[ In the end - she does not know what to do with that. The outpouring in response, of something, held so deeply and like a limb that has been severed, part of her in its absence. She will always be the woman on the battlefield, whose lungs so hoarse from screaming, she tastes blood. Hands gripped so hard from the need to stop their shaking, they will never quite straighten out properly. ]
There isn't a word for it, there never will be.
[ She looks down at her hands. Bound up. A first time, oddly. She had never been captured, not in all her years. Threatened with it certainly, hung over her head to make death always preferable. But good men had given their lives to make sure she never was bound.
no subject
There isn't a word for it, there never will be.
[ She looks down at her hands. Bound up. A first time, oddly. She had never been captured, not in all her years. Threatened with it certainly, hung over her head to make death always preferable. But good men had given their lives to make sure she never was bound.
Made this a little stiff, a little awkward. ]
Come here, child.