Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
It is the smell on his skin, that bitter tang of rotten magic, that feeds deadwood into the flame of her wrath. Her lips vibrate already with the memory of his skin and her teeth ache to pull every trace of it from his skin. The trembling of her skin when he lays his lips to her shoulder has nothing to do with sorrow, misery or missing. Magic is running molten white as a new blade through her body and it's bellowing as it runs through her veins, and soul, and heart.
The will to stay away from him, to keep her teeth from the elegant curl of his throat takes all the power in her form. Another stall falls. The glass moans, and cracks, and quivers as violently as her spine.
And still it is not enough. It's not nearly enough.
Somewhere in the black space Eligos senses the closeness of a feast. He starts to run with drops of stardust pulling up at his feel like the roots of almost-grown children. He howls.
The moonlight on her face tastes like mourning, and grief, and dust, when she scrapes her tongue along her teeth. There is not the misery there should be when she speaks. “You should not have.” Everything in her voice is thunder, and electricity, and the moan of the wilting, weeping stars. Another star falls.
A moon turns dark as stone; whatever life once lived around it has burned out.
Across the moaning glass she watches him with that tremble still running down her spine and that roar still chanting through her breast. She blinks, slow as a slumbering and dreaming beast. Her thoughts strain towards golden saplings, frosted and black. The imagine flickers in and out of sight like a firefly on a sharp-grass field. It's faint enough to blow away in the fluttering rush of her beating heart.
Thana cannot catch it. Not now. Not with all her dullness wiped clean like rust from a sword.
Her horn lowers towards him. She cannot help it. The taste of the silver mourning light still hangs on her tongue like a teardrop on a dragonfly wing. It pools and turns thick as blood. “Almost a year.” She wonders if he can hear the hungry drumbeat of her magic. Or is it only the moaning glass at their feet that makes this too small space between them sound like war?
Does it even matter when Eligos emerges from the oil-thick darkness between two stars?
Does it even matter when her magic is starting to speak?
Devour. The magic coos.
Devour.
"Speaking." @Asterion
The will to stay away from him, to keep her teeth from the elegant curl of his throat takes all the power in her form. Another stall falls. The glass moans, and cracks, and quivers as violently as her spine.
And still it is not enough. It's not nearly enough.
Somewhere in the black space Eligos senses the closeness of a feast. He starts to run with drops of stardust pulling up at his feel like the roots of almost-grown children. He howls.
The moonlight on her face tastes like mourning, and grief, and dust, when she scrapes her tongue along her teeth. There is not the misery there should be when she speaks. “You should not have.” Everything in her voice is thunder, and electricity, and the moan of the wilting, weeping stars. Another star falls.
A moon turns dark as stone; whatever life once lived around it has burned out.
Across the moaning glass she watches him with that tremble still running down her spine and that roar still chanting through her breast. She blinks, slow as a slumbering and dreaming beast. Her thoughts strain towards golden saplings, frosted and black. The imagine flickers in and out of sight like a firefly on a sharp-grass field. It's faint enough to blow away in the fluttering rush of her beating heart.
Thana cannot catch it. Not now. Not with all her dullness wiped clean like rust from a sword.
Her horn lowers towards him. She cannot help it. The taste of the silver mourning light still hangs on her tongue like a teardrop on a dragonfly wing. It pools and turns thick as blood. “Almost a year.” She wonders if he can hear the hungry drumbeat of her magic. Or is it only the moaning glass at their feet that makes this too small space between them sound like war?
Does it even matter when Eligos emerges from the oil-thick darkness between two stars?
Does it even matter when her magic is starting to speak?
Devour. The magic coos.
Devour.
