Work Text:
How strange, Voyager observes, humans are. To adjust to their flowing galaxies of speech is an arduous task: English is especially tricky, with deceptive syllables, a black hole born of collapsed and borrowed tongues.
Then there are the wars; she has seen streets run red with hypocrisy and hate. How strange, how sad.
But at least there is music.
She has drunk up Tchaikovsky’s ballet’s, Vivaldi’s seasons. There are distant twinkles of beauty to be found that harbor love and bring people together despite everything.
That is why she carries on, with her words not spoken, but played on bowstring.