Damn it all if he's making it hard for her to be obtuse. She picks another link with another bit of hard stuck grime and mud and blood to continues scrubbing at it fixedly.
"It is rather a hallmark of civilisation, I'd wager." Clears her throat, pointedly. "I am sure Rick will consider it carefully."
Her head dips lower, where was the ground to swallow her up? Perhaps if she willed it hard enough, Shiva or Devi would take pity on her and drag her under before she got stuck.
Her teeth fit on the inside of her lip, worrying against it in thought. A nervous habit from girlhood. Thinking over what he's saying. Or rather, that she isn't exactly sure.
"How novel, I've never voted before." It's flat, curter than she means, but said and that's that.
Then, at last, she straightens up, her fingers curling up sharp and around the gold in her hand, letting it dig into hands that were never soft. Taking assurance in the bite against her skin. He's - closer than she expected when she pulls up to meet his face, not shying from it, rather she lowers her voice in proximity. A hiss that peels back from her teeth, a swallow that sits heavy in her throat in the firelight, whispered between them. "Out with it then, whatever it is you've been asked to say to me." Flatly accusing, perhaps, she doesn't like being coerced like that.
Daryl groans. He can see through her shit maybe half the time, but she can always call him out. It isn't half fair.
"They want you to try. Folk like you." And then he realizes what he can say to at least make her consider it. It's a flash of stupid, silly insight and he hates feeling so manipulative, but there it is. He says it because it'll light the kids eyes up to know they have an Indian queen on their council. It'll make them feel special. It'll make them feel safe.
Oh but that stings. He couldn't hit her any lower and she wants to hit him in return, maybe less than metaphorically. It's clear on her face before she smothers it down, twitching like a live wire, an exposed nerve like he'd bared it under a blade. Hurt, bitter, angry, and she snaps back to the metal in her hand, knuckles turning white around it like she might just anyway.
Because she's trying to think of something to say. Something sharp and half as mean as she wants it to be. To tell them they're all fools, all idiots. She's a Queen of a dead kingdom. What hope can she give them? What on earth can she do for them that she didn't already do for her own people, a long time ago, only to watch them burn?
It wells hot, and angry and bitter in her throat, stings in her eyes, the choking on smoke that she's tasted for years that she had to devour in order to avenge them as they screamed and were slaughtered down to the last child. Her people, her people, her people and she's lying to herself, she knows, if she doesn't already think of this group as just the same. Hers to care for, to do everything she could for. Like she's spent every hundred years since then trying to do what she couldn't to start with.
She can't, she can't, she can't.
Galahad, Tesla, Devi, the men and women of Jhansi, her little boy in her arms, her impoverished of Whitechapel and the soldiers at Normandy. All hers, all looking to her, all dead - and she cannot -
The breath she pulls into herself is wet and sobering. "No. I will not."
He watches her move, or really, he watches her move enough to go still. He can see that his words hit their mark, and he wonders at that. So often, people think of her as the great legend, the woman who's come back against impossible odds, who holds the secret to something worse and greater than all of their pain. It makes her hard to talk to, for a lot of people, hard to look in the eye. They'd rather keep her in the distant future, a hope against bad times.
For Daryl, it's the opposite. He doesn't know the world of kings and queens, doesn't understand her ancient words or culture. He admitted to Carol that for a long damn time, he thought she was the other kind of Indian.
It's easier to think of her as the angry woman in that tunnel, talking about children who died in her arms.
That woman wouldn't be pleaded with or reasoned with. An argument was useless to her. Instead, he just asks, "why?"
Like always, she shuts it down where her life - who she had been before in its reality is not what she ever offers up. Battle stories of warriors in gleaming metal and raised swords is one thing.
Slaughter is another.
"It's not for discussion." She's shifting, getting ready to stand up. "Wake me when it's time to go. I am going to rest before we leave." She doesn't really need to sleep, the blackwater will do most often, and she takes longer shifts at the worst hours because of it.
Daryl tsks, rolls his eyes. "Whatever, lady." There goes diplomacy. If he were trickier, he'd get one of them kids to run up and give her a flower or some shit, but he knows she'd see right through that. Honest manipulation is better.
So in the morning, he wakes extra early, and wakes her by throwing his dirty sleeping bag on her face. "Hey, your majesty. Gotta go."
He's holding a half-eaten protein bar and a shitty can of flat soda. It's the best breakfast he's managed in weeks.
It's half-hearted when she wakes - startled from her at best cat nap when he drops the bag on her face. But she kicks out, not hard meant, just swings at his legs as if she means to knock his legs out from underneath him in a belated 'good morning to you, too.'
