[Again, the breathy sound that escapes Susan might actually be laughter - bitter, humourless laughter, but laughter nonetheless.]
[Fuck, it's all so familiar. Wars and threats and traitors and prisons within prisons, silence and doubt and playing it close to the chest. She's never felt so weary in all her life. Ka, she thinks bitterly, a fragment of some half-remembered aphorism she never gave much credit, is a wheel. Round and round it goes, and ain't it just the way of things, that even in death she should be carried along with it?]
[She clears her throat again, letting go of the bars to push her hair back out of her face (she's tried braiding it, but with nothing to tie it, it won't hold for long), and tries not to let her feelings read too clear on her face. Whatever those feelings are. She's not even sure if it's frustration, amusement, or tiredness that's uppermost.]
Figures, I guess. Ain't it funny, how the biggest threats always seem to be those of us who couldn't give two shits about their bedamned war?
[She never cared about her own world's war, not really, not before Will Dearborn and his friends rode into town. Let the gunslingers and their rivals worry over such things; she'd no taste for it when there was so much else to struggle over. But the war had come to find her even so, long before she'd known it for what it was, and it seems that the war here is bound to do the same.]
[Just once, she thinks wryly, it might be nice to win a war, and not just be drowned by it before you ever picked up arms. Or before you'd shot anyone who deserved it, at least. Dave Hollis' dead face is still too fresh in her mind for her to play the innocent with herself for long.]
Have they let you see what's round the castle? They'll only let us out into a kind of courtyard-square, I ain't seen naught but sky of this country since they brought me here.
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[Fuck, it's all so familiar. Wars and threats and traitors and prisons within prisons, silence and doubt and playing it close to the chest. She's never felt so weary in all her life. Ka, she thinks bitterly, a fragment of some half-remembered aphorism she never gave much credit, is a wheel. Round and round it goes, and ain't it just the way of things, that even in death she should be carried along with it?]
[She clears her throat again, letting go of the bars to push her hair back out of her face (she's tried braiding it, but with nothing to tie it, it won't hold for long), and tries not to let her feelings read too clear on her face. Whatever those feelings are. She's not even sure if it's frustration, amusement, or tiredness that's uppermost.]
Figures, I guess. Ain't it funny, how the biggest threats always seem to be those of us who couldn't give two shits about their bedamned war?
[She never cared about her own world's war, not really, not before Will Dearborn and his friends rode into town. Let the gunslingers and their rivals worry over such things; she'd no taste for it when there was so much else to struggle over. But the war had come to find her even so, long before she'd known it for what it was, and it seems that the war here is bound to do the same.]
[Just once, she thinks wryly, it might be nice to win a war, and not just be drowned by it before you ever picked up arms. Or before you'd shot anyone who deserved it, at least. Dave Hollis' dead face is still too fresh in her mind for her to play the innocent with herself for long.]
Have they let you see what's round the castle? They'll only let us out into a kind of courtyard-square, I ain't seen naught but sky of this country since they brought me here.