The things we do for love.
And ah, what hasn’t she done? Destroyed others, destroyed herself (she feels sometimes like ouroboros, like she is consuming herself, predator and prey at once). Through fire and shipwrecks and every disaster one could name, and still the name drips on her lips like something viscous.
Still, she is alone.
Alone because what she’d sown – what they’d sown – was an impossibility and they both knew it, they both knew it while the air was crushed out of their lungs because looking at the other was practically a death sentence.
Too much, all this, too much.
Cordis is transient, meadow-bound – she could destroy kingdoms, this silver magician with deadened eyes and a slack jaw, but she does not, instead she wanders and runs and tries not to allow her fury to too fully take shape.
(Fury would be something whole, something corporeal, if she let it. If she breathed life into it.)
She loses her path, again and again. She has no focus. And it is dangerous, this idleness, for it allows her time to think, allows names to spring fully-formed upon her lips, allows her to think of fire, and the way things have a way of burning.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me