Struggles up, sitting there with a yawn as she stretches, letting her back pop into place after sleeping on the ground. "Are we riding? Or walking?"
"Sedan - we have a sedan -" A frown, who on earth had a sedan chair? Who on earth would carry them around?
A second where she's groggy waking up and then she blanches as she catches up with the rest of his sentence. "Oh, an automobile... of course." Clears her throat, clearing the sleep out of her system, as she straightens. "I am perfectly capable of driving if you would prefer that." Up onto her nose, then onto her feet as she takes out her hair from the night before, tugging it loose so she can run her fingers through it.
"Yeah, a shitty little Taurus." Daryl kicks the wheel. It was blue once, but now it's got doors with different colors, pilfered from others, welded together and stuck with tape.
"Yeah, you ain't driving." He opens the door, and is mildly surprised when it doesn't fall off its hinges. "C'mon, get your shit."
She sniffs all insulted dignity as she gathers up her gear. Which is numerous so far as she had too many weapons: the sword, the long knife, the pistol and the rifle. But what was super-human strength if she didn't use it? A few minutes to arm herself, tie her hair back up, wash her face and hands. Not the best morning person in the world, but at least it's done quickly with military efficiency.
When she finally gets into the car with him. It's some light dig back at him as she settles herself into the seat - and she still sits proper like she's riding her, haha, high horse. "I am a perfectly acceptable driver, I have plenty of experience."
"With horses and a carriage?" He can't quite picture her behind the wheel of a modern car. He tries, while futzing with the wires beneath steering, trying to hotwire this thing into movement. It eventually rumbles to life, and he takes the wheel, slowly coaxing it forward.
They're going down a dirt road, just fast enough to outrun walkers. "Keep an eye out for anything that looks worth it." Worth the risk of clearing it out, worth salvaging, worth fortifying and living.
Like ever, it takes a minute for her to get comfortable. Her back settling against the seat, - it's still not as good as riding, even riding when he was behind her. Taller than her, so it was comfortable so far as close space went.
Not that she would be telling him that anytime soon. Rather, for the time being, she settles, trying to make comfortable. "No," her voice is desert dry sarcasm, slow. "Elephants." Her arm settling against the armrest, fingers against the handle, tapping a slow line. Falls into silence, watching the street go by, looking over the houses. This country is poor for the choices she prefers in defensive positions. Settled in a time after land wars of that kind. Too many windows, too much wasted glass and not enough stone. Brick, perhaps, she would look for that, as her eyes dart from tree to tree on the side of the road. Two stories would be preferable.
Silence, that lapses until, with a cleared throat and a glance back to him she offers, quietly: "Singing," says it once, then licks her lips. Pushing herself through it. "When we were talking last night, about what we do when we are - 'lit'. I like to sing." It's a peace offering, as bare as she can manage for shutting him down. Offering something - human of herself. "Not well, mind you, but the first time I drank too much at a banquet as a child, I thought I was worthy to sing to the God Krishna himself..."
She's fiddling with it, the material of the scarf around her head, the gold threads that her free hand runs over.
Daryl keeps an eye out as well. What he really wants is to run into some financial park, or maybe an office building, but there aren't a ton of those in rural Georgia. It'd be a fine thing, though, to set people up in the cubicle rooms, set guardposts up on the corner offices. You could see for miles.
If only they could find one.
"I just get angry," he says, shaking his head. "All the Dixon men-- too much booze, everything's fighting words. Rather sing."
More tree, more buildings, a walker that does at it is called, walks and walks and walks. Towards them, towards something else that will take their interest. Forward, forward, forward. Come to think, she'd never seen them step backwards. Perhaps that was gone from their minds too, a way back.
"Oh, Dixon men is it? I shall be wary then." Her head turns back briefly to him, a brief smile. Wondering what the others of his family would be like. "My papa-ji always warned of it. Didn't turn out to be my disposition, thankfully." Been a long time, granted, since she'd drunk anything. Turns back to him, a crinkle turning up in the corner of her eyes. "I am sure you would sing beautifully."
"Don't worry none. Only one left ain't a big drinker." He gives her a wry little lop-sided smile.
He turns the corner down a road that looks somewhat promising. For one thing, it's got tarmac rather than dirt paving it. "Means you ain't gonna hear me singing anytime soon, neither."
"A shame, I am sure it would liven the evenings some." Hovers, almost, like she means to poke at him, prod him some. But she looks forward instead, adjusting herself again, the need to always be moving that comes subconsciously.
