and he told me i was holy;; cordis.

[Cordis]

She is not meant for this – is not meant to wield such power is she does. Magicians are supposed to be loyal things, powerful creatures that changes lives, change worlds.
All she does is drape herself in lightning and wonder what it is to burn.
It’s a mistake – so much of her is – and one she can’t correct.

What she doesn’t tell her – and what the girl doesn’t ask – is that monsters don’t die. They brand you; haunt you, live in between every rib. That there is no reversing this, the die is cast, the epitaph carved.
Because she’s no better off, now. Now, she’s free (but she isn’t); now, she’s magical (but she’s weak), and all she has is memories – a whole stockpile of them – and these memories are why she wraps herself in lightning, why she lives adrift, why she can’t forget that golden woman’s name.
(Why she looked back, once.)

Redemption has always been a laughable idea, a thing of stories and little else. She is not a creature meant for such, not when she sat marinated in His lair, not when she’s died a dozen times over.
She sees herself in this girl and it terrifies her.
Because the girl looks at her and always promises redemption, which is a dangerous path and one she is damned to never walk upon.
Still, she is nodding, she is lying (is she?).
“Yes,” she says, “yes.”
Promises are foolish things, and she is a fool to make them, but that has never stopped her.

I’ll touch you all and make damn sure

Cordis

that no one touches me