Inequality - Blog Posts

This isn’t right. It’s time to raise the wage. 

Sign the petition now.

Hard to rise, and harder to fall: Poor college grads stay poor about as much as rich high school dropouts stay rich.

Poor kids who do everything right don’t do better than rich kids who do everything wrong

Cinderella is (still) a heroine

Recently Keira Knightley mentioned that she doesn't allow her children to watch Cinderella, because "she did nothing and waited for a man to save her". Because she isn't "feminist" enough. Emma Watson too made about the same comments a few years back when she rejected the role of Cinderella. To be honest, I was extremely disappointed with both actresses's interpretation of the character, a bit more with Watson, because she is a UN ambassador for women. Cinderella is a domestic slave in a male dominated society. She's an orphan, her remaining(all female too! ) family appears to be financially unstable, and yes, she's a servant. Do you know how many women are actually in the same position today? MILLIONS. Moving on, with one of my favourite quotes about Cinderella: she didn't ask for a prince. She asked for a dress and a night off. She had every right to be at that ball, she even worked hard to be there, and yet her stepmother and sisters still found a way to sabotage her. Enter deus ex machina: the fairy godmother. Because social services didn't really exist at the time. She gets to the ball, she has fun, she even gets to meet the prince, and yet when her time is up, she just goes home. She doesn't beg anyone to take her in, she doesn't ask the prince to save her. Why? Maybe she's still too traumatised and scared to actually escape. Maybe she thinks she isn't worth that much anymore. So, home she goes, back to cleaning and cooking. This is where I'll stop narrating. This is enough. This is a story that has been true, is still true, and sadly will be true for countless young women. So, Keira and Emma, please tell me: what is a "strong woman" supposed to do when faced with poverty, abuse and has no access to education, welfare or even just a better job? Why does Cinderella have to be a role model, when she is in fact a victim? All these women in sweatshops, in the fields, in the kitchens of rich men's mansions, would really like to know: I'm I not "good enough" as a woman?

Note To Society #27

Racism absolutely exists, and there are thousands of articles and videos out there that prove it. Before arguing that a minority (especially one you aren’t a part of) doesn’t suffer from discrimination and oppression, do your research and educate yourself. Just because you don’t experience it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

Today is Equal Pay Day. On average, a woman in the U.S. has to work until today — March 25th — to earn what a white man was paid in 2024. 🪙🙅🏽‍♀️💵

And the gender wage gap is even worse for women of color. Compared to white men:

💲 Latina and Native women earn 58 cents

💲 Black women earn 66 cents

💲 White women earn 80 cents

💲 Asian American women earn 94 cents

If you care about wages and pay inequality, the politicians WE elect can create policies to address it. Make sure you are registered to vote right now at WhenWeAllVote.org/check.

The Economist | Land-shackled economies: The paradox of soil via @theeconomist

Klimaungerechtigkeit

[...] da wir gelernt haben, »unsicher« in der Wissenschaft mit »keine Ahnung« zu übersetzen. Das Gegenteil wäre korrekt.

Es gibt kein brisanteres Beispiel dafür, dass ein Wort in der Wissenschaft eine andere Bedeutung hat als in der Alltagssprache und welche weitreichenden Konsequenzen das nach sich ziehen kann.

Was es zu retten gilt, ist nicht das Klima oder die Menschheit. Es geht schlicht und einfach darum, die Würde und Rechte der Menschen – und zwar aller Menschen – zu retten.

Das wird gerade von jenen nicht verstanden, die argumentieren, das Klima sei auch früher schon mal so warm gewesen und wahlweise die menschengemachte Klimaerwärmung daher kein Problem sei oder die gegenwärtige Klimaerwärmung gar nicht menschengemacht wäre. Insbesondere letzteres, also die Frage nach den Verursachenden, verblasst im Kontext des Zitats zu einem irrelevanten Aspekt eines gesellschaftlich relevanten Problems, das es dringend zu lösen gilt. Die Frage nach den Verursachenden gewinnt jedoch enorm an Bedeutung, wenn es darum geht, eine verantwortliche Rolle bei der Lösung der Gerechtigkeitskrise zu übernehmen und den am stärksten Betroffenen zu helfen.

Der kolonialfossile Klimawandel ist daher im Wesentlichen weder Klimakrise noch Klimakatastrophe [...], sondern eine Gerechtigkeitskrise. Diese Gerechtigkeitskrise durchzieht die Geschichte der Menschheit und findet nicht erst statt, seit der Klimawandel ein Thema ist. In Kombination mit den Auswirkungen des Klimawandels hat diese Gerechtigkeitskrise jedoch eine neue Dringlichkeit und globale Dimension erreicht, die nur mittelbar mit Physik zu tun hat.

Die menschengemachte Klimaveränderung mag zwar ein naturwissenschaftliches Problem sein. Die Herausforderung und damit auch die Krise, die sich daraus ergibt, ist jedoch eine gesellschaftliche.

Dies ist zum einen dem Selbstverständnis der meisten Naturwissenschaftler*innen geschuldet, die sich als »neutral« und damit außerhalb politischer Zusammenhänge sehen – was in meinen Augen eine Illusion ist. Daher klammern viele Forscher*innen eher politisch konnotierte Inhalte wie Schäden und Verluste von vornherein aus ihrer Arbeit aus.

Dieses Zitat kann man direkt mit meinem Post What and how we research in Zusammenhang bringen.

Otto, F. (2023). Klimaungerechtigkeit: Was die Klimakatastrophe mit Kapitalismus, Rassismus und Sexismus zu tun hat. Ullstein.

Black-on-Black crime is merely a deflection from the real problems at hand. End of story.

Stay safe and educate! ✊🏽

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The truth about Wealth

I need people to spread this around. I'm leading the post with this because I feel it's so important. -

I'm reposting this information here and not in a reply to someone because I think it's something people need to understand about how the rich stay rich and get more rich. If you read through it, I think you'll be as angry as me.

We'll use David Zaslav, the CEO of Warner Discovery, as an example. His salary in 2021 was 3 million. His compensation package was 240 million, including 12 million in dividends. 4.4 million in a monetary bonus, with the majority of the rest in stock options.

Stock options, for those who don't know, are not actual stocks but a guarantee that you can purchase the stock at a pre-set price, the value of it when you got the option. It means that in the future, you can pay the original price but you get the current value.

So while you technically don't "own" that money yet, it's still there. Usually, people will hold on to these until the value of the stock is at a very high rate and then cash in and put that money elsewhere. They can literally double and triple their earnings or more! All this while also avoiding paying taxes on it because until they cash in, it's only speculative money.

But here's the real kicker. The super wealthy don't pay for anything from their actual money. That would involve spending money they own. Instead, they take out low interest bank loans using their wealth as collateral. So they don't have money on hand that they "own" which is money the govt can tax them on, instead they work on "borrowed" money which is considered an expense and can be written off.

So they can keep their money in locations where it's safe from government taxation, but still use it whenever they want while claiming that actually they have no taxable income beyond their deliberately "low" salaries. In the meantime, they're able to accumulate more wealth, simply shifting the money from one nebulous tax-free bunker to another to avoid paying the government.