"Though apparently we don't have the same taste in music, from what you said." She never even what kind of music she likes, Daryl, rude.
The road widens into what looks like a mall. There don't seem to be too many walkers in the parking lot, which is either a really good sign or a bad one. But if they could make it work, with people sleeping in shops... Daryl parks the car.
She opens her door, poking her head out, staring out over the building in its entirety. What on earth was it? Well, shops, she knew that.
The world had changed, and sometimes it takes her off her guard - not the big things, the small things. This life, what had they lost? One that wasn't hers, that much was easy to say. One in which losing a mother in childbirth stilled them utterly, one where even where they still counted the things they lost and found the temporal difficult, no comfort to them in death when it was time for one to go. These things, certainly, but buildings like this - just taken for granted as normal to them. A place where food could be stored and reached easily. Things that they could have from countries away with little trouble to themselves to obtain. A world fully realised that was not hers and she feels - invasive, almost, when she looks in on it. Like the walls knew she was not supposed to be there. Like she was not supposed to be with there group.
Thoughts for later. She snaps from her thoughts back to him with a uptilt of her face. Her laughter is high and bright, as she meets his gaze, unsheathing the long knife from her back in the soft hiss of a promise. "And I am not even wearing my receiving clothes." Her humour is tinted, shade by shade. "Shall we? It's been a long time since I've held court and I am in a generous mood."
Edited (gets all poetic n shit x2) 2016-11-22 13:27 (UTC)
"Never been to court," Daryl says, getting out of the car. He loads his crossbow, getting ready for something to slither out of one of the cars. They should check those, he decides. They've got to be in better condition than the ones they came up in. "That like being on a council?"
Oh - he just couldn't resist, could he? Her eyes roll her jaw sets and - damn it all if she doesn't feel bad for how sharply she reacted the night before. Usually tried to give an explanation as to why, at least in her own way. Which granted, she'd been informed that her usual approach of 'I'm nearly 200 years old and know better than you', didn't always work as ... diplomatically as it could.
So she swallows it and begins to move with him, not far, a little ahead and a dropped low as she scanned the cars surrounding for walkers. Blade at the ready and her movements steady. "A little, from how I've seen you all make your decisions so far." Admits it, if begrudgingly. "You are thinking of it quite wrongly, I imagine. Not a law court." How had it worked in this country after they had thrown out their King? She struggles to remember it's particulars, other than a complicated system of elections and laws, held in place of the divinity of a ruler's word.
"It was... perhaps like a great chamber of commerce. All men and women poured into the receiving area, to petition or to seek my or my husband's ear, perhaps simply to ask for advice. I dealt with matters usually pertaining to women, up until my husband died, then I oversaw all. There was often a great deal of discussion, though ultimately every decision was my own. My husband and I had the final word on everything that occurred, allowing for certain religious and social moors of course." She comes to a car, and there's a Walker trapped inside. It goes quick, stabbing it sharp in the temple, the wet sound of slicing meat, brain matter soft and rotten, the crunch of bone. Hears it groan, hears its breath ease out in true death.
Daryl watches her take down the walker without a second thought. She's quick, she's a sure bet more than half the time, a damn shining beacon among all this bullshit. And she's learned fast as quicksilver. Maybe Daryl can't win this little argument, but damned if he's not gonna make his point.
"Sounds like a pain in the ass. Why'd you do it?"
Another small gaggle of walkers wanders out between the cars. Only three or four of them, nothing two people reasonably well equipt can't handle. Daryl shoots the first in the head, aims for the second.
"They were my people. Could I do otherwise?" It comes quick, the response that it had always mean and all that had meant. They were her people, it was her Jhansi and they would never take them from her. There had never been anything else.
They had, anyway. She had never seen her home again. She couldn't bare to go back, she could not bare those memories.
Then she ducks, and she liked - watching him. Watching him fight, watching his precision. The surety he presented when she had not had it for so long. He was steady in way that she had craved so long, that she had not had since - Galahad, since Devi. Swallows, lets him line up the second shot before she darts around the back of the cars, letting him draw their attention before she circles around their back, the one at the far back taken down when she throws the blade, running forward, in the same moment as it hits the ground to yank it free and tackle the one beside it, blade into its head. Pulling herself up as the - woman, it looks like, perhaps she was out shopping.
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"It is rather a hallmark of civilisation, I'd wager." Clears her throat, pointedly. "I am sure Rick will consider it carefully."
