She grows, and the dead flesh recedes.
When she first came, crossed realms at the side of the ghost-king (a strange and mystic process she cannot quite comprehend), she tumbled to the earth a living corpse. The skin as mostly rot, only a promise of gold beneath; bones peeking through, a glimpse inside where wet lungs squelched and a heart began to beat.
But as she grows, the death that was wrapped around her lessens, cedes her body to life (for now, of course). She is more truly golden, now, like her mother, and her mane begins to resemble cornsilk rather than dead weeds.
Only around the edges does she still rot, at the seams of her. And across a foreleg, a gash remains, a glimpse of white bone beneath still stark.
It doesn’t hurt, this reversed birth, from grave to cradle – but the sensations are strange ones, the tickle of regenerating flesh, the warmth that comes as her bones grow covered.
She is a unique girl, but not entirely so – and ironic, then, that she should find her own type.
(Not entirely, though.)
She doesn’t know him for what he is, what she sees is a form, bumbling, tearing gross from the earth like a last meal. It’s a unique hunger and one that almost rings familiar, but this creature doesn’t rot, so she never thinks it might be dead.
“Hello!” she says, her voice bright. She is close, curious, a ghost-girl transpired through realms.
“My name is Graveling,” she continues, “what’s yours?”
.
graveling
the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out