[ It's... childish, what he says. Yeah, well it sucks. It reminds her of her adopted boy, squalling for sweets, when she told him he could not grow strong enough to ride the war elephant if he refused to eat his whole meals. Beating his fists against something inevitable, then begging at her skirts, Rani - but he wants them now, he does not want eat the corn, he wishes for honey. How it seemed so pitiful, because at times, it took on a desperation that seemed nothing at all to do with eating, and more, more trying to stall on something that she could do nothing but pick him up and shush him, trying to dry the tears on his face by blotting them on her own cheek when she pressed in motherly close.
She might roll her eyes if she had not had them herself, when she had been young. If a great more privately. A girl and a queen and not understanding everything she had to do, she remembered sulking at the restrictions and freedom that rolled terrifying in front of her. At times, it was a yawning cavern below her, it felt, a nightmare she would have about the ground swallowing her up. Duty, duty was like drowning and starving at the same time.
Then years, years and years later, watching a burned city, tasting ash and smoke.
Don't you hate it sometimes?
The day her son died, small, quiet, and then suddenly gone in her arms. One day, the palace so filled with light on it's many paintings and full to bursting with the laughter and music, cast in dark. Standing there, stricken, looking at nothing, because what was there to look at anymore? Rooms that were once joy, now, all over again, just rooms. She is filled with such rooms. That she had to close the doors on because duty, duty always would come first. The fact that she could not grieve because her husband was falling apart and there were a thousand families that were dependent upon them to guide them and her husband could not stop his broken heart from bleeding enough to do so. He could not see to his duties.
So she did them. Bereft, fingers clutching at the ropes of flowers that hung over a little boy's crib. Tasting in herself only an emptiness that sounded like fate as the British informed her that it was not enough that she had lost her son, for such an unforgivable crime, she would lose her kingdom too. ]
Every night, I close my eyes, and I see those that would attend me, looked to me, clear behind my eyes. They have been dead for years, but they have never left me.
no subject
She might roll her eyes if she had not had them herself, when she had been young. If a great more privately. A girl and a queen and not understanding everything she had to do, she remembered sulking at the restrictions and freedom that rolled terrifying in front of her. At times, it was a yawning cavern below her, it felt, a nightmare she would have about the ground swallowing her up. Duty, duty was like drowning and starving at the same time.
Then years, years and years later, watching a burned city, tasting ash and smoke.
Don't you hate it sometimes?
The day her son died, small, quiet, and then suddenly gone in her arms. One day, the palace so filled with light on it's many paintings and full to bursting with the laughter and music, cast in dark. Standing there, stricken, looking at nothing, because what was there to look at anymore? Rooms that were once joy, now, all over again, just rooms. She is filled with such rooms. That she had to close the doors on because duty, duty always would come first. The fact that she could not grieve because her husband was falling apart and there were a thousand families that were dependent upon them to guide them and her husband could not stop his broken heart from bleeding enough to do so. He could not see to his duties.
So she did them. Bereft, fingers clutching at the ropes of flowers that hung over a little boy's crib. Tasting in herself only an emptiness that sounded like fate as the British informed her that it was not enough that she had lost her son, for such an unforgivable crime, she would lose her kingdom too. ]
Every night, I close my eyes, and I see those that would attend me, looked to me, clear behind my eyes. They have been dead for years, but they have never left me.
[ and she keeps scrubbing the saw. ]