"A dance then. Entertain me."
Never a request -- demands were the only language that the Pontiff seemed to speak. Each word that slipped from the vines of that mask that shielded features from her own dripped with the anticipation of one to follow orders. To break meant punishment; it felt as though he anticipated that as much as the former. A man of dark deeds and a hand who’s shadow cast itself to block out the sun itself. When was the last time you had seen the sun, dear Lenore? When last had you known in your heart that Gwyndolin yet drew breath? Far too long. Who within the heart lingered? Were any soul she’d connected with in all her many unfortunate years still stood upon the same soil as she. Who else could have survived such destruction, such raw chaos?
Were it not for the one that still drew breath to lungs this request would fall upon deaf ears. Defiance and dissent would find themselves lit from spark to roaring flame. One that she’d hope could not be put out (such a romantic notion she knew was nothing more than that). Vordt’s fate would be sealed were she to show any signs of betrayal. Complicit in the chains that wore her down did the Dancer linger. Such chains locked in place as the key to freedom stood in the form of a man. In the shape of her dearest friend and companion. Wear your heart for all to see and they shall know how to control it.
And so with a bow of her head, tall form rising to straighten, the Dancer did as was requested of her. Lips would never speak of desires and whims that would bury beneath the avalanche of what she knew would befall another were she to entertain them.
@aldrichfaithful
