when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
My goodness … out of all of the places that he should come across the creature, it had to be the Forest. It had to be. How could it not? For so long now he’s been searching; “Golden, one wing … with horns.” Peering always with restless eyes at the others when they dwell beneath, trading words and phrases not meant for him but he snatches them all in his own secret way. It has been so long (generations, really) that he’d begun to doubt the creature’s existence, wondered if it had been some thing his aunt had procured out of fear and shock from his granddam’s passing. Wyrm had begun to let it go.
But, my goodness, there it is. “There he is.” the changer thinks, unable to stop the haphazard grin that now twists his mouth upwards near the edges. A grim smile, one he’s not worn in ages. It takes nothing to stop him from scrambling down his perch, winding eerily in spirals around the trunk as the horned stallion ambles past, ingresses further into a place Wyrm has called home now for some time. He shifts faster than he’s ever done before, bright jade skin flashing now and again while the patterned sun glances across his hide.
“You.” He calls out, eager steps leading him to where the other has gone. He must - must see the face of this being. It has been so very, very long, after all. “It is you, isn’t it?” He breathes, feeling the rush of some sensation he cannot name, some sense of closure as the pieces fall together by fate’s design. “How did you do it?” Wyrm presses, narrow head shaking gently side to side with the question, two-toned eyes never straying from the creature’s stance.
“How did you kill her?” He wants to know, trembling with a bemused sort of energy. “Show me.” The shifter pleads, choosing then to root himself to the earth. He would not, could not go until he knew.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
