Psychiatry-and-poetry - Inner-musings

The Sight of Cobalt

AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: A fluffy fic about our two sweethearts going shopping in Velaris <3

Word Count: 1445

Velaris was awake now more than ever, it seemed, the sun having set hours ago and the night sky twinkling above them. And yet the patrons of every bar, every club, every restaurant, only seemed to celebrate harder as the night wore on. The Rainbow of Velaris shone beautifully, the neat cobblestone streets and windows decorated with flowerpots bringing Azriel a sense of peace only his home could offer. The perks of living in the Night Court, he supposed. 

Business never truly stopped in the City of Starlight, the Palaces of Velaris always crowded, always with new wares to offer and new people to meet. A true metropolis.

The mountains shone in the distance, great behemoths of granite that towered over the city like its solemn and duty-bound protectors. The jagged tips reflected the moonlight, making it seem as if they were coated in snow, despite it being the middle of summer.

But what he found most ethereal wasn’t the scenery or the stores. It was his mate, who he currently linked arms with as they meandered along the Sidra, the riverbank glowing with silver moonlight. The water rippled calmly, the sound soothing balm to his otherwise rough day. Gwyn’s copper hair shone in the light, and despite hailing from Autumn, he couldn’t help but admit that she seemed so in place here in Velaris, but most of all, with him by her side. 

Indeed, her eyes brightened at every store they passed, and she only seemed to increase in excitement with the more people they met. 

A sudden gasp from his mate had him raising his eyebrows and nearly crashing into her. “What’s wrong?” Gwyn didn’t say anything, merely pointing to something. A dress, he realized. And a damn stunning one at that. 

Navy blue and cinched around the waist, the dress pooled around the mannequin’s ankles like a liquid sea of cobalt. The tight-fitting bodice had intricate patterns woven onto it that glimmered under the shifting light, and was accompanied by sheer lace gloves going up to the elbows. Small gems adorned the entire gown like stars plucked from the night sky itself, adding an entirely new aspect to the already breathtaking gown. It was stunning in its splendour, utterly mesmerizing to the eye. It shimmered and gleamed under the light, making it seem heavenly. Even Azriel, who knew next to nothing when it came to dresses, could admit that this was a one-of-a-kind piece that he’d be extremely lucky to find from anyone but the crafted artisans of the City of Starlight.

Gwyn sighed dreamily, her eyes refusing to leave the dress, and said, “Can you imagine what it would be like to wear a dress like that? Oh, I’d have so much fun dancing around in a ballgown like I was a princess of my own.”

Azriel knew it was one of Gwyn’s whimsical dreams to own a collection of ball gowns that would put the Night Court’s treasuries and hordes of gold to shame. It had been a coveted wish since she was a child, and he’d been meaning to buy her a dress for their anniversary anyway.

Now seemed like the perfect time. After all, why not sooner than later?

“Come on,” he said firmly, gently grasping her arm and pulling her into the store as she protested weakly. “Az!”

When they were inside the store, the door clinking lightly with a little bell above it, he made a beeline for one of the more secluded racks on one side. It’d be quiet here, enough to allow them to talk without any of the attendants coming to check on them. They weren’t annoying, by any means, but he didn’t want them privy to a conversation between him and his mate. “Now, which one of these dresses do you like?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with us being-”

“Which dress,” he cut her off, “do you like?”

“The indigo one in the window,” she replied sceptically, narrowing her eyes at him. “What’s your point? What are we doing here?”

“What we’re doing here is buying my stunning mate a dress.”

She didn’t reply immediately, instead choosing to look at the price tag as subtly as she could. Unfortunately for Gwyn, her husband was the Spymaster of the Night Court, and he noticed everything. “Don’t worry about the price,” he coaxed gently. “I’ll take care of that.”

“Just because you’re my husband doesn’t mean that you have to pay for everything, you know,” she grumbled, refusing to look him in the eye. “I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own things.”

“I know that,” he said, fighting back a laugh. Gods, his mate was truly stubborn. “But can’t I spoil my wife?”

Gwyn’s eyes widened as she finally found the price tag, letting out a gasp. She dropped it immediately, almost as if it would burn her. “Not if it’s 40,000 gold marks!” she hissed. “I am not letting you pay for that!”

Azriel’s brow creased. The amount wasn’t by any means large to him, but surely it was overpriced for a dress? He bent to examine the price tag, and his mouth flattened into a line. “We can always ask them to put it on Rhys’ tab.”

“Just because he’s the High Lord does not mean he’s going to be subject to my childish whims! And besides,” she added a tad more quietly, though Azriel could see how she tried to conceal it, “I didn’t need the dress anyways.”

As she made to walk out of the store, head bowed low and a pink hue on her cheeks, likely from embarrassment, he stopped her with a light arm on her shoulder. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“No, you won’t,” she shot back. He merely raised an eyebrow at that, daring her to challenge him.

“Azriel no, it’s far too expensive-”

“It’s not,” he cut her off. “Nothing is too expensive for you.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t have you simply throwing money away on a stupid dress that I wanted to buy because I was bored one night! 40,000 gold marks, Azriel! I could never pay you back half that amount in a year!”

“You don’t need to pay me back anything,” he insisted. “It’s a gift I’m buying you because I love you.”

“If you want to buy me a gift this badly, you can buy me something cheaper. Something that will be useful to me.”

“Nonsense. I’m buying this gift because I love you, and because you’re my wife.” When Gwyn didn’t budge, he added, “I’ll have you know Rhys has been paying me very well over the last couple of centuries. Sweetheart, you’d be surprised at how much money I have saved in my accounts.”

“You don’t need to waste your money on me like this,” she insisted yet again.

We can’t have people thinking the Night Court’s shadowsinger is stingy when it comes to his own wife, now can we?” He smirked at her, and despite herself, she grinned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, I know.” His smirk widened even more at her response. “But what matters is that my mate is happy. She can bleed my accounts dry so long as she is content.” She laughed openly, and rolled her eyes, finally conceding. 

As her husband finished paying for the ridiculously overpriced dress, chatting with the shopkeeper, she couldn’t help but adore him. Money had never been a priority for her, but for a male to spend such large amounts of money simply because he loved her? That seemed like something straight out of a romance book, and she had no idea how she’d become so lucky. 

She had been waiting outside, and as soon as she heard him step out, she wrapped her arms around him, leaning into his touch completely. “Thank you,” she said, her expression softening as she looked into Azriel’s hazel eyes. Slowly, his hands came to wrap around her waist in a soft embrace, lightly stroking her hair. “Really.” She linked her arms around his neck, and to anyone passing by, they looked like mannequins themselves. Mannequins deeply in love, that is. 

Azriel only smiled lightly at Gwyn’s confession, that special smile that only came out when they were alone, and planted a small peck on her lips. “Whatever for?”

“For this dress. For being here, with me. For…everything, I suppose.” “I’ll always be with you, Valkyrie. Don’t you forget that.”

They walked out of the store that night, arm in arm, content, and blissfully happy, Velaris’ stars shining brightly above them like a blanket of glowing lights.

A/N: Based loosely on this dress and this dress

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

Letters of Desperation - Neris

Part 1 - Nesta | Part 10 - Eris | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 488

Beloved Nesta,

How I enjoyed reading your previous letter. I must admit, I did not think you would have loved bloodshed and vengeance so thoroughly, thoroughly enough to want to truly maim and kill. But rest assured my love, you will not need to.

