THERE WAS NOTHING TO FEAR.
Not from someone like him, he brought no harm at all, to anyone. This was a blessing, could she not see that, the poor little thing. Could she not see that he has saved her from the darkness, from the clutches of death, from the end of her life.
All alone in the world, so cold as well, shivering from the cold night air, biting at the skin. She was very fortunate that he happened to be right here, right now, at the right time to save her from the cold.
As he stood over her, and looked down on her for the moment, a little smile on his face as his eyes would widen then, settle on her.
Another little lost soul, in this cruel land. Who had no place to call their own, it was always so sad, so horrible, so upsetting to see little women like this, cut off from the world and denied a chance to live, a happy, rich and fulfilled life.
“You don’t have to be afraid, not of me.”
Salvation was at hand.
She only needed to be brave enough to reach out and take it. As he stretched his arm out to her, overturned his hand to show the palm to him, to allow her the chance, to reach out, and take it, to have the choice within her hands, that all humans have, the right to choose her fate. She could stay here, and freeze to death, or she could, like so many others before her, take his hand, come with her and be saved, become ..
Something so much more.
“Take my hand …” As he towered over her, offering her the chance to take back her life, take back action, take back the means and the ways to defy the expectations that the world had on her, that death was meant to take her, but with him here, he can change that, delay it and turn her into something so much more, useful to him. @fallesto
In the solace of her confinement, where frigidness imprisons her existence with a brutality that feels almost deliberate, she examines the world through a lens of introspection and a constant chill. Walls around her, adorned in frost, provide a quiescent companionship in this moment of isolation. Her physique, a mere silhouette of vulnerability against the stark, curls inward on itself. She tightens her arms strongly around her knees, a futile attempt to shield the dwindling embers of warmth that her corpulence desperately seeks to preserve. Shivers, unstoppable in their pursuit, course through her, each one a remembrance of her continuous battle against the cold's enhalse. Her mind, though momentarily, wanders into the realm of contemplation, pondering the reality that encircles her. Is this the sombre fee one pays for immortality, a parlous existence under the dominion of a cruelty-prone rex? Is her orlay to abide thus lifeless, a lineage of royalty reduced to mere entertainment?
With fingers that tremble not just from the cold but from the magnitude of her reality, she frees the two hairpins from her hair. These pins, forged exclusively for her, capture her attentiveness momentarily, their luminescence seeming to echo the upheaval within her. "Once, you spoke of greatness as my destiny. Is this existence truly all that is meant for me?" Whispers, her voice barely more than a breath, to the ornaments resting in her palm, a silential plea for guidance that remains unanswered. In lieu of words, they transform, encasing her in a cocoon of luminescent light, healing the bruises that mar her visage, and, for a fleeting moment, restoring her to a state of unmolested grace before reverting back into their original form, adorning her hair once more.
Coldness incapacitates her senses, lulling her into a state of semi-consciousness, a temporary respite that is fragmented by the presence of another. She lifts her gaze to meet his, Cazador. Is his approach another maneuver in a long game of manipulation? It could well be. Yet, the gentleness in his demeanor, a divergence from his accustomed facade, puzzles her. She finds herself aching to voice the myriad thoughts that pulsate within her, yet her lips remain sealed, her stare fixed upon his poised hand, a dormant inquiry into the future that lies beyond her current state of utmost need and subservience.
She extends her palm towards his, their touch an amalgam of suppleness and pandemonium. "As you wish, my lord." Acquiesces, her ascendance from the cold concrete marked by the graceful fall of her auburn locks around her shoulders. "What is it you desire of me?" Her voice, now a soft melody, challenges the frigidness that dominates them. Can altruistic kindness discover its trail to her through darkness? Is there a sliver of hope for autonomy, for her to rise above her predestined existence and become something more alongside him, sovereign of shadows? Her question lingers, a delicate balance between hope and despair, hinting at the prospective for an orlay yet unclaimed. Perhaps, within the confines of this implacable winter, she might discover the means to carve out a new existence for herself.
Praedator sanguis
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