the cinders are falling like snow; raelynx

[Cordis]

She was once the slate, and what had been written upon her was decades of pain: His scriptures, writ in fire and fear, writ in bones broken and recast, flesh torn off in tatters. It’s a story still written in the ghastly look to her dark eyes, a story told in the brand on her hip, His symbol, the one that burns when He is close. (It grew warm as a meteor descended upon earth, as rumors spilled of Him, dressed in stars, spawning a legion of children, a constellation of them. But He has let her be.) She was once the slate, the blank paper, the empty canvas. And drawn across her were horrors, some recalled and some buried too deep, skeletons locked in a closet. Now she is not so empty, she has His story, and other stories, too. (The river is a story. The gold woman, the baptism, everything that came after. The love and loss and children and her touch, the consummation of a thing months – years – in the making. It is a story, a foundation, and it is one that hurts to tell for entirely different reasons.) Now, she wields the pen, the paintbrush. Now, her skin is silver and electricity thrums in her veins and she hears his heartbeat. She realizes he trusts her and she wonders how anyone could be so stupid. “I’m magic,” she says. She still doesn’t truly understand the extend of her powers. Mostly, she just knows the lightning – the flicker of electricity she can summon, how she can draw bolts from the sky, from her very self. (She does not question how she’s survived everything that happened, or how she escaped the lair, never thought it magic. Sometimes, she is a terribly stupid girl.) “Do you want to see what I can do?” The lightning buzzes inside of her and she feels alive in a strange way, a dark and terrible hunger that has rotted her heart like a cancer. It is a pleasure to burn, coos the darkest part of her, and the lightning agrees. c o r d i s she said it was a mistake to let them burn her at the stake and she learned a lesson back there in the flames