I will fight and stand to protect everything you hold dear, no matter if I perish in the process. I have committed enough heinous crimes, enough sins, so many that even the Cauldron will have to come with some special hell for me. 

But you; Nesta, you deserve it all. 

I will give you the world, my love. You only need ask for it. I will lay it at your fingertips, and I will be with you wherever it is you wish to go. I will abandon my Court, abdicate my throne, if only to be with you for a moment more. 

We will flee to a place we call home, where we can be nothing and no one but our true, authentic selves. Two lovers, who have found themselves in each other at last; so similar and yet so startlingly different. 

There is magic, I believe, in choosing who we love. Without the presence of a mating bond, without the Cauldron deciding our fates and our lifelong partners, and pairing us up like jigsaw puzzles. We can still be whole without someone to call our own, after all. Our partners simply complement and amplify us; they do not complete us. I find joy in that thought. I find joy in choosing and finding love every day that I wake up; in every action and every word. 

Know this, Nesta; know that I shall choose you, from today until I am no more; until there are nothing but ashes, dust, and a ruined name to call my own. 

It seems only fitting, my dear, that we chose each other, seeing as life drove away all the other choices from us. From the day we were born, our fates were set, and yet we managed to defy them, finding each other despite all odds, despite the hardships we have both endured. It seems fitting we chose the one person who would understand us, mind, body, and soul, and would not resent the other for what we have been through.

We are similar in more ways than one, my love; our souls entwine even more the longer you spend in Autumn. 

I suppose that just as you were befitting me, so was this Court. Lady Death and Lord of Decay, who command the power of destruction as but a tool in the plethora of weapons they possess. Who are rulers and lovers, powerful and yet soft. A dichotomy of personalities, a contradiction in itself in the absurdities of how we love. 

Mark my words, Nesta. There will be poems written about us; songs; literature, and the Cauldron knows what else. 

Avec l’amour plus le pur,

Eris

Part 11 - Eris

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#45

I somehow always have one foot in the grave, always ready to die. I am scared that something will one day push me too far, so that my entire being might end up in the piece of Earth that has already been carved open for me. Something which I cannot escape.

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Letters of Desperation - Neris

Part 1 - Nesta | Part 14 - Nesta | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 514

My darling Eris,

You being the calculated male I have known you to be, and then watching that mask slip away, fall like the crimson and amber leaves; the very lifeblood of this court has been utterly enchanting. To watch every layer chip away ever so slowly, to see the male who has been forced to hide himself away, who has donned a mask for long enough. It has been like seeing a hidden gem reveal itself, a butterfly metamorphosis in its own unique and blissful. To watch a play, to watch as everything clicked into place.

It seems fitting, after all, that the scheming Heir I fell in love with, who plotted and was so stunningly skilled in the ways of nobles, in the ways of the court, was also the one that taught me chess. 

It is a game of sacrifice, in the end. A game of planning, a game of strategy, one that works the brain so beautifully, hones it and trains it in ways I didn’t think possible. The elegant movement of the pieces across the board, their roles and functions all defined clearly. A thousand different combinations of how something could go right, a hundred different ways to win, and yet even more ways something could go wrong. A battlefield in its own right, as the board begins to litter with fallen pieces. An unpredictable and volatile game; chess. Easy enough to learn, but one begins to go mad the second she decides to conquer it. It seems fitting that the male who brought courts to their knees with a few well-placed words was also the one who was a master of chess.

He eventually became the master of my heart, commanding it as he commanded Autumn’s armies before his ascension to the throne. Vying for control, vying for power, he was every bit the Prince I had heard of, as well as the face that haunted my dreams. And yet the stories I had heard whispered of him did not seem to fit him, his demeanour, his actions. It seems that he always had a plan up his sleeve, a hundred other ways and backup plans should the slightest things go wrong. A magician.

It intrigued me just as it baffled me. A true enigma, Eris Vanserra. A slippery person; difficult to talk to and even more difficult to get a straight answer out of. A twisted male, in more ways than one. He had a way of extracting information that did not seem abrupt. Smooth and eloquent was his speech, never faltering, never missing a step, no matter how the others tried to trip him. Somehow avoiding them within an inch of your life, you also managed to craft traps of your own. You kept me up at night, your grand plans and schemes unfoiling and unraveling more perfectly and beautifully than I had imagined. 

It was his mind that enamoured me more than anything else. 

Eventually, he became a part of my soul, and now occupies it entirely. 

De tout mon coeur et plus encore,

Nesta

Part 15 - Fate

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

Letters of Desperation - Neris

Part 1 - Nesta | Part 6 - Nesta | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 56

Hair like wildfire, mind like flame,

He reaches for my soul all over again.

Cheekbones sharp as a knife,

His voice is smooth, holding me in a vice.

Like a lover’s caress, he does beguile,

His wit and charm and everlasting wile.

Enchant and mesmerize and altogether woo,

My broken heart tainted all the way through.

Part 7 - Eris

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#20

Why must living in peace require sacrifice? Why must I give up parts of myself that I never even knew existed just to have a chance at survival? Why must I fight a war that is not my own, seeing as I do not recieve the least bit of credit for it, but rather ridicule, most often from the people that started this raging war?

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Letters of Desperation - Neris

Part 1 - Nesta | Part 18 - Eris | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 498

Beloved Nesta, 

I apologise that I must write to you under such regrettable circumstances. I am not in the right mind, and everything seems to be doing its very best to set me off. Be it small footsteps or laughter echoing in the halls, I seem to get irritated at the slightest touch or whisper of a voice. I am sorry for all those who must see me like this; full of rage and unable to settle, plundering these halls like the monster before me. I am afraid that I shall morph into a worse caricature of him. It feels like inviting misfortune into our home by saying his name, so I will not. But I hope the message is glaringly clear. 

But most of all, I am sorry that you must be the one to see me like this. After everything you have endured, you deserve a husband who will grant you the sweetest love, who will fill your senses with scents of cloyed jasmine and rose; who will ply you with mountains of gifts. 

I do not want you to fear this being that I have become. I want you to know that I am trying, Nesta, even as I am being smothered alive by the amount of work that seems to hound me day and night.

I had once thought that a High Lord was granted with freedom. In reality, I have been given golden shackles to keep me bound to my throne for all eternity. 

And you, my dear, have been shackled along with me.

As I rule, as I occupy that seat, I need to you know one extremely important thing: I will always be your loving husband. No matter what happens outside the walls of our chambers, I am yours, always and forever. I do not want you to be afraid.

I do not want you to bow and my every whim and wish; to concede and grovel in front of me. I do not want a servant: I want a wife.

I enjoy being challenged, being spoken to without fear, being called out. It is, inevitably, what will make me both a better leader, and a better person. For that, I crave your presence. It is refreshing, you must understand, to not have to second guess and doubt every opinion that leaves your lips, for I know you speak with the utmost honesty and care for the well-being of this Court. I do not have to consider your words, for they are truth unto themselves. They are not coated in layers of lies, grimy and filthy with the ever-changing intentions of another. They are not shrouded in mist, indecipherable until someone falls into the maw of an ever-looming trap.

