that still has no direction in which to sing.
Her blood recognizes the monster. Hello, it says. Shall we see which of us is monster and which is corpse,it sings like a graveyard bell. It tolls and bellows between the moon and the plume of sand rising up around the two of them like a cage.
Thana does not want out. She wants through, by blood and gore she wants through.
By the time the creature is leaping for her (and she almost pauses to wonder at the way he cuts through the darkness like a sickle moon) Thana is already rearing up to meet him. Like a lash her tail swings forward, the blade whistling through the sand-cage, aiming for his side. Her horn feels like an aching, raging thing upon her brow, the only crown a unicorn with wrath and death instead of innocence needs. And that horn sighs when she swings her savage mouth full of dull teeth to rip at the monster as it drags claws down her side.
She can feel the sting of the wound, and the blood running down her side like tears of magic, when she swings to meet the creature before it can lunge again. The pain only makes her smile and her own violence rise to a fever pitch below the blood-red surface of her skin. Thana snarls at the beast, all tooth and blade and hunger.
When she lunges for the beast, and this time she is the first to move, there is only the need of a dying thing for a meal driving her onward. Her hooves want bone and fur instead of sand Until the end then. Her blood says.
Even wounded Thana still wants through, not out. Only through.
