amaroq
in his own country
even Death can be kind
even Death can be kind
A
maroq has no such compunctions about wanting her. Of course it not the same. His is not quite a man’s wanting, or even a wolf’s - it is a combination of both and something more, that ancient urge to play god. Not just to destroy and consume but to Make.
He looks at her up on the cliffside and thinks I could make her like me.
But when she leans further yet out toward the thrashing sea he catches the glint of the spear beside her, rising like a savage peak. Then Amaroq lashes his tail, and remembers that while some horses are to be Made, some are only prey, and some are hunters, too.
“Don’t slip,” he says in answer, his voice echoing deep as a glacier against the rock, and shows his teeth at the question that follows in what might pass as a grin, from that far away. ”Never.” As if to echo him (though of course only because the sea is steady as a heartbeat) another wave breaks on his rock in a cool kiss. The foam that flecks his fetlocks then looks not so different as the underside of her wings, pale as lace with the black wet rock beneath. It is dark enough now that is almost all he can see of her, but for the gleam of her eyes. She is too far to see the way the thin remnants of saltwater freeze and shatter like fragile mirrors.
Lucky thing for her his magic isn’t stronger - because he wonders whether he could freeze the moisture in her throat, if only she were nearer. What it might be like, to flex his magic like a hand around her throat - or like jaws.
@Marisol | uh oh
