mr. sandman, bring me a dream / make her the best that i've ever seen / give her two lips like roses and clover / and tell her that her lonely nights are over
Could drops of her blood bloom into milkflowers?
Perhaps he could make it so. Perhaps, when he found her and brought her out of the cave's stomach whole and well, he could sprinkle a little bit of his magic onto hers, and make this barren field bloom.
Blades of grass were crushed by his unsparing steps like stones flung out of the sky. When he reached it, his head pressed flush against the cool crystal mouth, dewdrops of sweat left behind like salt deposits. He had already called out her name. All that remained was for him to listen for his.
(And to expel the taste of her blood from his mouth before she could smell it on him like rancid wine. He would repent for using it by turning her shed blood into meadows of white flowers. Larkspur, camellia, amaryllis; seed to bud to bloom, brilliant, heartbreaking, alive. If she did not reach down to touch a silk-spun petal, she would never know it was all in her head.)
His wing skated against a gash at his cheek, curved in the trajectory arc of a steel-tipped hoof. Blood rolled off its rippled edges to quench the struggling moss below; Caine looked at it, at its violence, and was macabrely satisfied. That the color of his blood was the red of an auschariot rose was filed away with fury masquerading as apathy.
He couldn't turn Warset back into a star, but a field of cosmos, he thought, as he entered stumbling into the dark, was as close to transcendence he could offer her.
Corners were turned with a businessman's stride; Caine was uncaring, now, about theatrical concepts like secrecy and strategy and restraint. His dagger was sheathed at his shoulder. He doubted there was anyone left for him to cut into ribbons and bonemeal. All of the energy that had sustained him when he was outside of the cave peering in had concentrated into a gaseous ball lodged in his throat; his eyes were fresh poppies. In his head, he was trailed by a murder of crows.
One sat on his shoulder; it chattered at him which way to turn. One flew low, yanking at his ears when he tired. Another traced the symbols carved into his forehead and wondered aloud why he couldn't go faster. The others existed only to laugh. He turned a corner and slammed shoulder-first into a bulging stalactite; it broke off; he stumbled, neglected to catch himself, bloodied his knees. A crow swooped down, mid-cackle, and pecked at his eye to get him up up up!
He got up. The crow raised its ugly head to the ceiling. She's here, you fool, it sang. Go and say hi!
He looked over.
"Caine." His eyes were fresh poppies. He was a tower and she a bed of bracken, her skeleton wreathed with vines. He shook his head; the vines cleared, the crows scattered, the skeleton grew a skin of stardust and ruin. He sank down to his heels. Reached out his nose to brush softly against her cheek. "I did not follow you." Drew his eyes over her form again. "When you turned into a leopard, if I had chased after you—maybe he would not have found you."
Laid his head against her shoulder. "I will kill him."
"End me," she whispered. His breath blew out softly over her ear.
"And return to being a star?" he whispered back. Drops of blood from the gash on his cheek rolled onto hers. His eyes were fresh poppies. He tried to reach into her dreams, but the magic of her blood was spent — it slipped away, out of his reach, and his grip closed around nothing.
"I would miss you."
Perhaps he could make it so. Perhaps, when he found her and brought her out of the cave's stomach whole and well, he could sprinkle a little bit of his magic onto hers, and make this barren field bloom.
Blades of grass were crushed by his unsparing steps like stones flung out of the sky. When he reached it, his head pressed flush against the cool crystal mouth, dewdrops of sweat left behind like salt deposits. He had already called out her name. All that remained was for him to listen for his.
(And to expel the taste of her blood from his mouth before she could smell it on him like rancid wine. He would repent for using it by turning her shed blood into meadows of white flowers. Larkspur, camellia, amaryllis; seed to bud to bloom, brilliant, heartbreaking, alive. If she did not reach down to touch a silk-spun petal, she would never know it was all in her head.)
His wing skated against a gash at his cheek, curved in the trajectory arc of a steel-tipped hoof. Blood rolled off its rippled edges to quench the struggling moss below; Caine looked at it, at its violence, and was macabrely satisfied. That the color of his blood was the red of an auschariot rose was filed away with fury masquerading as apathy.
He couldn't turn Warset back into a star, but a field of cosmos, he thought, as he entered stumbling into the dark, was as close to transcendence he could offer her.
Corners were turned with a businessman's stride; Caine was uncaring, now, about theatrical concepts like secrecy and strategy and restraint. His dagger was sheathed at his shoulder. He doubted there was anyone left for him to cut into ribbons and bonemeal. All of the energy that had sustained him when he was outside of the cave peering in had concentrated into a gaseous ball lodged in his throat; his eyes were fresh poppies. In his head, he was trailed by a murder of crows.
One sat on his shoulder; it chattered at him which way to turn. One flew low, yanking at his ears when he tired. Another traced the symbols carved into his forehead and wondered aloud why he couldn't go faster. The others existed only to laugh. He turned a corner and slammed shoulder-first into a bulging stalactite; it broke off; he stumbled, neglected to catch himself, bloodied his knees. A crow swooped down, mid-cackle, and pecked at his eye to get him up up up!
He got up. The crow raised its ugly head to the ceiling. She's here, you fool, it sang. Go and say hi!
He looked over.
"Caine." His eyes were fresh poppies. He was a tower and she a bed of bracken, her skeleton wreathed with vines. He shook his head; the vines cleared, the crows scattered, the skeleton grew a skin of stardust and ruin. He sank down to his heels. Reached out his nose to brush softly against her cheek. "I did not follow you." Drew his eyes over her form again. "When you turned into a leopard, if I had chased after you—maybe he would not have found you."
Laid his head against her shoulder. "I will kill him."
"End me," she whispered. His breath blew out softly over her ear.
"And return to being a star?" he whispered back. Drops of blood from the gash on his cheek rolled onto hers. His eyes were fresh poppies. He tried to reach into her dreams, but the magic of her blood was spent — it slipped away, out of his reach, and his grip closed around nothing.
"I would miss you."
