The darkness had meant so little to her.
She would have been frightened of it, once. Would have been out of her mind at the obscurity, the chuffing sounds of things in the distance, the glimpses of them moving light-quick. But they never targeted her, even as she crackled in the dark, the lightning giving her an awful glow. She was visible, yes, but not an easy target, the snapping of electricity warned of that much, at least.
And now there was light again, and that meant so little to her, too.
She is still swathed in her electricity, her warning signs, but it is no longer out of fear that she wears it so. Funny, how fear drains away when every terrible thing you could imagine has happened already.
(Not every terrible thing, of course. There is a whole host of terrible things Cordis has not experienced. But there are plenty that she has.)
She’s back at the river, this most hated and loved of places. She thinks of Spyndle so often, here – how clearly she can see her still, there in the water. It was the first time Cordis had followed her. She hadn’t known, then, that she would follow her and follow her and follow her until the day that she couldn’t.
You can’t follow bones. You can try – you can throw yourself into the water, you can scream and cry and bargain – but you can’t.
She closes her eyes and remembers how the sun felt on her back, how cool the water was. How scared she’d been. She opens her eyes. It’s not the same river. She’s not the same woman.
Nothing’s the same, now. Hasn’t been for a long time.
She’s at the river’s edge. She shouldn’t have come here. How often can you salt the same wound?
But she feels something here. Even if it’s pain, it’s something.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me
@[laura] whoever wants to deal with this depresso