She doesn’t know dragons, doesn’t need to. He had been all the monster she needed, and though He could have taken whatever form He liked, He most often kept to horse form. He hadn’t needed much to be terrifying, that was wielded in the wicked heat of His gaze, in the proverbial snap of fingers and the way pain would radiate into her very marrow.
The mare is odd, and speaks as if she knows Cordis, knows the years spent in heartache, years spent in love – years spent, spilled like coins from a purse.
You know nothing, Cordis wants to snap. But she’s quiet. The mare has done nothing wrong.
What are you searching for?
A loaded question.
“Nothing,” she tells her. Even if she could articulate it, she wouldn’t tell her. Such things are hers, and hers alone, to bear.
After she speaks, there is movement, a bay stallion who watches them. He keeps his distance – wisely so, she suspects – but it’s clear he’s watching them. She assesses him, sees no immediate danger – not that that means anything, of course, she of all women knows things about the dark, terrible places in one’s heart, in their desires.
“Make your choice,” she tells him. Not hello. She is not so polite. Come over, or leave.
(She used to be better. She used to smile. Now she dresses in a prison of lightning and stands solitary. A dreadful life.)
The mare is odd, and speaks as if she knows Cordis, knows the years spent in heartache, years spent in love – years spent, spilled like coins from a purse.
You know nothing, Cordis wants to snap. But she’s quiet. The mare has done nothing wrong.
What are you searching for?
A loaded question.
“Nothing,” she tells her. Even if she could articulate it, she wouldn’t tell her. Such things are hers, and hers alone, to bear.
After she speaks, there is movement, a bay stallion who watches them. He keeps his distance – wisely so, she suspects – but it’s clear he’s watching them. She assesses him, sees no immediate danger – not that that means anything, of course, she of all women knows things about the dark, terrible places in one’s heart, in their desires.
“Make your choice,” she tells him. Not hello. She is not so polite. Come over, or leave.
(She used to be better. She used to smile. Now she dresses in a prison of lightning and stands solitary. A dreadful life.)
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me