Her head dips lower, where was the ground to swallow her up? Perhaps if she willed it hard enough, Shiva or Devi would take pity on her and drag her under before she got stuck.
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He's often obtuse, frequently vague, he knows the signs. If she wants to avoid the subject... could that mean she could have trouble saying no?
"We vote on whoever throws their name in."
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"How novel, I've never voted before." It's flat, curter than she means, but said and that's that.
Then, at last, she straightens up, her fingers curling up sharp and around the gold in her hand, letting it dig into hands that were never soft. Taking assurance in the bite against her skin. He's - closer than she expected when she pulls up to meet his face, not shying from it, rather she lowers her voice in proximity. A hiss that peels back from her teeth, a swallow that sits heavy in her throat in the firelight, whispered between them. "Out with it then, whatever it is you've been asked to say to me." Flatly accusing, perhaps, she doesn't like being coerced like that.
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"They want you to try. Folk like you." And then he realizes what he can say to at least make her consider it. It's a flash of stupid, silly insight and he hates feeling so manipulative, but there it is. He says it because it'll light the kids eyes up to know they have an Indian queen on their council. It'll make them feel special. It'll make them feel safe.
"You give 'em hope."
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Because she's trying to think of something to say. Something sharp and half as mean as she wants it to be. To tell them they're all fools, all idiots. She's a Queen of a dead kingdom. What hope can she give them? What on earth can she do for them that she didn't already do for her own people, a long time ago, only to watch them burn?
It wells hot, and angry and bitter in her throat, stings in her eyes, the choking on smoke that she's tasted for years that she had to devour in order to avenge them as they screamed and were slaughtered down to the last child. Her people, her people, her people and she's lying to herself, she knows, if she doesn't already think of this group as just the same. Hers to care for, to do everything she could for. Like she's spent every hundred years since then trying to do what she couldn't to start with.
She can't, she can't, she can't.
Galahad, Tesla, Devi, the men and women of Jhansi, her little boy in her arms, her impoverished of Whitechapel and the soldiers at Normandy. All hers, all looking to her, all dead - and she cannot -
The breath she pulls into herself is wet and sobering. "No. I will not."
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For Daryl, it's the opposite. He doesn't know the world of kings and queens, doesn't understand her ancient words or culture. He admitted to Carol that for a long damn time, he thought she was the other kind of Indian.
It's easier to think of her as the angry woman in that tunnel, talking about children who died in her arms.
That woman wouldn't be pleaded with or reasoned with. An argument was useless to her. Instead, he just asks, "why?"
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Slaughter is another.
"It's not for discussion." She's shifting, getting ready to stand up. "Wake me when it's time to go. I am going to rest before we leave." She doesn't really need to sleep, the blackwater will do most often, and she takes longer shifts at the worst hours because of it.
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So in the morning, he wakes extra early, and wakes her by throwing his dirty sleeping bag on her face. "Hey, your majesty. Gotta go."
He's holding a half-eaten protein bar and a shitty can of flat soda. It's the best breakfast he's managed in weeks.
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Struggles up, sitting there with a yawn as she stretches, letting her back pop into place after sleeping on the ground. "Are we riding? Or walking?"
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It's an empty ploy; he doesn't want to think of what Rani driving looks like.
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A second where she's groggy waking up and then she blanches as she catches up with the rest of his sentence. "Oh, an automobile... of course." Clears her throat, clearing the sleep out of her system, as she straightens. "I am perfectly capable of driving if you would prefer that." Up onto her nose, then onto her feet as she takes out her hair from the night before, tugging it loose so she can run her fingers through it.
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"Yeah, you ain't driving." He opens the door, and is mildly surprised when it doesn't fall off its hinges. "C'mon, get your shit."
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When she finally gets into the car with him. It's some light dig back at him as she settles herself into the seat - and she still sits proper like she's riding her, haha, high horse. "I am a perfectly acceptable driver, I have plenty of experience."
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They're going down a dirt road, just fast enough to outrun walkers. "Keep an eye out for anything that looks worth it." Worth the risk of clearing it out, worth salvaging, worth fortifying and living.
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Not that she would be telling him that anytime soon. Rather, for the time being, she settles, trying to make comfortable. "No," her voice is desert dry sarcasm, slow. "Elephants." Her arm settling against the armrest, fingers against the handle, tapping a slow line. Falls into silence, watching the street go by, looking over the houses. This country is poor for the choices she prefers in defensive positions. Settled in a time after land wars of that kind. Too many windows, too much wasted glass and not enough stone. Brick, perhaps, she would look for that, as her eyes dart from tree to tree on the side of the road. Two stories would be preferable.
