Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
The twisted magic that made her would have forged Ipomoea into a unicorn.
It would have forged him from steel, and wood, and sand. There would have been a desert in his stomach made not of rend and ruin but of starvation for rain, and root, and flower. His wings would have sprouted from shoulder instead of fetlock and the entire sun would have been eclipsed in the expanse of them. Ipomoea would have been made to be dangerous in a way that no creature who must learn it can ever be.
That Ipomoea, the one made in magic with a horn upon his crown instead of a dagger on his leg, is the one Thana always sees. That Ipomoea is the one she’ll love until the end of every world in every universe, until it is only them standing on the cusp of the darkness like gods.
And it’s that Ipomoea that pushes his teeth into her shoulder in the only form of a kiss she knows how to ask for. Thana bends into the touch his teeth like a wolf bending for a collar and a leash. Beneath her sinew, and horror, she trembles like a butterfly caught in the tangled reeds of him. Each part of her, each hollow part, wants to beg for more teeth-- teeth and pain enough to fill up her hunger in a way nothing else can.
She can feel something waking up in him, an echo of the dark abyss that has always been awake in the center of her. It is calling to her with sonnets of rend, and ruin, consume. It is singing to her haikus of rain, and root, and flower. Thana wants to pull it out and turn it to wings to blot out every bit of the sun lingering in the desert in the dead of night. She wants to push teeth against it like he had pushed teeth against her shoulder.
“Then let us watch him discover it.” She folds around him to press the words into his skin like pearls, and paints, and a crack of veil too frail to mortals to see. Into the flesh of a thing made dangerous she smiles.
When she presses her hip to his, in the sonnets of rend-ruin-root that only they can hear, it feels like she’s paused upon that cusp of darkness in the body a hound with one foot in the gloom and three in the light. She slips into dance (to a song that only unicorns and things that would be forged into them can hear) and it’s like slipping into the creature in his skin.
And even as the night shifts to dawn, and their daughter’s turn from the soldier to return home, Thana never wants to fall out of the darkness she’s discovered the cusp of.
"Speaking." @Ipomoea
It would have forged him from steel, and wood, and sand. There would have been a desert in his stomach made not of rend and ruin but of starvation for rain, and root, and flower. His wings would have sprouted from shoulder instead of fetlock and the entire sun would have been eclipsed in the expanse of them. Ipomoea would have been made to be dangerous in a way that no creature who must learn it can ever be.
That Ipomoea, the one made in magic with a horn upon his crown instead of a dagger on his leg, is the one Thana always sees. That Ipomoea is the one she’ll love until the end of every world in every universe, until it is only them standing on the cusp of the darkness like gods.
And it’s that Ipomoea that pushes his teeth into her shoulder in the only form of a kiss she knows how to ask for. Thana bends into the touch his teeth like a wolf bending for a collar and a leash. Beneath her sinew, and horror, she trembles like a butterfly caught in the tangled reeds of him. Each part of her, each hollow part, wants to beg for more teeth-- teeth and pain enough to fill up her hunger in a way nothing else can.
She can feel something waking up in him, an echo of the dark abyss that has always been awake in the center of her. It is calling to her with sonnets of rend, and ruin, consume. It is singing to her haikus of rain, and root, and flower. Thana wants to pull it out and turn it to wings to blot out every bit of the sun lingering in the desert in the dead of night. She wants to push teeth against it like he had pushed teeth against her shoulder.
“Then let us watch him discover it.” She folds around him to press the words into his skin like pearls, and paints, and a crack of veil too frail to mortals to see. Into the flesh of a thing made dangerous she smiles.
When she presses her hip to his, in the sonnets of rend-ruin-root that only they can hear, it feels like she’s paused upon that cusp of darkness in the body a hound with one foot in the gloom and three in the light. She slips into dance (to a song that only unicorns and things that would be forged into them can hear) and it’s like slipping into the creature in his skin.
And even as the night shifts to dawn, and their daughter’s turn from the soldier to return home, Thana never wants to fall out of the darkness she’s discovered the cusp of.
