There exists in her a duality.
One is a mare who loved, who stood chest-high in baptismal waters, who waited years to touch what she coveted most. A mare who learned to smile and be soft, who loved her children, held them close.
She feels that girl slipping away, a face on the water. She isn’t sure if she’s sorry to see her go.
The other is a thing crafted by experiences, the growth of a dark heart forged in His lair, made more vital by everything after – by love lost, by cruel words, by the taste of blood on her tongue. This woman dresses herself in lightning, learns her magic (she is still nascent compared to most, her tricks clumsy, save for the lightning – that bit comes natural). This woman knows it is a pleasure to burn.
Both of these beings exist within her and sometimes it feels like two hearts beating in discordance. Sometimes she feels split, torn in a way that cannot be repaired.
(But then, she has always hurt.)
She walks in the meadow like she’s proud, swathed in lightning like a storm thundered to earth. She walks untouchable and likes it that way. Besides, the lightning hides the brand, His mark that sits on her hip, the mark she cannot heal with any magic.
She is not His, though her body speaks otherwise, a lie carved permanent on her skin.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me