Blitzkrieg: ... are you sure it's only for shiny things?

It has been too long.

She knows this, and she feels this, in the breath of cold that contrasts nicely, ruthlessly, with the violence of the wind. It’s too cold, too dry, and the static rises from her skin, rolls in her muscles, make them soothe, make them tremble – it’s been long, but she is not impatient, for she is not anything. Her legs move slowly, almost reverently, as she observes the stallion with cool, plastic-blue eyes.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, Ilumina died.

Her head is low, eyes half-shut against the pressure of the wind, biting harshly and relentlessly against her flesh – like rigor mortis, it nips at the edges, blurs her conscious and for just a moment, she smiles.

Ilumina has fought her whole life, and many of the ever-after that comes with death, and when he comes, no more than a shadow among shadows – for she dares not try to focus her eyes on him, her forelock as useful as cobweb against the pressure of the atmosphere around her – she is motion, focusing not her eyes, but her ears, the soles of her hooves translating the delicate vibrations of his stride, the steady drone of his hooves; flight animal that she was born to be, she listens, muscles tensed and coiling, heated and relaxed from her previous exercise (who would be foolish enough to come to such weather without at least a pleasant jog to scourge the cold away?), and thus less frigid, less unforgiving; and while she turns to her right, trusting her hindquarters to take her against him, she also thrusts up – and he would know the folly of trying to bite at her withers; it’s a minor consequence of having a horse’s back collide straight at your open jaw, you see.

Especially her slightly electrified fur.

But Ilumina, alas, might be dead, but is no mind reader; a bruise wells with the impact of his teeth clamping awkwardly at her muscled neck, trying in vain to pursue a hold that is elusive at best, and she has moved not only up, but also to her right, her body swiveling almost in an arc; a motion that sounds fancier than it is.

Especially then, in this one elaborate motion, her own limb strikes out in a counter, at his charging leg’s general direction. Incidently, it eschews the angle from her knee to her cannon, a little below the original target; it hurts, and she grimaces as the pain spikes, a reminder of how real this side is, this – half-life of hers.

And again, as she steadies and balances and continues forward and to the right, as if to come full circle, she wonders what they have against her poor ribs.

It seems that every one of her opponents takes offense at her side, but she is at peace with that: the cold, ironically enough, helps her more than not, as she feels the muscles compress and concuss under her skin, as it breaks and dark, dark blood oozes wetly down her side; perhaps there are minor fractures as well, the fractures that will be made worse by the need of motion, but such is life. The breath is forced out of her lungs, ruthlessly, in a cloud of mist; she sighs.

She limps – which is nothing new – and her side groans as she doesn’t when she moves, turning with methodical, easy grace upon his hindquarters, her body lining up behind her as she simply follows the way of her motion. She is no fool to stand there behind him, however, knowing he could kick – or try to, for she pulls very near, her chest narly touching his buttocks, following him in stride, if he continued in motion, an ironic reversal of their roles, if you will; and she rises, once again, not wholly, but enough, forcing her weight forward and into his, feeling the contractions spill and flow down her side, to aim her unhurt hoof at his hock, her teeth canting down (ah, how the bruise pulls wickedly as she does!) to catch his dock in a combo. He could try to kick, or to buck, but he would have no room, as it would be easy for her – even limping, following with the relentless carelessness of death known and welcomed at his heels – to follow, and keep the relative distance, pain notwithstanding; he could try to swerve, and she would follow.

And her teeth, her stained, yellowed teeth, they seek the elusive vertebra that are the start of his tail – and imagine someone biting at your spine (for those vertebra are the ending of the spine), the neural connections there, which dislocated even minimaly, unlikely as that might be, could send paralyzing chills throughout his body.

It will hurt. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care as her hoof seeks gaskin, hock, whatever it might tear or rend under it, doesn’t matter; as she glides past from behind him, up his left thigh, left side, until her shoulder is near behind his – and her hoof scythes out, a delicate arc, which needs precision (and, for reality’s sake, if she misses entirely, she will try again, until she lands a blow), to strike at his cannon and lower, at his pastern.

It’s simple, but effective, especially in this weather that argues against violent, more exuberant tactics: her weight shifts to her uninjured hindquarters, the pressure on her ribs growing worse and more urgent, her pained limb resting gingerly on the ground as she tags faithfully by his side – it hurts, how it hurts, but she has a mission – and her uninjured limb strikes at his own, fleshless lower leg, aiming for whatever join or ligament she can reach – it doesn’t matter, as long as she reaches something, compresses the delicate nerves and tendons and wills them to part. She is close enough that if her tries to burst forward or to either side, she will compensate easily; she’s unhurried, after all, and unruffled, in the peace of death.

And, without further ado, so it ends.

ilumina
( mother. lover. killer. )