Charles sat on her floor and he watched her as she walked, her long fingers trailing across the walls. His stomach felt like a jumbled mess. He swallowed roughly and pulled his knees up to his chest and there he sat with his back against her bed.
Battlefield of bedrooms. He ha fought such a battle in his youth and he had indeed been the one to weep. It had been one of the worst times in his life, that school where he had been bullied during the day and defiled by night. It had taken him several years to return to study at university after completing his schooling at Rugby, for fear of his horrible experiences occurring again.
But it was entirely possible Cassandra was speaking about something else entirely. Perhaps this was just him associating himself with random words about random people. He hadn't told a single soul about those nights at Rugby. He left it up to historians and scholars to debate over, while he alone knew the truth.
Charles alone, and now perhaps little Cassandra of Troy.
"Innocence can burn, yes," he finally said softly. "It can and it does. And sometimes when that happens, the person stripped of their innocence tries as hard as they can to regain it." Like maybe by befriending innocent girls and writing children's novels?