FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.
The air is dense and deep and dark as the bottom of forest when she wanders up the thirsty mountain. A storm is dying in the distance, thunder and hail trickling off into a cold wind. Shadows stretch out around them, the unicorn and her monster made of violence and sand, and each wraps around the bent willow trees and the towering evergreens. Rocks cry out as them tumble down the steep sides of the trail. Each cry is warning (muted when the twilight fog rolls in) that the valleys are as thirsty, and hungry, and hollow as the mountain pathways.
And perhaps if there was religion in her blood instead of death she would have sunk her horn deep into the marrow of the mountain and pleaded for safety. Perhaps she would cut lines into her sides and called the blood prayer and sacrifice.
Perhaps there is a world where she is not a blood-red unicorn with rot instead of blood.
Thana is too full of black-magic and wanting, and she is as thirsty as the mountain. She only wonders why the mortals of her court whisper of the ghosts and gods lingering in the mountain path. Tonight, in the twilight fog and the dying echoes of roaring thunder, there is only Thana and Eligos and their silent steps that promise war instead of scripture.
Together they come to the meadow carved out of the mountain peak, with the grass that is not grass at all but steel, and gemstone, and magic left behind from gods and mortals. Together they move into the hallways of marble, and the pillars of amethyst like wolves coming to the tall-grass of the elk. Their steps do not echo or rumble with the thunder. They whisper, and coo, and carry their shadows like chains and spears dragged across the hollowed stone.
They hum as darkness hums and bleat as dying lambs do.
They wander the hallways and pause to drag their noses through the dust of broken statues and altars. They etch lines in the decay with horn, and claw, and fang. Ivy withers around their necks when it falls from the forgotten archways and violets left in a vase tilt blackening heads towards them (as if they are the sun instead of the moon-black). Marble trembles and falls like stars around them as it quickens in its mortar like a century has passed with the humming war-song of her heart. The echoes sound like thunder.
Like they are calling the storm back, and home, and here, here, here.
Like they are storm-clouds instead of flesh and bone.
And their eyes flash like lighting in the twilight fog when they turn towards the steady echo of another soul in the dying church in the mountain. Together they smile, and nicker (as much as wolves can exhale in welcome instead of wrath), and step towards the mare who looks as elegant in the shadows as they look feral and wanting.
<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
"Speaking."
