amaroq
in his own country
even Death can be kind
even Death can be kind
H
e had wondered what sort of bird she was - eagle or gull or shy, sweet dove - but she does not easily fit into the things he knows. It whets his curiosity, and it might have been enough to send him picking a path up the rocky cliffside to find out if his other appetites were not so recently sated. Amaroq has seen curiosity lead to death, as surely as arrogance, as surely as ignorance.
This time he does smile, when she speaks, another neat row of too-sharp teeth. The unicorn leans forward, still watching her, as the wind buffets his back warm off the sea; he wonders if it carries his scent to her, or if all she smells is blood and salt.
And still she watches him, her short main tousled by the wind, so little of her visible in the fading light. Come down, he wants to ask, wants to demand - but she is a bird and he is wolf and the blood is beginning to dry and itch on the snowy pale of his chest. Beckoning, too, is the cool dark of the seabed, the quiet tug of the tides.
“Sleep well,” he calls up to her, as the final seam of light at the horizon begins to go pewter and black-violet. But Amaroq does not want her to sleep well. He wants her to toss in her slumber, wants her sweat-slick and dreaming, dreaming of pale men by the sea who would beckon her away to wonders untold if only she would leave her perch.
He drops his head and his horn dips like a saber in salute. And then he turns upon his foam-specked rock and dives, an arc of muscle and grace like a moonbeam before he is gone and the waters of the sea close ravenous over his head.
@Marisol | shitty closer but let's do this again soon eh
