Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
If there is a root to hunger it lives in the hollow shadows in the dark violet of Thana's gaze. She is root, and seedpod, and water so bright it burns. From her it leaks like new growth, inch after inch until the forest floor it hard with the miles of her wrath. And turns to dead-roots, and dead-growth, when the stallion turns to tap a horn to her daughter's.
A spark lights and brightly as a star and as blinding as god-water.
Eligos snarls, his purr turned to ire and a wrath more rabid than it is rage. Thana can feel the stiffness in his shoulders in the way it echoes her own when her glass falls forgotten to the floor. In the crashing chime of it, a sound like wishes falling into the sea, they are already baring their teeth and clacking their teeth in a death knell. They step forward.
And then the only thing (the only thing) that can stop the seeding of the killing fields joins them.
Thana's heart leaps like a wolf at a hare in water. It flutters like a hawk at a vole. It roars like a lion in old rib cage. It stutters and changes the song of it to match his-- forests blooming in winter, snow-bears snarling at the cougar, nightshade blooming on jasmine vines. And she wonders if any other heart by her own could hear the death in the sweetness of his heart, the hardness in the kindness of his smile, the way he's the gentle hand of death to the saviors (and not the harsh punch of her death notes).
Eligos does not feel a stutter in this chest. He only feels hunger, and god-wrath, and the feel of horns picking out the bone shards from his teeth. And this time when he snarls there is no please in it before he pulls away from the unicorn and her heart. His hunger is too mighty to be held by them now. The twin unicorns have more promise in their gazes than Thana does and so it’s to them that he moves.
One eye remains on the twins as she turns to her king, her Ipomoea in a way that he does not belong to anyone else. She presses her cheek to his in the ways of wolves and lions greeting their mates. Her horn spirals above her, gathering light like a net in the dabbled lantern-light. The sound in the room around them turns to images: lovers and loveless hearts, killers and thieves, roots and flowers, their daughters and almost-corpses).
It’s like watching a poem gather in little army lines around them.
“Unicorns do not know how to grow any other way.” And there is a warning and a promise (the same one she’s taught her daughter’s on the training grounds) in her too-bright when she pulls her cheek from it. The distance feels like a wound both carved and branded into her skin, a fresh scar to mark trails in the map lines of war across her bloody form.
The drops of liquor at her feet mold, and ferment, and draw all the flies in the room closer. The humming sound turns to another image in the corner of her gaze like a punch to the heart. “ And I look forward to witnessing all the other ways in which they are unicorns.” That same look, the one taking over the lines of her daughter’s perfect faces, sparks and smolders in between the shadows of love that live only when she’s looking at him.
"Speaking." @Ipomoea
A spark lights and brightly as a star and as blinding as god-water.
Eligos snarls, his purr turned to ire and a wrath more rabid than it is rage. Thana can feel the stiffness in his shoulders in the way it echoes her own when her glass falls forgotten to the floor. In the crashing chime of it, a sound like wishes falling into the sea, they are already baring their teeth and clacking their teeth in a death knell. They step forward.
And then the only thing (the only thing) that can stop the seeding of the killing fields joins them.
Thana's heart leaps like a wolf at a hare in water. It flutters like a hawk at a vole. It roars like a lion in old rib cage. It stutters and changes the song of it to match his-- forests blooming in winter, snow-bears snarling at the cougar, nightshade blooming on jasmine vines. And she wonders if any other heart by her own could hear the death in the sweetness of his heart, the hardness in the kindness of his smile, the way he's the gentle hand of death to the saviors (and not the harsh punch of her death notes).
Eligos does not feel a stutter in this chest. He only feels hunger, and god-wrath, and the feel of horns picking out the bone shards from his teeth. And this time when he snarls there is no please in it before he pulls away from the unicorn and her heart. His hunger is too mighty to be held by them now. The twin unicorns have more promise in their gazes than Thana does and so it’s to them that he moves.
One eye remains on the twins as she turns to her king, her Ipomoea in a way that he does not belong to anyone else. She presses her cheek to his in the ways of wolves and lions greeting their mates. Her horn spirals above her, gathering light like a net in the dabbled lantern-light. The sound in the room around them turns to images: lovers and loveless hearts, killers and thieves, roots and flowers, their daughters and almost-corpses).
It’s like watching a poem gather in little army lines around them.
“Unicorns do not know how to grow any other way.” And there is a warning and a promise (the same one she’s taught her daughter’s on the training grounds) in her too-bright when she pulls her cheek from it. The distance feels like a wound both carved and branded into her skin, a fresh scar to mark trails in the map lines of war across her bloody form.
The drops of liquor at her feet mold, and ferment, and draw all the flies in the room closer. The humming sound turns to another image in the corner of her gaze like a punch to the heart. “ And I look forward to witnessing all the other ways in which they are unicorns.” That same look, the one taking over the lines of her daughter’s perfect faces, sparks and smolders in between the shadows of love that live only when she’s looking at him.
