She does wonder sometimes if there is still lightning within her – for it had come from nothing, once, catalyzed by the rotting wayfarer, so why couldn’t it come again?
This time feels different, though – a certain hollowness she feels bone-deep but can’t quite articulate. And thing time, all around her others have grown powerless, like birds falling from the sky.
There is only the memory of the lightning haunting her eyes.
She follows his gaze to the horses in the distance (though remains acutely aware of him, making sure the distance still exists between them, that he does not use this as a distraction). She watches the nameless, faceless forms and wonders.
“They lost homes,” she says. It’s not an answer. She knows what it’s like to lose a home – Spyndle had been home. Cordis had felt a certain safety pressed against her. Whispering to her. In those few moments where things were not wrong between them.
“But homes are easily rebuilt.”
(Assuming you do not make your home in the embrace of a fickle, golden mare.)
“We lost…” she trails off, unsure as to what word might fix next. She has never been much of a wordsmith.
“We lost more. Lost ourselves.”
She looks back at him.
“Unless you feel differently?”
She knows so little about it. She doesn’t know what missing pieces he is made of.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me