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A world made of glass. Mere moments before she had been fascinated by it, strangely reverent of its fragility and mirror-like properties, as if a lake or distorted layer of water had been lifted up and pasted to dark cave wall. Outside the delicate wall, there lay a dark and twisted world, a thousand secrets to seek and a hundred unseen beings, all with eyes that could see and mouths that could speak of Déodat's breaking of his very own promises. For he had openly admitted to his inclination towards believing others inferior to himself; certainly there were others like him, few and wide-spread in between, but those who would judge him for turning back on his beliefs; a priest who blasphemed the church, a monk who was rich.
The delicacy of their situation was intimate, a coupling as ready to shatter at the beats of a butterfly's wings.
You forget already, this is Confutatis; her heart is stone and her mind is fractured in its reasoning. She is mad as the hatter and sane as the philosopher; her thoughts are gnarled and convoluted, sinister and black with the sins of her heart. The bitch's golden eye watches the near-crazed longing, wishing for her charcoal embrace, and she wanted his, the warmth of his crimson skin pressed against her, melting the frozen regions of her emotion-deprived heart. Did she sense the same peculiar longing within the scarlet prince, with his voice of rich chocolate sweet on her ears? It was strange, was it not, that they held the very same enthrallment for one another when she did not have the hazy pain of being in heat, and yet the attraction to each other was primitive and feral, raw instincts.
"You are a prince who has never bedded nor wedded." Confutatis comments with a eccentric sort of tone to her voice. "If I were to gift myself with the blessing of a horn rearing up from my head, would you feel you could be with me, as we are cursed to not be?" The smile on her face verges on insanity, a barbaric and uncultured grin, the wolf baring her teeth. "The snakes bites it's own tail, sometimes, and round and round in circles he goes." Suddenly the grim smirk fades, and her blinded eye rolls in its socket eerily. Her breath comes in roiling silver clouds. She is fevered, intoxicated, drunk on him like a virgin's first time.
So callous, so distant, yet so dearly close.
He is a knight with tarnished armor, a bear without his hair, a fox without his tail, a bird without her wings. Hiding, from the past, from embarrassment, from something she could not name. "The storm eases, little prince." It is as if she does not care he relinquishes not his hold on his past. As the low moan of the wind dries away outside, retreating, she comes to all four hooves, feet clinking softly against the slick stone of the floor. Forwards she comes, eye set on him, but she brushes past him, swishing her dark tail in his face carelessly, the charming and stark mad mare.
"Come on, purebred lord- let's take your dreams of genocide outside."
CONFUTATIS
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
