Fear is a snarling, terrible thing.
She had forgotten the exact rawness of it, the way it prickled, alive, on her skin – she was used to a more subtle kind of fear, the low and steady haunt of the traumatized. Not this kind, the raw and feral thing that clawed at every organ.
This is why – she is
(was)
a magician, a woman who clothed herself in lightning, who made herself untouchable save to very few. A woman with hard eyes and a lonesome spirit who felt safe in her own skin – safe as she ever had, anyway. A woman assured in her own abilities.
A magician now rendered useless, sterile, the power leeched from her bones by a defiant land and powers she did not understand.
Now, not a magician, but a woman. A woman colored molten silver, with a scar on her hip. A brand. A reminder.
(It does not burn hot, at least. She takes a small, bitter comfort in that.)
And she should not be alone. Alone, she too often hears a distant baying of hellhounds that may or may not exist. Alone, she is a beacon, shining bright as a scimitar, unobstructed.
He is alone and looks out of place, and that is why she walks to him, though still keeps a healthy distance between them.
“Hello,” she says, “you look lost.”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me