⟪ A caged lion is a lion still, his coat the same gold and his body still made in an image that would have the Warrior himself grind his teeth in envy. He does not have his gilded sword to wield or his lion-crested suit of armour to wear, and their embrace is hindered by the shackles they are made to wear, but so much else remains the same. He is rough against her, but that is what makes him true: no dream has lasted this long, and in no dream had he ever been more than a brush, a hint of his scent, a promised dragged from sight. The itching fabric of his prison tunic is as real as her own, and his hair, too, could do with a combing, and by the gods, he is real.
Absurd is the thought that comes next, but it comes to her all the same: she is saved, or perhaps closer to being saved than she fancied herself just a moment before.
Of course, a caged lion is no less caged, and there is no one to bite or claw, no one but the hand that feeds. What little privilege they have, in being fed, housed, let out into the sun, and breathing, may well be robbed from them at the sight of increased disobedience. ⟫
The mage, Ambrose. My tale seems to be the same as that of every other man and woman I have encountered here. ⟪ How bitter she sounds of it, as though a special tale would befit her more.
And there he goes to kiss her, and like this, she cannot resist. One, because she has him tangled in her shackles, so hastily has she thrown her arms over his head, around his neck, and two, because she has, for worse, feared the kiss they shared the morning before he went after Stark may have been their very last. Heedless she is of watchful eyes, of enemy or friend alike – gods, as if there is a friend who would remain one if they witnessed the depth of their sin. The kiss she gifts him in return is not a half-blooded thing: it is full and it is treason to gods and men alike, and it is only broken when she needs air more desperately even than she needs him. ⟫
You will free us.
⟪ And just like that, she seems to waken from her mad, loving slumber, makes to untangle herself, conscious of the broad daylight, the prying eyes, the people who are, more like than not, strangers to them and their world, but how could they ever be certain of it? ⟫
tw: incest for pretty much all the rest of this thread, proceed with caution tyvm
Absurd is the thought that comes next, but it comes to her all the same: she is saved, or perhaps closer to being saved than she fancied herself just a moment before.
Of course, a caged lion is no less caged, and there is no one to bite or claw, no one but the hand that feeds. What little privilege they have, in being fed, housed, let out into the sun, and breathing, may well be robbed from them at the sight of increased disobedience. ⟫
The mage, Ambrose. My tale seems to be the same as that of every other man and woman I have encountered here. ⟪ How bitter she sounds of it, as though a special tale would befit her more.
And there he goes to kiss her, and like this, she cannot resist. One, because she has him tangled in her shackles, so hastily has she thrown her arms over his head, around his neck, and two, because she has, for worse, feared the kiss they shared the morning before he went after Stark may have been their very last. Heedless she is of watchful eyes, of enemy or friend alike – gods, as if there is a friend who would remain one if they witnessed the depth of their sin. The kiss she gifts him in return is not a half-blooded thing: it is full and it is treason to gods and men alike, and it is only broken when she needs air more desperately even than she needs him. ⟫
You will free us.
⟪ And just like that, she seems to waken from her mad, loving slumber, makes to untangle herself, conscious of the broad daylight, the prying eyes, the people who are, more like than not, strangers to them and their world, but how could they ever be certain of it? ⟫
Gods, have you gone mad?