Silence, that lapses until, with a cleared throat and a glance back to him she offers, quietly: "Singing," says it once, then licks her lips. Pushing herself through it. "When we were talking last night, about what we do when we are - 'lit'. I like to sing." It's a peace offering, as bare as she can manage for shutting him down. Offering something - human of herself. "Not well, mind you, but the first time I drank too much at a banquet as a child, I thought I was worthy to sing to the God Krishna himself..."
She's fiddling with it, the material of the scarf around her head, the gold threads that her free hand runs over.
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If only they could find one.
"I just get angry," he says, shaking his head. "All the Dixon men-- too much booze, everything's fighting words. Rather sing."
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"Oh, Dixon men is it? I shall be wary then." Her head turns back briefly to him, a brief smile. Wondering what the others of his family would be like. "My papa-ji always warned of it. Didn't turn out to be my disposition, thankfully." Been a long time, granted, since she'd drunk anything. Turns back to him, a crinkle turning up in the corner of her eyes. "I am sure you would sing beautifully."
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He turns the corner down a road that looks somewhat promising. For one thing, it's got tarmac rather than dirt paving it. "Means you ain't gonna hear me singing anytime soon, neither."
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"Though apparently we don't have the same taste in music, from what you said." She never even what kind of music she likes, Daryl, rude.
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The road widens into what looks like a mall. There don't seem to be too many walkers in the parking lot, which is either a really good sign or a bad one. But if they could make it work, with people sleeping in shops... Daryl parks the car.
"Looks like you got a captive audience, Rani."
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The world had changed, and sometimes it takes her off her guard - not the big things, the small things. This life, what had they lost? One that wasn't hers, that much was easy to say. One in which losing a mother in childbirth stilled them utterly, one where even where they still counted the things they lost and found the temporal difficult, no comfort to them in death when it was time for one to go. These things, certainly, but buildings like this - just taken for granted as normal to them. A place where food could be stored and reached easily. Things that they could have from countries away with little trouble to themselves to obtain. A world fully realised that was not hers and she feels - invasive, almost, when she looks in on it. Like the walls knew she was not supposed to be there. Like she was not supposed to be with there group.
Thoughts for later. She snaps from her thoughts back to him with a uptilt of her face. Her laughter is high and bright, as she meets his gaze, unsheathing the long knife from her back in the soft hiss of a promise. "And I am not even wearing my receiving clothes." Her humour is tinted, shade by shade. "Shall we? It's been a long time since I've held court and I am in a generous mood."
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Nope, sorry, not letting that go, Rani.
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So she swallows it and begins to move with him, not far, a little ahead and a dropped low as she scanned the cars surrounding for walkers. Blade at the ready and her movements steady. "A little, from how I've seen you all make your decisions so far." Admits it, if begrudgingly. "You are thinking of it quite wrongly, I imagine. Not a law court." How had it worked in this country after they had thrown out their King? She struggles to remember it's particulars, other than a complicated system of elections and laws, held in place of the divinity of a ruler's word.
"It was... perhaps like a great chamber of commerce. All men and women poured into the receiving area, to petition or to seek my or my husband's ear, perhaps simply to ask for advice. I dealt with matters usually pertaining to women, up until my husband died, then I oversaw all. There was often a great deal of discussion, though ultimately every decision was my own. My husband and I had the final word on everything that occurred, allowing for certain religious and social moors of course." She comes to a car, and there's a Walker trapped inside. It goes quick, stabbing it sharp in the temple, the wet sound of slicing meat, brain matter soft and rotten, the crunch of bone. Hears it groan, hears its breath ease out in true death.
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"Sounds like a pain in the ass. Why'd you do it?"
Another small gaggle of walkers wanders out between the cars. Only three or four of them, nothing two people reasonably well equipt can't handle. Daryl shoots the first in the head, aims for the second.
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They had, anyway. She had never seen her home again. She couldn't bare to go back, she could not bare those memories.
Then she ducks, and she liked - watching him. Watching him fight, watching his precision. The surety he presented when she had not had it for so long. He was steady in way that she had craved so long, that she had not had since - Galahad, since Devi. Swallows, lets him line up the second shot before she darts around the back of the cars, letting him draw their attention before she circles around their back, the one at the far back taken down when she throws the blade, running forward, in the same moment as it hits the ground to yank it free and tackle the one beside it, blade into its head. Pulling herself up as the - woman, it looks like, perhaps she was out shopping.
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