And don't get confused because "income" and "wealth" are not the same thing, but the vast majority of people in the USA don't realize this because they don't ever have the opportunity to accumulate wealth so they think it's the same thing, but it's not.

Income is what you earn in a year. Wealth is the value of what you own that carries over from year to year. Rich people don't have their millions in the bank, they have it in properties, in stocks, in other things where the money is used to generate more money for them. People like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos don't have billions of dollars in bank accounts, they keep it in other assets that generate more money from them. The assets of a billionaire are literally so vast that it's virtually impossible to spend money faster than they're making it through passive means.

Bob Iger, the CEO of Disney, gets most of his wealth in these things, that's why talking about salary is useless, because Bob, like most rich assholes, doesn't want money. Money can be taxed at a higher rate. He wants assets.

And that's why it's especially insidious that they try to compare themselves to us, to frame their personal profits as though it's the same as the income that hourly or even salaried workers get. We can understand the concept of earning money. "Earning" money is something that we do in the lower classes. But don't be fooled by them. They don't "EARN" money. They don't work for the vast majority of their money. They don't even USE their own money to pay for their day to day lives.

So any attempt to compare a slash in their oncome to anything they do to our pay is calculatedly false and meant to try and make people who don't know much about wealth sympathize with them. "Oh those poor billionaires, they work for that money" . Except they don't. Their assets generate more wealth and they live off of money borrowed from banks and other entities so they never have to touch their own vast fortunes.

You could literally slash the pay and benefits of people like Bob Iger and David Zaslav down to zero and the assets they already have would still generate millions of dollars on a yearly, or even on a monthly basis. They wouldn't have to change a single thing about how they live.

So don't fall for it. Don't ever fall for their "we're just like you, we'll suffer if we don't keep even more money" bullshit. They're trying to play on our human sense of compassion, when they have none to give us in exchange.

Please, if you found this at all informative, spread it around. I'm not writing these things for personal validation, I'm writing them because I feel education is important for people to understand WHY things are the way they are and to know the real issue

This is the kind of thing that has always been cloaked in vague language so the layperson doesn't understand it. We need to spread this information and make it known to everyone. We need to KNOW the details of what we're fighting in order to win.

Image credit: Stephen Shames, Asleep in Car, from series Outside the Dream Child Poverty in America, c.1985 Source: letaobloquista

American Dreamer

The mist on windows hides the grubby face Lit softly in some dream

Big dreams Among the brown bags And beer cans

The rusty sagging car A leaky vessel For anyone’s dreams Big or small

I turn my head Going by.

-Skye

A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY'S 'CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY' - 5

A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY’S ‘CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY’ – 5

  CONTAINING CAPITAL – 5

  Prasanna K Choudhary

            Karl Marx

3. CAPITAL SOCIAL AND SELF-EXPANDING (Continued) – 3

FETISH CAPITAL

“The relations of capital assume their most externalized and most fetish-like form in interest-bearing capital. We have here M → M′, money creating more money, self-expanding value, without the process that effectuates these two extremes. ….

It is a…

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A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY'S 'CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY' - 4

A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY’S ‘CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY’ – 4

  CONTAINING CAPITAL – 4

  Prasanna K Choudhary

3. CAPITAL SOCIAL AND SELF-EXPANDING (Continued) – 2

ACCUMULATION OF CAPITAL

This gratuitous service of past labor, when seized and filled with a soul by living labor increases with the advancing stages of accumulation. Past labor always disguises itself as capital. ..Capital is not a fixed magnitude, but is a part of social wealth, elastic and…

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A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY'S 'CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY' - 3

A CRITIQUE OF THOMAS PIKETTY’S ‘CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY’ – 3

  CONTAINING CAPITAL – 3

  Prasanna K Choudhary

Thomas Piketty zimbio.com

3. CAPITAL SOCIAL AND SELF-EXPANDING – 1

MONEY IS NOW PREGNANT. Goethe, ‘Faust’, Part I, Scene5.1

Let me begin with Thomas Piketty’s definition of capital, labor and ‘return on capital’. After all, ‘capital’ and ‘return on capital’ form the basic theme of the book.

Piketty writes, “In this book, capital is defined as the…

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Inequality: Indifference x Insufficiency

Today 300,000 plus Chicago students didn’t go to school today, spending the day at home, hanging out with friends or joining their fellow classmates and over 25,000 educational workers in Chicago who are striking against working conditions and educational opportunities of the Chicago Public Schools. 

Along with adequate nursing staff, emotional and mental health support a main complaint from parents is that there aren’t libraries in schools and how that lack of community space deepens the fractures occurring. Linked to the lack of community space in the schools, there is also a lack of bilingual teachers creating another barrier for students who either rely on other students to help them with their work or give up. 

The strike has two sides to it: the teachers and the students. The teachers need more pay in order to lessen their financial and connected emotional stress and anxiety so they can focus more on their students and be the best teachers they can. But they are also fighting for their students. By demanding smaller class sizes, mental health resources so student can be assisted before they hit that breaking point, and pushing for school libraries they are fighting for their students now, in their next grade, their next school and the rest of their lives

Gutted, Gentrified and Gone

Libraries are great community spaces that should be free so local residents can learn, explore and expand their minds and creativity. But libraries like our schools, are generally paid for by the income of the local residents, therefore, poorer communities get less funding and therefore poorer quality libraries. Similar to the recent “Aunt Becky” college situation, this goes against the ideals behind libraries and in the US, our equality, and how knowledge, perseverance, education and will is supposed to allow us all to flourish.

A prime example of the differences in communities is nestled within San Francisco. Known for massive hills and hipsters, San Francisco’s Pacific Heights Presidio Branch Library is just six miles away from the Bayview Linda Brooks-Burton Branch Library in Bayview-Hunters Point. There is nothing wrong with the Bayview Library; its open frequently, it’s clean and the local neighborhood seems to enjoy it but with comparison you can see a difference to the Presidio Branch Library. First, the Bayview Library is in an semi-industrial area and has classes geared to computer classes for Adults & Seniors including sales meetings and tax classes. The Presidio library is surrounded by open grass where you can comfortably read outside, has information available about it’s environmental LEED Green Report Card, highlights inter-library loan, foreign language staff and diverse classes of baby and toddler interaction, writing classes and Tai Chi. The Presidio Branch Library has the resources and access residents need to want to visit the library and develop new interests. This is not surprising as Pacific Heights is noted as a rich and thriving community (1) and Bayview has been graded one of the worst based on income and education opportunities (2) and has a history of gentrification and marginalization (3). Libraries don’t have to be pretty and I can understand how they’re not always the most updated but we cannot forget that “a rising tide lifts all boats” and that we are all equal.

(1)   https://www.businessinsider.com/photos-pacific-heights-san-francisco-billionaires-row-2014-3

(2)   https://www.roadsnacks.net/worst-neighborhoods-in-san-francisco-ca/

(3)   https://www.mccalman.co/portfolio/i-am-bayview/

this is something I've felt since childhood and never been able to articulate.

