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| - A short story describing Rebekka Citreola's state of mind after Duskmantle's death and the disbanding of the Apothecarium. ~ ~ ~ Rebekka bridled her horse slowly, with deliberation. The leather was soft and shiny underneath her hands - it had just been polished. Unlike the mare, Amandah, Admon did not stir and fuss. He simply lowered his massive head so that she could slip the crownpiece over his ears. She had made a list.Late in the night, when only the stars illuminated the heaps of pages laying in the grass around her. She could not focus no more, could not bring herself to continue. The quill fell out of her limp, ink-stained fingers.Her thoughts drifted, grazed against everything that wasn't safe, everything that hurt, that confused her. The memories were like thorns. They'd brake her.So she flexed her fingers. Drew patterns with the ink on her thighs. Picked up the quill. Reached for a new page. And wrote. She buckled the throatlatch and the noseband. Reached for his fringe, pulling the rough strands of black hair out from underneath the browband. She was grateful that he did not toss his head - it seemed like impatience had left the animal at the same time as life had. Admon would just peer down at her with a large, pale eye, letting her embrace his neck, run her fingers through his mane. She needed it. Something steady, something that did not run, did not hurt. Something Safe.It was hard not to think of the things on The List. It became longer and longer. As she could not think about Amandah Bakker, she could not think about bakers, or bread, flour, wheat, fields, farms. Zanthier Beldane, the doctor, was also Unsafe. And thus, she could not think about how he had stitched skin to his jaw, and then she could not think of jaws at all, or teeth or chewing or food. Few things were Safe. But Admon was. Even though she was running, she had Something. Something Safe. What are you running from, she asked herself, as she pulled herself up into the saddle. The answer was clear as ice. Just as hard and cold. Cutting her skin just as easily. You are running from a confused, bewildered mind. An impossible existence. And a raging young heart, trying to break free from its cold chains. She didn't know if she could bind it any longer. That what was she was doing. Binding. Choking. Something had awoken which she could not let live. She was ice, she was steel, she was stone. She could not turn into ember and ash. As they wandered the grassy expanses of the Arathi Highlands, she held the reins loosely in her hands, but she did not make use of them. Admon found his own way among hills and stones. His gait was as stable as his temperament. Not even the steep climbs and treacherous ravines seemed to be a challenge for him. She enjoyed feeling his body work underneath her. How his muscles moved underneath the soft, brown hide. It took her mind off things.Even though it was a mere three weeks since she bought Admon from the horse trader Zachariah Post in Brill, it felt like she'd known him for years. He had so quickly become her pole star - a fixed point to navigate from, an anchor to reality. Somewhere to flee when she could not hold back - when cold, hard stone cracked to expose gushing streams of blazing lava. Admon had the habit of halting to graze every now and then. He would chew the short grass for a few moments, only to spit it out. Seeing it brought a strange brittleness to her heart.
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