[ There's just one, long, echoing piece of silence. Scratching. Full of sounds, certainly. People moving about where she is. Her mouth parted, a soft, deep inhale. That is like taking a breath from deep underwater, harsh, she remembers. A lesson so strange - to want something so much you hurt when you have it.
She doesn't need this - not today. She can't stand this, today. She has business to attend, she has a position she has been given and Herian will want her reports no doubt, sooner rather than later and she will in the morning, exercise, ride - and in her mind she sees maps, she sees the lay of shipping lines, trade documents, outlines for places that were home and far away. She sees the grim of gunpowder, dirt and blood that leave fingerprints like footsteps over the smooth paper. Hyderabad. Lucknow. Calcutta. Mumbai. Gwalior, and a little above it, Kalpi. The details no paper could bestow. The Rajput women, dancing Ghoomer. The konch blowing clear and loud of an evening as the evening prayers began. Anand stumbling proudly through his evening Puranas. The Lotus painted in her palms. The sound of elephants. The clatter of swords and shields, and she will ride and -
Out of here, come morning. She will rise up, she will dress herself and what does she care for their reports? Their wars? Herian will understand. She will ride, and she will find the place of the dreams that brought her, and fight her way back through it. She will go home, and she will have independence. She will, she will, she will.
Something numbs to the break. That first deep breath as she breaks the surface of something. A limb that snapped and she feels the gasp rattling pain in her lungs not for the first time. Of being trapped, of being caught. Of being bound up and helpless to games so much crueller than her own. Of pounding her fists so hard they bleed.
There isn't a response to any length. She does not have words for this. There are no words for it. I died for this, I keep dying for this, I - ] Thank you.
no subject
She doesn't need this - not today. She can't stand this, today. She has business to attend, she has a position she has been given and Herian will want her reports no doubt, sooner rather than later and she will in the morning, exercise, ride - and in her mind she sees maps, she sees the lay of shipping lines, trade documents, outlines for places that were home and far away. She sees the grim of gunpowder, dirt and blood that leave fingerprints like footsteps over the smooth paper. Hyderabad. Lucknow. Calcutta. Mumbai. Gwalior, and a little above it, Kalpi. The details no paper could bestow. The Rajput women, dancing Ghoomer. The konch blowing clear and loud of an evening as the evening prayers began. Anand stumbling proudly through his evening Puranas. The Lotus painted in her palms. The sound of elephants. The clatter of swords and shields, and she will ride and -
Out of here, come morning. She will rise up, she will dress herself and what does she care for their reports? Their wars? Herian will understand. She will ride, and she will find the place of the dreams that brought her, and fight her way back through it. She will go home, and she will have independence. She will, she will, she will.
Something numbs to the break. That first deep breath as she breaks the surface of something. A limb that snapped and she feels the gasp rattling pain in her lungs not for the first time. Of being trapped, of being caught. Of being bound up and helpless to games so much crueller than her own. Of pounding her fists so hard they bleed.
There isn't a response to any length. She does not have words for this. There are no words for it. I died for this, I keep dying for this, I - ] Thank you.
[ And the communication cuts off. ]