Stifling Resistance

Original Writing Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: This was something I wrote quite recently for a project of mine.

Summary: A short story about the life of a 16-year-old weaponsmith in Mughal India.

Word Count: 9410

Sweat ran down her brow, and she wiped it away with a hot hand. A wisp of midnight-black hair entered her vision, and she brushed that away, too. Blasted long hair that her mother insisted she keep. Crafting swords was gruelling work, and despite her father’s initial protests, she’d convinced him to let her work in the family business. 

It had been difficult adjusting to the job in the beginning, but what she lacked in skill, she made up for in sheer grit and determination. Staying up later than what was needed and doing her absolute best to ensure that no material went to waste, she’d practically lived at the workshop for a while. She’d spent increasing amounts of time there, forging and welding swords of all kinds. She’d started with the talwar, a simple, basic sabre that didn’t have any complicated hilts. Versatile and easily maneuverable, it was an ideal blade to start off with. She’d quickly learned that it was only to be sharpened on one side: curved blades sharpened on both edges were more likely to break, that too much quicker. Eventually, she’d expanded her skill set enough to be able to work on nearly anything, no matter the absurdity of the request. Shields and spears and odd-looking maces that had a chill crawling up her spine; it was all second nature to her now. 

Eventually, she’d gotten used to it. 

The constant, relentless din of hammers and steel clanging rhythmically had initially irked her, but she’d made do. She’d had no other choice, after all. Now, it was a comforting sound, one she had found that she couldn’t live without. It brought her a sense of comfort, that no matter how chaotic the outside world was, she would always have a methodical, organised way of working. That was one of the many things she loved about her family business. 

The same had happened with the heat. What she’d once found stifling and suffocating now became her haven. When she was away for too long, she found she craved the warmth of the kilns and fires over everything. She had always despised the cold, despised all that turned her limbs numb and the harsh winds that blew over the mountains. It was never cold enough to actually snow where she and her family lived, but she had heard stories of those who lived in the Northern mountains that it snowed all year round; blizzards and snowstorms frequent enough to warrant worry as they covered the land in a blanket of shining, iridescent silver.

Slowly but surely, her bank of knowledge regarding swords and weaponry had grown significantly. Learning about hilts and grips, blades and angles, and everything in between, her love and determination for the profession had only grown. Now, she frequented the workshop, spending hours in the stifling heat welding and forging weapons of all kinds. 

Blinking, she realised she’d been unfocused, and the molten metal she held in a ladle was about to drip down onto the floor. Hastily straightening her arm, she poured the mixture into a mould.

As experienced as she was at forging weapons, she was also sixteen. Most of the equipment in the workshop was made for grown, muscular men, and she was neither. Panting as she lifted the bucket to pour the metal in, she heard her father’s amused voice from the inner parts of the workshop. “I can hear you panting from out there, you know. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m sure,” she grunted. Apart from being ‘too stubborn for her own good’, as her mother liked to say, she was also extremely curious. It was what had led her father to eventually relent and allow her to work as a weapons-forger. 

He was a kind man, hardly ever raising his voice. But he was also protective of his daughters. Protective to a fault, she sometimes thought. She knew that it came from a place of love, a place of intense care for his family, but that didn’t stop the choking feeling of being trapped under his ever-growing expectations. 

Traditionally masculine and overtly loud, her father tended to place the stereotypical gender roles on his family members, too. Indeed, the only time her mother stepped out of the house was to go to the market, and always with her head covered. It was one of the many things she didn’t like about being a girl; how restrictive everything tended to be. How they were expected to do quite literally everything at home, while also managing the little education they sometimes managed to receive. 

She had a vague memory of objecting once when she was younger. Of rejecting the stifling stereotypes that plagued her life, that her father tried to shove down her throat as soon as she was old enough to understand. The same memory housed feelings of fear and unease, too. Her father had shouted at her, the only time he’d truly shouted, and told her to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was best for her. The words still haunted her on nights when she felt too alone for it to be healthy, but she had never told anyone. 

Who would she tell, anyway? Her sister was too young, and her mother had enough on her plate without having to worry about a couple of words said in anger. She didn’t even know why she was so resentful towards her father for a few words that he’d said, but she also had enough dignity to admit to herself that the words had indeed hurt.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the thoughts, she refocused on her work. 

The bright sunlight filtering in through the creaky wooden windows awoke Savahi. Rubbing her eyes lazily, she groaned and turned over, hoping to catch a few more moments of sleep before she truly had to get up, before her mother forced her to.

Her mother was strict in that regard, always ensuring that both her daughters woke up before the crack of dawn to complete all the housework in time. She prided herself on disciplining her daughters, on making them experts at the domestic chores they’d been trained to do.

She wouldn’t let Savahi go to the workshop unless she’d finished her chores. What good is a girl who can’t even take care of the house? She’d asked when Savahi had objected and pleaded to be allowed to hone her craft. It’s not like you’ll be running the shop when you’re older anyways. It’s better if you don’t get too attached to it now. It’ll only hurt less in the end. As harsh as the words had been then, they had only led to Savahi savouring the time she did get before she was forced to give it up entirely. No matter who she ended up being married to, there was no way he’d let her continue doing something so…traditionally masculine. Then again, it would be a miracle if she found a good husband at all. She’d learned not to be too picky a long time ago. Anyone that treated her with some semblance of respect was good enough.

Running a hand through her tangled hair after having forgotten to braid it the night before, she rose and began getting ready for the day.

Squinting at the bright sunlight overhead, she raised a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. The bustling market was a kaleidoscope of colour and life. Wares and goods of all sorts were sold here, from spices and fabrics to accessories and books. 

Head covered and scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth so as to keep the ever-increasing dust away, she approached a vendor. “How much for these?” she asked, voice muffled. “Seven dam for the cabbage, nine for the aubergines.”

“Fine.” Begrudgingly reaching into her coin purse, she handed over the money. The prices were much higher than what she remembered them being, but then again, she hadn’t ventured into the market for a while. She’d left this particular job for her mother to do, seeing as she had always been better at social interactions and…people in general. She somehow always knew the right thing to say or do to comfort and encourage someone. It was why she fared better at the markets than Savahi herself, a few smiles and kind words doing more than one could have expected.

Stuffing the requested goods into her satchel when the man handed them over, she made her way around the market as she simply observed. 

New books and perfumes were on sale, and oh, what she wouldn’t give to buy a few? Savahi’s family had never been particularly rich, but that didn’t stop her wanting all these coveted goods. Unfortunately, these were all wares requested for the disgustingly well-off and wealthy, a group that didn’t include her. Of course, the people who had that sort of money would rather swallow sand before they were ever caught dead in these village markets. They preferred the opulence and charm of the lavish city bazaars.

