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He comes, small and white and pale. She inhales his scent hungrily, tasting it on her cracked charcoal lips, drinking it in and letting it warm the corners of her cold, stone heart. The snowstorm wages on, flakes of cream and silver settling onto her frozen charcoal coat, but she doesn't mind, not with the young one beneath her. For him, she will do anything. Change him, shape him, help him. So what if an ancient woman like herself is cracked in the cold, a statue splintering about the edges? He is safe and warm and delicate beneath her. The feathers of his wings tickle her belly, and she sneezes, a shiver wracking her thin body violently before she relaxes. This child will not freeze to death. For all those she has killed and murdered and slaughtered before without care, this is one life she will save, even when she skinned her own child formerly.
"I am Confutatis." She rumbles, her eye warm as sunbaked sand. "You are safe with me. And what would you like to be called? Pick a name for yourself, and choose carefully. It will be your burden to bear in the next years or your armor."
The wind howls louder, a desperate cry in her ears, pellets of ice stinging her face. There is something terrifying and eerie about being in the north alone; if she were younger, she could almost imagine that the ghost of a shape in the north was a bogeyman. No, not if she were younger. Only if she was an entirely different horse, unaware of the perils of the world and oblivious to the death and decay that haunted every step of one's journey. If she was not Confutatis, the mare fearless and hard-hearted, the mare with a blind eye and the fighter of countless battles, a winner of wars and a horse who had brought countries to their knees.
Would Kovoden follow in her footsteps, or would he fade away in the wind, unable to cope with the legacy she wished to leave behind in this barren world?
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[P] finishing up the sewing job [kovoden]
