faderift | open

[ Behind her veils she raises an eyebrow, pressing her lips together, briefly, smothering the little bout of laughter. ]

I suppose you did bring something to drink.

[ Even if she was determined not to take more than very small sips. She hardly needed to get sodden the first time she meets him, only a few mouthfuls in. Instead, from out of a bag she brought herself, she takes out a small box herself, her own offering. ] Here, I made them myself. These are from my homeland, we call them laduu.

[ Just small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, the ball was sweet and yellow coloured as she lifts off the lid of it. All rich with the smell of butter and sugar. ] I was 13, the first time I made one, just after I became Queen - [ a fact that gives her no pause, breezing past it. Her hand lifts, gesturing as she talks. ] - and I was terribly bored, so I made one as big as my hand. The biggest anyone had seen, I just kept rolling it and rolling it, and I never usually tried to bother my ... maids, I suppose you would call them. So they often let me be, until they looked up and saw what I had done. You should have heard it, 'Rani, Rani, yah kya kiya? What have you done, what have you made?'

[ He laughs, and plucks it off her hand. Holds it up to his eye and closes the other, squinting like it's a spyglass instead of an opaque ball of dough. ]

This is why you never allow royals to bestir themselves.

[ And to that, she sighs irritably. Had quite enough of that particular assumption. A snip in her tone most surely. ]

I thought a man not from Orlais might not make the same assumptions as all others do.

And what assumption is that, Lakshmi Bai?

That I am anything like the Empress Celene. Or any of your other nobles. [ Her eyes are rolling behind her veils. ] That I do not know the work of my own hands. Or my duty to my people in anything but the most direct sense. Nor do I mean the posturing of a chevalier, or such things. I work, I have always worked.

[ He purses his lips, and jabs her with a small needle, prodding her on: ]

You seem quite sensitive.

[ And that - works it's wonders. She snaps, straight up, furious completely with it. Sensitive like a squalling child, wanting to be picked up and held. She had never asked for it, not once, for anyone here to consider her higher or lower, to do anything but her own work.

Just like that she snatches her veils off, so she might look at him directly, furious, almost. The bindi painted to her brow with the half moon below it, the gold tikka that sits on her brow down the middle of her hair. ] Sensitive is what flesh is when a blade is pressed to it. What I am, is a daughter of Hindustan.

[ Ah. Look at that. She's quite beautiful, after all. How funny it is. ]

And who was Hindustan?

My mother, father, brother, sister, the water I drink and the earth below my feet. [ she shakes her hand, and for that at least she has patience. She takes no licks to her pride, her honour, but an earnest question?

But it does take her a moment to realise how her temper had gotten the better of her, to cool herself afterwards with it. Not opting to cover herself up but instead lay the fabric across the crown, smoothing it flat over her hair and adjusting it out of way. ]

Is and what and where should be your questions. Hindustan is my home, of which my kingdom, Jhansi, is but a small part of.

Dear Maker preserve me.

[ He purses his lips at her. ]

Are you some sort of patriot, then?

Some would call me such a thing.

[ There is a wicked tongue to those words, that hides its laughter away even if her own private joke is behind her eyes, creased briefly in the corner of her mouth as she goes about settling herself. ] I think what it makes me is a Queen who knows who and what must always come first, don't you think?

[ A dig perhaps, she loathes the dance some lords played, anything less than of any leader fully to their people was not worth respect. ]

I suppose. Well.

[ He purses his lips further. The expression is practically a pout. ]

Assuming they were real to begin with, of course.

Meaning?

[ Her eyebrow lifts - utterly unsympathetic to that pout - but waiting, ready for the words this time when she is told you sound mad or you shouldn't talk about your past like it matters. ]

Well, you're from the Fade. It's dreams that exist in the Fade.

[ And, smoothly: ]

And having now seen your beauty, I cannot believe that you could be rooted in mortal flesh. It had to have been the perfection of dreaming that would create a face like yours.

Dog. [ That - her mouth falls open a moment, whatever she means to say gone completely in a moment of shock of - who but a court poet ever dared?

