Look at what Briala has accomplished, painted as she is above Kirkwall streets in the dead of night; patron to a breed of optimism Alan knows better than to lay any more claim to than as witness.
Look at what Briala has accomplished, and he supposes it’s a lot, but it’s a lot that was still worked by their rules — worked inside a set of allowances stood on end as carefully as the bars of a cage, of the teeth of a trap. Everyone caught up in the confines of civilization, and somehow he's found himself among them, squeezing after always a little out of pace.
Working within the system: This isn’t out of reach,
Neither’s the bait in the snare.
"Will it still be you?" Softly. She hasn’t given him an answer, and that’s an answer in itself — if he still doesn’t know its shape. The way she twists from that small confession immediately into something much shallower. He doesn’t mirror her smile now. "I don’t worry that it’s a bad choice."
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Look at what Briala has accomplished, and he supposes it’s a lot, but it’s a lot that was still worked by their rules — worked inside a set of allowances stood on end as carefully as the bars of a cage, of the teeth of a trap. Everyone caught up in the confines of civilization, and somehow he's found himself among them, squeezing after always a little out of pace.
Working within the system: This isn’t out of reach,
Neither’s the bait in the snare.
"Will it still be you?" Softly. She hasn’t given him an answer, and that’s an answer in itself — if he still doesn’t know its shape. The way she twists from that small confession immediately into something much shallower. He doesn’t mirror her smile now. "I don’t worry that it’s a bad choice."
He trusts her judgment rather more than that.
"I worry that it is one."