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War, the battle of two adversaries, continuous and never-ending. Was this what they were doomed to, the savage and never-ceasing attacks between civility and wildness, raw instinct and instincts honed into oneself from weeks and weeks of training. Outside, the blizzard reflected this, in its furious swirling of glistening silver flakes, so thick and swift that no doubt one would disappear within a moment should they step outside of the glacial halls that was both prison and safety. Inside there was a storm as well, a churning turmoil of powerful emotions, of lusty thoughts and sexual feelings, anger and the hunger tirade of memories pushing against the boundaries of her mind, almost ready to toss her into the deep end, where her lungs would fill and she would scissor the water with her legs, only to sink ever deeper, floundering, into the choking liquid of engulfing memories. Of another stallion, a stallion she no longer loved, who had mounted her under a sweet night, and it was his child she skinned without remorse; for she was Confutatis, the feral, the savage, the primitive, the sophisticated, the utterly wild.
Suddenly the story takes unexpected twist, shifting suddenly as her ears twitch, her face stone-still and impassive even as her heart leaps strangely in her chest. Love, he had called her, as she entertained thoughts of a unicorn and a wind-tossed dawn of fights with him, until the ugly spear on his head clawed down her face, pain erupting in her eye and burning there for what seemed like eons.
"Am I a love of yours, or a toy?" Confutatis utters mildly, knowing that neither quite fit the bill. Infatuation, she would call it; an intimate craving for one another. "But," -she does not wait for his answer, for it was just a rhetorical question- "You are right. I see that the raven advises the wolf well."
Oh, the way he says her name; it makes her quiver with delight.
The smile on his face is beautiful, and the yearning grows stronger inside her charcoal bosom. Harmony. They are harmonic, dark and dark; why is there need to balance out darkness, when you can win the world through shadowed moves? The warmth of his skin is wonderful, and she burns with pleasure, silent, feeling his ruby hide shiver and quiver and tremble under her, until she fears it might fall off. So the lamb and the lion lay beside each other once more; still, who was the lion, who was the lamb? And everyone forgot to mention that the peace and the sleep was never easy, but a fragile balance. Was there hearts to be won in this rendition of Romeo and Juliet? Or only a wicked relationship born of tenacious desire and terrible deeds, sins against the divine beings of the sky above and the passion of what surely must become a bloody friendship?
"Nobody said the lion loved the lamb, nor that their friendship was easy, Déodat," Confutatis keens, stepping back from him. "Tell me. Tell me why your hide is painted in blood, just like your heart?"
She pauses. "Share your story and I'll share mine."
CONFUTATIS
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
