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He was beneath her, rain-lashed and storm-whipped.
Bitch. Whore. Dog. Harlot. That’s what they called her, and they were words that were true. Ever since she could, she fought. She snarled and foamed at her mouth, a rabid girl dressed in the dark clothes of her father. It was his name she screamed in praise as she warred, and she bathed in blood, whether it be her own or her enemy’s. They fled from her, faded away from her darkness, the brightness of their hearts dimming at the sight of the cruelty in her amber eyes.
Not Apollo. He fought with a passion she was unable to comprehend. What drove him? What was this love, as if he actually cared for his herd? Couldn’t he see that his efforts were futile? Whatever he thought might be, whatever he wanted to happen, he would fail. It was impossible for him to win; she, the daughter of a warlord, vanquished by some puffed-up teary-eyed son of a whore? His horn may be dripping in her gore, but that did not make him her. This boy was nothing compared to her might, the strength of her conviction, the ruthlessness of her warring.
If she were someone else, she might just wonder if she had bitten off more than she could chew. The weather was far from kind, the fight made slow by the mud, visibility poor with the sheets and sheets of continuous rain. Blood was pouring off her stomach in sheets, and spots of darkness flickered before her eyes. Her condition worsened steadily, but still she moved, even though she was no longer quite sure way. Everything had taken on a strange, lucid quality about it- shaking and quivering, the earth shaking beneath her hooves. Someone else might have backed off. Another horse’s determination may have crumbled.
But this was Confutatis; the nefarious dark-eyed black-lipped cruel-hearted foul-mouthed blood-drinking bitch.
Nobody could doubt her determination.
She was going to tear him to pieces, rend him limb-to-limb, shatter his horn and crush his head in. They wouldn’t laugh any longer at her. Eris and Seele would not pass her over, shun her and turn her back. No, they would not, they would shrink beneath her as she lingered, laughing, dressed in the skins of the damned.
This was Confutatis, and Apollo’s skull she would wear on her head.
This was him, his pelt slick beneath her clawing hooves.
This was him, about to die.
And then his horn has pierced her gut, and she screams like she has never screamed before, her voice a never-ending wail, breaking the air into a thousand glassy shards, blistering ears. He has caught her, just below the frayed lips hanging off the wound upon her stomach he earlier cut. It carves upward, his horn, splitting the skin and sheering deep into the muscle to the point of her hip, so deep you can see a gleam of pale bone.
She’s still screaming.
And still.
Her world is consumed by pain.
She is dying. And, stumbling into a tree not far away, throwing her shoulder against it, bleeding out on the earth in russet and crimson, the bark clawing at her body, holding her upright, she closes her eyes, shaking, quivering, shaking more and more, unable to stop the convulsions of her body, so close to falling on the ground.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you and you and you and you.” The harlot moans, soft enough that they could not hear her.
Not strong enough to scream it out louder.
CONFUTATIS
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[JUDGED] Denouncement [Apollo - Leadership Challenge]
