She bares into it fully, for it's a game that she had indulged into often before this - before England - before the weight of her people and their lives upon her. The cut of cold air that she sucks in deep, that brings warmth sharp and in contrast to the cold is the animal that powers along, that she whispers breathless words too, words not of its language, but of her own - urging it faster and quicker, willing battle cries into its steps - Har Har Mahadev.
To pull even with him, to pull past him, laughing sharp and clear into the air. That cold, unforgiving air expelled hot in exertion out of her body as she comes to the finish line. Passing over it in front of him and as he comes to the end of their little race, she pulls the horse to a halt. Not so much to a stop but turns it in a tight circle as it churned up the snow and the ground below it. Thick and flinging up, ground that is minced under hooves as her head whipped back around to face him. A dancer's turn as her body moves, her gaze fixed upon him. A high in her cheeks, the part of her lips, the gold that catches the sun, that is in winning, perhaps, but more in the race. What she needed, the break from these people that were not her home - with someone that was even less so. But for his indulgence of her, she could be generous.
Because what she is, where she came from, it is not secret, and if they were at home and - he were anyone else but an American, she might be worried about that weight. Her name is one damned by England's Queen. To the English, she is better to them dead on a battlefield.
But here? Now? Her voice calls back full to where he says he'll never know. "Jhansi. Once part of the Marathi Empire in what you call India, a small Kingdom of bare rock and long hard summers." Her eyes are bright and she pulls her breath heavily as if she had been the one running. But he gets his answer, plain and simple, because she doesn't expect it to mean anything more to him than Georgia meant to her. "Come on then. If you wish to muddy our tracks, you will have to do better than that." She has no business tormenting a man she's only just met with laughter and prodding and testing him in her own way - expect that's what makes it easy. What does he know of a Queen to a fallen Kingdom? Her fallen Kingdom.
Rather, what does any of it matter to how she brings her horse around?. A sharp tug and it follows, guiding like it was of her own two legs. Feeling it take sure footing in the snow as she circles back around him, almost in torment expect where she does it to fall back to his side. He has his answer, what he would make of it, would be his own doing. No court here could say she was treasonous to a crown that she refused to acknowledge any longer.
no subject
To pull even with him, to pull past him, laughing sharp and clear into the air. That cold, unforgiving air expelled hot in exertion out of her body as she comes to the finish line. Passing over it in front of him and as he comes to the end of their little race, she pulls the horse to a halt. Not so much to a stop but turns it in a tight circle as it churned up the snow and the ground below it. Thick and flinging up, ground that is minced under hooves as her head whipped back around to face him. A dancer's turn as her body moves, her gaze fixed upon him. A high in her cheeks, the part of her lips, the gold that catches the sun, that is in winning, perhaps, but more in the race. What she needed, the break from these people that were not her home - with someone that was even less so. But for his indulgence of her, she could be generous.
Because what she is, where she came from, it is not secret, and if they were at home and - he were anyone else but an American, she might be worried about that weight. Her name is one damned by England's Queen. To the English, she is better to them dead on a battlefield.
But here? Now? Her voice calls back full to where he says he'll never know. "Jhansi. Once part of the Marathi Empire in what you call India, a small Kingdom of bare rock and long hard summers." Her eyes are bright and she pulls her breath heavily as if she had been the one running. But he gets his answer, plain and simple, because she doesn't expect it to mean anything more to him than Georgia meant to her. "Come on then. If you wish to muddy our tracks, you will have to do better than that." She has no business tormenting a man she's only just met with laughter and prodding and testing him in her own way - expect that's what makes it easy. What does he know of a Queen to a fallen Kingdom? Her fallen Kingdom.
Rather, what does any of it matter to how she brings her horse around?. A sharp tug and it follows, guiding like it was of her own two legs. Feeling it take sure footing in the snow as she circles back around him, almost in torment expect where she does it to fall back to his side. He has his answer, what he would make of it, would be his own doing. No court here could say she was treasonous to a crown that she refused to acknowledge any longer.