( Forced to flee, but returned willing, as if she were a bride escaped from the abuses of an intemperate husband, a daughter exploring the territories that stretch and sprawl beyond the watchful eye of her tyrant father. A prisoner, deserting her keepers.
His brows do not perch, his tone does not falter. Bichen sleeps fettered but for the steely sibilance of her unsheathing, when he brings her in a straggling arc to catch the wealth of the bride's hair and lift it, bundled. Her cheek is pale, but flushing, faint hairs riding the sharpening line. An incomplete transformation, biding its time. )
She is no kept creature. No friend to your hand. ( Watch, as the bride nuzzles Winnifred's wrist, as her teeth graze, as they remember — once they were fangs, and they deepened their toll. ) No innocent.
no subject
His brows do not perch, his tone does not falter. Bichen sleeps fettered but for the steely sibilance of her unsheathing, when he brings her in a straggling arc to catch the wealth of the bride's hair and lift it, bundled. Her cheek is pale, but flushing, faint hairs riding the sharpening line. An incomplete transformation, biding its time. )
She is no kept creature. No friend to your hand. ( Watch, as the bride nuzzles Winnifred's wrist, as her teeth graze, as they remember — once they were fangs, and they deepened their toll. ) No innocent.