She considers, as she often does, running.
She used to run much more, back when her escape was new and she had been constantly hunted by His hellhounds, their hot breaths chuffing at her heels, skittering movements in the corner of her vision. She’d run, and run, His brand burning hot on her hip.
She ran. She told Spyndle, I can’t. And left. She would leave many more times. So would Spyndle. It was a commonality between them.
(Leaving didn’t matter in the light of returning. Of the way her breath would catch when she saw her again. How she could never fully recall the beauty of her until it was before her eyes once more.)
Fear had been a constant even when she learned of her own magic, the thing that had lain dormant in her veins for so long. Her time in His lair had wired her brain to be full of fear, and this was not a thing easily undone.
But now –
Now, she does not run. She still has fear, a tumor of it that sits inside her, but her breath does not come wild, and she knows to walk, now.
So she doesn’t run. Even if the thought seems appealing. The mare means no harm, surely. And even if she does – Cordis is not afraid to harm, herself.
The woman calls her something - lighning-has-struck - and she does her best not to think of another time lightning struck.
(Will you, will you come back for me.)
“My name’s Cordis,” she says, “I’m exploring the river.”
Which is a lie of a question to how are you - to answer with an action rather than a feeling. But she is so, so sick of feeling.
“And how are you?”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me