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The cowardly bitch did not even show her pretty little face, smoky like the gray dust on rocks; and Confutatis smirked, sooty lips peeling back in a feral grin, a baring of teeth more than smile. Once, twice more she called for the mother, screaming out her name like a wolf howling for the moon's love, and still no pegasus landed with wings fluttering and feathers flying. Snow fell, white flakes careening downwards, swifter and swifter, as the storm began it's moaning, loose dust swirling over the banks and drifts, hissing softly. The wind curled and twisted her mane, the mane the color of ashes and old stallions' beards, and her tail snapped in the brisk breeze like a flag in a tornado.
Down her head dropped, ears shifting back at the unpleasant sensation of the flakes stinging her face raw. Eyes squinting, half-shielded by charcoal lids, she sought out the shape of the young colt that she would raise as hers.
What had ignited this maternal side Lady Death was unsure of; she was malefic, baneful, half-mad and aggressive as a mother grizzly bear with her cubs. Yet she had been driven to return to the frigid north and seek out the child, the pegasus splattered with mud and soaked in white. Maybe it had been the quiet way he dealt with his screeching, hideous mother, who had been the one to loose him and yet still blamed him for being lost in the white. His relationship with her was so scarce, a thread waiting to break and drift away; like her own. After all, her mother had simply spurned her, chasing Confutatis away from her flank quickly with the uncaring bitterness of a crow pecking a wolf's ears, knowing the wolf will be unable to catch it.
The air burned her lungs as she inhaled, the air frigid. Darkness was obsolete as she trekked deeper into the icy north. Whatever was left of her shriveled heart twisted as she thought of her Kovoden alone. Idiot mother.
Still, there was something not quite right about the situation. How Confutatis already thought of Kovoden in a possessive manner. How her thoughts lingered over him. Her mind was fractured, cracked, not quite in the right shape. She wasn't mad, one might observe- she simply saw the world in a different way, the way a terrorist might.
Finally, her nose led her towards the vaguely familiar scent.
"Child, come underneath me." Confutatis croaks, turning her haunches to the wind, offering what little protection and warmth she can to the pegasus.
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[P] finishing up the sewing job [kovoden]
