here is the repeated image of a lover destroyed; glassheart

[Cordis]

The mare looks at her in a way that leaves Cordis unsteady. Adrift in a sea of thought with no lighthouse guiding her home. It’s a knowing look, a weighted one, and Cordis is unused to being looked at in such a way. She has grown so used to being untouchable – she talks only to strangers, and only fleetingly, and in those talks she divulges little. They are not permitted to know her. Even He does not know her, not really. Not now. He knew her once, because He knew the network of her veins and arteries, he took things apart and pieced them back together, He killed her a thousand times. But even He might not recognize her now. Not this lightning-thing, embossed silver, with steel in her gaze and such tremendous weight in her hearts. She almost wants to confront her, but doesn’t know what to say. Why are you looking at me like that? or What do you know? (Why do you know it?) “Cordis,” she says, soft, as if she is unsure of herself, “I’m Cordis.” “And she…” she sighs, wistful. It will never not hurt to say her name. “She was Spyndle.” For all the strangeness of this, she does not expect the girl to reach out. No one touches her, now, she makes it plainly obviously, the lightning like barbed wire around her, a warning sign. Keep out. Yet there’s no hesitancy in the movements, the girl moves closer, and Cordis shifts the lightning back. She wouldn’t burn her, not yet. She’s too curious as to how this story ends. c o r d i s I’ll touch you all and make damn sure that no one touches me