Of Blood and Unicorns

Dawn gilded her sleek hide a pearlescent rose, though the horn between her brows outshone even the sun. I reached for her, the unicorn who stood before me. My hand met only the feathery down of my pillow. I had dreamt of her again. The creature I knew I would never — could never see. Before autumnal hearths, the elders sang that sacred unicorns appeared only to the purest maidens. And I — I was nothing more than a cursed girl. Dark blood pooled at my feet as I stood. I tossed another scrap of linen over the stain and glared at the dwindling pile of folded cloth beside my bed. Pain coiled around my womb. And tightened. My knees met the soaked linens. Their squelch filled the quiet chamber. I lowered my head and murmured a prayer to Brigid that the next moon would spare me this ache. Across from my bed hung a tapestry of a unicorn, its horn woven with shot silk glinting in the morning light. My shoulders eased as I loosed a breath. No maiden had borne witness to that glint in years. My chest tightened. Among the old tales were whispers that the magical beasts had disappeared. Along with the true-hearted maidens. Tears cooled my heated cheeks as another ache wrapped around my womb. *** The following nightfall, I sat beside the other maids at the feet of the elders. A harsh winter chill leeched the color from our lips. “She has been sighted,” was all the crone professed. Gasps echoed in the hall. We knew. Eyes darted. Mine did not. A maid among us had seen her. Yet no one stood, no one claimed the blessing that was a unicorn’s touch. For that touch awakened the oldest magick. Hushed voices swelled as bodies turned in all directions. So I followed. And there was one fewer maiden in the hall. I had known her. Had seen her bleed as I had. Beneath a fat moon, she wept in my chamber as I shared with her the hidden stash of linens. I had lent her a handful. We swore a bloodied oath that we would hold each other’s secret close to our hearts. Away from the elders. Only maidens untouched by moon-blood may learn the old magick. Not possible. “A divine blessing, my children.” The youngest of the three elders stood atop the dais.” A maiden of our own has been claimed by the Ancient Ones.” Slowly, I removed the hand clenching the softness of my belly. The hair on my arms rose. I said a silent prayer to Brigid that they could not scent me. The blood that sullied me. *** The maidens walked in a collective huddle amidst the winter night as the elders concluded the gathering. Their hurried footsteps shuffled in the sleet. Yet I lingered in the falling snow before changing directions and soon finding myself at another’s doorstep. Inside her now empty dwelling, nothing sounded except for the frantic beating of my heart. Her bed chamber failed to hide her secret. I stuffed the stained linens into my satchel, intent on keeping our blood oath. Yet most were gone. Frantically, I hunted for the rest until the scent of something sweet brought me to a halt. Wild strawberry vines curled between the floorboards. Their fruit hung impossibly ripe. The deepest red. Yet beyond the window, winter stripped the land bare. Not possible. I ran home. Not possible. Yet somehow — She was chosen. A witch who bled with the moon. Like me. That night, I fed her soiled linens to the fire. *** When the frozen night yielded to morning, I sought out the unicorns. I walked into the dense forest. Ice crunched beneath my feet until the hazelwoods swallowed the falling snow. With every step, winter loosened its grasp. Moss speckled the trunks. Clusters of hazel gloves fungus at tree roots glowed, orange as a setting sun. The grove opened onto a meadow where eternal spring reigned. Wild strawberries carpeted the sunlit ground. I was close. Though I had searched for that shimmering horn, I had never seen her. I had known, then, before moon-blood came, that I was not worthy. Yet this time, something was different. A soft huff stirred the stillness beyond the woods. A breath later, she stepped into the meadow. My stomach fluttered. A mare with an opalescent hide grazed at the berries. I steadied myself against the trunk of a hazel and sighed. Then she turned to me, eyes of the richest indigo meeting my own. Not a mare. It simply could not be. I stilled and scarcely breathed. She stepped closer, her gossamer mane shifting. A ribbon of dawn-light slipped through the woods. Between her brows, a horn gathered from that light and the spring breeze. I did not dare move. Around us, the forest fell silent. Warblers and robins swallowed their songs. The rustling leaves ceased to dance. The breeze sighed once more before fading into the hazelwoods. The unicorn glided across the meadow. As she did, those depthless, violet eyes never left my own. Her nostrils quivered as she lingered over my scent. A drop of blood slid down my thigh as a sharp pain twisted in my womb. The silver shine of her horn darkened into rich wine. And as her breath warmed my face, I let myself soften. My shoulders eased beneath the weight I had carried since girlhood. Another drip. The blood soaked the mossy earth. Heat colored my cheeks. With shaking hands, I replenished the cotton between my legs. Her gaze lowered to my hand, stained with moon-blood. She leaned into my touch. I pressed my brow against hers. For a moment, I felt nothing but bliss. As she lifted, my sanguine handprint seeped into her moon-white hide, carrying with it the ache in my womb that had cursed me since my first bleed.