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Her was mood was dead.

Upon entrance she helped herself to a bottle of vodka from Jaxen's cabinet, shedding the ruined dress and sharp heels as she did so. The lace left bloody smeared patterns against her shoulders, darkening the delicate underwear beneath. But Ori was hardly one for modesty. On the bathroom floor she systematically picked out the splinters from her wrists and knees, a blush of the power scouring what the eye could not see. Though it ached like a healing wound to wield it. Her lips twisted a grimace, less from pain and more from frustration.

The echo of the ijiraq's loss was like a fucking heartbeat, underscoring every breath. Its pain felt like her pain. Its loss felt like her loss.

She swallowed the vodka periodically, but it didn't drown the feeling. Or not enough. She sparked like something darkly electric, aware of Jaxen's movements but unwilling to engage despite his hospitality. The water she stepped into raised to a scald, like she was trying to strip the skin. Ori took no comfort. The set of her jaw; the burn of her eyes -- she looked like she wanted to ram a fist into the wall. Truth but not the whole of it. Beneath the hostility her chest was aflame with pain.

She did not stay, and she did not thank him. Her dress remained a ruined puddle on his floor. He would find his closet absent a shirt.

The apartment was dark. Shoes crowded in the shadows by the doorway, five ancient roubles crammed in each toe. The towering height of her devilish heels slipped off, left to fall askew. Ori checked the windows were locked. Ignored the offerings left for domovoi amongst tacky statues of angels on the sill. Drew the curtains.

The bed was empty, though the sheets were rumpled like casually tossed waves, an empty wine bottle neatly stacked on the floor for luck. Ori's lips flattened in irritation as she began a routine search, until Dezhda was discovered curled on the floor amidst a nest of blankets. She stared down for a while, examining the stir in her chest. The scorch of a bootprint. Muddled memories.

Then she climbed over, laid herself down in the space between the wall. Damp hair made an uncomfortable pillow. Her arms curled gently over her mother's waist, face pressed close. Dezhda stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly. Ori shut her eyes.

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