she learned a lesson back there in the flames; any

[Cordis]

Gold was her color. Not garish, in the way Cordis’s silver shines. No, Spyndle had been gold (and when they embraced, there were alchemy metaphors, electrum metaphors, and not a single damn one ever did them justice). A soft gold, the kind begot in nature, nothing so bright and strange as she. This stallion is not gold like Spyndle is. Was. He is mixed metals, mane and tail made odd, an autumnal picture. He says something. A joke. Her lip curls, but whether in grimace or smile, it’s hard to tell. The lightning stays. He looks harmless enough, this stranger, but Cordis knows harm too well to trust anyone. There’s no point to it. (She lost faith somewhere in the depths of her prison cell, when she’d died a hundred or a thousand times. No point to faith.) (She lost it again when she came upon a pile of bones at the river. A love story, gone. Just like that. Life is fleeting and stupid.) She almost leaves. It is so easy to leave. He wouldn’t follow. She is not the kind of woman worth following. But she stays. Maybe she’s lonely, or bored, or maybe she sees something in him that begs a moment longer. “Protection,” she tells him, as if this explains it. “My name is Cordis,” she says, then. She gives up that much. Her own name feels strange in her mouth. It’s been months since she’s spoken it aloud. c o r d i s I’ll touch you all and make damn sure that no one touches me