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Death, they say, is the final end. It is the worst, the most malicious, the darkest and cruelest spirit of them all, seeking out the bright embers of life to crush silently and soundlessly, to steal away once more into the dark night, the thief of the living. But is it? Is it not the one that soothes the ill’s pain and kisses the disfigured foal goodnight? Does it not kindly guide the wandering to a place of joy and relief, without fear of black-hearted monsters prowling the shadows deep? Death is not the bad guy. Actually, Death is quite nice.
If anyone is the bad queen, the wicked witch who poisons the apple, the distant sorcerer who turns the prince into the slimy frog, the augural of hideous beasts and hungry monsters, of malicious intents and black hearts, it would be Confutatis, the pitch mare with the scar running grotesquely down her face, a gray welt against the sleek ebony of her rippling coat, turning her eye filmy white and her intentions homicidal. Daughter of darkness and product of rape, she is no Snow White. Her promises are sinister, her objectives horrific, her words snide and her heart shriveled inside her chest, a blackened husk emptied by rejection and dismissal. Stripped of what should have been her naïve years, her years of innocence and adolescence and growing up, all that remained was a terrifying creation without the moral compass, without the love and knowing of beauty, without care of the destruction she wrought to the horses she slaughtered and the animals she fought with all the primal feral being of a wild dog stuck in a cage too small, one that would always be too small.
Tonight was a night like any other.
The acidic, poisonous mare crept into Helovia under the cover of shadow and the first true snow of winter, a haze of delicate white flakes, ready to breathe her corruption into the pretty little land, a land wholly unprepared for what she considered to be the finest chaos-maker in all of Loorien. Her father she spat upon, she curled her lips and pinned her ears, but no one could say the dark-hearted mare was not Oblivion’s child, with her vindictive, power-seeking nature, the heart to match her coat color, her ambitions and aggression and total disregard for whatever fool dared to cross her blazing path swathed in shadows and ebony darkness.
Snow danced wildly around the shadow in the night, just a shade lighter than the oil black enveloping the world around her, a heaving fury; if one might be imagination, they were stoked and ignited in rage at her presence coming to taint Helovia, the land of deities and dragon-horses, of racist unicorns and horses seeking to purge the world of the others presence; a land of magic and whim, of darkly seductive secrets and children born of god and mortal, a dangerous balance of mundane flaws and glorious power. Her silver mane and tail twisted and curled, knotted and tangled, whipped and dashed as the lady stalked through the Threshold, nostrils flaring as she drank in pine and wet and damp soil, hardly noticing the wind on her thick winter coat. The shadow child had aged from her flee from Isilme, greatly so, and she was confident whoever may have fled her original home would not recognize her. In the sooty black lighting, for she had chosen her entrance when the new moon hovered in the sky, it would be even more difficult to place any trait she may carry from the infamous sire she had- if anyone from Isilme roamed this land, that was.
Over the years she had spent, alone, pillaging milk from distressed mares as a young foal, she had been exposed to a very vast amount of ideas and creations; she had learned the fatal outcomes unicorns often wrought to each other when they took to battling one another, how the cougar may prowl by without comment and the next moment would attack you with all the savagery of a mindless brute, a henchman. Confutatis, for all her twisted ways, was a clever, conniving mare. She had observed. Studied and calculated. Caused trouble and had, occasionally, paid for it; with the sight in her eye by the unicorn’s horn, the scars that wrecked her glorious coat.
A wind stirred the gathering blizzard, and the equine mare rose her head, quivering with a fierce pleasure. With each inhale, the wind carved her lungs with thousands of painful scores, the air was so raw and passionate, near-glacial in temperature. Upon the long hairs that guarded her from the worst of the frozen air, frost and snow gathered, glistening dully and slightly wetly, as if glum at finding their ride rather than their flight.
The blackened lady lifted her head, drifting to a halt, eyes sparkling with a heartless, devious light. A trace of faint yellow sparkled for the briefest of moments as she bared her teeth in a smile; and then it faded.
[I'd prefer if this could move faster rather than slower- she's going to become an Outcast in any case, so it would be nice!]
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CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
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[o] in the dark of night monsters roam
