Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
Life is nothing without rage, or violence, or love deeper and blacker than the ocean. It is nothing without ore turning to diamond in the belly of the earth and deadwood blooming flowers instead of ember. Life is nothing, nothing, at all to all the dark things swirling in eddies of rot and decay in her blood. But still, as this mockery of a unicorn steps closer, she cannot help but treasure all the fragility the mortals lays at her feet like a gift.
Danaë treasures it, but she will not save it. Not tonight.
“Why weep for what you can save?” Each step carries her closer, like the quiet wrath of a storm too far from the horizon to feel, to the point of the other unicorn’s horn. In her eyes, in each tight curl of her form as she coils like every wolf, and bear, and stag at the border of their territory, there is only life following closely on the heels of death. And when she exhales directly into the mortal’s lung it is the touch of a wolf’s nose to the pulse of a rabbit’s neck.
She does not laugh, or mock, or banter with the mouse come to the wendigo’s den. With the fire at her back, and the last tendrils of smoke in her horn dissapaiting to make room for the sinew of a kill, she is nothing but all the things in the wake of the night gazing out from the darkness at all the things that do not understand them.
A lion still feels the vole when they swallow them whole, each small movement an attack as useless as it is frantic.
Their horns sing when Danaë tosses her head to meet the warning tip of the mortal’s horn. She should not have paused to warn her like a child with a flame in the middle of the purring darkness. The blade of her tail curls upward to rest just below the steady pulse that sounds, to her, like the sea. “Shall I grow yarrow or cornflowers in you so that you too might be something more than pillars of ash and smoke?” And this time, when she smiles, it is with every ounce of violence, and ire, and rage of the ant exploding in a race towards death.
Danaë treasures it, but she will not save it. Not tonight.
“Why weep for what you can save?” Each step carries her closer, like the quiet wrath of a storm too far from the horizon to feel, to the point of the other unicorn’s horn. In her eyes, in each tight curl of her form as she coils like every wolf, and bear, and stag at the border of their territory, there is only life following closely on the heels of death. And when she exhales directly into the mortal’s lung it is the touch of a wolf’s nose to the pulse of a rabbit’s neck.
She does not laugh, or mock, or banter with the mouse come to the wendigo’s den. With the fire at her back, and the last tendrils of smoke in her horn dissapaiting to make room for the sinew of a kill, she is nothing but all the things in the wake of the night gazing out from the darkness at all the things that do not understand them.
A lion still feels the vole when they swallow them whole, each small movement an attack as useless as it is frantic.
Their horns sing when Danaë tosses her head to meet the warning tip of the mortal’s horn. She should not have paused to warn her like a child with a flame in the middle of the purring darkness. The blade of her tail curls upward to rest just below the steady pulse that sounds, to her, like the sea. “Shall I grow yarrow or cornflowers in you so that you too might be something more than pillars of ash and smoke?” And this time, when she smiles, it is with every ounce of violence, and ire, and rage of the ant exploding in a race towards death.