Ducking under an awning to avoid a small squad of soldiers, she unconsciously adjusted the scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was best to avoid being recognised, especially by the soldiers who were mere lackeys of the Emperor, sent here to do his dirty work and lord over the rest of them. They relished in it too; relished the torture and oppression of the native people as their land, resources, and families were stolen away from them. Right. That was why Savahi hadn’t wanted to go into the markets. Something similar had happened the last time she was here, accompanied by her mother. She’d been absolutely terrified, and hid behind her with trembling hands and tears in her eyes.

When she’d gone home, she’d cried. She didn't know why. Her mother had warned her that the soldiers seemed to be doing nothing, but that was what they wanted you to believe. They were always doing something.

She’d started hating the soldiers soon enough. 

Every child was practically raised on hatred, fed it from the moment they were born. She knew of many who thrived on it like beasts craving violence. Stories were told of what horrors had transpired, drilled into the head of every child until it became second nature for them to fear the soldiers. But then again, this fear was necessary, she thought to herself. It was what kept them safe and away from any real trouble. It allowed them to stay unnoticed and lead their lives in peace. 

Deciding she wasn’t going to get much more at the market anyways, she began making her way home. At least she’d help out there. Taking the more discreet alleyways and streets that weren’t known to many, she managed to avoid any more guards until the familiar door of her house came into view.

One seemingly uneventful afternoon, her father entered the house, taking off his sandals as he flopped down onto the ground. “What’s wrong?” came her mother’s voice from the kitchen. Her father didn’t reply immediately, instead running a hand over his tired face.

Savahi sensed that something was wrong. Her father was never this quiet; he never hesitated like this. He was a firm believer in saying whatever it was that needed to be said, and doing so efficiently. At the same time, she couldn’t help but note that his eyes, her lovely father’s eyes had lost their light. They were dimmed, she realised, as he gazed at the ground. He was here physically, yes, but it was clear something was bothering him to the point where he shut down. In fact, they all knew how rare it was for him to go mute and not say a word. He tended instead to explode in anger, a supernova of emotions, leaving everything else in ruin after the storm had passed.

Finally, he broke the tense silence, and said glumly, “They’ve decided that they want to pay us an even smaller amount than what they already do. Said our weapons weren’t the best quality, and that they shouldn’t be forced to pay for something so disgustingly overpriced.”

Each word somehow managed to rile her already irritated self up even more, and it took nothing short of a miracle to avoid exploding in a fit of rage. Thankfully enough, she managed to keep her composure, only raising her eyebrows with pursed lips. “What do you mean?” 

Her father sensed her irritation, and instead tried to diffuse the situation, looking at her with an expression she was sure mirrored her own. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal-”

That was the last straw. “Of course it’s not ideal! It’s a disaster! We’re already getting underpaid, we can’t-”

“Quiet!” She flinched, not expecting the harsh command from her father. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Just…just don’t do anything stupid until I figure out what to do. I can’t deal with any of your trouble right now.”

She wanted to retort that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something rash or gone through with an idea she hadn’t thought about at all, but decided it was best she held her tongue. Her father was already in a lousy mood, and all the offhand comment would do was rile him up even further and quite frankly cause more trouble than what was worth. 

“What do you mean?” Her mother had exited the kitchen now, and had a similar look of skepticism on her face as she wiped her hands on a rag. “We already get underpaid. We can’t afford to stop providing them with weapons. And besides,” she added, her voice softer this time, “Who knows what they’ll do if we suddenly reduce the weapons supply with no forewarning, no reason? Surely it’ll come across as suspicious?”

Indeed, the Empire was ruthless, with cruel rulers who stopped at nothing to ensure that the people worked themselves to their deaths. Expendables, they called them. Worthless vermin. It didn’t matter to them if her family lived or died. All that was important was the supply of weapons. So long as that did not stop, they didn’t care what became of her family.

Deciding she’d be better off outside lest she say or do something she would sorely regret later, she put on her sandals, and left the house.

A letter arrived exactly two weeks later, the family name written on the envelope in an elegant scrawl she didn’t recognise. The rim of the envelope had gold patterns across it, delicately crafted. The family name was written on the front, and Savahi couldn’t help but wonder who could have sent them such a fancy letter. She didn’t have any friends who lived far away, certainly not far enough to warrant sending letters.  She didn’t even know anyone past her village. Thinking it must be something for her father, (though she couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it could be), she pocketed it, and decided to give it to him when he came home.

Evening rolled around, and there was still no sign of her father. Maybe he was still working late today?

Unable to wait for him any longer, she dug up the envelope from her pocket, and tore it open.

Her eyes widened as she read it, a small gasp escaping her. This was clearly addressed to the wrong person.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the tops of the houses and illuminating her home in shades of a iridescent, pearly glimmer. All was quiet.

“Thank you for coming. We know how difficult it must be to get away from…” the voice trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the village beneath them. To get away from prying eyes was what they meant to say, but couldn’t do so lest some eavesdropper realised what they were up to. “It’s alright. I managed,” she said tightly, desperately wanting to get this entire ordeal over with.

“We’ll make this quick,” said the other figure; shorter, and yet no less intimidating. “We need you to supply us with weapons. As many as you can make. How big is your store?”

“Not-not huge,” she managed to get out as she stood there, shellshocked. It was true; it wasn’t a large shop by any means, a small storefront facing the secluded street and the forge in the back. It wasn’t as much space as they would have liked, but it did the job.

“But you will have to fund us for the raw materials,” she said quietly. “We don’t earn nearly enough to spend our own money on a project as large as this one. We’ll need some sort of advance payment.”

“Consider it done,” the taller one said smoothly. “How much do you think you’ll need for two hundred swords?”

“I’m sorry, two hundred?” she breathed. Was this a sort of one-time thing, then? “If we need more, we’ll let you know well in advance,” the shorter one said. “How long do you think you’ll need to make two hundred?”

“A couple of months at least,” she said. “But we’ll make sure that we get them done as soon as possible. It’ll take at least a month and a half, two if you want refined or jewelled hilts.”

“As long as the blades are functional, it doesn’t matter how the hilts are. Preferably as basic as possible, but comfortable enough to hold and fight with.”

Savahi listed the price, and they only nodded in unison. Gods, they really were rich if they could agree to such an inflated price with no bargaining. Or, a small voice in the back of her head said. They’re really desperate and willing to agree with whatever price you say. They want these swords badly. Deciding she’d think about it later, she shoved those thoughts away.

“I could send you a note once I fin-” she cut herself off. Of course she couldn’t send notes or any other form of correspondence to them in case it was intercepted or found, even after this entire affair would be finished. It would be enough to get them imprisoned, or whipped publicly at the very least. Offences against the state weren’t taken lightly, and the punishments were severe. 

The muffled voice she heard from behind the scarf seemed…masculine? She couldn’t tell, not with the way the clothes flowed loosely around the figure’s body, preventing any accidental revelation of who this mystery person was. No jewellery or cosmetics adorned the eyes, the only open part of the figure’s face. Then again, that didn’t do much to either confirm or deny her suspicions. Either they were too poor to afford such luxuries, or they simply decided against them. Even the figure’s hands were gloved, truly leaving no room open for discovery. 

