Arshia laid down the bamboo pen and gazed at the rebel. "What happened to your sister is deplorable, but your actions that followed are unjustifiable."
The rebel regarded her with a void stare and a wistful smile. "What is the justifiable thing to do when the law dictates them free of any consequence?"
Noticing her lips unmoved, he continued, "Chronicler, let me ask you a question. What crime did my sister commit? What warrants her to be treated lesser than any woman?" Indra asked.
"Your ancestral-"
"Ancestral crimes, eh? Your grandfather was killed for treason, and your father murdered a ma-"
"Enough!" Arshia pushed her chair back from the table and came to her feet. "I do not stand for the slander against my family."
He, despite her warning, continued, "Your father murdered a man who dared to question him for taking away his sister's virtue with a promise of marriage. If one judges another by what their predecessors did, you should be in muck along with us."
The words weren't for deaf ears, so there were, of course, consequences: a sword was drawn, and a cut was dealt. A red drop, a evening tear at the bottom of the eye trickled over indra's earthen flesh—a painting of blood soaked earth. A sight that held creation's history of violence.
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The rebel's long finger traced the line of the teardrop and smeared it over his lips.
"Spilled blood and a given word cannot be taken, my lady," he uttered icily and followed it with a red smile that looked too ominous over his handsome face.
Peering at him, a weight of stone settled in Arshia's core. Her gaze traveled to the shackles, but their existential assurance did not alleviate the growing fear. The grip on her sword tightened as instinctual dread warred with sensibility.
"Perhaps you could use a break," he added warmly.
Arshia sheathed her sword and faced the wall, jaw tightened and heart racing. It took a moment for her ire and unease to dissipate.
"Have you eaten something?" she asked.
"Other than your scolding and cuts?" he said, leaning against the wall and assuming a thoughtful disposition. "No."
She let out a weary sigh. "I will ask the servants to bring something for you,"
Arshia set the chair right and picked up the fallen stationary before stepping out.
A few seconds later, once again, the prison lay in silence. The silence. He hated it. He wanted for its departure. He drummed his fingers on the floor and attempted to mitigate its influence with a song.
He reached into the depths of his heart to haul the transparent feelings to an anomalous songtext only he could understand. But he couldn't do it, no matter how much he tried—he couldn't spin the words as he used to.
He stopped, still as the tree that waited for a tempest but, instead, received in its stead a gentle rain. He buried his face in his hands and wept quietly. There was no one to look at him. No one to see his struggle to tame his shuddering shape. Yet he strived to compose himself like iron resisting the battering of a hammer.