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It happened quicker than the cougar dropping onto the ram's back, jaws clutching the windpipe and tearing it savagely from muscle, gore splattering the earth. When they stepped from the glacial palace that had kept them prisoners, denmates to one another, the world was a ghostly place, layers of snow drifting eerily, ghosts in the wind, delicate sugar twirling and dancing upon whipped cream. At first, the gathering darkness appeared in form of heavy clouds, thunderous and mighty, the wind gathering and whispering, murmuring, fearful and whipping themselves to a frenzy. Déodat appeared fearless, and Confutatis calmed, letting go of the stiffness that had grasped her scarred body.
Still, the darkness becomes thicker and thicker, and her mouth dries, a river disappearing from its bed. Confutatis is not a mare predisposed to fear; she is resolute and courageous in her sickened way, and yet the heavy feeling of wrongness weighs her limbs. Darker, darker, until the light has been torn from the world entirely, and she feels as if the sight in her one good eye has been ripped from her once and for all. Terror seizes at her limbs, and numbly, seeking his warmth, she moves alongside him. Surely this cannot be night; the stars do not gleam and the moon does not shine. Wrong, wrong, the wind whispers sulkily. Oh she tries to calm the rapid beat within her chest, but its pace only quickens, oblivious to her deep rasping inhales and exhales. Slowly the paralyzing fear spreads, eating away at her, until she quivers, trembles, shakes; and she seeks the blood stallion. "This is not right, Déodat. Does the world end around us, or have I lost my sight?" For once the wolf is not so proud. Her soul hunkers down inside the broken vessel that is her body, and waits in bated breath, wishing the cruel man who turn the lights on again.
Confutatis' fear is momentarily chased away as he leans against her, the heat of skin creating a beautiful sense of bliss within her. Her heart steadies, her eyes half-close, and as they move forward, quiet animals in the eternal shadows, she is at peace. Peace! What a foreign concept; she had been born from a raped mare and a battlehungry bastard, raised on milk she had stolen from teats best she could with her mouth of acid, and from there she grew and weathered to become the most blasphemous and wasteful of beasts, a feral monster prowling the night with eyes sparkling with savage delight. She had brought countries to their knees and devastated families, and all with a laugh in her throat and a grin on her skull-painted face.
But beside Déodat, her ambitions calmed.
"I am glad to hear so," she answers, but her voice is devoid of any joy, not betraying the strange leap in her twisted little heart. "Something is wrong, Déo; there is something terribly wrong. Where are the stars and the moon, the light? Everything's darker than our black souls?"
Her mouth twists in a grim sort of grin; "Perhaps it is the gods telling us you and I could end the world together; if we wanted to, of course."
CONFUTATIS
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