I appreciate honesty; and you have been honest with me from the very beginning about every part of yourself. You have given and given, while I have only stood, starstruck, in awe.

Keep burning, my flame. 

Avec l’amour plus le pur,

Eris

A/N: Thank you so much for 50 followers! (People actually want to read this stuff?!)

Part 19 - Nesta

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

Stifling Resistance

Original Writing Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: This was something I wrote quite recently for a project of mine.

Summary: A short story about the life of a 16-year-old weaponsmith in Mughal India.

Word Count: 9410

Sweat ran down her brow, and she wiped it away with a hot hand. A wisp of midnight-black hair entered her vision, and she brushed that away, too. Blasted long hair that her mother insisted she keep. Crafting swords was gruelling work, and despite her father’s initial protests, she’d convinced him to let her work in the family business. 

It had been difficult adjusting to the job in the beginning, but what she lacked in skill, she made up for in sheer grit and determination. Staying up later than what was needed and doing her absolute best to ensure that no material went to waste, she’d practically lived at the workshop for a while. She’d spent increasing amounts of time there, forging and welding swords of all kinds. She’d started with the talwar, a simple, basic sabre that didn’t have any complicated hilts. Versatile and easily maneuverable, it was an ideal blade to start off with. She’d quickly learned that it was only to be sharpened on one side: curved blades sharpened on both edges were more likely to break, that too much quicker. Eventually, she’d expanded her skill set enough to be able to work on nearly anything, no matter the absurdity of the request. Shields and spears and odd-looking maces that had a chill crawling up her spine; it was all second nature to her now. 

Eventually, she’d gotten used to it. 

The constant, relentless din of hammers and steel clanging rhythmically had initially irked her, but she’d made do. She’d had no other choice, after all. Now, it was a comforting sound, one she had found that she couldn’t live without. It brought her a sense of comfort, that no matter how chaotic the outside world was, she would always have a methodical, organised way of working. That was one of the many things she loved about her family business. 

The same had happened with the heat. What she’d once found stifling and suffocating now became her haven. When she was away for too long, she found she craved the warmth of the kilns and fires over everything. She had always despised the cold, despised all that turned her limbs numb and the harsh winds that blew over the mountains. It was never cold enough to actually snow where she and her family lived, but she had heard stories of those who lived in the Northern mountains that it snowed all year round; blizzards and snowstorms frequent enough to warrant worry as they covered the land in a blanket of shining, iridescent silver.

Slowly but surely, her bank of knowledge regarding swords and weaponry had grown significantly. Learning about hilts and grips, blades and angles, and everything in between, her love and determination for the profession had only grown. Now, she frequented the workshop, spending hours in the stifling heat welding and forging weapons of all kinds. 

Blinking, she realised she’d been unfocused, and the molten metal she held in a ladle was about to drip down onto the floor. Hastily straightening her arm, she poured the mixture into a mould.

As experienced as she was at forging weapons, she was also sixteen. Most of the equipment in the workshop was made for grown, muscular men, and she was neither. Panting as she lifted the bucket to pour the metal in, she heard her father’s amused voice from the inner parts of the workshop. “I can hear you panting from out there, you know. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m sure,” she grunted. Apart from being ‘too stubborn for her own good’, as her mother liked to say, she was also extremely curious. It was what had led her father to eventually relent and allow her to work as a weapons-forger. 

He was a kind man, hardly ever raising his voice. But he was also protective of his daughters. Protective to a fault, she sometimes thought. She knew that it came from a place of love, a place of intense care for his family, but that didn’t stop the choking feeling of being trapped under his ever-growing expectations. 

Traditionally masculine and overtly loud, her father tended to place the stereotypical gender roles on his family members, too. Indeed, the only time her mother stepped out of the house was to go to the market, and always with her head covered. It was one of the many things she didn’t like about being a girl; how restrictive everything tended to be. How they were expected to do quite literally everything at home, while also managing the little education they sometimes managed to receive. 

She had a vague memory of objecting once when she was younger. Of rejecting the stifling stereotypes that plagued her life, that her father tried to shove down her throat as soon as she was old enough to understand. The same memory housed feelings of fear and unease, too. Her father had shouted at her, the only time he’d truly shouted, and told her to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was best for her. The words still haunted her on nights when she felt too alone for it to be healthy, but she had never told anyone. 

Who would she tell, anyway? Her sister was too young, and her mother had enough on her plate without having to worry about a couple of words said in anger. She didn’t even know why she was so resentful towards her father for a few words that he’d said, but she also had enough dignity to admit to herself that the words had indeed hurt.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the thoughts, she refocused on her work. 

The bright sunlight filtering in through the creaky wooden windows awoke Savahi. Rubbing her eyes lazily, she groaned and turned over, hoping to catch a few more moments of sleep before she truly had to get up, before her mother forced her to.

Her mother was strict in that regard, always ensuring that both her daughters woke up before the crack of dawn to complete all the housework in time. She prided herself on disciplining her daughters, on making them experts at the domestic chores they’d been trained to do.

She wouldn’t let Savahi go to the workshop unless she’d finished her chores. What good is a girl who can’t even take care of the house? She’d asked when Savahi had objected and pleaded to be allowed to hone her craft. It’s not like you’ll be running the shop when you’re older anyways. It’s better if you don’t get too attached to it now. It’ll only hurt less in the end. As harsh as the words had been then, they had only led to Savahi savouring the time she did get before she was forced to give it up entirely. No matter who she ended up being married to, there was no way he’d let her continue doing something so…traditionally masculine. Then again, it would be a miracle if she found a good husband at all. She’d learned not to be too picky a long time ago. Anyone that treated her with some semblance of respect was good enough.

Running a hand through her tangled hair after having forgotten to braid it the night before, she rose and began getting ready for the day.

Squinting at the bright sunlight overhead, she raised a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. The bustling market was a kaleidoscope of colour and life. Wares and goods of all sorts were sold here, from spices and fabrics to accessories and books. 

Head covered and scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth so as to keep the ever-increasing dust away, she approached a vendor. “How much for these?” she asked, voice muffled. “Seven dam for the cabbage, nine for the aubergines.”

“Fine.” Begrudgingly reaching into her coin purse, she handed over the money. The prices were much higher than what she remembered them being, but then again, she hadn’t ventured into the market for a while. She’d left this particular job for her mother to do, seeing as she had always been better at social interactions and…people in general. She somehow always knew the right thing to say or do to comfort and encourage someone. It was why she fared better at the markets than Savahi herself, a few smiles and kind words doing more than one could have expected.

Stuffing the requested goods into her satchel when the man handed them over, she made her way around the market as she simply observed. 

New books and perfumes were on sale, and oh, what she wouldn’t give to buy a few? Savahi’s family had never been particularly rich, but that didn’t stop her wanting all these coveted goods. Unfortunately, these were all wares requested for the disgustingly well-off and wealthy, a group that didn’t include her. Of course, the people who had that sort of money would rather swallow sand before they were ever caught dead in these village markets. They preferred the opulence and charm of the lavish city bazaars.

Ducking under an awning to avoid a small squad of soldiers, she unconsciously adjusted the scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was best to avoid being recognised, especially by the soldiers who were mere lackeys of the Emperor, sent here to do his dirty work and lord over the rest of them. They relished in it too; relished the torture and oppression of the native people as their land, resources, and families were stolen away from them. Right. That was why Savahi hadn’t wanted to go into the markets. Something similar had happened the last time she was here, accompanied by her mother. She’d been absolutely terrified, and hid behind her with trembling hands and tears in her eyes.

