Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Like she had with the flower Thana has no inclination to save him from himself. She can almost see the thoughts running below his skin-- running, running, running like a lost and hunted thing. But there is a beauty to him with the flowers rotting in his hair and the island ringing around him like a black halo begging to swallow an angel whole. Thana crosses it, that black rotted halo, and drags her tail through it like long slashes that look like claw marks.
And there is that same cosmic darkness, that same rot and decay beneath the glimmer of pollen and seed, when she brushes her lips down his cheek. She wonders if his magic will recognize it and if it will see lover or foe come to knock on the bars of its fresh cage. It seems almost profane to her, feeling death beneath the skin of the only mortal she has not wanted to peel apart.
She wonders if it means he wants to be free now, or if the feeling is only this life magic rolling in a tide through her blood begging for a way out. Surely it does not thrive in the stain of her blood.“It does not.” She whispers against his skin. Because she has never confused life with love-- there is no adoration in the suffering of things and all the pains of growing (does a flower not feel growing roots like growing bones, does the leaf feel the unfurling like a reshaping of flesh and form?). There is only violence in growing. But once the death has been taken and the violence simmered down to a wave of blood flowing back to the dirt and mold there is only silence, only peace.
A line of pollen settles on one of his withering flowers as she rests her nose against his poll, pale as gold-dust and just as lovely in the reflection off the sun dappling their skin through the bluegrass forest. When she exhales against his poll she wonders if it might sound like the sea to him, or the wind whispering through a new-budded copse, or like a wolf preparing to bay at the moon. Or maybe it only sounds like a sigh of a thing coming home for the first time.
“But if the island loves me how does it feel about you Ipomoea, as it dies beneath your gaze?” Until she asked the questions Thana did not realized that the answer mattered at all. And pressed against him, shoulder to shoulder, lip to crown, life to death, Thana shivers.
@Ipomoea
"Speaking."
And there is that same cosmic darkness, that same rot and decay beneath the glimmer of pollen and seed, when she brushes her lips down his cheek. She wonders if his magic will recognize it and if it will see lover or foe come to knock on the bars of its fresh cage. It seems almost profane to her, feeling death beneath the skin of the only mortal she has not wanted to peel apart.
She wonders if it means he wants to be free now, or if the feeling is only this life magic rolling in a tide through her blood begging for a way out. Surely it does not thrive in the stain of her blood.“It does not.” She whispers against his skin. Because she has never confused life with love-- there is no adoration in the suffering of things and all the pains of growing (does a flower not feel growing roots like growing bones, does the leaf feel the unfurling like a reshaping of flesh and form?). There is only violence in growing. But once the death has been taken and the violence simmered down to a wave of blood flowing back to the dirt and mold there is only silence, only peace.
A line of pollen settles on one of his withering flowers as she rests her nose against his poll, pale as gold-dust and just as lovely in the reflection off the sun dappling their skin through the bluegrass forest. When she exhales against his poll she wonders if it might sound like the sea to him, or the wind whispering through a new-budded copse, or like a wolf preparing to bay at the moon. Or maybe it only sounds like a sigh of a thing coming home for the first time.
“But if the island loves me how does it feel about you Ipomoea, as it dies beneath your gaze?” Until she asked the questions Thana did not realized that the answer mattered at all. And pressed against him, shoulder to shoulder, lip to crown, life to death, Thana shivers.
@Ipomoea
