All of them, these pale and fragile creatures of this world, are so eager to line up upon the cliff like it’s an altar instead of stone above the sea. They are all so willing to cast their pearl-and-dead eyes to the clouds and make shapes and stories from storms and rainbows. There are a hundred warnings in this world-- gods that smite instead of bless, monsters that wear teeth shaped into hearts and wishes, an island that devours and builds graves in the shape of adventure.
Thana does not need to wonder what the lambs see when they line up for the blade to rejoice in the taking of their lives. She does not need to understand the pulse of their adoration, or the misery in their tears, to spill oceans of both.
All she needs to do, all she has ever needed to do in his world, is open up her mouth and eat, and eat, and eat, until the world is nothing more than bleached bones and magic left to fester and sicken.
Magic purrs in her blood like a tiger at the birthing ground when the mare stands like a lamb while a horn cleaves lines down her face. Lamb, the magic sings, lamb. And Thana, who is god and blade and storm, steps closer to the thing laying upon the cliff and dreaming shapes into the clouds. She strikes as the lightning does as it races towards the oak in the meadow who thinks itself so very, very ancient.
The oak burns. It will always burn eventually.
Her tailblade whispers along the shell of the mare’s ears, like the teeth of a lover instead of a weapon. Thana presses their noses together, their lips together, their teeth when she pushes harder against the golden lamb begging to die. Over and over again-- blade and ear, blade and ear.
“And what do you hear now?” Over and over again, like the snake devouring its own tail.
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