#withinconfines

orange is the new black inspired sentence meme.

        A shaky breath leaves her at the words, spoken so softly that        it may be mistaken for the wind. She knows what they mean,        what he means. But she does not wish to dwell upon how they        strike a chord within her, one that she has always believed        would remain dull with disuse, that would never be plucked        so sweetly again.

                                  Love is something she expected never to harbour again, for it                                  had left alongside Arthur’s passing. Something deep within her                                  had been broken with no hope for it to be mended. Becoming                                  Queen Regent, Gwen had known that she would die a widow—                                  even if the custom was to marry another, as she had no child to                                  sit upon the throne after her.

              She felt it was justified she be so selfish as to never look upon              another man. The Queen knew that she could never love another.              No man was worthy of her affections, for they were not as great              as the deceased Arthur Pendragon.

    ——-But Willas Tyrell is proving to be an exception. Another tale entirely.

                        It fills her with deep shame. She can’t help wonder: what does                        Arthur think, wherever he may be now? Is he happy that there is                        a possibility for her to love again? Or is he as betrayedas he                        had looked when he had found her in the arms of Lancelot?

          Simply the thought of this makes her tremble deep in the marr-          ow of her bones. Her knees buckle underneath her, however she          remains poised— her hands clasped daintily together and her          back straight as a tightly-wound arrow. She is Queen of Camelot          and it is unbecoming of her to show even an ounce of weakness.

                               Slowly, quietly, she turns away from Willas. Not so much so that                               he will notice, or so she hopes, but enough that he cannot see the                               glistening of her eyes or the bitter twitch of her lips as she says,

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

                         The brown has yet to wash from                      her hair, the color only lightening ever                      so slightly. It's no one's fault-- there                       is a distinct lack of washing up when                      you're traveling vast distances. Sansa                      (she is Sansa now, she is a S t a r k)                      glances around, spotting the back of                       a chocolate head of hair. Oh, good.