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She watched a stallion fall from the sky, all sharp points and razor edges, a shade of silver that gleamed in the light of the blazing sun. She watched as he landed, sand whirling around his thundering hooves.
She followed as he disappeared.
If he was a pharaoh, she was his decaying mother, the charcoal of her coat hidden by dusty linen wrappings. The overlapping pieces of cloth chafed at her skin, the thickest swaths hindering the bending of her leg joints. Yet for all its inhibitions and faults, she didn’t mind the way it muffled her steps until she was near-silent, and she was clever enough to realize the wads of bandages would act as a skimpy armor, overtop of her bone plates. Only the painted skull of her face, a stripe across her left shoulder, and the shins of her forelegs were left exposed, although the padding varied in thickness according to the strength and tone of the muscle- so the most delicate were the most protected, and the most hardy, such as her quarters, sheathed only thinly. Pieces unravelled as she moved, dragging behind her in the golden sand, turning a pale shade of dusty yellow. It whispered danger.
Confutatis did not pause as the door yawned, a hungry mouth waiting to swallow her.
Through the parted jaws she slipped, the only sound the skittering of rats’ claws over stone, and the distant thud of her heart banging quicker in her chest, exhilarated by the shadows. Golden rays of sunlight pierced the darkness, holy swords battling evil, but the valiant angels succumb as she ventures deeper into the halls of the dead. And the boy will fall under my hooves.
Dust chokes her lungs, gray clouds of it rising in the air where she walks. These passages have not been touched for many years.
A rumbling groan permeates the air, and the brawny lines of her neck tense, her amber eye flitting warily. More ashes of time and cobwebs fall, hissing from the ceiling, turning the cream of her mummy wraps to a grimy shade of lackluster brown. Silt settles in her tangled mane and worms into the crevices of her body. The pyramid moans again; and then a rock falls, smashing onto the only recently healed wound of her shoulder, tearing and shredding scarred skin. With a shrill squeal of anger, the mare leaps forward, and then her forelegs are skittering down the stairs, frogs banging painfully on the hard square edges. By a great force of will, she manages to keep herself upright, slowing herself but still more sliding than walking, body unaccustomed to the bizarre and unfamiliar movements.
For a moment she cannot see, and she chokes, lungs full of disturbed dirt layering the floor. Then it clears, light glinting tantalizingly, arrow shafts shot by the sun.
The boy.
He is awakening from his slump on the floor.
A cruel grin twists at the corner of her cracked lips, and she strides forward purposefully, all malignant intent and pitiless heart, hooves silent on the floor, the pyramid whispering around them. She does not see the mummy rising from it’s grave; her eye watches the sleeping stallion. Fool, fool, fool, sleeping on the job.
With a roar she leaps forwards, ignoring the spasms of pain in her shoulder, as the figure comes to meet her, teeth bared and reaching out for her neck. Coming head-on, she shifts to the pegasus’ left, ducking her crest to avoid the gaping mouth. Her hind legs twist, hoping to buck up at his forelegs as she rushes by him.
Die, stupid child. Die.
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CONFUTATIS
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Are You Cleopatra? {Graveyard Champ.}
