Ah! She had been waiting for him to ask.
All her parts, and her perhaps, whittle themselves down to one: drinking from his heart. There is an almost smile in the way she pulls back her lips, the way her teeth form themselves into aching lion's teeth, the way her eyes flash like a wolf scenting a stag. There is almost a beauty to her horror, her violence, the way she unfolds herself from the mortal champion to something as primordial as the worlds before his gods.
This time when Eligos says, please, her own answer is yes, like a hallelujah, “yes”.
They are moving by the time the stallion turns. Their movements are all grace, all fury, and between them three wolves form themselves out of the sand. The wolves lunge forward with them, baring their sharp sod teeth and growling with all the fury of dirt, stone, and leeched out water. Like one they all swing for the stallion as he swings for them.
Thana laughs to see his intent, a bellowing rage that sounds deeper than a comet caught on a sun. She waits until his horn is reaching for her own before turning her neck away. His horn only slices across her neck and Thana hardly inhales with pain (this is her calling, this violence, the tug of her skin splitting open). The blood dripping down her neck only fuels her fury.
Like gasoline to a flame Thana explodes.
The world ripples black with moss spreading across the shore and all the trees arching in halos above their heads start to drip like purified death. Eligos snarls as he feels an echo of the cut on his own neck. And with his snarl he leaps for the stallion, his sand-wolves leaping with him, their teeth all bared and begging for flesh, blood, and bone.
But it's Thana's tail blade that is the quickest, swinging forward even as she turns her neck. It swings toward the curl of his throat because he begged for his blood to be drunk. Thana will not deny him.
She will unmake him.
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