Of course my teeth are the first pieces of me to answer him. They gleam and gloam like stars in the dark fridigness of space. But my teeth are no promise, no mere hint of a monster sleeping in unicorn bones. No. My teeth are nothing like his when I peel back my lips to make them more than a promise.
My smile is not a promise. My smile is the holy scripture of violence.
His frost cools the fever in my blood. I become the winter sea instead of the summer, blood sea. And I wonder if he will willingly dash his heart on the ice of me. I lean into the frost and blink the snow from my lashes as it gathers there when I drag my horn down the length of his. Our horns moan and screech and I wonder if I am just as lovely made of ice as I am made of flesh.
Foras steps closer. In this form he is a god of winter, a wolf of the mountain peaks, a thing that wants to drink deep, deep, deep of the sea-god that stole half my soul from him. He smells like the bottom of the sea. He tells me even though he knows I already know.
Foras hates the sea as much as my half-gone soul loves it.
This unicorn surely is smart enough, old enough, to read the words of our religion.. “A hunter might ask that same question of a wolf snapping his teeth at his throat.”. The scripture of my violence curls around itself in all the same ways Foras’s outsides curl around his insides. Can he see it in my gaze? Or can he sense it when I drag the point of my horn back to the point of his?
I whisper, wake up to the diamond dust of his frost that’s gathered on my cheeks. It rises from my skin in pale whispers of winter that pause just under my eyes like arrows begging entrance. “I am better.” And when I say the words his own frost spirals back to the point at which our two horns meet.
@Amaroq
