[ His stolen breath returns in a rush, a famished inhale that is at once sweet as honey and sharp as steel. With that lean little noose of her arm flung free of his neck, a second breath follows the first, and he teeters for a moment on the divide between waking and dreaming. That black flood recedes, the dappling of colorful spots before his eyes vanishes, and with his throat his own once more, he could crunch the body in his arms in stark punishment.
Punishment for trusting him, and for thereby considering the possibility in the future that trust might be more than a lie told in songs. Punishment for having wrapped her arm around him like that in the first place, driving him to bargaining simply so he did not have to resort to killing her. Committing murder shortly after having been assigned this cell would not paint the most flattering image of him for his captors. And what would her death prove?
But her arm has come loose around him and so he lets his own fall from her, pleased both with his victory, such as it is, and with the fact that he can defy the terms of his lack of honor at will. He might have earned the infernal brand of 'Man Without Honor' for the rest of his living days - and his dying ones, too, if the gods truly did give a second glance - but he can still insult the stark infamy of the title by flecking honor where he will, as he likes.
He lifts a hand to rub at his throat, as if her rabid hold were scarring, and then flicks tousled golden hair from his face as if this were no more than a minor interference in the usual proceedings of his day. ]
There, we'll both live another hour. Isn't that a sunny thought? [ And a generous one, too, to assume a murderous impulse can be held at bay for a full hour. ]
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Punishment for trusting him, and for thereby considering the possibility in the future that trust might be more than a lie told in songs. Punishment for having wrapped her arm around him like that in the first place, driving him to bargaining simply so he did not have to resort to killing her. Committing murder shortly after having been assigned this cell would not paint the most flattering image of him for his captors. And what would her death prove?
But her arm has come loose around him and so he lets his own fall from her, pleased both with his victory, such as it is, and with the fact that he can defy the terms of his lack of honor at will. He might have earned the infernal brand of 'Man Without Honor' for the rest of his living days - and his dying ones, too, if the gods truly did give a second glance - but he can still insult the stark infamy of the title by flecking honor where he will, as he likes.
He lifts a hand to rub at his throat, as if her rabid hold were scarring, and then flicks tousled golden hair from his face as if this were no more than a minor interference in the usual proceedings of his day. ]
There, we'll both live another hour. Isn't that a sunny thought? [ And a generous one, too, to assume a murderous impulse can be held at bay for a full hour. ]