#even an unarmed kassandra is not to be trifled with

[semperintrepida]

A chapter in which a farmstead in the middle of nowhere still isn't safe from roving predators.

❧

Spring drips along in strings of soggy days. The incessant rain leaves the goats restless and grumpy in their stalls, and the sun only appears as a tease. I should be grumpy too, hobbling around with a bad ankle, forced to rely on your help. But we've reached a truce of sorts. I've learned to coexist with you.

We're not friends. I don't know what we are. You give me space when I need it, and I don't claw at you with my words. Somehow, we even manage a few conversations that aren't about the goats or the weather.

It's a fragile peace, balanced on the edge of my mood. Your name changes from moment to moment. A careless remark delivered like a command? Deimos. A curious question about some task I'm doing? Kassandra. And whenever you're Deimos, I must hold back my rage, lest it cut you, me, and everything else between us.

You're figuring out how to be someone else. Maybe that's what the gods want: for me to give you a place to do that. Hopefully you'll have better luck at it than I did.

Weeks pass. The rain tapers off to a mere drizzle, and one morning, after we've finished the milking, I point out a yearling and say, "I need you to help me slaughter this wether today."