FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.
Fire does not cleanse a dead thing. Weeds do not sink into the flesh and marrow of a made thing and grow life in the abyss of black rot. Pearls and paint do not write out legends on blood-red skin upon which the only story laid bare for all to see is one of wrath.
Thana is not a thing to celebrate and roll her shoulders between the magic of a chewed-out star.
She is a dead thing, a monstrous thing, a does not belong thing, as she walks through the crowds of lambs and maneless lions. The look in her eyes is one of lilac purpose that flashes, and sharpens, and dances with the reflection of light off the stone below her horn. At her side a star with silver eyes (who she knows is no star at all) bellows and beckons her closer with a foolish sort of hope. Thana, the regent who is no kind leader, does not turn to look.
Instead her eyes linger on the red-glare and smoke rising up above the outskirts of her cage like shapeless dragons. Instead she lingers on the music of the lambs and the stumbling of hooves bred for dance instead of war. Instead of moving closer, or turning to look (look!), she does nothing but lift her liliac violence towards the red flashing outside Ipomoea’s city.
Her hooves, the ones made for destruction, angle towards the main archway leading into the meadows. The crowds bleats before her when each stone, and flower, and booth, in her path turns slick with moss and rot. It does not cause her to feel remorse or anything but a terrible, vicious sort of understanding. And like a unicorn who does not know the sound of regret, or remorse, or go gently into the flock, she does not clap a collar back on her magic.
That magic purrs in her belly and Eligos echoes the sound as he joins her with his own flock of sand lambs running at his shoulders.
Thana’s trot turns to a gallop and every tree in her shadow starts to dry and beg for ember and soot. The red haze of the bonfires beckon her wrath and want closer with a clarion call unicorns are made to hear. When she leaps through the first obstacle (for she cares nothing for the rules of the mortal races) her heart trills back in its own wolfish clarion call.
And as her form cuts through the smoke of a fiery ring, before she slides to a lighting crack stop, there is a smile cutting through her lips. She laughs and even that sounds more like a sonnet to a long chewed-out moon than joy.
<3 | @semper
"Speaking."
"Speaking."
