[/html]pfff.
The dull crushing weight against her skull, which she had forced away when her sister arrived, returned now, and she wanted so much to embrace it, to hide beneath it and pretend she was not lucid enough to continue the conversation. There were too many thoughts and too many emotions, none of which she wanted to confront or deal with or talk about. She was caught between anger and fear, a need to accuse and the feeling of being accused. The pouty child wanted to return to her room, to hide and to sleep, and to forget a while longer that things were not the same.
Cassandra accepted the offered seat gratefully, but she frowned at Myrika's words. The pressure in her head seemed to lighten just a little as she felt her shame give way to a quiet coldness. There was safety in anger. She stared wordlessly at the one-eyed woman for the brief moment she showed herself at the door, but turned away again when the door shut and her sister faced her to set down a bucket of water, clean bandages, a few rags, a comb, and a brush.
A year Myrika had lived here amongst them. A year ago, the tawny daughter had arrived in this place to join with their estranged family while her sister was crushed under the body of her screaming, dying horse, surrounded by those that would try to enslave her. Cassandra wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously, but the bitter lump in her throat helped still her tongue. Instead, she took the dented cup and picked up the rag from the floor to slowly wash the blood and dirt from her thin muzzle, her face, and her throat.
"You'll stay here then," she said. It was not a question. Cassandra's voice was soft, but it was no longer the quiet shyness of youth; it was an even, careful voice, now purposefully free of too many feelings. "There is no where else. Thornloe is no more." She did not look at Myrika, but continued to wash herself awkwardly, arms moving stiffly while she ignored the return of the pulsing pain in her left shoulder.
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