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“Remember, my friends: love gives you strength, but retribution gives you purpose.”
Sacrifices must be made in order to ensure economic stability within the empire; blood will always flow when an empire thrives. —Extract from Economic Independence by Sibul Abundo
Her tongue, like her severed hands, had been taken from her at two mooncycles, like they were for every Ghosting in the empire. Their limbs and tongues were cut off and sent to the wardens to tally against the number of Ghosting births as a penance for a rebellion four hundred years old. As a result, Ghostings had developed a complex language that used all elements of their body. It was a subtle language, one invented in defiance of the rulers that still condemned them.
They were a musawa, neither man nor woman, like the God Anyme. Sylah recollected this Ghosting preferred the pronoun “they,” though some musawa went by “she” or “he.”
That’s the thing with having transparent blood. No one could see you bleed.
How nice it is to be so blinded by your own riches that you can’t see whose back your home is built upon, she thought.
“You are the true daughter of the Warden of Strength.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” It was the type of apology that one person does for a collective. A pathetic assurance that everyone was sorry for the bigotry committed, even if they didn’t show it. It was the apology of the bystander, and Sylah regretted it as soon as it came out of her mouth. Hassa frowned. Go. Tell me more later.
Tell them they are lesser. And they will feel lesser. Show them they are nothing. And they will be nothing. Take their identity. And they will be no one.
Grief is like a scab, each day you heal a little more, the blood clotting, the skin stitching together. But once a year you peel back the protective crust, each time expecting a scar, but instead the blood still gushes forth.
One: that it was a cost Sylah was willing to pay. Two: that Anoor had a mother who loved her after all.
