She hadn’t even known it was magic, at first – so many odd and inexplicable things had happened to her, she assumed it was the way of the world. And while it was, in a way, she did not know the power of what she could do. Even still, she has not plumbed the extent of it, besides trying to bring Spyndle back, which had been doomed from the start.
She burned someone, once. She’s hurt others – killed, even. But magic isn’t needed for murder.
Sometimes she watches the other horses, fantastical and brilliant, how they shape the world, beckon beasts to their sides, control fire and water and smoke.
His answer is short – whether in mimicry of her brevity or just how he is, she knows not – but it says enough. She understands enough.
Usually, she likes her powers too. She likes the lightning, the thrum of it in her ears, the tickle on her silver skin. She likes their widened eyes, the wide berth she is almost always granted. She likes being untouchable.
He offers a little more, telling her he wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, and she nods again. Not in agreement, exactly – she’s never found the lightning a burden – but she is stiff, still, and it’s easier to move her body than her mouth.
There is a question she wants to ask, and she hesitates for a moment, wondering what to reveal, how to explain herself, before barreling forward.
“Does it ever fail you?” she asks. She answers her own question for him, then.
“It failed me. I wanted to bring someone back from the dead, but…”
She wants to say more – to add detail of her attempts – but the memory, old and well-worn as it is, surfaces with a painful vengeance, and Cordis, once again, goes quiet.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me
@
Gale