When she’d gone home, she’d cried. She didn't know why. Her mother had warned her that the soldiers seemed to be doing nothing, but that was what they wanted you to believe. They were always doing something.

She’d started hating the soldiers soon enough. 

Every child was practically raised on hatred, fed it from the moment they were born. She knew of many who thrived on it like beasts craving violence. Stories were told of what horrors had transpired, drilled into the head of every child until it became second nature for them to fear the soldiers. But then again, this fear was necessary, she thought to herself. It was what kept them safe and away from any real trouble. It allowed them to stay unnoticed and lead their lives in peace. 

Deciding she wasn’t going to get much more at the market anyways, she began making her way home. At least she’d help out there. Taking the more discreet alleyways and streets that weren’t known to many, she managed to avoid any more guards until the familiar door of her house came into view.

One seemingly uneventful afternoon, her father entered the house, taking off his sandals as he flopped down onto the ground. “What’s wrong?” came her mother’s voice from the kitchen. Her father didn’t reply immediately, instead running a hand over his tired face.

Savahi sensed that something was wrong. Her father was never this quiet; he never hesitated like this. He was a firm believer in saying whatever it was that needed to be said, and doing so efficiently. At the same time, she couldn’t help but note that his eyes, her lovely father’s eyes had lost their light. They were dimmed, she realised, as he gazed at the ground. He was here physically, yes, but it was clear something was bothering him to the point where he shut down. In fact, they all knew how rare it was for him to go mute and not say a word. He tended instead to explode in anger, a supernova of emotions, leaving everything else in ruin after the storm had passed.

Finally, he broke the tense silence, and said glumly, “They’ve decided that they want to pay us an even smaller amount than what they already do. Said our weapons weren’t the best quality, and that they shouldn’t be forced to pay for something so disgustingly overpriced.”

Each word somehow managed to rile her already irritated self up even more, and it took nothing short of a miracle to avoid exploding in a fit of rage. Thankfully enough, she managed to keep her composure, only raising her eyebrows with pursed lips. “What do you mean?” 

Her father sensed her irritation, and instead tried to diffuse the situation, looking at her with an expression she was sure mirrored her own. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal-”

That was the last straw. “Of course it’s not ideal! It’s a disaster! We’re already getting underpaid, we can’t-”

“Quiet!” She flinched, not expecting the harsh command from her father. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Just…just don’t do anything stupid until I figure out what to do. I can’t deal with any of your trouble right now.”

She wanted to retort that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something rash or gone through with an idea she hadn’t thought about at all, but decided it was best she held her tongue. Her father was already in a lousy mood, and all the offhand comment would do was rile him up even further and quite frankly cause more trouble than what was worth. 

“What do you mean?” Her mother had exited the kitchen now, and had a similar look of skepticism on her face as she wiped her hands on a rag. “We already get underpaid. We can’t afford to stop providing them with weapons. And besides,” she added, her voice softer this time, “Who knows what they’ll do if we suddenly reduce the weapons supply with no forewarning, no reason? Surely it’ll come across as suspicious?”

Indeed, the Empire was ruthless, with cruel rulers who stopped at nothing to ensure that the people worked themselves to their deaths. Expendables, they called them. Worthless vermin. It didn’t matter to them if her family lived or died. All that was important was the supply of weapons. So long as that did not stop, they didn’t care what became of her family.

Deciding she’d be better off outside lest she say or do something she would sorely regret later, she put on her sandals, and left the house.

A letter arrived exactly two weeks later, the family name written on the envelope in an elegant scrawl she didn’t recognise. The rim of the envelope had gold patterns across it, delicately crafted. The family name was written on the front, and Savahi couldn’t help but wonder who could have sent them such a fancy letter. She didn’t have any friends who lived far away, certainly not far enough to warrant sending letters.  She didn’t even know anyone past her village. Thinking it must be something for her father, (though she couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it could be), she pocketed it, and decided to give it to him when he came home.

Evening rolled around, and there was still no sign of her father. Maybe he was still working late today?

Unable to wait for him any longer, she dug up the envelope from her pocket, and tore it open.

Her eyes widened as she read it, a small gasp escaping her. This was clearly addressed to the wrong person.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the tops of the houses and illuminating her home in shades of a iridescent, pearly glimmer. All was quiet.

“Thank you for coming. We know how difficult it must be to get away from…” the voice trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the village beneath them. To get away from prying eyes was what they meant to say, but couldn’t do so lest some eavesdropper realised what they were up to. “It’s alright. I managed,” she said tightly, desperately wanting to get this entire ordeal over with.

“We’ll make this quick,” said the other figure; shorter, and yet no less intimidating. “We need you to supply us with weapons. As many as you can make. How big is your store?”

“Not-not huge,” she managed to get out as she stood there, shellshocked. It was true; it wasn’t a large shop by any means, a small storefront facing the secluded street and the forge in the back. It wasn’t as much space as they would have liked, but it did the job.

“But you will have to fund us for the raw materials,” she said quietly. “We don’t earn nearly enough to spend our own money on a project as large as this one. We’ll need some sort of advance payment.”

“Consider it done,” the taller one said smoothly. “How much do you think you’ll need for two hundred swords?”

“I’m sorry, two hundred?” she breathed. Was this a sort of one-time thing, then? “If we need more, we’ll let you know well in advance,” the shorter one said. “How long do you think you’ll need to make two hundred?”

“A couple of months at least,” she said. “But we’ll make sure that we get them done as soon as possible. It’ll take at least a month and a half, two if you want refined or jewelled hilts.”

“As long as the blades are functional, it doesn’t matter how the hilts are. Preferably as basic as possible, but comfortable enough to hold and fight with.”

Savahi listed the price, and they only nodded in unison. Gods, they really were rich if they could agree to such an inflated price with no bargaining. Or, a small voice in the back of her head said. They’re really desperate and willing to agree with whatever price you say. They want these swords badly. Deciding she’d think about it later, she shoved those thoughts away.

“I could send you a note once I fin-” she cut herself off. Of course she couldn’t send notes or any other form of correspondence to them in case it was intercepted or found, even after this entire affair would be finished. It would be enough to get them imprisoned, or whipped publicly at the very least. Offences against the state weren’t taken lightly, and the punishments were severe. 

The muffled voice she heard from behind the scarf seemed…masculine? She couldn’t tell, not with the way the clothes flowed loosely around the figure’s body, preventing any accidental revelation of who this mystery person was. No jewellery or cosmetics adorned the eyes, the only open part of the figure’s face. Then again, that didn’t do much to either confirm or deny her suspicions. Either they were too poor to afford such luxuries, or they simply decided against them. Even the figure’s hands were gloved, truly leaving no room open for discovery. 

Glancing around, she shut the door behind her with a soft click.

She’d debated it for weeks, whether or not to accept this deranged offer. Was whoever had come up with this insane plan high or something? Did they really think someone would be able to smuggle such a large amount of weapons unseen? They were raving mad; more so if they didn’t see the lunacy of their own plan. It would get them killed if she wasn’t careful; her and however many more people were involved in this death wish of a plan. Then again, she supposed, there weren’t many royals or nobles in positions of power who actually knew what was going on. They had a vague image, yes, cloudy at best and completely opaque at worst, as they saw her world through a rose-coloured lens.

