Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Thana, a unicorn down to each cell in her body named monstrous, knows every way in which a choice might be terrible. She knows it in the same way that she knows how to be both terror, and innocent, and wild thing with eyes bright as gemstones in the gloaming thicket. And she traces the lines of knowing in the panic of his gaze and the tightness of his spine as he pulls his skin in like a shield against all the reflections begging in, in, in.
Her tail taps a denial against the dead-stars as they walk onward through the death-yard. Each note of her blade, each clamour of her form in the silence, bellows instead of whispers. And it whispers mine, this is mine. Every time his words tangle on against the reflections, and his eyes dip in worry, her tail taps another reminder to the things, the choices, the monsters in the glass.
“It is not so terrible to be a monster.” She says with her mouth full of teeth that have drank of blood, and suffering, and death, and still asked for more, more, more. That same begging look sparks in her eyes like lighting spidering across a black cloud. Her look counts the lines of his ribcage peeking through too tight flesh with the same sort of hunger a fox might count hens with. The begging smile does not waiver when she pauses her walk with one hoof hung in the air like a wolf caught on a sliver of moonlight.
The point of her horn finds his brow again and lays there once more like a kiss. “Should I destroy you in fear of the choice you might make?” Thana leans her weight into the kiss of horn and mortal flesh until her touch is more promise than threat, more warning than devouring. Magic roils in her belly like a hurricane sea though a dunegrass forest. It begs her to feast until this graveyard belongs not to the stars but to her. “Or should I show mercy for the things you might choose not to do?” She learns closer so that the air in his lungs might expel directly into her own.
Eligos learns closer too and the dead-star-dust vibrates into the shape of jaws and eyes at his bloody paws.
And she does not relent (they do not relent) until the silence between the questions she asked and the question she does not answer grows bloated with the harsh echo of their heart-beats and their lung-beats.
