beloved

The cold, it weighed heavier the further she went, oppressive and omnipotent; it nips at her extremities and draws a scowl over her usual insane smirks and giggles. Sialia is behind her, left at the foot of the winding path, perhaps having taken note of the way the pale mare seems to snarl and become more hostile with each step northward, each additional drop in degree; it was probably wise to leave the irritably frigid bitch to discover the valley on her own and surrounded by more than just one.

The mountains match her, at least, her pale coat and dark markings blending her in with the snowy stone and allowing a the briefest of pleasures to be drawn from being nearly invisible to eyes that saw only black and white. Setting herself to a slower pace that sneaks and crawls in the shadow of the high afternoon, the wench displaces the idea of cold behind her delusions of grandeur and sadistic grace, tiny white ears pinned atop her delicate crown as nostrils curve and inhale the stench of the snow people.

The dark mare had said they were only unicorns here, on the way – aside from one runt that the Lady kept.

It makes her think of the burned land behind her, the place that is no more. A giggle ripples out into the silence of the doorway as she finds her path at an end, a narrow stone walkway saddling her sides as she peers into a large and covert vale that must be the Basin; such old ideals clinging to the minds of mortals, still. She had never cared for the petty arguments over heritage and birthright, cared very little for purity or pride in one’s bloodline.

But she did like the hints of violence that came with such thoughts. Isilme had been wrought with death and blood, ample opportunities for the more wicked of heart to satiate their gruesome desires; if only Oblivion had lived, she giggles again, if only he could see that it was just as cruel here as anywhere.

That he had been right, to see them as only blood and flesh, born to be bled and broken; it was how they treated themselves.

The massive metal structure captures her within a step, her pause of motion shared with a heady stare that gleams and flickers in her rampant curiosity and lust for the strength such a thing must have. Does he move? He wears gears and joints like he must, and what a cacophony of splendor that must be! Her giggles are endless, ricocheting off of one another as she draws closer to one massive hoof, stands diminutive beneath the great shadow cast by the bronze figure.

He could smash her into nothingness, and it is beautiful.

Suddenly filled with an eagerness to meet the machinists who created such a colossus (or at least held custody of it), she dances back around to look out into the wide valley, the quiet stillness of the lake in the distance and the stench of their sweat and blood reaching her curved nostrils like ambrosia. A cry breaks her lips, slight and feminine, delicate and luring.

The cold can be forgiven. It is time to meet the one who rules the beast behind her.

die like God, on the cover of time