Glancing around, she shut the door behind her with a soft click.

She’d debated it for weeks, whether or not to accept this deranged offer. Was whoever had come up with this insane plan high or something? Did they really think someone would be able to smuggle such a large amount of weapons unseen? They were raving mad; more so if they didn’t see the lunacy of their own plan. It would get them killed if she wasn’t careful; her and however many more people were involved in this death wish of a plan. Then again, she supposed, there weren’t many royals or nobles in positions of power who actually knew what was going on. They had a vague image, yes, cloudy at best and completely opaque at worst, as they saw her world through a rose-coloured lens.

Ensuring the scarf was wrapped tightly around her mouth and nose so as to avoid being recognised, she carried the satchel like her life depended on it. She supposed it did. Tiptoeing over the harsh ground, she gazed towards the horizon. The mountains she saw in the distance was where she had to be by moonrise. Indeed, the glistening moon was already quite high in the sky, illuminating the roofs of the nearby houses, casting a silvery glow over the ground. Meet Devyani’s closest friend on the highest point of Hasta. The words resonated in her mind, echoing as she tried desperately to comply with the instructions she’d received on an anonymous note of paper, the writing foreign and curled in a way that told her it was not a native speaker of her tongue who had written the mysterious note. No name, no signature, and no indication of who, exactly, would be picking up the weapons she’d forged. 

The orders were absolute insanity, she’d thought when she first received them. She didn’t think it was even possible to craft that many weapons in under a month, but working beside her father for days on end with little to no breaks had allowed them to finish just in time. Some had been cooling yesterday, and she’d been on the edge up until this morning, not knowing if she'd somehow managed to mess up her first orders. 

She hoped this wasn’t a hoax or some trick to get them to go into a financial loss. If no one showed up, it would be no one’s burden and loss but her family’s. Few would care, and even fewer would help them out. We must fend for ourselves, her mother had told her when Savahi had once asked why they couldn’t all help each other instead of gloat at one another’s misery. She’d been young then, not really knowing how everything worked. Foolish, childish ideas, she reprimanded herself.

Savahi backtracked a little, going over the same path she’d taken just a few minutes ago. She had to periodically ensure that she wasn’t being followed. Not only would it be catastrophic, she’d also have to find a way to deal with the stalker. Not killing, of course, but something severe enough that the person would never dare look twice in her direction. This needed to be carried out smoothly and with as little suspicion as possible. That was also the reason she’d volunteered to go instead of her father. A grown man with a bag looked far more suspicious than a girl. Indeed, girls her age had lovers all the time. In the unlikely event that anyone would approach her for conversation, she always had that card up her sleeve. Play the simpering, girlish role she was expected to play, stay away from suspicion, and get the job done.

Her hair soon became damp, small strands clinging to her forehead, made worse by the tight, suffocating feeling of the scarf around her mouth and nose. The crisp night air did nothing to help her cool down. Her thighs burned as she made her way up the hill, and she did her best not to pant lest it give her away. She really was out of shape. In reality, it wasn’t that steep, but she had to take the further side of the hill that no one bothered to venture through. Another way to avoid being spotted. 

Stepping carefully, she dodged roots and loose rocks as she slowly made her upwards. As soon as she crested the hill, she saw a hooded figure lounging on a fallen log. Having strategically sat down in the shade, she wouldn’t have realised it was sitting there, silent as a cat, until it jumped up and began making its way to her. A calm, controlled, and sauntering gait, command lacing its every step it approached. She could see as it made its way closer that this mysterious person had to have some sort of noble standing. The clothes it wore, polished and regal, screamed elegance to her from miles away. No patterns adorned the figure’s robes; no flag or banner or sigil, not even a coat of arms to showcase their allegiance.

Standing her ground and refusing to bow her head, she spoke. “Devayani.” Andromeda. She waited a moment before she heard the correct response. “Sharmishtha.” Cassiopeia. The voice seemed gruff, though she couldn’t quite discern much beyond her own muddled suspicions.

She’d been instructed to say a code word, and only give the package to the person who said the correct response. If they faltered or hesitated for even a second, she would know to get away immediately.

Savahi extended the satchel to the figure. Nodding curtly towards her in acknowledgement, it grabbed the rucksack with a black, gloved hand, and disappeared with a swoosh of their cloak as if they melded into the night itself. Breathing a sigh of relief, she began making her way down the slope, occasionally stumbling and tripping over stray branches and loose rocks. 

She didn’t quite register the walk home. All that was running through her mind was the exhilarating thrill of participating in something bigger than herself. As cliché as it sounded, it was true. She’d never had to work together, certainly not in matters like these, and it gave her a sense of accomplishment to know that she was helping the Resistance. To know that the weapons she made were being used across the Deccan. 

As miserable as her life was, she was using it to do something; something that didn’t require bearing children and being trapped indoors for the rest of her life. She would savour this freedom, she realised, long after she was married and given away like cattle.

The soldier patrols had increased recently, especially around their area. It had been putting everyone on edge, and she didn’t want to think what would happen if someone was found guilty of whatever new crimes they kept coming up with. First, it was the possession of certain books, then it was the local herbs that were used for healing and medicine, and now? Well, they couldn’t punish her for trekking up to the nearby hill or talking to her neighbours. Could they? She just had to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and avoid any trouble.

Unfortunately for Savahi, trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went. Today, it had arrived in the form of a gathering. Everyone in the village had been asked to gather at noon in the village square. For what, she didn’t know, but they had all made their way there regardless. 

Technically, girls weren’t supposed to go outside in large public places, and certainly not to bold village gatherings. Then again, there was no one to enforce those rules other than her parents, and she could always duck out of their sight or blend into the crowd if need be.

There were already quite a few people crowded around, standing in clumps with worried expressions as they conversed in hushed tones. She couldn’t make out what anyone was saying, but it was abundantly clear that whatever was going on couldn’t be good. 

Just as Savahi turned to her mother to ask her something, a shehnai (a sort of oboe-like instrument) sounded. Signalling the arrival of whichever official would taunt them today, then. 

A man stepped up to the small dais erected in the centre, originally intended for the village chief to announce important events or similar. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have any regard for that, instead using the platform as their own.

“Did you really think you could plot treason so openly and we’d never find out?” he sneered at no one in particular, presumably their commander. “I knew you were foolish, but for an entire neighbourhood of you lot to do something like this is beyond even us. We will find whichever one of you is doing something so utterly unacceptable, and you will be punished for it,” a second added. He wasn’t on the platform, but seemed to be the right-hand man of whichever roguish commander was speaking right now.

“If none of you step forward right now and preserve what little dignity you have left, it leaves us no choice but to label this entire, rotting scrap of a village as a guilty party. You’ll all be thrown in the dungeons, and the butchering blocks if you’re lucky.” A glint of a smile caught Savahi’s eye, but it was just the guard speaking. Another one of the Sultan’s subordinates, grovelling like a dog. She couldn’t help her face as it turned up into a look of disgust, and rolled her eyes.

