Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Once roused her feelings become a thing of teeth, and fur, and claws that cut instead of clack. That beast grows roots like a fox skull grows wisteria at the tip of her daughters’ horns. It blossoms and blooms and rises its locust face towards Ipomoea’s warmth. But even as it turns, and blossoms, it does not give up the teeth in its mouth or its claws.
Those it will never give up. Not even for him.
And that thing of fur, and teeth, and claw, starts to purr when her daughter’s lay their weapons against the stallion. Somewhere Eligos is licking his teeth at the sight of it and whittling his nails to daggers on the diamond edges of a marble sculpture. Thana steps closer to the crowd of dancers, and mortals, and lambs lying down and preparing to spill their intestines across the pristine white of the floor. If Ipomoea’s touch lingers on her cheek, her side, the very bright and blinding center of her soul, she does not feel it when the stars outside start to feel like they are trembling and beginning to fall.
The music stutters to a stop like a candle blown out in a storm. There is the absence of the sound of light but there is, in the absence, a roar of thunder pouring in from the distance like a flood. Thana hears only the thunder, only the flood, when a mortal starts to bleating like something lost and half-dead.
She is reminded again (and again, and again, and again) why magic lives in her belly and war in her heart. This, this chorus of lambs, reminds her why unicorns-- true unicorns-- have always been made instead of born. And now they are many instead of one.
This fragile world should lament. It will lament.
And then, as all things but true unicorns do, it will die.
Thana steps deeper into the frantic crowd with her tail wrapped around the hock of her king to keep him from the tide of lambs; because that blinding and bright center of her soul is still saying, just this one thing, to the magic, just this. Around her, in the reflection of it across her pupil, the party becomes not a celebration but a killing field planted and awaiting the watering.
Their daughters and the stallion are still too far away and Isolt is already trying to pluck out his eyes like feathers from a dead hawk. Until this moment Thana did not know the feeling of pride. But it blooms in her now as another beast, another thing of tooth and claw and fur, to walk shoulder to shoulder with the first. And even now she can feel them walking, and racing, and snarling, in the pit of her stomach.
“If you know him,” She starts, pulling her tail cobra tighter around his leg, “tell me how he dies.”
Tell me, the unicorn asks her king, of all the ways I may be a monster.
"Speaking." @Ipomoea
Those it will never give up. Not even for him.
And that thing of fur, and teeth, and claw, starts to purr when her daughter’s lay their weapons against the stallion. Somewhere Eligos is licking his teeth at the sight of it and whittling his nails to daggers on the diamond edges of a marble sculpture. Thana steps closer to the crowd of dancers, and mortals, and lambs lying down and preparing to spill their intestines across the pristine white of the floor. If Ipomoea’s touch lingers on her cheek, her side, the very bright and blinding center of her soul, she does not feel it when the stars outside start to feel like they are trembling and beginning to fall.
The music stutters to a stop like a candle blown out in a storm. There is the absence of the sound of light but there is, in the absence, a roar of thunder pouring in from the distance like a flood. Thana hears only the thunder, only the flood, when a mortal starts to bleating like something lost and half-dead.
She is reminded again (and again, and again, and again) why magic lives in her belly and war in her heart. This, this chorus of lambs, reminds her why unicorns-- true unicorns-- have always been made instead of born. And now they are many instead of one.
This fragile world should lament. It will lament.
And then, as all things but true unicorns do, it will die.
Thana steps deeper into the frantic crowd with her tail wrapped around the hock of her king to keep him from the tide of lambs; because that blinding and bright center of her soul is still saying, just this one thing, to the magic, just this. Around her, in the reflection of it across her pupil, the party becomes not a celebration but a killing field planted and awaiting the watering.
Their daughters and the stallion are still too far away and Isolt is already trying to pluck out his eyes like feathers from a dead hawk. Until this moment Thana did not know the feeling of pride. But it blooms in her now as another beast, another thing of tooth and claw and fur, to walk shoulder to shoulder with the first. And even now she can feel them walking, and racing, and snarling, in the pit of her stomach.
“If you know him,” She starts, pulling her tail cobra tighter around his leg, “tell me how he dies.”
Tell me, the unicorn asks her king, of all the ways I may be a monster.