Ensuring the scarf was wrapped tightly around her mouth and nose so as to avoid being recognised, she carried the satchel like her life depended on it. She supposed it did. Tiptoeing over the harsh ground, she gazed towards the horizon. The mountains she saw in the distance was where she had to be by moonrise. Indeed, the glistening moon was already quite high in the sky, illuminating the roofs of the nearby houses, casting a silvery glow over the ground. Meet Devyani’s closest friend on the highest point of Hasta. The words resonated in her mind, echoing as she tried desperately to comply with the instructions she’d received on an anonymous note of paper, the writing foreign and curled in a way that told her it was not a native speaker of her tongue who had written the mysterious note. No name, no signature, and no indication of who, exactly, would be picking up the weapons she’d forged. 

The orders were absolute insanity, she’d thought when she first received them. She didn’t think it was even possible to craft that many weapons in under a month, but working beside her father for days on end with little to no breaks had allowed them to finish just in time. Some had been cooling yesterday, and she’d been on the edge up until this morning, not knowing if she'd somehow managed to mess up her first orders. 

She hoped this wasn’t a hoax or some trick to get them to go into a financial loss. If no one showed up, it would be no one’s burden and loss but her family’s. Few would care, and even fewer would help them out. We must fend for ourselves, her mother had told her when Savahi had once asked why they couldn’t all help each other instead of gloat at one another’s misery. She’d been young then, not really knowing how everything worked. Foolish, childish ideas, she reprimanded herself.

Savahi backtracked a little, going over the same path she’d taken just a few minutes ago. She had to periodically ensure that she wasn’t being followed. Not only would it be catastrophic, she’d also have to find a way to deal with the stalker. Not killing, of course, but something severe enough that the person would never dare look twice in her direction. This needed to be carried out smoothly and with as little suspicion as possible. That was also the reason she’d volunteered to go instead of her father. A grown man with a bag looked far more suspicious than a girl. Indeed, girls her age had lovers all the time. In the unlikely event that anyone would approach her for conversation, she always had that card up her sleeve. Play the simpering, girlish role she was expected to play, stay away from suspicion, and get the job done.

Her hair soon became damp, small strands clinging to her forehead, made worse by the tight, suffocating feeling of the scarf around her mouth and nose. The crisp night air did nothing to help her cool down. Her thighs burned as she made her way up the hill, and she did her best not to pant lest it give her away. She really was out of shape. In reality, it wasn’t that steep, but she had to take the further side of the hill that no one bothered to venture through. Another way to avoid being spotted. 

Stepping carefully, she dodged roots and loose rocks as she slowly made her upwards. As soon as she crested the hill, she saw a hooded figure lounging on a fallen log. Having strategically sat down in the shade, she wouldn’t have realised it was sitting there, silent as a cat, until it jumped up and began making its way to her. A calm, controlled, and sauntering gait, command lacing its every step it approached. She could see as it made its way closer that this mysterious person had to have some sort of noble standing. The clothes it wore, polished and regal, screamed elegance to her from miles away. No patterns adorned the figure’s robes; no flag or banner or sigil, not even a coat of arms to showcase their allegiance.

Standing her ground and refusing to bow her head, she spoke. “Devayani.” Andromeda. She waited a moment before she heard the correct response. “Sharmishtha.” Cassiopeia. The voice seemed gruff, though she couldn’t quite discern much beyond her own muddled suspicions.

She’d been instructed to say a code word, and only give the package to the person who said the correct response. If they faltered or hesitated for even a second, she would know to get away immediately.

Savahi extended the satchel to the figure. Nodding curtly towards her in acknowledgement, it grabbed the rucksack with a black, gloved hand, and disappeared with a swoosh of their cloak as if they melded into the night itself. Breathing a sigh of relief, she began making her way down the slope, occasionally stumbling and tripping over stray branches and loose rocks. 

She didn’t quite register the walk home. All that was running through her mind was the exhilarating thrill of participating in something bigger than herself. As cliché as it sounded, it was true. She’d never had to work together, certainly not in matters like these, and it gave her a sense of accomplishment to know that she was helping the Resistance. To know that the weapons she made were being used across the Deccan. 

As miserable as her life was, she was using it to do something; something that didn’t require bearing children and being trapped indoors for the rest of her life. She would savour this freedom, she realised, long after she was married and given away like cattle.

The soldier patrols had increased recently, especially around their area. It had been putting everyone on edge, and she didn’t want to think what would happen if someone was found guilty of whatever new crimes they kept coming up with. First, it was the possession of certain books, then it was the local herbs that were used for healing and medicine, and now? Well, they couldn’t punish her for trekking up to the nearby hill or talking to her neighbours. Could they? She just had to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and avoid any trouble.

Unfortunately for Savahi, trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went. Today, it had arrived in the form of a gathering. Everyone in the village had been asked to gather at noon in the village square. For what, she didn’t know, but they had all made their way there regardless. 

Technically, girls weren’t supposed to go outside in large public places, and certainly not to bold village gatherings. Then again, there was no one to enforce those rules other than her parents, and she could always duck out of their sight or blend into the crowd if need be.

There were already quite a few people crowded around, standing in clumps with worried expressions as they conversed in hushed tones. She couldn’t make out what anyone was saying, but it was abundantly clear that whatever was going on couldn’t be good. 

Just as Savahi turned to her mother to ask her something, a shehnai (a sort of oboe-like instrument) sounded. Signalling the arrival of whichever official would taunt them today, then. 

A man stepped up to the small dais erected in the centre, originally intended for the village chief to announce important events or similar. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have any regard for that, instead using the platform as their own.

“Did you really think you could plot treason so openly and we’d never find out?” he sneered at no one in particular, presumably their commander. “I knew you were foolish, but for an entire neighbourhood of you lot to do something like this is beyond even us. We will find whichever one of you is doing something so utterly unacceptable, and you will be punished for it,” a second added. He wasn’t on the platform, but seemed to be the right-hand man of whichever roguish commander was speaking right now.

“If none of you step forward right now and preserve what little dignity you have left, it leaves us no choice but to label this entire, rotting scrap of a village as a guilty party. You’ll all be thrown in the dungeons, and the butchering blocks if you’re lucky.” A glint of a smile caught Savahi’s eye, but it was just the guard speaking. Another one of the Sultan’s subordinates, grovelling like a dog. She couldn’t help her face as it turned up into a look of disgust, and rolled her eyes.

Of course their grisly deaths would bring these monsters joy. Of course they would relish in it like some sort of delicacy, some noble deed that they took great pride in.

She didn’t hear the rest of whatever nonsense they were spewing, but jerked out of her stupor when everyone began scattering and shuffling away like mice trapped in a labyrinth with no way out save for death.

Savahi had been ordered to keep quiet these next weeks, to avoid suspicion and unnecessary arguments at all costs. Of course, Savahi being, well, her, had found it immensely difficult to do so. Being cooped up in the house for longer periods of time was certainly not helping, either. If anything, it made her more irritated and likely to snap or lash out at something, or someone. As much as she wanted to get out of the house, if only for a little while, she knew she couldn’t. Girls, especially young girls like her, were expected to stay at home and help their mothers like the obedient daughters they were expected to be. This also meant that she wasn’t allowed to go to the workshop, for fear that someone might accidentally catch wind that a girl, that too one of marriageable age, was working at something so physically gruelling. 

