Work Text:
There are chips in her paint.
She is golden like a queen, and black marks her (she is a warrior, hardened). She is a prisoner; her cage is made of flesh and sinew.
Her own skin is made to betray her.
There are scars underneath that only she can feel, and bruises that will be painted and overlooked.
For her master is the living god. Her captor is the highest of all their high priests, and she is to be the god's wife. The living god's wife; diefied man, holy king, majesty made divine by birthright, by Ra.
But it is the dark that calls her; it is Death's high priest that grants her absolution and mercy.
The sun burns and exposes her bruises for vacant eyes to refuse to see, but the night brings respite from her tormentor.
The god's wife, but the god's property to destroy all the same.
Gentle hands trace the lines drawn on her skin; fingertips smudge her prison bars.
Her high priest; the goddess' lover, the voice of the god of the dead, the man who knows the words to breathe life back into flesh and sinew. He peels away the years of new coats to cover up the imperfections.
He worships at her altar and breathes life into her limbs.
She is brown and bronze and smudged.
Her own skin is made to betray them.
There are chips in her paint that only he sees.