When the beautiful stranger (because she suddenly notices the lines of her body, the dark of her eyes, though she cannot say why) says her name, Glassheart takes it and folds it up, swallows it to keep forever. She likes the way it feels on her tongue, like a secret. It doesn’t answer why they’re here, why she is wrapped in lightning, why her eyes look like they’ve seen too much, but it fills her all the same - keeps her satiated until the next piece of information is fed to her. Cordis tells her that the gold one is Spyndle; her intruder has a name, after all.
And then everything is loud.
So loud.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
The memories are wild, now.
Overhead a sunset calls the moon into the mountains, and veils of fractured orange light stretch down from the skies to touch them like fingers. And once that light met the gold of Glassheart’s skin the memories became urgent, looping again, and again, and again, louder at each repetition. Every tick beneath the floorboards drives her more and more mad, until she’s reeling backward (but still outstretched to touch her skin, because she cannot let go) and feeling every blow, every assault that these memories make upon her.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
And then they meet, skin against skin, and everything is hushed.
Everything is still, and quiet.
It doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t make sense - that Cordis draws her lightning back like the moon can beckon its tides, that an insatiable gravity falls between them, that worlds can somehow be born into and die in the space existing between their touching skin. She touches her, gold against silver, and even if it’s not quite right it’s still cataclysmic. The feelings are raw, and huge, and tangible, and they invade her. Wholly, and completely, they invade her - and she knows what she chooses without ever really knowing the question: to burn.
“Cordis,” she says at last, collecting her breath beside her courage and holding it tight. She knows that what she’ll say next is dangerous, that it could label her unwell, or worse. She knows also that she has to say it. And so, with her lips still against Cordis she says:
“I think she’s here.”
“I think she might be me.”
Glassheart
i'll always love you the most
@[Cordis]