Of course their grisly deaths would bring these monsters joy. Of course they would relish in it like some sort of delicacy, some noble deed that they took great pride in.

She didn’t hear the rest of whatever nonsense they were spewing, but jerked out of her stupor when everyone began scattering and shuffling away like mice trapped in a labyrinth with no way out save for death.

Savahi had been ordered to keep quiet these next weeks, to avoid suspicion and unnecessary arguments at all costs. Of course, Savahi being, well, her, had found it immensely difficult to do so. Being cooped up in the house for longer periods of time was certainly not helping, either. If anything, it made her more irritated and likely to snap or lash out at something, or someone. As much as she wanted to get out of the house, if only for a little while, she knew she couldn’t. Girls, especially young girls like her, were expected to stay at home and help their mothers like the obedient daughters they were expected to be. This also meant that she wasn’t allowed to go to the workshop, for fear that someone might accidentally catch wind that a girl, that too one of marriageable age, was working at something so physically gruelling. 

To make matters worse, curfew had been enforced, and had made it harder for her to sneak out at night. She’d been asked to deliver weapons twice more, and her poor father had been working himself to the bone. Normally, she’d do some of the more gruelling work. Over time, she had developed the muscle and brute strength to be able to do the hauling, pouring and welding. Her father always remained close by in case she needed help. She hardly ever did, managing most things on her own.

It wasn’t as if her father didn’t know how to forge weapons. But he was now aging, and his back pain sometimes prevented him from lifting heavy loads. It grated on her to know that her father toiled away, sweating by the forges as he poured his dedication into his work, while she sat around at home, peeling stupid carrots. She could have been of help, she could have done something.

She was, eventually, let out of the house, though her mother had warned her not to cause any trouble and come straight home if she caught the slightest whiff of something going on. Biting back the urge to say she wasn’t likely to be attacked at the market, which was filled with people at all times of day, she sighed, parotting, “Yes, mother,” before she put on her sandals and left the house. 

“Get up,” her mother hissed, rousing her from sleep and shaking her awake. The sunlight filtered in through the window, casting a bright glow over the opposite wall. Blearily blinking her eyes open, she started. “What-”

“No time,” her mother interrupted. She looked to be in a hurry, almost frantic, hastily trying to clean up the mess Savahi had left in her room the night before. “Gods, girl, do you ever clean your room? It stinks terribly.”

“Didn’t you just say we don’t have time to do anything else?” No matter what she did, Savahi’s room was something her mother never ceased nagging about. 

“We have to clean because the guards are here.” Her mother glared at her. Savahi jumped, exclaiming, “Now? What business do they have in our home?”

“They think we’re doing something we’re not supposed to be doing.” Her mother shot her a knowing glance. The entire family knew what they were doing was illegal, but there was no other way for them to make the money they were steadily losing with their deals and trades that were less than fair with the Empire. They had to make ends meet somehow, and besides, desperation did funny things to people, driving them to the brink until it was all they could think about. Perhaps this was what it had done to her family. 

“Well have we hidden the-”

“Quiet,” her mother snapped, smacking her lightly on the head. “Do you want us all to be rotting in prison until the end of our days? Because I certainly don’t.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I’ll-”

“You’ll keep your mouth shut, that’s what you’ll do,” she chided. “They don’t like being talked back to, and certainly not by unruly, undisciplined girls like yourself. Just answer when spoken to, and try not to get into trouble. Is that too much for you to do?”

“I promise I won’t say anything that’ll piss them off,” she said. “Now will you please let me go?”

Indeed, her mother had been trying to tame her hair that had been in a loose braid from the night before. She had pins in her mouth as her skilled hands tried hastily to fashion her mane, as she liked to call it, into a more presentable form. 

“Remember, mind your language. Certainly none of that vulgarity when they inspect you.”

“My language isn’t that bad,” she protested weakly. Even she knew how much she swore. While Savahi did try to dial it down at home, some words did tend to slip out on the rare occasion she was mad or frustrated. 

“Yes it is, and you know that,” mumbled her mother. “Oh, and they’ll be inspecting you. It’ll be quick, but just don’t slap anyone across the face and I’ll consider this entire ghastly ordeal a success.”

“Yes mother,” she parrotted, her voice already bored to tears.

“Now go.”

Stepping out into the living room, she expected her sanctuary, her safe place, her home, where no harm could come to her to at least be free of the asphyxiating sensation. Instead, she saw half a dozen encircling the door and blocking it. This was a new, fresh hell. Her mind was buzzing with a newfound haze, one she didn’t think she’d be able to get rid of should she try. She couldn’t even leave should she wish it. Her only mild consolation was her mother who followed behind her. At least she wouldn’t be alone. It was bad enough that she had to be subjected to their inspections, but her mother deserved none of that.

Both had their heads bowed low and eyes trained solely on the floor. Pushing Savahi forward, her mother backed away to watch from the other end of the room. Savahi stumbled slightly but managed to catch her step right before she saw the shoes of the closest guard. Their leader, most likely, seeing how he managed to dominate the entire room with his presence and hulking form which seemed to eat up all the light that had managed to make its way inside.

“And who are you?” the guard sneered, clearly trying to intimidate her. As scared as she was, she couldn’t let it show. She had to act as if everything was normal; like she wasn’t smuggling weapons to the Resistance, the very people these guards despised with their very being. “She’s just my daughter, sir,” her mother said nervously, wringing her hands together.  “Shut up,” he barked instead, not even bothering with a glance towards her mother. Her mother flinched, moving a step back, almost as if she was trying to melt into the wall, and Savahi felt rage rise in her heart.

Her mother, who was a kind, sweet, caring woman, who would sacrifice everything for her children, was treated like this. It made her blood boil, and she dug her nails into her palms. She’d have small, crescent-shaped scars on the palms of her hands later, but it didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t blow up in front of these people, it was fine. Everything was fine. She was going to be fine. 

“Enough of the pleasantries,” he said instead, his voice rising a note higher. “Come here,” he beckoned Savahi with a finger. Shuffling forward, head bowed, she stepped in front of the man as if she was being examined for a disease.

Savahi could hear their foreign accent, how they rolled certain letters and cut others off. Anyone could tell they weren’t from here, even without hearing them talk. The clothes they wore, the permanent sneer they donned on their faces, their greasy hair that looked nothing short of horrid and the perpetually yellowed teeth that seemed to be the stuff of her nightmares.

Rough, sweaty hands grasped her face, turning it this way and that. She knew that the guard could see the fear in her eyes, clear as day, as his own, black as slits, bore into her brown ones. 

He probably thought she looked absolutely pathetic, nothing more than a simple village girl. Just because that’s what she was didn’t mean the stupid guards needed to rub it in their faces all the time, she thought grumpily. 

Despite her instincts telling her to get away, to run, she did neither, letting them examine her like a bag of broken goods. An enigma, that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, a mystery that could attack them at any given moment. 

Well, they weren’t wrong about that. Not entirely, anyways. 

