[ His sheer presence is memory enough to send her crawling.
That she never wants to see him again, is something of an understatement. To look on him is to feel the aftershocks of the Fast-Penta, that sinking, numbing, hazy feeling that was honey thick even in echo in her body. Not the blackwater, nothing so bitter as that. At least she knew its price when she took it. The healing was always painful.
So it's nothing at all to say, that she's perfectly happy to ignore him when he first calls her name. He should know it now, better than anyone, what she should be called. What her title is, and for him in particular, she is particularly obstinate. She had watched his eye watch her as she spilt out from the caverns of herself secret kind things - the things she is loathe most for anyone to know. Tender, careful words of a mother and wife she has buried so deep she pretends she does not know the steps to anymore. All out and dissected under their gaze.
But he - he knows it all now. She's so set, to rip him apart, like if she savages him, between his piece, she might find herself once more where she is so spent out.
So, so intent, as he sits across from her and she turns to face him, where she's stiff back and in grey and black silks. The wrap of the grey material wrapping around her to cover the worst of her till recovering bruises. Then - she looks at him, someone that knows Maine, someone that apparently has fought with and against that man, dressed up like a courtier. It's not so much that she finds their decadence ridiculous - what was this to the glittering many mirrored court of the Peshwa? To the high walls of Gwalior?
It is that it is him. She snorts, despite herself, and maybe it's crueller that she has to be.
And in the first time in days she speaks. ] Go back to swords and blood... then you might be moderately respectable.
no subject
That she never wants to see him again, is something of an understatement. To look on him is to feel the aftershocks of the Fast-Penta, that sinking, numbing, hazy feeling that was honey thick even in echo in her body. Not the blackwater, nothing so bitter as that. At least she knew its price when she took it. The healing was always painful.
So it's nothing at all to say, that she's perfectly happy to ignore him when he first calls her name. He should know it now, better than anyone, what she should be called. What her title is, and for him in particular, she is particularly obstinate. She had watched his eye watch her as she spilt out from the caverns of herself secret kind things - the things she is loathe most for anyone to know. Tender, careful words of a mother and wife she has buried so deep she pretends she does not know the steps to anymore. All out and dissected under their gaze.
But he - he knows it all now. She's so set, to rip him apart, like if she savages him, between his piece, she might find herself once more where she is so spent out.
So, so intent, as he sits across from her and she turns to face him, where she's stiff back and in grey and black silks. The wrap of the grey material wrapping around her to cover the worst of her till recovering bruises. Then - she looks at him, someone that knows Maine, someone that apparently has fought with and against that man, dressed up like a courtier. It's not so much that she finds their decadence ridiculous - what was this to the glittering many mirrored court of the Peshwa? To the high walls of Gwalior?
It is that it is him. She snorts, despite herself, and maybe it's crueller that she has to be.
And in the first time in days she speaks. ] Go back to swords and blood... then you might be moderately respectable.