A pegasus, this pegasus, tastes like flying. In the echo of him, where his aurora is superimposed upon the very marrow of this frail coil, she can taste the cosmic salt of eons. Her made blood turns cacophonous as a pack of lions at the echo his flavor. In her smile, her teeth grind against each other like whetstones and daggers. Hunger, and want, and something like need, scrape claws against her liver.
Somewhere a jackal yips at the moon. Somewhere her sister lays her teeth to that same jackals mouth and demands silence instead of life. Somewhere, below the hunger and need, her heart still wants to stitch the salt of his magic back into the sea.
She could grow weeds out of the loam between a single word of his and the next.
And she steps closer, with her flower faces crawling down the gaunt cheeks of marble, because she wants to cry at the sting of his salt. She calls down the darkness of her eyelids because it aches to be so near the brightness of his innocence-- all blinding like the pelt of a lamb in the midsummer black.
“I am...” A sigh, a whisper, a bray of a lone wolf in the dead-moon. Her bloody eyes open and catch like a wish-seed in the brightness of his edges where they bleed like a wound cut into the coil. And she stumbles in that silence, where his energy catches in the cracks of her almost snarl, because he tastes--
Oh he tastes--
“Danaë.” Like life. Like fragility. Like the first furl of a rose coated in dew by the sea. Her name seems frailer than all of that in the wake of his lightning.
And she pulls that same lightning, that same gold, between her teeth like a thread. She follows it, inch by inch by inch, until she can count the shards of silver stars in his eyes. Against his cheek her own is pale as death (she needs no bit between her teeth to take his life from him) when she presses it to the darkness of his. By color alone, she knows that she is made to be the crack between the chambers of his heart, like an insidious weed cracks open a rose.
Her horn brushes the shell of his ear. “If I told you to run,” she whispers between the touch of weapon and lamb pelt, “would you?” The tip of her horn repeats the motion.
And in every eye, in every gap-jawed statute, a rose unfurls pale and innocent and perfect.
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