She could imagine how she looked: eyes blown wide and trembling like a fawn. He was at least a head and a half taller than her, and dwarfed her easily. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to pin her hands behind her back and have her on the floor in a few skilled maneuvers that she had no doubt he could execute with deadly precision. Their threats were never empty.

The hands moved down to pat her sides, her thighs, her legs, staying in certain places for far longer than they were needed. Prodding, poking, twisting, squeezing, her stomach lurched and she felt bitter bile rise in her throat. Promptly swallowing it down, she tried to breathe. She could smell their horrible breath, see the food from breakfast covering their teeth, and had to stifle a gag. The irony of being called uncivilised by the same people who refused to take care of themselves or their bodies was overwhelming.

But she couldn’t say anything, do anything, even as she felt the grime coating their hands on her own skin. She’d need to take a long bath after this. She’d travel to the far well on the other side of their village if she had to, but she would be taking a bath today, come what may.

A grunt told her they were done with their inspection, and she stepped back, never showing her back to the guards lest they think she was deliberately trying to disrespect them or their bullshit status. It was something they’d made up to feel better about themselves, then declared themselves the Emperors of this land that was never theirs. As much as she was aware the land belonged to everyone, she didn’t think these sacred rules applied to a heap of men with egos bigger than their heads and a superiority complex to rival any decent person’s.

It seemed that they were far from done with their little inspection, as they called it, as their self-proclaimed leader with a head full of cow dung began barking orders, pointing to certain areas of the house. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were going to search the house for any contraband.

What they didn’t know was that they’d made procuring any materials extremely difficult, near impossible, so it took more than a couple of bribes to smuggle something over from the South or from the sea. It didn’t help that her village was in the middle of nowhere, and yet it was large enough to be recognised by the Empire. That wasn’t good; not at all. Being noticed was never a good sign. People spent their entire lives trying to stay hidden, to hide themselves and their children from the horrors the Empire inflicted on them. Fleeing across the country or even across the sea was how desperate people had gotten to outrun the tyranny of the Empire. Then again, it was only the rich who could afford such luxuries, leaving the rest of them to be condemned by their tyrannical rulers. 

The clatter of metal shocked her out of her stupor, and she realised been standing around like a purposeless corpse, waiting around as they wrecked her home. She whipped her head around to find that one of the mindless buffoons had spilled their entire rice storage on the ground, the grains littering the ground like small white shards of glass scattered over the ground. Bastards. They’d done that on purpose, knowing that most people were already short of food. Her family had been doing a little better recently, being able to afford more of the slightly expensive grain and millets. But they had to be careful not to flaunt the money they were being paid by the Resistance lest someone take it away. 

Indeed, everything seemed like it would end in imprisonment or their imminent deaths, the possibility of either looming over them like a dark shroud. Certainly not pleasant, and certainly not where she wanted to end up. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” the guard mocked, a lilt in his voice that told Savahi he couldn’t be enjoying this more. “How unfortunate that you lost a month’s worth of grain supply.” She knew she’d have to go out tomorrow, possibly even today to buy the rice that now lay there, inedible. 

The guards’ guffawing receded as they proceeded into the inner rooms, perhaps suspecting that they’d hidden something in the wardrobes. Her mother promptly followed them inside. Savahi, however, stood in the living room, and to rack her brains for anything that they’d forgotten to hide. Matches, small knives, and books. Those were the only things she could think of that would cause outright displeasure with the Emperor’s little dogs. Because that’s what they were. Marking their territory and attempting to establish dominance over the rest of them like animals, they truly were no better than hounds. 

Despite that, they were also afraid. Scared that the possession of books would allow the people here to finally educate their daughters, to finally have women aware of what was going on and what was being done to them. It was a wild notion, even now, to have women outside the household for reasons other than to run errands. They were scared someone would accidentally set something on fire with the matches she knew many kept at a finger’s reach, or attack them with small kitchen knives or daggers. 

Rhythmic, fading footsteps were the only sign that they’d left, and she let out a sigh. “Glad that’s over with then,” she said in a voice that sounded fake, even to herself. Immediately, her mother was upon her, hugging her and kissing her forehead. “Oh, my sweet, are you okay? Did they-”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, brushing off her mother’s hands and refusing to look at her, instead finding the ceiling far more interesting. Not yet. She didn’t want anyone’s touch. Not now, not until she’d bathed.

The sun’s baking heat was enough to piss anyone off, she thought grumpily as she hauled in a sack of rice. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and she immediately noted the tense atmosphere as she entered her home. “What’s going on?” Her smile quickly faded as she saw her family’s concerned expressions. They were all sat around the food, though no one was eating. Odd. “Did someone die?”

Her attempt at humour quickly fell flat as her mother shushed her immediately, and ushered her inside. “Don’t say things like that,” she scolded. “But no. No one’s died.” She let out a sigh, and it was then Savahi saw how tired her mother was. Dark circles under her eyes, her face wan and utterly distraught. It was clear that her mother was exhausted, and was trying immensely hard to not let it show, least of all in front of her children. Her normally well-kept hair had lost its shimmer, becoming dull and matted in the last few days. It was no surprise the recent days had been hard on them all, with the decreased prices for their goods and the steadily mounting prices of materials that they desperately needed.

“You know the neighbours?” she started. When Savahi nodded, a slight frown creeping up on her brows, her mother continued. “Well, their daughter was taken.”

“What do you mean, taken?” She could tell her mother was trying to let her down in the easiest way possible, and she wasn’t making it any easier for her mother at all.

“You know what I mean,” she whispered, looking around to see if anyone was listening.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Zahra’s not coming back, is she?”

“I think it’s better for all our sakes she doesn’t. It’s not like she’ll come back in one piece anyway.”

As much as it hurt to hear it from her mother, Savahi knew it was true. They were ruthless in their reign, killing for sport and sheer entertainment. It would be a mercy if she got a quick death, but being a woman, Savahi knew that her friend would have to endure a lot before she met the sweet relief of death. It was all anyone seemed to be hoping for, anyway. 

The next few days were fairly monotonous. A little too calm, if she was being honest with herself. Something was always happening; torturings or whippings, supposed criminals that never got fair trials paraded in the streets like animals to gawk at.

The silence and inaction put her on edge and made her restless, and she didn’t know what to do with herself besides continuing with her routine as it was. It seemed odd that after what they’d done, no angry guards were chasing after them; no wanted signs posted with her face on the front. 

Her mother, however, was unphased by this, and carried on with her routine as though nothing was amiss. One peculiarly sunny day, Savahi found her rummaging through a wardrobe that they’d long since stopped using. “What are you…doing?” she asked skeptically, standing by the door frame as she leaned her hip against it. “Packing,” her mother responded tightly, not bothering to look up or grace her with an actual response. There was an undeniably large heap of…everything by her mother’s side, it seemed. Pots and pans, stray clothes, and the few rare pieces of jewellery they possessed took over the already miniscule floor area. Most of it was already occupied by the divan and the wardrobe to one side. “Do you need help?” she asked again, not quite sure what was going on. “Talk to your sister. She’ll explain everything,” came the blunt response as her mother’s brow once again furrowed, presumably to find another article of clothing in the chaos reigning over her bedroom floor.