To make matters worse, curfew had been enforced, and had made it harder for her to sneak out at night. She’d been asked to deliver weapons twice more, and her poor father had been working himself to the bone. Normally, she’d do some of the more gruelling work. Over time, she had developed the muscle and brute strength to be able to do the hauling, pouring and welding. Her father always remained close by in case she needed help. She hardly ever did, managing most things on her own.

It wasn’t as if her father didn’t know how to forge weapons. But he was now aging, and his back pain sometimes prevented him from lifting heavy loads. It grated on her to know that her father toiled away, sweating by the forges as he poured his dedication into his work, while she sat around at home, peeling stupid carrots. She could have been of help, she could have done something.

She was, eventually, let out of the house, though her mother had warned her not to cause any trouble and come straight home if she caught the slightest whiff of something going on. Biting back the urge to say she wasn’t likely to be attacked at the market, which was filled with people at all times of day, she sighed, parotting, “Yes, mother,” before she put on her sandals and left the house. 

“Get up,” her mother hissed, rousing her from sleep and shaking her awake. The sunlight filtered in through the window, casting a bright glow over the opposite wall. Blearily blinking her eyes open, she started. “What-”

“No time,” her mother interrupted. She looked to be in a hurry, almost frantic, hastily trying to clean up the mess Savahi had left in her room the night before. “Gods, girl, do you ever clean your room? It stinks terribly.”

“Didn’t you just say we don’t have time to do anything else?” No matter what she did, Savahi’s room was something her mother never ceased nagging about. 

“We have to clean because the guards are here.” Her mother glared at her. Savahi jumped, exclaiming, “Now? What business do they have in our home?”

“They think we’re doing something we’re not supposed to be doing.” Her mother shot her a knowing glance. The entire family knew what they were doing was illegal, but there was no other way for them to make the money they were steadily losing with their deals and trades that were less than fair with the Empire. They had to make ends meet somehow, and besides, desperation did funny things to people, driving them to the brink until it was all they could think about. Perhaps this was what it had done to her family. 

“Well have we hidden the-”

“Quiet,” her mother snapped, smacking her lightly on the head. “Do you want us all to be rotting in prison until the end of our days? Because I certainly don’t.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I’ll-”

“You’ll keep your mouth shut, that’s what you’ll do,” she chided. “They don’t like being talked back to, and certainly not by unruly, undisciplined girls like yourself. Just answer when spoken to, and try not to get into trouble. Is that too much for you to do?”

“I promise I won’t say anything that’ll piss them off,” she said. “Now will you please let me go?”

Indeed, her mother had been trying to tame her hair that had been in a loose braid from the night before. She had pins in her mouth as her skilled hands tried hastily to fashion her mane, as she liked to call it, into a more presentable form. 

“Remember, mind your language. Certainly none of that vulgarity when they inspect you.”

“My language isn’t that bad,” she protested weakly. Even she knew how much she swore. While Savahi did try to dial it down at home, some words did tend to slip out on the rare occasion she was mad or frustrated. 

“Yes it is, and you know that,” mumbled her mother. “Oh, and they’ll be inspecting you. It’ll be quick, but just don’t slap anyone across the face and I’ll consider this entire ghastly ordeal a success.”

“Yes mother,” she parrotted, her voice already bored to tears.

“Now go.”

Stepping out into the living room, she expected her sanctuary, her safe place, her home, where no harm could come to her to at least be free of the asphyxiating sensation. Instead, she saw half a dozen encircling the door and blocking it. This was a new, fresh hell. Her mind was buzzing with a newfound haze, one she didn’t think she’d be able to get rid of should she try. She couldn’t even leave should she wish it. Her only mild consolation was her mother who followed behind her. At least she wouldn’t be alone. It was bad enough that she had to be subjected to their inspections, but her mother deserved none of that.

Both had their heads bowed low and eyes trained solely on the floor. Pushing Savahi forward, her mother backed away to watch from the other end of the room. Savahi stumbled slightly but managed to catch her step right before she saw the shoes of the closest guard. Their leader, most likely, seeing how he managed to dominate the entire room with his presence and hulking form which seemed to eat up all the light that had managed to make its way inside.

“And who are you?” the guard sneered, clearly trying to intimidate her. As scared as she was, she couldn’t let it show. She had to act as if everything was normal; like she wasn’t smuggling weapons to the Resistance, the very people these guards despised with their very being. “She’s just my daughter, sir,” her mother said nervously, wringing her hands together.  “Shut up,” he barked instead, not even bothering with a glance towards her mother. Her mother flinched, moving a step back, almost as if she was trying to melt into the wall, and Savahi felt rage rise in her heart.

Her mother, who was a kind, sweet, caring woman, who would sacrifice everything for her children, was treated like this. It made her blood boil, and she dug her nails into her palms. She’d have small, crescent-shaped scars on the palms of her hands later, but it didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t blow up in front of these people, it was fine. Everything was fine. She was going to be fine. 

“Enough of the pleasantries,” he said instead, his voice rising a note higher. “Come here,” he beckoned Savahi with a finger. Shuffling forward, head bowed, she stepped in front of the man as if she was being examined for a disease.

Savahi could hear their foreign accent, how they rolled certain letters and cut others off. Anyone could tell they weren’t from here, even without hearing them talk. The clothes they wore, the permanent sneer they donned on their faces, their greasy hair that looked nothing short of horrid and the perpetually yellowed teeth that seemed to be the stuff of her nightmares.

Rough, sweaty hands grasped her face, turning it this way and that. She knew that the guard could see the fear in her eyes, clear as day, as his own, black as slits, bore into her brown ones. 

He probably thought she looked absolutely pathetic, nothing more than a simple village girl. Just because that’s what she was didn’t mean the stupid guards needed to rub it in their faces all the time, she thought grumpily. 

Despite her instincts telling her to get away, to run, she did neither, letting them examine her like a bag of broken goods. An enigma, that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, a mystery that could attack them at any given moment. 

Well, they weren’t wrong about that. Not entirely, anyways. 

She could imagine how she looked: eyes blown wide and trembling like a fawn. He was at least a head and a half taller than her, and dwarfed her easily. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to pin her hands behind her back and have her on the floor in a few skilled maneuvers that she had no doubt he could execute with deadly precision. Their threats were never empty.

The hands moved down to pat her sides, her thighs, her legs, staying in certain places for far longer than they were needed. Prodding, poking, twisting, squeezing, her stomach lurched and she felt bitter bile rise in her throat. Promptly swallowing it down, she tried to breathe. She could smell their horrible breath, see the food from breakfast covering their teeth, and had to stifle a gag. The irony of being called uncivilised by the same people who refused to take care of themselves or their bodies was overwhelming.

But she couldn’t say anything, do anything, even as she felt the grime coating their hands on her own skin. She’d need to take a long bath after this. She’d travel to the far well on the other side of their village if she had to, but she would be taking a bath today, come what may.

