[ His words - writ in mist - are a wave upon her. Slow and sinking, dragging her down. Her eyes shut briefly - a reflexive turn away. No one can see this, even as she's being watched, she knows she is. By Gods or this enemies many, many eyes, by him looking into her. Her head turns away, swallowing down - wishes for her veils for the first time in a long time.
She will never forgive the Cetagandans for doing this to her. For leaving her with her heart a staccato to her throat, the gold shimmering light about her as a reminder to her if no one else, of what she is. Her fingers in her lap, curling into themselves, trying to make this choice, she has to make this choice. Trust him or - you don't deserve to die - not.
Lakshmi Bai, rises, again. But this isn't stricken, determined: he's giving her something, something hope like and ash tasting. Opened up flat in her eyes, aching in her teeth. The soft skirts from the party the night before that trail behind her. She looks him dead, straight in the eye. War cries and queenly decrees that curve in the shape of her mouth and flow out of her fingers as she mists over the glass again.
Placing this dry wood kindling, logs and matches to strike into his hand. This will be the death of her if he betrays her.
The simplest answer is best. She traces the pattern of the ouroboros on the blackwater with a single line of focus. A weaving, looping thing. The snake devouring itself to knotted purpose. ]
Find it.
[ She leans forward, forehead tipping to the cool panel against the fever of her withdrawal, the ache of her aging. There is a lot of things to say, my loyalty is yours now, it is my life, thank you. All of them short quick words of misery and gutted intentions. Mean nothing, nothing, nothing. Sure that he will leave her destroyed in the same breath that she places all that she is into his palm.
No, she leans forward, settling herself, open, empty, there with nothing to guard it, to place her palm against the glass. Flat weaving life lines that crisscross with battle scars and callouses. A intention that is plain, and call it anything else. Right now, in this?
no subject
She will never forgive the Cetagandans for doing this to her. For leaving her with her heart a staccato to her throat, the gold shimmering light about her as a reminder to her if no one else, of what she is. Her fingers in her lap, curling into themselves, trying to make this choice, she has to make this choice. Trust him or - you don't deserve to die - not.
Lakshmi Bai, rises, again. But this isn't stricken, determined: he's giving her something, something hope like and ash tasting. Opened up flat in her eyes, aching in her teeth. The soft skirts from the party the night before that trail behind her. She looks him dead, straight in the eye. War cries and queenly decrees that curve in the shape of her mouth and flow out of her fingers as she mists over the glass again.
Placing this dry wood kindling, logs and matches to strike into his hand. This will be the death of her if he betrays her.
The simplest answer is best. She traces the pattern of the ouroboros on the blackwater with a single line of focus. A weaving, looping thing. The snake devouring itself to knotted purpose. ]
Find it.
[ She leans forward, forehead tipping to the cool panel against the fever of her withdrawal, the ache of her aging. There is a lot of things to say, my loyalty is yours now, it is my life, thank you. All of them short quick words of misery and gutted intentions. Mean nothing, nothing, nothing. Sure that he will leave her destroyed in the same breath that she places all that she is into his palm.
No, she leans forward, settling herself, open, empty, there with nothing to guard it, to place her palm against the glass. Flat weaving life lines that crisscross with battle scars and callouses. A intention that is plain, and call it anything else. Right now, in this?
She needs him. ]