[AW] hymns of salt and terror;

[Amaroq]

in his own country Death can be kind There is something gluttonous about her hunger, something insatiable about her want. It is different than the way the land-horses have always wanted him, drawn by the glamour of his kind; he would think her a fool, if not for her teeth. If not for the snake that curls along her rump, a plain promise. Here is a woman who knows what games she plays. Here is a woman used to winning. Rarely does Amaroq’s blood run fever-hot. Since the loss of his kind he has lived as remotely as a star, his affection as cold as hoar frost. But in the summer storm with her skin close enough to taste, her voice like a finger tracing her jaw, he begins to remember another kind of wildness, another kind of joy. And he thinks, too, of what a hunter she will make. If she is reckless, if she is careless with her killing, then it will be the land-horses who will suffer. This thought draws a smile across his mouth, one he presses to the arch of her neck, inhaling the musk of earth and cedar and rain. The bells and bones wound in his hair chime laughter. “I must be,” he echoes, low as a rumble of thunder, but it is a lie - a king is a thing that men have made up, and all kingdoms have an end. The sea, oh the sea, goes ever on. She takes from him another kiss and his breath frosts her cheek. It is hard, even still, not to nip, and from there to bite - his lips peel back from his teeth, a show of wicked canines and red tongue. Show me your world, she says, but its her own she reveals, as vapor tracks a cool touch across his cheek and throat and draws his gaze down. In the darkness of the storm without the blue to guard her like a fog, to coyly clothe her, she is crimson and amethyst and the pale color of bone. Against his monochrome she is as stark as a scream, a spill of blood on snow, and he is aching when he presses closer. When she turns he almost stops her, almost catches her in a grip of ice, almost commands her stay. But there are other wants at work, other needs as ancient, and Amaroq can be patient. But he does not feel patient as she turns from him. A flash of lightning paints her stark and shadowless and for a moment he only watches her, gaze wolfish, a pleased rumble in his throat as she moves toward the sea. At last he goes after her and still she teases him. The unicorn snaps at her tail, playful even as want makes him feel taut, a hollow belly begging to be full. Her eyes are a bright stars in the dark, a constellation he’s happy to follow; her words make his lips curl dangerously, his neck arch. His spiral horn points to the sea, and the shells bound in his hair sigh soon, soon, and run with rainwater as though it is the sea. Please, she says, and he makes another low sound in his throat, reaching out to tap the curve of her haunch with his horn, against one of the coils of her snake. It’s a battle not to follow the action with his teeth. “It will hurt,” he warns her, his gaze on her face, and there is no regret in the words. All beasts know that love and pain share the same mother. @Euryale  amaroq