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.
Magic, that terrible beast of death, rises from fever to wildfire. It makes teeth out of her veins, organs out of her sinew, sentient thought out of the pits where her lilac eyes watch the mare. The horn on her brown turns to throat and the blade at the tip of her tail to stomach. Black magic and rot reach out through Thana's jaw of constellations and drag lines with a unicorn's teeth across the mortal's shoulder. They draw the arcane patterns of anointments lost in the tombs of sacrificial lambs.
Thana's heart and soul are bloated enough that there is not a thing in this world, this coil, that would have the depth to consume her. She is ripe with all the things in this made form of hers-- ripe for the rend and the ruin
Beneath her skin all her joints are steel and sword (all the things that do not bend, do not submit, do nothing that is not destroy). She leans her weight into the mare, her teeth turned to stones laid down one after the other on fresh grave-dirt. “They are false gods and idols, mortal, if it's your soul that makes them bend.” And when she pulls her teeth away, leaving her words behind to hang like wounds on that pale and bloody skin, it is the only gift she plans on giving the wayward mare with her silken scarf and her fragile lust.
The darkness continues to bloom around them, between them, and in the places were the air leaks into their blood cells. Candles melt without heat. Skulls lament in the silence as their jaws and their horns turn to dust in the wind whipping through the unholy hallways. Between them all Eligos starts to purr a beckoning and the dust rises up into shapes that gallop like wolves around Thana and her kill. Their paws make no sound but a sigh.
It's the same sighing sound her horn makes (that cosmic whisper of yes, yes, yes) as she lowers it to point at that cavern crease in the mare's chest. Already she can hear the hum of her doe heart and the bleat of her embers that will never learn how to be truly wild. Thana whispers as the darkness does and sighs as the dust monsters and weapons do. “I have already told you how.” Distance grows thin and worn between them as Thana and her monsters press in like a tide to a willow too close to shore.
“You only need to say yes.” And when her tail blade whines against the stone like a harp even that sounds like an echo of yes.
Thana does not want the soul. She never has.
She was made to want only the heart.
<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
"Speaking."