A grunt told her they were done with their inspection, and she stepped back, never showing her back to the guards lest they think she was deliberately trying to disrespect them or their bullshit status. It was something they’d made up to feel better about themselves, then declared themselves the Emperors of this land that was never theirs. As much as she was aware the land belonged to everyone, she didn’t think these sacred rules applied to a heap of men with egos bigger than their heads and a superiority complex to rival any decent person’s.

It seemed that they were far from done with their little inspection, as they called it, as their self-proclaimed leader with a head full of cow dung began barking orders, pointing to certain areas of the house. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were going to search the house for any contraband.

What they didn’t know was that they’d made procuring any materials extremely difficult, near impossible, so it took more than a couple of bribes to smuggle something over from the South or from the sea. It didn’t help that her village was in the middle of nowhere, and yet it was large enough to be recognised by the Empire. That wasn’t good; not at all. Being noticed was never a good sign. People spent their entire lives trying to stay hidden, to hide themselves and their children from the horrors the Empire inflicted on them. Fleeing across the country or even across the sea was how desperate people had gotten to outrun the tyranny of the Empire. Then again, it was only the rich who could afford such luxuries, leaving the rest of them to be condemned by their tyrannical rulers. 

The clatter of metal shocked her out of her stupor, and she realised been standing around like a purposeless corpse, waiting around as they wrecked her home. She whipped her head around to find that one of the mindless buffoons had spilled their entire rice storage on the ground, the grains littering the ground like small white shards of glass scattered over the ground. Bastards. They’d done that on purpose, knowing that most people were already short of food. Her family had been doing a little better recently, being able to afford more of the slightly expensive grain and millets. But they had to be careful not to flaunt the money they were being paid by the Resistance lest someone take it away. 

Indeed, everything seemed like it would end in imprisonment or their imminent deaths, the possibility of either looming over them like a dark shroud. Certainly not pleasant, and certainly not where she wanted to end up. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” the guard mocked, a lilt in his voice that told Savahi he couldn’t be enjoying this more. “How unfortunate that you lost a month’s worth of grain supply.” She knew she’d have to go out tomorrow, possibly even today to buy the rice that now lay there, inedible. 

The guards’ guffawing receded as they proceeded into the inner rooms, perhaps suspecting that they’d hidden something in the wardrobes. Her mother promptly followed them inside. Savahi, however, stood in the living room, and to rack her brains for anything that they’d forgotten to hide. Matches, small knives, and books. Those were the only things she could think of that would cause outright displeasure with the Emperor’s little dogs. Because that’s what they were. Marking their territory and attempting to establish dominance over the rest of them like animals, they truly were no better than hounds. 

Despite that, they were also afraid. Scared that the possession of books would allow the people here to finally educate their daughters, to finally have women aware of what was going on and what was being done to them. It was a wild notion, even now, to have women outside the household for reasons other than to run errands. They were scared someone would accidentally set something on fire with the matches she knew many kept at a finger’s reach, or attack them with small kitchen knives or daggers. 

Rhythmic, fading footsteps were the only sign that they’d left, and she let out a sigh. “Glad that’s over with then,” she said in a voice that sounded fake, even to herself. Immediately, her mother was upon her, hugging her and kissing her forehead. “Oh, my sweet, are you okay? Did they-”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, brushing off her mother’s hands and refusing to look at her, instead finding the ceiling far more interesting. Not yet. She didn’t want anyone’s touch. Not now, not until she’d bathed.

The sun’s baking heat was enough to piss anyone off, she thought grumpily as she hauled in a sack of rice. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and she immediately noted the tense atmosphere as she entered her home. “What’s going on?” Her smile quickly faded as she saw her family’s concerned expressions. They were all sat around the food, though no one was eating. Odd. “Did someone die?”

Her attempt at humour quickly fell flat as her mother shushed her immediately, and ushered her inside. “Don’t say things like that,” she scolded. “But no. No one’s died.” She let out a sigh, and it was then Savahi saw how tired her mother was. Dark circles under her eyes, her face wan and utterly distraught. It was clear that her mother was exhausted, and was trying immensely hard to not let it show, least of all in front of her children. Her normally well-kept hair had lost its shimmer, becoming dull and matted in the last few days. It was no surprise the recent days had been hard on them all, with the decreased prices for their goods and the steadily mounting prices of materials that they desperately needed.

“You know the neighbours?” she started. When Savahi nodded, a slight frown creeping up on her brows, her mother continued. “Well, their daughter was taken.”

“What do you mean, taken?” She could tell her mother was trying to let her down in the easiest way possible, and she wasn’t making it any easier for her mother at all.

“You know what I mean,” she whispered, looking around to see if anyone was listening.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Zahra’s not coming back, is she?”

“I think it’s better for all our sakes she doesn’t. It’s not like she’ll come back in one piece anyway.”

As much as it hurt to hear it from her mother, Savahi knew it was true. They were ruthless in their reign, killing for sport and sheer entertainment. It would be a mercy if she got a quick death, but being a woman, Savahi knew that her friend would have to endure a lot before she met the sweet relief of death. It was all anyone seemed to be hoping for, anyway. 

The next few days were fairly monotonous. A little too calm, if she was being honest with herself. Something was always happening; torturings or whippings, supposed criminals that never got fair trials paraded in the streets like animals to gawk at.

The silence and inaction put her on edge and made her restless, and she didn’t know what to do with herself besides continuing with her routine as it was. It seemed odd that after what they’d done, no angry guards were chasing after them; no wanted signs posted with her face on the front. 

Her mother, however, was unphased by this, and carried on with her routine as though nothing was amiss. One peculiarly sunny day, Savahi found her rummaging through a wardrobe that they’d long since stopped using. “What are you…doing?” she asked skeptically, standing by the door frame as she leaned her hip against it. “Packing,” her mother responded tightly, not bothering to look up or grace her with an actual response. There was an undeniably large heap of…everything by her mother’s side, it seemed. Pots and pans, stray clothes, and the few rare pieces of jewellery they possessed took over the already miniscule floor area. Most of it was already occupied by the divan and the wardrobe to one side. “Do you need help?” she asked again, not quite sure what was going on. “Talk to your sister. She’ll explain everything,” came the blunt response as her mother’s brow once again furrowed, presumably to find another article of clothing in the chaos reigning over her bedroom floor.

Looking around for her sister, she found her in the kitchen, tending to the firewood stove. “Hey.”

That didn’t seem to get her attention, though Savahi could tell Tara was listening. “Why’s mum packing? Are we going somewhere?” Savahi tried again. That made Tara turn. Abandoning her duties in the kitchen, Savahi was ushered out into the backyard. “How much do you know?” she asked. “N-nothing,” Savahi answered. “Was I supposed to?”

“I’m surprised mum didn’t tell you anything. Point is, we’re leaving.” That startled her. “What the hell do you mean, we’re leaving? For good? We-we have a life here. We have our store, our customers-”

“We won’t be much good to our customers if we have our innards hanging out to be picked apart by the crows, will we?” Tara snapped, eyes gleaming. Savahi had never seen her in such a foul mood. Something was really wrong.

“Obviously something is wrong!” Tara seethed. She must have said the words out loud without realising in her shell-shocked state. “Everything is wrong! We have to move away to God knows where, we don’t even know how far we’re going or if we’re even going to make it, we’re just done for!” 

