…make their way through the crowds!
She found him crawling from the Earth.
She found it giving birth.
She found nothing.
He was the length and the width of the world, the black of places best left alone. In the vast corridors of him, worlds ended. Stars died the screaming death of supernovas, brilliant in their explosions.
In his mouth, a thing not meant for expression, words painted his tongue the same shade: light-eating black, nights with no moons, no stars.
In him, no one thing survived.
She was starting to die too.
“Is it what you hoped it would be like?” He asked her, the last ribbon of offal slithering from a horn; it tried to get caught in a tine, failed and fell to the blackened earth beneath his hooves. “Am I what you wanted? Glorious in your curiosity, is this what you dreamed of?”
Without asking, without being told, she went to him as children go to their fathers, to their doom, their punishment, their perfect rewards; the nights of slow-drunken slurs, begging for a prince or a pauper.
She did not think twice when she touched him. The sizzling of her flesh was a mere afterthought in comparison to him, to all that he was.
“Everything and then some, my love.”
His laughter sounded, crows crying.
Misery is a vast flock of crows, a murder of blackness, that likes to settle on the unsuspecting.