There are times when the roads diverge, when two choices emerge. It had been that way – in her mind if not in reality – when He had asked her if she was alone.
It had been that way when Spyndle asked her to the river, where they waded in baptismal waters and nothing since had ever looked so beautiful as the sight of her in the water.
It had been that way when she held the boy to her chest and let him burn.
And it feels that way now, as the girl lays disgustingly open and easy before her, trying – wanting – to believe that Cordis could be a savior, a protector.
There were so many she could not save – not even her own daughter – so why should it be expected of her?
The roads fork, and on one path is protection. On one path is darkness.
There is a third choice, of course: to turn and flee, leave the girl to the wolves, to the man she runs from.
Forget her name.
But, there is a story to tell.
“My lightning,” she says. This is the story. It used to hurt to tell it. Now it feels good.
“I was attacked and I burned him for it.”
The first time the lightning had come. The stallion had been a vagabond, a strange and rotting thing. He had been stupid, nothing like the man - the god – who had destroyed her.
“Another woman wronged me, hurt someone I loved,” she continues. She doesn’t know if this is true. She remember regretting the girl’s death, the odd prophetess. But she changes the narrative.
“I killed both of them.”
It gets easier, to say it.
“And there was a boy. He was about your age.”
This story is harder.
“He asked to see my magic, so I showed him.”
She showed him lightning, showed him burnt skin. For years she didn’t know if he survived until one day he walks from the woods like a ghoul, body covered in fire like he’d never stopped burning, and he’d said her name while she wanted to scream.
“If you man comes,” she says, “I’d burn him, too.”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me