She shifts. Gets the shield underneath her and pushes. She props herself up to a sitting position and takes a steadying breath. Every motion hurts so much and that hurt shows in every flex of muscle.

For a moment there's rage. For a moment she feels that same choking, all consuming spite and fury that Asterion feels. It hangs before her like the sweetest ambrosia, the ability to just block everything out; to slay her emotions with a sword of spite. She could just attack and attack and attack and there'd be nothing left of her afterwards to hurt. Please. Let her have this. Let her blot herself out. Let her scar over. 

What a luxury that would be. 

"What's your name, kid?" she asked, gingerly rubbing the dirt and muck from her sleeve. There's a steady, calming confidence in her voice now. She still has this to give.