As Tara buried her head in her hands, a few curls falling free from her braid as opposed to Savahi’s ramrod straight tresses. Savahi cradled her as they stood there for a while, each processing and letting the other simply…be. “It’ll be okay,” Savahi finally said, breaking the tentative silence. “No, it won’t,” came her sister’s muffled voice. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll be together. There’s nothing more that we could have asked for or done, you know that.”

Refusing the Empire’s demands would have them rotting and festering in the lord knew which swamps. Perhaps they’d already be sentenced to the gallows, but Savahi wasn’t keen on finding out; now or ever.

Likewise, rejecting the polite but firm offer to make weapons for the Resistance would have meant that her family would have starved like the rest of the village’s inhabitants, being forced to pay more taxes than what they earned. More than what they earned in a month, actually, seeing as the commanding officers for this area had decided to reduce all their salaries, no matter that most of the village’s professions weren’t under their jurisdiction. 

“Let’s go inside,” she muttered to her sister. “Let’s get you something to eat.” For once, she didn’t object, didn’t say that the coddling was unnecessary. For once, she let Savahi take care of her.

She barely remembered packing that night. Her mother had thrown in clothes while she sat with her sister, trying to comfort the poor girl. As disoriented as they both were, she knew she had to be strong for her sister. Her sister, who looked up to her, near-idolized her, because she was the oldest daughter in the family. 

Flashes of throwing clothes into trunks, her mother and father arguing, and everything being hastily cleared away or packed flew through her mind. She wasn’t too sure what was going on, and she didn’t know if she’d remember this at all.

One last chance, she thought to herself. She had one final chance to meet with them before her family disappeared for good. Hastily scrawling a note in what she thought to be the right amount of desperation laced with urgency, she folded it in half, and sent it away.

The two figures she had come to recognise by now stood in front of her, black fabric billowing in the wind so as to conceal themselves like always. 

“Well?” The taller one asked impatiently. “You called us here. Why?” Straight to the point then, she thought. They really don’t want to stay here a moment longer than they need to. She supposed it was because they risked their lives, risked being caught every second they spent here. That was what had happened to Zahra, after all. Flower. That was what her name had meant; her namesake would be on her grave a couple of days from now. 

Of course, there was no body to bury. There never was when one, especially a young girl, was taken away too soon. Instead, it was a more…symbolic gesture that allowed the family and loved ones a place to mourn the deceased. The ceremony would be taking place in a few days, and Savahi, for one, did not intend to miss it. 

Savahi didn’t even know how to start. Where to start.

“That-that girl,” she managed to finally get out, voice thick with emotion. “My neighbour. She was my friend. She was taken.”

“We know,” one said tightly with a brief nod. “We were the ones who made sure that it was her, and not you.” Already noticing her shift in mood, and that she might consider attacking them (despite her hand-to-hand skills being non-existent), the other figure tried immediately to diffuse the situation. “Think about how disastrous it would have been if it was you,” he added gently. “Your family would have been devastated.” The words meant to calm her had the opposite effect, only serving to rile her up even more. 

“And hers isn’t?” she seethed. She couldn’t believe them. They were talking about her and the people she cared about as if they were pieces of meat to be sacrificed, pawns in a chess game that would meet a grisly fate no matter what they did or who they met. They were doomed from the beginning. Her father had always said that, but she hadn’t understood to what extent he meant it until now. Now, the truth sank in, burying its claws in her heart as she fought to keep her breathing steady.

“You’re no different from the Empire!” She hissed. “Treating us like filth and using us for whatever the hell it is you do besides sit in your fancy palaces, drink, and gamble.” Neither objected as she began trudging down the hill.

She was seeing red, and she knew it. She also knew that it was a rash, ill-thought out decision that would definitely come to bite her in the ass one day, but right now, that was the last thing on Savahi’s mind.

They left under the cover of darkness, their father having paid their surrounding neighbours and friends a few days prior so their locations would be hidden. Corruption was rampant, and who knew what the soldiers would do to their friends if they found out a family had fled without knowing? Besides, the Empire seemed hell-bent on keeping everyone as poor as possible, and the money they’d saved up was helping someone, at least, even if it couldn’t be of any use to them. That was what she kept telling herself as they walked on, their escape witnessed only by the blanket of stars that watched over them like angels. 

Her throat was parched, and her vision had begun swimming. They’d had to carry as few supplies as possible when leaving, and yet every step she took made her blistered feet, peeled raw by days of walking, ache like they’d never hurt before. 

Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she rasped, “How much longer?”

“Just a little more,” her mother encouraged, laying a gentle hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. “When we get past these mountains, we’re safe.”

Everyone knew that was a lie. The colonizers’ realm stretched far and wide, past the mountains, nearly all the way to the coast and to the South. But morale had to be kept up somehow, and her mother had always been good at that. Intricate at weaving webs of white lies. Not enough to hurt, never enough to properly wound someone, but a lie enough to give them a much-needed kernel of hope.

As they made it over the final peak, heaving great breaths of exhaustion, what they saw made their breath catch in their throats. A city, sprawled out before them, unblemished and untainted by the shadows of their colonisers. A free city, one of peace and justice.

Even from here, the stunning architecture was visible.

Spires and domes, bridges and piers, it was a city of prosperity. One where they could start their lives anew. 

Deep in her heart, she knew this place. It called to her, perhaps the same way it called to the thousands before her, who had lived and died in this very jewel of a city. Satara. Yes, this was familiar to her. If not to her mind, then at least to her heart.

Whoever they were, whatever they’d endured, and wherever they’d come from, this city would give them a fresh life. A new start, where she wouldn’t be recognised. She’d be no one and nothing, and have a new, blissful beginning. She’d find peace in the anonymity this new life gave her.

Her family walked a little further, finally stepping past the gleaming gates. Mentally thanking the Gods, she smiled to herself, ready for a new chapter.

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#24

"How can I be homesick for a home I never had?"

"The same way you can grieve for the person you never were."

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#86

I will try to accept myself, my heart, my soul. All those broken and shattered and jagged edges that have hurt others will not hurt me. I will not allow them to. For they are mine. And nothing that is mine, that has come of me, shall hurt me. I will hold them close, will hold them dear, and look at them. Truly look at them, and see what can be done. If I can fix them, or if I must start anew. For if I must start my journey again, this time, it will be the journey of loving myself and my body as I am. Every inch of me, whether ugly or beautiful, clean or scarred, I will accept myself.

I will not be afraid this time. Not of myself or the parts that I keep hidden. Not of asking for help when I truly do need it. For if there is one thing I have learned, it is this: there is no glory in suffering. None at all. And especially not when one suffers alone. 

It will take time to heal myself.

And that is okay.

I will tell myself I am worthy of love and all things good, that I deserve to be here. Because even if my mind does not believe it, my heart knows it. I have given enough, have done enough to be allowed to have a place here, in people’s hearts. I deserve to carve out a place for myself where I am respected, and loved, and desired. A place where I can be myself, where fear does not rule every aspect of me, where I am not overtaken by anxiety. A place where I can breathe. And it has come to my attention that maybe it is not a place at all, but a person. A person who sees me, jagged edges and all, and does not tell me to hide them away, to be ashamed of them, but rather someone who helps me love myself. A person who sees me for who I am, who does not implore me to change, to water myself down for those who cannot handle me. To those, I say: choke. Let them choke on me if they cannot handle my presence.

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