Half

On a knoll separated by a thousand rivers deep, against the sun and knife-sleet rain, he stands. A soft hum he sings, bleakest eyes borne of battle scars. Lies and warnings he sings, singing me to cross. He has seen blood. He had shed it. It is him I fear, this man, the defender and slayer. He calls me again, but he knows no fear, and cannot know the soft thing of woman. He holds his mystery, a sage of turmoil, and whispers the third, a plea. But I cannot move, for the cavern between us is a thousand rivers deep. The scream of cacophonous symphonies tears his throat, and the statue moves, cracking off the rust from the rain. In a flash of lightning, the strong arch of his neck curves and his teeth flash something animal.