Ten Years, One Moment by Kinto Mythostian I brush my fur with the utmost care; my beautiful cervine fur that no eyes but my own have laid upon in a decade, my fur that will never know the touch of a mate, my fur that no eyes will ever lay upon again. I devote myself to every strand, every follicle, relentlessly chasing every snag, every whorl. Time is of no importance. I will dedicate hours to this task if that is what is required. It must be made perfect. The gods deserve no less from their willing sacrifice. I brush and I comb, examining every minim of my body twice over, three times over. My dun fur is radiant, the hue as rich as chocolate, the texture as soft as cashmere, the scent a subtle feminine musk. My naked hide has never been so immaculate. I gaze into the mirror and feel tears welling in my eyes. This is a sight I must never see again. I hold back my lachrymosity; I cannot permit them to fall upon my breast, and undo what I have expended so much effort to do. It is time, the final time, to clad myself in my second hide; my Formal dress is ready for me, tailored and laundered with the greatest reverence. For ten years it has been my partner, quietly broadcasting my devotion to the world, the sacrifice of modesty that occludes my fur from all mundane sight. Nothing less could ever be permitted when I present the gift of my Choice to the gods. I roll my stockings up my legs slowly, taking caution not to muss my fur, keeping every hair precisely in place. Starting above my cloven cervine hooves I cautiously ensconce my legs within the textile confines, over my hocks, my dewclaws slipping perfectly into the pockets designed expressly for that purpose. Up to my knees, and along my thighs reaching nearly to my groin, the Light Blue material heavy and tight, a familiar sensation that reminds me every day of the weight of the vows I have made. My concentration is rewarded; my fur remains perfectly in place, the stocking seams rigidly straight and flawless. My girdle slides on smoothly over my stockings and settles comfortably into place around my loins and lower torso, the waistband cinching into place just above my navel. The undergarment is white and quite ordinary, the only decoration the Light Blue ribbon that secures the rear clasp around my tail. The bra that cradles my diminutive breasts is similarly plain, with a small bow nestled in the shallow valley of my chest the only nod to anything more than simple function. As I make an adjustment to the fasteners joining girdle to stockings my hand brushes against that private feminine vault, the sanctum that has never known the intrusion of a stag, and that I have Chosen never will. My hooffingers linger. I wonder if I will be blessed with the lust of the angels in my sacrifice. One hooffinger traces the contours of flesh beneath the thin layer of cotton. I have heard such things whispered, never spoken of aloud, a final gift from the gods, a small token bestowed graciously upon those who have Chosen to give their entirety. Abruptly I withdraw my hand. It is not Noble to think of such things, I chastise myself. I sacrifice myself willingly with no expectation or desert of reward. I suddenly wish to have the provocative cleft out of my sight as quickly as possible, but I must not allow myself hastiness now. I still have much preparation to do, and the gods deserve my absolute best. The ritual of clothing myself in my underdress is one that has taken me years to perfect. I hoist the cumbersome article above my shoulders and dive headlong into the claustrophobic tent of the garment. My arms find their holes and push through, the sleeves fitted around my biceps but hanging unbuttoned below the elbows. I thrust my head through the narrow neckhole, the fur of my head unavoidably mussed as the material stretches to permit passage. I adjust the constricting bodice against my torso, and let the long skirt of the underdress fall down around my hocks. A gentle tug releases my tail to poke free from the skirt; a drawstring cinches the opening around the base of my tail. Once more I must groom the fur of my forearms where their passage through the sleeves has abraded against the grain. When my fur is finally set right again I secure the buttons to hold the lower sleeves tightly in place. It is a delicate process, but today I perform it flawlessly, as I know I must. From hooves to collar and wrist to wrist, my body is cocooned within the confinement of the Light Blue fabric, plain and rough in texture but beautiful for what it represents. My overdress requires no less concentration. Once more, but now for the final time, I shroud myself in my velvet raiment. The gossamer fabric surrounds me as I let the long skirt fall around my head, seeking out the sleeves by touch. The Light Blue velvet slides on smoothly over the underdress, fitting so close as to be one garment. The buttons of the underdress sleeves are hidden completely by the seamless velvet, the cuffs ringed with lace. My head slides easily through the neckhole, adorned with a graceful collar of lace. At the back of my neck a drawstring ribbon tightens the collar snug around the base of throat, and I tie it off into a delicate bow; a quick check with a hand mirror confirms the bow is neat and symmetrical. The long skirt of the dress reaches nearly to the floor, the lace hem a scant centimeter from brushing the carpet. Just below the bow that adorns the sash circling my waist another hem of lace rings the base of my scut where it pokes through the rear of my skirt. Working almost entirely by touch I cloak my tail within its opaque velvet snood. With ease attained only after years of focused practice I button everything precisely in place, pinning my concealed tail permanently into its relaxed, downward hanging repose. With the fasteners hidden by the lace cuff, the entire assembly appears completely seamless. The fur of my head, disarrayed by passage through two neckholes, requires attentive grooming to once again be acceptable. The velvet of my dress likewise is subjected to careful inspection. A snag, a hole, a single thread out of place and I would not be fit to proceed. Both layers, the entire uniform has been perfectly tailored to fit my measurements and sit just so upon my body. This dress is meant for no one else but me. The heavy fabric clings tight to my hide, adhered in place already by a thin layer of perspiration, a burden to wear. Mummified within the restrictive textile every movement is met with resistance, compelling economy of motion in every action. Anything less than absolute perfect posture exacerbates the sensation. Grace and bearing are necessities. Satisfied at last, I permit myself to look at my reflection in the full-body mirror. My individuality is hidden away, subsumed beneath the virtuous anonymity of the habit of a devotee of the Noble Gods. I have dedicated everything to their service. I touch my hand to the velvet stretched across my bosom, feeling the breath of my lungs and the beat of my heart. I linger over my reflection, the last time I will ever gaze upon the sight. I can remember vividly the first time I ever wore this uniform, ten years ago. I was so young and so tragically naïve. I knew nothing of Choice and sacrifice, I was living without direction. To my younger self, priorly accustomed to nothing more substantial than baggy sweaters and short skirts, this heavy, uncomfortable dress seemed a prison. As I struggled with the yards of unwieldy fabric and blindly fumbled with the intricate tail covering I was seized by the miserable apprehension that I had made a terrible mistake coming to the Academy, had ruined my whole life. But then I looked in the mirror. The reflection I saw then was overwhelming; the bony spotted fawn I had been was cast away and wholly transformed into an unrecognizable portrait of grace and elegance. I thought it was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen, beyond anything I deserved. That day I swore to do everything I could to be worthy of that portrait the gods showed me, and I have. I have given so much to be worthy to wear this uniform. It is still the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. I am humbled to carry this honor, to bear it in life, and now to death and beyond. It has been my constant companion through my decade long journey, and so shall it be now. There is no other clothing more appropriate for me to wear in the gods' presence, no other outfit I would rather wear when I join their Realm. Reluctantly, I tear myself away from the vision in the mirror. It is incumbent upon me to fulfill my promised sacrifice. Hooves padding the carpet, the reassuring weight of my uniform armoring me, I exit my dressing room and turn to the right. There it is. My body cannot help but drop to its knees in fright and awe as I lay my eyes upon my noose, the noose I prepared as devotedly as I have just prepared my corporeal vessel. Hanging from the ceiling, waiting with immortal patience. The snare I have made to separate life from flesh, to bring death to this sanctified body. I stare longingly, my dress fanned around my genuflection, anticipating the sensation of that hemp around my neck. Slowly, I rise to my hooves, a supplicant at the altar of my private communion. I approach an inch at a time, drawing out the moment, my eyes forever fixed on the instrument of my sacrifice, my gaze never wavering, borne to my execution on no hurdle but my own hooves. Every step is a chance to turn back, to return to life. I am still free to Choose. I may yet break my oath, shed my dress, and return to the living world that continues beyond these walls. With every step forward, my commitment grows, the weight of my sentence bearing down on me. I have arranged a series of steps of incrementally increasing height, my own stairway to extinction. I lift the hem of my dress with both hands and reverently ascend, each dainty step bringing me closer to my Chosen fate, ringing with the quietest tap of cloven hoof against wood. At the final platform, a wooden stool, my hooves are a full meter above the carpeted floor, the floor I will never reach again. The noose is there, directly in front of me now, the knot at the level of my breast where my heart counts out its final beats within its cage. It is the will of the gods that moves my arms as the noose is drawn closer to me. I see it at my muzzle, now past my nose, now past my eyes, brushing against the tips of my folded-back ears. It settles around my neck, the outsize weight of the knot resting on my shoulder. It is done. There is a tingling through my entire body, as though electricity were pumping through my capillaries alongside my blood. My body will never be purer than it is in this moment. I have dedicated myself wholly to this task and I have made my body an object of perfect beauty. And now, I have Chosen to destroy it. I have Chosen to deny myself the world, and to deny the world myself. I have rejected life. I have consigned this immaculate beauty to the dust and worms of the tomb. My tail attempts to flicker, twinges as it meets its restraints, and lies still. The brushing of the rope against my fur whispers assurances of the agonizing death that awaits. My heart beats slow, relaxed. My breaths are deep and even. My body is under the total control of my will. This is the moment I have spent the last decade of my life working towards. This is the culmination of all my discipline and my sacrifice, of all my fortitude and my integrity. Every day I have devoted myself to this singular purpose, to make myself worthy. All the pain, the denial I have subjected myself to, it has all been in preparation for the Noble act I now undertake. I yearn for this moment to last as long as possible. My hands rest before my waist, my left loosely clasped in my right. My right thumb rubs at my left wrist, feeling the soothing texture of velvet for the last time. It is though I am watching, a passenger in my own body as my cloven hooves move to the edge of the stool and perch there, dangerously unbalanced. My heart pounds within my breast. I need only make a move and it will be stilled. I do it. Not a kick. A gentle push, no more motion or energy expended than is absolutely necessary. The stool falls away. My body drops. The noose slides closed with alarming alacrity. The coarse rope sinks deep into the flesh beneath my jaw. The knot thumps hard against the back of my skull, the force of it completely disproportionate to the gentle gesture with which I condemned myself. I do not even have time to bleat my surprise before my throat is crushed in a harsh crackle of cartilage, my last breath strangled within. It is instinct and not will that controls my body now. My hands fly to my neck, scratching and clawing at the snare that they traitorously placed there just moments ago, hooffingers tearing at the perfectly groomed fur of my throat. My hooves kick, straining to reach the solid ground that I pushed away of my own will. Instinct is too late. I have done my job well. There will be no escape. This is my death. My tears are free to flow now, limning my cheeks with their salt. My mouth forms the shape of wordless cries of suffering. My teeth gnash at the stagnant air that fills the humid chasm above my swollen tongue. My tail tugs against its pinions, desperate to flag an alarm that no one will heed, setting the entire skirt of my dress to fluttering. The entire world revolves around me as my body strains, flailing and writhing against the fate I have inflicted upon myself. Within, I revel in it. This is my Choice, my desire. The pain is beautiful, coursing through my body wave after wave, burning. This suffering is my sacrifice, the pain now suffusing my body the price I have indebted myself. It is all so wonderful, overwhelmed by the stimulations assaulting every sense. I have Chosen, and now I will endure the torture I have subjected my body too. This is my desert, and I will not escape until death releases me from my flesh. I will die here, my future exchanged for this recompense of agony. And yet, there is something else, something more than pain. Even as my hands continue to clutch at the fatal noose enclosing my slender neck, drawing tighter with every futile kick of my hooves; even as sweat saturates my underdress and stockings; even as my breast pounds, crying out for the fresh air that I have forevermore denied it, I become aware of still another sensation: a pulsing, swelling, deep within the vault of my dresses. I strive to cry out as the feeling grows, but no sound will ever escape. I know this feeling, have suppressed and refused it, but never have I known it like this before. The heat of it plunges its roots into my very core, wrapping around the tendrils of pain until they are indistinguishable. It needs to be touched, yearns for the stimulation, never mind the layers of textile that block the way, but my hooffingers refuse to leave my neck, digging in until they have tasted blood. My body will fight until the very end to gain a breath, even if I know the fight is not, was not ever, meant to be won. This feeling - to feel it now, in the heat of my Noble sacrifice, is a blessing, a reward for a Choice well made. And yet it is also a unique torment, a poignant reminder of everything that I am sacrificing today at the end of this rope. This is the feeling I have denied myself - not just through my entire life, but now, by my death, forever. I will know this experience only once, here, wrapped in the singular experience of my own death. The feeling lifts me even as the ponderous weight of my body drags me downward, strangling away my life. The warmth of it reminds me even through the pervasive fog of pain that this path I have set myself upon is the right one. My hooves stretch and strain harder than ever, ironically carrying my body closer to death with every wasted frantic effort. The grinding of my thighs tugs my undergarment roughly across my swollen flesh, keeping the stimulation raw. My heart stutters and skips. My thoughts are foggy around the edges, but one idea is clear as crystal: my death is approaching. I have killed myself. There is a sudden tremor, a sharp climax to the pleasure. Somehow, my body has eked out a release from my loins, intense and abrupt as a crimson bolide flaring across a moonless night, briefly overwhelming the bright sparking stars of anguish. The most intense release of my life, packaged within the very throes of death. Death is the only release I ever sought, the only escape that I deserve. I never asked for this pleasure, and yet it has been granted me nonetheless. I am blessed to have been permitted to experience it. And now, I will never experience it again. My body is descending from its climax rapidly, the pain coming back stronger than before, no longer in waves but in a single onrushing tide, magnified by the lens of pleasure I was allowed to only briefly glimpse. My suffering is keener now, a new edge of poignancy overlaid upon my self-initiated execution. My vision is tunneling, the room turning black around the edges, the entire world beyond my torture fading to nothingness. Every muscle of my body is burning in agony, the slow advance of asphyxiation exacting its toll. My hooffingers are slipping, too numb to feel the rope that I have killed myself with. Soon I will be with the gods. My sacrifice is for their honor. There are no more tears. My ears sag, as blue as my velvet vestments. My shrouded tail rests limp. My arms drop to my sides, bloodied hooffingers still clutching feebly in instinct. My legs slow their pedaling, the kicks of hooves dwindling to nothing more than halfhearted twitches. My body is nothing but deadweight, dragging me down, forcing the noose deeper beneath my jaw. The heavy skirt of my dress swishes for the last time and hangs as motionless as on a dressmaker's dummy, as beautiful now as on that first day ten years ago. If that fawn I was could only see me now, and know that it was all worth it. Still, the pleasure, slowly rising again, never abandoning me. Still, the pain, leaching away my life with rigid deliberation. I desire nothing more than release, the death that will free my body from all need. This sacrifice is the fulfillment of the sacred oath that fawn made that day. I am aware that my heart has stopped. The universe beyond my velvet hide winks out of existence, as sudden and insubstantial as the bursting of a soap bubble. For a moment, I know what it is like to be completely at rest. No blood, no breath. The pain and the pleasure hone to a knife's edge and sever soul from flesh. One perfect moment. My life. My death. My sacrifice. Complete. First draft began October 25, 2016. First draft completed May 8, 2017. Editing completed May 12, 2017.