Looking around for her sister, she found her in the kitchen, tending to the firewood stove. “Hey.”

That didn’t seem to get her attention, though Savahi could tell Tara was listening. “Why’s mum packing? Are we going somewhere?” Savahi tried again. That made Tara turn. Abandoning her duties in the kitchen, Savahi was ushered out into the backyard. “How much do you know?” she asked. “N-nothing,” Savahi answered. “Was I supposed to?”

“I’m surprised mum didn’t tell you anything. Point is, we’re leaving.” That startled her. “What the hell do you mean, we’re leaving? For good? We-we have a life here. We have our store, our customers-”

“We won’t be much good to our customers if we have our innards hanging out to be picked apart by the crows, will we?” Tara snapped, eyes gleaming. Savahi had never seen her in such a foul mood. Something was really wrong.

“Obviously something is wrong!” Tara seethed. She must have said the words out loud without realising in her shell-shocked state. “Everything is wrong! We have to move away to God knows where, we don’t even know how far we’re going or if we’re even going to make it, we’re just done for!” 

As Tara buried her head in her hands, a few curls falling free from her braid as opposed to Savahi’s ramrod straight tresses. Savahi cradled her as they stood there for a while, each processing and letting the other simply…be. “It’ll be okay,” Savahi finally said, breaking the tentative silence. “No, it won’t,” came her sister’s muffled voice. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll be together. There’s nothing more that we could have asked for or done, you know that.”

Refusing the Empire’s demands would have them rotting and festering in the lord knew which swamps. Perhaps they’d already be sentenced to the gallows, but Savahi wasn’t keen on finding out; now or ever.

Likewise, rejecting the polite but firm offer to make weapons for the Resistance would have meant that her family would have starved like the rest of the village’s inhabitants, being forced to pay more taxes than what they earned. More than what they earned in a month, actually, seeing as the commanding officers for this area had decided to reduce all their salaries, no matter that most of the village’s professions weren’t under their jurisdiction. 

“Let’s go inside,” she muttered to her sister. “Let’s get you something to eat.” For once, she didn’t object, didn’t say that the coddling was unnecessary. For once, she let Savahi take care of her.

She barely remembered packing that night. Her mother had thrown in clothes while she sat with her sister, trying to comfort the poor girl. As disoriented as they both were, she knew she had to be strong for her sister. Her sister, who looked up to her, near-idolized her, because she was the oldest daughter in the family. 

Flashes of throwing clothes into trunks, her mother and father arguing, and everything being hastily cleared away or packed flew through her mind. She wasn’t too sure what was going on, and she didn’t know if she’d remember this at all.

One last chance, she thought to herself. She had one final chance to meet with them before her family disappeared for good. Hastily scrawling a note in what she thought to be the right amount of desperation laced with urgency, she folded it in half, and sent it away.

The two figures she had come to recognise by now stood in front of her, black fabric billowing in the wind so as to conceal themselves like always. 

“Well?” The taller one asked impatiently. “You called us here. Why?” Straight to the point then, she thought. They really don’t want to stay here a moment longer than they need to. She supposed it was because they risked their lives, risked being caught every second they spent here. That was what had happened to Zahra, after all. Flower. That was what her name had meant; her namesake would be on her grave a couple of days from now. 

Of course, there was no body to bury. There never was when one, especially a young girl, was taken away too soon. Instead, it was a more…symbolic gesture that allowed the family and loved ones a place to mourn the deceased. The ceremony would be taking place in a few days, and Savahi, for one, did not intend to miss it. 

Savahi didn’t even know how to start. Where to start.

“That-that girl,” she managed to finally get out, voice thick with emotion. “My neighbour. She was my friend. She was taken.”

“We know,” one said tightly with a brief nod. “We were the ones who made sure that it was her, and not you.” Already noticing her shift in mood, and that she might consider attacking them (despite her hand-to-hand skills being non-existent), the other figure tried immediately to diffuse the situation. “Think about how disastrous it would have been if it was you,” he added gently. “Your family would have been devastated.” The words meant to calm her had the opposite effect, only serving to rile her up even more. 

“And hers isn’t?” she seethed. She couldn’t believe them. They were talking about her and the people she cared about as if they were pieces of meat to be sacrificed, pawns in a chess game that would meet a grisly fate no matter what they did or who they met. They were doomed from the beginning. Her father had always said that, but she hadn’t understood to what extent he meant it until now. Now, the truth sank in, burying its claws in her heart as she fought to keep her breathing steady.

“You’re no different from the Empire!” She hissed. “Treating us like filth and using us for whatever the hell it is you do besides sit in your fancy palaces, drink, and gamble.” Neither objected as she began trudging down the hill.

She was seeing red, and she knew it. She also knew that it was a rash, ill-thought out decision that would definitely come to bite her in the ass one day, but right now, that was the last thing on Savahi’s mind.

They left under the cover of darkness, their father having paid their surrounding neighbours and friends a few days prior so their locations would be hidden. Corruption was rampant, and who knew what the soldiers would do to their friends if they found out a family had fled without knowing? Besides, the Empire seemed hell-bent on keeping everyone as poor as possible, and the money they’d saved up was helping someone, at least, even if it couldn’t be of any use to them. That was what she kept telling herself as they walked on, their escape witnessed only by the blanket of stars that watched over them like angels. 

Her throat was parched, and her vision had begun swimming. They’d had to carry as few supplies as possible when leaving, and yet every step she took made her blistered feet, peeled raw by days of walking, ache like they’d never hurt before. 

Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she rasped, “How much longer?”

“Just a little more,” her mother encouraged, laying a gentle hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. “When we get past these mountains, we’re safe.”

Everyone knew that was a lie. The colonizers’ realm stretched far and wide, past the mountains, nearly all the way to the coast and to the South. But morale had to be kept up somehow, and her mother had always been good at that. Intricate at weaving webs of white lies. Not enough to hurt, never enough to properly wound someone, but a lie enough to give them a much-needed kernel of hope.

As they made it over the final peak, heaving great breaths of exhaustion, what they saw made their breath catch in their throats. A city, sprawled out before them, unblemished and untainted by the shadows of their colonisers. A free city, one of peace and justice.

Even from here, the stunning architecture was visible.

Spires and domes, bridges and piers, it was a city of prosperity. One where they could start their lives anew. 

Deep in her heart, she knew this place. It called to her, perhaps the same way it called to the thousands before her, who had lived and died in this very jewel of a city. Satara. Yes, this was familiar to her. If not to her mind, then at least to her heart.

Whoever they were, whatever they’d endured, and wherever they’d come from, this city would give them a fresh life. A new start, where she wouldn’t be recognised. She’d be no one and nothing, and have a new, blissful beginning. She’d find peace in the anonymity this new life gave her.

Her family walked a little further, finally stepping past the gleaming gates. Mentally thanking the Gods, she smiled to herself, ready for a new chapter.

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings