Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
There is thunder in the glass island, in her steps, in her blade, in the thumping of predator paws as they run. It breaks in her ears like a capsized storm, all belly up with thunder before the lightning striking out in rays of sunlight off the graveyard of stars. Darkness has no home here. Even her shadow is bright as blood and her blade as shining as a new-forged god has not yet learned how to drink deep.
Thana runs in that endless thunder with the dead stars laying down a mapped out road only she can see. Eligos follows close behind and leaves golden paw prints in his wake from a glass shard that had cut him earlier (but not slowed him). Together they twist and weave through the innards of the planets, and the cold bellies of stars full of only ash, and dusted lines of constellation that whisper around her in stories without sound or shape. The artistic devastation of the old world soothes something in her black heart where her black magic lays curled like a snake bloated with hares.
She looks neither left nor right to see the unicorns and monsters running with her (as her, in her). Nor does she look to see the way the glass turns worn and stained in all the places touched by her image.
All she cares about in the endless roar of the thunder, the way her bones stretch, and how her muscles hum below her skin. Freedom and wildness ferment on her tongue-- sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet. Thana licks it from the backs of her teeth like a wolf at the throat of a desiccated lamb. She bellows with the thunder just to see if her lungs have learned to make the sound.
They have. Oh, they have.
They are still singing thunder-roar when she finds Wilfur caught between four version of himself. Thana flares her nostrils, exhales, and looks unerringly at the version of him that is made of flesh, and blood, and all the things she knows how to unmake. “Hello Willfur.” She answers his call with a smile still heavy with the taste of fermented wild.
And in the sound of her voice there remains the thunder as her hooves dance on the dead world like a ghost at a gate.
