With each vicious tome of their language, and each line of teeth drawn down their skin, and each press of bone to sinew, Thana evaporates like a vernal pool in the middle of summer. She was wrong to think she had been made before. All her pieces, welded together with death and magic like steel and ore, seem only like coarse renderings of a weapon. And she knows, as he draws seeds into her flesh by which she might root, and bloom, and wilt, that this (this brutal, primordial tangle of more than flesh, and bone, and blood) will forge something holy from the pieces of her.
So she lets him settle against her, and the forest bow its blooms and roots around her her, like scripture. She becomes another rendering, another weapon, another monster with a gaping jaw and jagged teeth.
Her teeth say, I will, I will, I will, as she lays them against the points of his pulse over and over again until the feel of him aching against her lips becomes as familiar to her as the war-song of her heart. She molds the dialect of his form into her soul. It sinks into the black-magic like rain-water and it sits like a stone at the belly of her hunger (and she feels so full with the weight of him).
Thana's souls rises like a phoenix made of frost instead of flame, and moonstone instead of hollow bone. It flutters against the cage of her ribs and it starts to howl through the exhale of her magic against his skin. There it begs for freedom, and skies wide enough to kiss the cosmos, and clouds made of salt instead of dew. “For you it will never be death.” She exhales frost even as she wonders if he'll feel words instead of her soul sinking into his marrow like an arrow.
She answers his touch with desperation and his hunger with famine. Her spine bends below his kiss like a newborn birch. Her eyes as she turns to watch him trace the outline of her beg him to take, and devour, and swallow until there is nothing left of her but the pieces that he has forged. The edges of her become gold-leaf, and frost-leaf, and moss. Hellebore blooms down her spine, rising like spires from the seeded fire left in the wake of Ipomoea.
As much as she wants to rise up, rise up, rise up, and pluck the magic from his chest like a stone and water the earth with him, Thana wants more. Sh has no name for it, this wanting that is consuming her like dead wood. But it rises blacker than her wrath, and deeper than the sea of her hunger, and hotter than the coal embers of her aching. And maybe she understands what death feels like now, the way it settles her edges into marble and whispers of home. Her eyes blaze along the lines of him like it's the first glimpse she has ever had of the horizon.
“Please.” She begs of him, straining for that nameless ache racing through her veins like a storm. The plea does not sit strangely on her tongue, but rather it sits like a seed caught between her teeth it burrows into the loam of him.
The lilac desperation of her eyes says again, I will, I will, and then I need.
@Ipomoea
