You stand there. Maybe in another time, another space there’s a better metaphor. But you are just standing, what else is there?
Away from your waning moirallegiance, from the kissmesis you don’t care about, from the flushed crush you almost killed. Away from every danger but (your own lusus/some man you don’t know/an empire) who (is/all) fucking ecstatic to make you into the woman you are meant to be. Away from every eye you crave and revile.
A danger to know and worse to care about, that’s is what you know of your ancestor.
A woman who’s agency is shaded by just as much as inflicting violence as it is being inflicted onto her. Somebody who has a longing in her words you recognize even if you only admit it in darkened corners of your dreams. You think about the Bronze-Boy you know. Pliant and weak and soft, things you’ll never be, things you can’t.
So easy, you almost think, to succumb to the dayglow dream of drifting violently into a world where nobody would care. Where you could be YOU and you would be yourself in genuine.
But you did not succumb.
This is your fate.