you should come back home; any

[Cordis]

There were never kingdoms, for her. She could have entered into any of them easily – new magicians were few and far between – but she did not flaunt her power in the same way. She only used the lightning, really – clothed herself in it the way prisons build fences topped with razor wire.
(And was she keeping them out, or her darker self in? To this day, she doesn’t know. She likely will never know.)
The meadow was kingdom enough, because it was here where she most truly lived. Here, she met a gold mare, swam with her in the river. Here, they loved and left, a cycle that repeated itself endlessly, a Sisyphean romance.

He steps closer and she hardens – instinctual. She is not one for closeness. But she stands her ground. She doesn’t trust him, not a whit, but being distracted by this is better than being alone, than running until she can run no more, sides heaving.
You haven’t lost much, then, he says, and she laughs, bitter. She’d burn the meadow to the ground to bring back the things she’s lost.
“I was a magician,” she says, and the word – was – is painful to say, like speaking around a canker sore, “I lost my lightning.”
She’s lost Spyndle, too, but that’s not the land’s fault – she is always damned to lose her.
“My name is Cordis,” she says, because it seems like he should know her name, now that he knows some of what she has lost.

I’ll touch you all and make damn sure

Cordis

that no one touches me