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Malicious, vindictive, the avenging fallen angel stalks through the place of the dead, the snow crinkling and folding beneath her hooves, crumbling beneath her venomous self. So dark, ink spilled on blackened charcoal, against the woven tapestry of forgotten trees and bloated corpses, white tepid carcasses, testaments to ages past. Monstrous, bestial, Cruella de Ville roams the land of shadows, loving every moment, basking in her glorious rising.
She lingers, she tramps, she loiters and saunters, watching but never speaking, never forming the crystalline words of metaphors, never weaving her tapestries of illusion.
Patient as the cougar waiting for the lost lamb, she stays hard-faced and stern-lipped, sharp-eyed and prick-eared, anticipating the moment she may trust Seele enough- enough hardly more than a tablespoon so- of caring for the child who she left on the edge of the Marsh, hidden safely from harm. Kovoden, her Achille's heel, Kovoden, her lamb and shepherd, Kovoden, the child stolen from a mother's uncaring flank. She loves him sickly, twisted-like, her passion impossible to explain, to understand, in the stoic words of the language she speaks. Child-thief, nurturing monster, foal-stealer and wicked colt-rearer; she does not love nor had she loved, not until she came across the snow-prince, blinded, standing silent at his frantic mother's side.
Lady Death steps into the water, the cold so cold it is inexplicable, indescribable, skin writhing over tight muscle as if snakes slip and slither beneath her coat of charcoal, masked face gazing into the glass depths, watching the mud and silt float in the deep black water. Fearless of death and the dead, she plunged into the water. She walks among the turgid warriors of a war forgotten many years ago, inhaling the sickly scent of decay, her cinereal tail floating, trailing behind her like a brazen gloat that she is as alive as they are dead. They cry out, moaning, as she steps on one and then another as she wades, wallowing among the cadavers; wishing they were her, their malignant minds reaching out, hungry to swallow her. Not today, nor tomorrow, will they rip her from this world. Confutatis glances at the water once more, seeing her own skull face among the others, before propelling herself from the glacial lake, onto the frost-wreathed, black mud trails worn into the frozen earth.
Water falls from her skin, turning to ice before they shatter on the ground. Her sigh, like a thousand leaves rustling in a wind, echoes through the marsh as she is called.
No word she offers as she approaches Seele Clownface, brushing past the stallion and child carelessly, to stand silently at Seele's side, unwanted and not caring.
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CONFUTATIS
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