But she does snip with it, blade-flick fast, reaching up to tug on his hair with a painful little twist with her fingers. It would be no more than sting, clattering loudly with the chime of bangles. ] Dreams should not hurt - so I will hurt you each time such foolishness falls from your lips to remind you that I am no fantasy of yours.

Ah, ma cherie -

[ He lifts his hand - not to defend himself, but to trace a single, sensual, fine-boned finger up her wrist. ]

Do not promise that, Lakshmi Bai. It will only serve to encourage me.

[ His finger was soft on perhaps on of the few places a little less harsh. Not less scarred but - softer. But for certain, his hands were a sight more delicate than hers, and it is no business she is interested in. She snatches it back - pointing one threatening finger in his face, long, scarred fingers in the mottling of swordman's scars on flat beaten knuckles. Starbursts of white against brown skin.

Because he had touched. Suggested far more seriously. As if she did not know how that went with pretty men, all their wants, especially when they held rank. That, for how Rifters were called, treated, with no one to stand for them, with so little concern for their own honour, no matter how deeply it ran. Makes this quickly - nothing she would allow, here and now, in the open. A line she would draw sharply as possible. ]

When the Goddess Lakshmi is pushed, so she becomes Kali the Destroyer. Do not think I will not do the same to you if you press me. So I suggest you keep your wishes to reading fate in the stars.

[ In response, he says nothing - instead, he leans forward and touches his lips, gently, to her fingertip. His eyes stay on hers. His smile is wry and more than a little bit mocking. ]

[ The slap is inevitable, really, striking him hard across the face with an open palm. She pulls none of her strength, and between it and the rings on her fingers, it is unforgiving as a strike goes. Like she means to take flesh with it. Perhaps she will, at the very least she hopes his eyes weep with the pain of it. ]

If I ever, ever catch you speaking this way with another Rifter man or woman, I will hang you from the Gallows' walls myself. So for once and for all, you can all learn we take our honour as seriously as you do.

[ And gathering up her skirts, she slides down from where she is perched. Feet hard on the ground and ready to take off. ]

[ That hurts. For a moment he's genuinely stunned with the blow, his ears ringing, his brain scrambling to unscramble itself - she's got her feet firmly on the ground before his mouth recovers, never mind his wits. So his mouth goes ahead of his wits, saying after her: ]

Is your honor such a small and weak thing, then?

[ As if there could be words faster to make her sneer. ] My honour is more than my life, and I will not have it sullied over a wretch playing games who is safe behind great walls, whilst I may be killed simply for existing. [ Bitterly, tired, furious with all of them. ] My honour is all I have. How dare you imply it is anything less than everything.

[ He laughs, then, rubbing at his cheek. Her rings - yes, one of them raised a painful hard welt. That will last for days. Well, a rogue doesn't truly look a rogue unless he's got a bruise in the shape of a lady's hand on his face. ]

Then how is it, Lakshmi Bai, that a pathetic worm of no account such as myself has power enough to threaten it? I am the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean. If your honor is as powerful as you say, then I should be no more to you than an ant crawling upon a stone monument.

[ Then, his smile turning quite dry: ]

You seem to have mistaken me for someone with power.

[ Her eyes roll, still too stiff, too sharp on the line of hard shoulders, the proud upturn of her face, those old, old eyes in a young woman's face. ] And yet, one of us is hissed at for being a demon when I dare to breathe. Do not play a fool for what is plain to both of us.

[ He purses his lips. ]

What does others' hatred have to do with your honor?

Honour is live in mutual respect for yourself and those around, to live that through actions. [ it's bitter, it's utterly bitter, and more than that it's an old pain, festering. A pain that is as old and as hot as a funeral pyre washijg her stinging hot through. ]

[ The pull in her mouth is ugly, all swallowed down something - that she dares not put a word too. ] You are with power over my life if you wish it, and if you do not recognise that then you are a fool. Because whatever gave you the right to touch me in such a way if you respected my honour as you would one born here?

open

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)