Like knows like, they say.
So by all rights like should know like here. Cordis spent years (she assumes it’s years, anyway – time had not existed in such a dark place) in His lair. There, she was broken a thousand times over. He flayed skin from her bones, He burned her alive, He marked her, He killed her in every way He could think of. And over and over again, she died, until death was like some wicked friend, and every time she went down that tunnel of white light, she prayed: this time.
But no, she was remade each time, brought back whole and unscathed, silver and gleaming like a new nickel.
And all this happened until it didn’t – until the defining day when she ran, and ran, hellhounds (His hounds) nipping at her heels, baying and gibbering.
And after that, well – that’s another story.
But like knows like, or it should – and the like part here is, they are both marked by a dark god.
(Cordis has only a brand – His mark, burnt on her hip, unable to be healed. But oh, the mental scars are plenty.)
She should see a kindred soul in this old mare, when she sees her from the corner of her eye. His particular brand of cruelty should cry out to her.
Yet it doesn’t. Instead all she sees is something weak. And she should walk on, as she has done a hundred times before.
But god, she’s so lost – she’s so wretched – and when her feet stray from her path, inch closer to the old mare, she does not stop herself. Her skin – silver and bright, blinding, were the mare not already blind – crackles with electricity. Cordis keeps herself well-caged and untouchable.
“Hello,” she says.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me