Erasmus is gliding toward the colt and it is as normal as running, breathing, flying. It is the acid rain that pours down on some unnamed planet. It is the molten river that rushes beneath the surface. It is the thing that flutters – or swims – through air that is not air at all but something else entirely. Erasmus is not Erasmus in that instant, but wholly predator, something more, something akin to a dead sun hurdling toward the earth. It rushes, it flies, this wraith smoothly sailed through monotone moonlight and bled night that gasps; the phantoms draw their breath, more flesh than mist now, and the colt shrieks –
wait!
but it does not, it does not relent, and it is not rage or sadness or panic that moves it, but something more awful, something heavier. As he bears down on that yearling thing like a hawk with spread talons or a wolf with bared fangs or a lion with claws stretched and eager for blood, blood, blood! the pulse of the predator hymn. The ghosts cry like scavengers or wail like coyotes, but Erasmus does not listen. There is only it, him, them, the dry air and the hum and the hunger, and the space between them closes like death has ever been.
But when its fangs just knit the not-flesh of the colt and his hooves bear down on the soft earth like claws trenching the ground – there is – there is – a moment of redemption, a blessing of satisfaction – hunger blooms a wet rose in his core and he ensnares –
nothing.
The mist unfurls from beneath him and fireflies leap from the corners of his mouth, the rough contours of his face, his expression that reels – and perhaps, perhaps, it is anger then. Perhaps this is what blossoms from the rot of that rose of hunger, when there is nothing beneath him but grass and moonlight and silver flowers that look to him expectantly. They bob against his breath, nodding curiously in spite of him, like floating paper lantern lilies in the shape of a fallen yearling.
Beyond them, a larger bulb traces him with a head full of light. He approaches, and it unfurls as if just for him – a fire at its core. It presents itself, waiting, timidly still, scarcely a morsel for any respecting thing to observe. But he plucks it nonetheless, and it does not die in his grasp, perhaps becoming even more brilliant before its petals draw back against itself.
In the distance, the festivities are a jovial tune that carries on into the night, and the lanterns wave to him softly from the shadows of rolling hills. Between two trees that arch as if two sleeping sentinels leaning against one another, youthful silver eyes look from the patch of flowers to the haunted gaze of Erasmus, and though the child crumples into itself with a tentativeness a mouse could aspire to, it does not run. Foolish.
Erasmus grins, hunger carving the hollow spaces between his ribs, and he moves to eclipse the emptiness waiting between them.
finite.
wait!
but it does not, it does not relent, and it is not rage or sadness or panic that moves it, but something more awful, something heavier. As he bears down on that yearling thing like a hawk with spread talons or a wolf with bared fangs or a lion with claws stretched and eager for blood, blood, blood! the pulse of the predator hymn. The ghosts cry like scavengers or wail like coyotes, but Erasmus does not listen. There is only it, him, them, the dry air and the hum and the hunger, and the space between them closes like death has ever been.
But when its fangs just knit the not-flesh of the colt and his hooves bear down on the soft earth like claws trenching the ground – there is – there is – a moment of redemption, a blessing of satisfaction – hunger blooms a wet rose in his core and he ensnares –
nothing.
The mist unfurls from beneath him and fireflies leap from the corners of his mouth, the rough contours of his face, his expression that reels – and perhaps, perhaps, it is anger then. Perhaps this is what blossoms from the rot of that rose of hunger, when there is nothing beneath him but grass and moonlight and silver flowers that look to him expectantly. They bob against his breath, nodding curiously in spite of him, like floating paper lantern lilies in the shape of a fallen yearling.
Beyond them, a larger bulb traces him with a head full of light. He approaches, and it unfurls as if just for him – a fire at its core. It presents itself, waiting, timidly still, scarcely a morsel for any respecting thing to observe. But he plucks it nonetheless, and it does not die in his grasp, perhaps becoming even more brilliant before its petals draw back against itself.
In the distance, the festivities are a jovial tune that carries on into the night, and the lanterns wave to him softly from the shadows of rolling hills. Between two trees that arch as if two sleeping sentinels leaning against one another, youthful silver eyes look from the patch of flowers to the haunted gaze of Erasmus, and though the child crumples into itself with a tentativeness a mouse could aspire to, it does not run. Foolish.
Erasmus grins, hunger carving the hollow spaces between his ribs, and he moves to eclipse the emptiness waiting between them.
finite.
