Stealth

She had always been more quiet and reflective than the others in her family; she admired the ways they took life to task, raised their voices, and fought ... were always fighting. She was proud of them and they inspired her. At gatherings, she was patient with their criticisms and calls to action, their sly comments and open insults as to her complacency, cowardice, and character. Of all of the causes they fought for, it seemed they considered her a lost one, and the sting of disregard and dismissal was just there, looming at the corners of the room, invited to every conversation. She bore it with a nobility that they failed to recognize, and that was part of it - the waiting. Waiting was the late phase of readiness and she was ready to hide them when they needed safe haven (that's what the hidden rooms in the basement and attic were about, after all - protection). She let them think and speak ill of her, because she had mastered keeping quiet. Silence was a necessary component of stealth, and stealth was her gift and way of working in the world. The irony was not lost on her that no one would be able to see it (if she were truly proficient) and she would (likely) garner neither support nor acclaim. It was just as well, she mused (during another heated debate at a birthday party), because interest led to imposition (opinions and meddling), and she needed time to build out the bunker in the cellar. The underground was expanding.