Gild The Plated Prisoner Quotes

A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded.

It’s the arrogance of men, to think so little of women. And it’ll be their downfall too.

Men making deals on the behalf of women never seems to go very well for the women.

You can have all the gold in the world and yet lack everything of real worth.

But memory and time aren’t friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap.

I wish I could string up the sun and keep it tied in the sky, but wishes are for stars, and I hardly get to see any of those anyway.

Does it really matter if your cage is solid gold when you aren't allowed to leave it? A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded.

I’m ridiculously fun. You kind of have to be when the only person you hang out with is you. I wouldn’t want to bore myself.

Why am I so cursed to endure the greed of men?

But a simple friendship. Just two people who enjoy talking to each other, who can share stories and meet in laughter, conspiring only for one another’s amusement.

You are worth more than all the gold in this castle. But I still own you, and I will spend you any way I see fit.

I cried beneath my parents’ kisses, but they told me to go. To be brave. That they would see me soon. One order, one urge, one lie.

Mouth dribbles red life, breath like choked water. Blue-tinged lips to match his eyes as they rain. My heart shatters itself against my ribs. He looks at me, my teardrops landing on his. I sob. He shudders. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I cry. Lying for him, as he did for me. And with his last breath, he nods.

One should never decide something as serious as bangs when they have a bottle of wine in their stomachs.

Despite what I look like, I’m not a coin to be spent.

And I’m terrified that one wrong step will have me tipping right over the edge, headfirst into a fall that I can’t recover from.

But I could’ve gilded you,” I repeat. “Then you’d be a statue stuck right here on the stairwell, and I don’t think gold’s your color, Commander.”  “I disagree. Gold has quickly become my favorite.

Are you a princess?” an older girl asks, but I smile and shake my head. “No. Are you?” The children all scoff together, trading looks. “You think princesses live in the shanties like street urchins?” I lower my hood and give her a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe hidden princesses do.

But memory and time aren’t friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap. They fight, and we inexplicably lose. Memory and time. Always losing one as you go on with the other. I can’t recall what my mother’s face

You can pretend a lot of things in life. You can pretend so well that you even start to believe your own deceit. We’re all actors; we’re all on pedestals with a spotlight shining on us, playing whatever part we need to in order to make it through the day—in order to help ourselves sleep at night.

When I chose to hide away, I was barely more than a girl. Vulnerable. Battered. Scattered. Utterly sick of what the world had to offer. So I hid in a cage, and I was content to do so. After the things I endured, I wanted it. I accepted the bars, embraced them, even - not to keep me in, but to keep others out.

But I do know this: All men, whether they’re a king or a peasant, covet what they do not have.

To the ones who try, but can’t see the stars. Keep looking up.

Sooner or later, every troubled thought and aching bitterness is going to come pouring out and demand I face them.

And that, that secret sob I let drain into my pillow, is an ugly truth. But it’s not one I’m ready to face yet.

You can pretend a lot of things in life. You can pretend so well that you even start to believe your own deceit. We’re all actors; we’re all on pedestals with a spotlight shining on us, playing whatever part we need to in order to

But memory and time aren't friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap. They fight, and we inexplicably lose. Memory and time. Always losing one as you go on with the other.

But memory and time aren’t friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap. They fight, and we inexplicably lose. Memory and time. Always losing one as you go on with the other.

Does it really matter if your cage is solid gold when you aren’t allowed to leave it? A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded.

We loyalists call you the Lyäri Ulvêre—the golden one gone. The gilded girl who was lost in the night.

At least I know that for every King Rot that exists, there’s someone like Sail in the world to balance it out.

You’re okay, you’re okay. He protects me, bolsters me, there in those kind blue eyes.

But one question burns in my mind for the entire day: What would happen if I didn’t?

So if I make it through this, if I live, I vow to myself that I won’t let it happen again. I won’t sit idly by and keep letting men crush me in their fists.

They fight, and we inexplicably lose. Memory and time. Always losing one as you go on with the other.

Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I repeat against his chest. He saved me. My quiet, stoic guard just killed a king to save my life.

I walk through, the cage door swung open wide, like a rigid rib cage peeled back on a hinge, allowing its heart to spill out.

All men, whether they’re a king or a peasant, covet what they do not have.

But I swear, for one fleeting second, I see a glimpse of a star winking at me. So I wink back.

But no matter how many people I see every day, I still wake up lonely and go to sleep the same way.

I keep waiting for rescue to come, for a dawn to bloom, for a star to hatch, for a hope to surface. But it doesn’t.

I never misplaced my innocence. It wasn’t my own doing from a forgetful lack of care. It was taken from me, one cruel exploit at a time.

I live in a cage, but I’ve never felt so trapped.

You can pretend a lot of things in life. You can pretend so well that you even start to believe your own deceit.

You won’t like what happens if you refuse. But by all means, the choice is yours.

As if I could run away from my own disappointments. As if I could avoid my hurts, my shame, my dark thoughts that creep out every time I close my eyes for sleep.

The saddles? Yeah, they don’t like me. But the queen? She fucking hates me.

It gives me the crawling caterpillars in my stomach—not butterflies. I’m jealous of those free-flying bitches.

those stars really are goddesses waiting to be born, I should warn them to stay where they are in the safety of their twinkling light. Because down here? Down here, life is dark and lonely, and it has noisy bells and not nearly enough wine.

I realize how much I’ve wished for this, this connection with another person. Not an alliance for similar goals, not anything driven by politics or society or even lust. But a simple friendship. Just two people who enjoy talking to each other, who can share stories and meet in laughter, conspiring only for one another’s amusement.

I never misplaced my innocence. It wasn’t my own doing from a forgetful lack of care. It was taken from me, one cruel exploit at a time. I remember each piece of it as it broke away from me, until I was raw and bare, exposed to the harsh elements of the world with a chip gouged deep in my shoulder and a bitter taste always at the back of my tongue.

I’m an oddity, a commodity, a rumor. I’m the king’s favored. His prized saddle. The one he gold-touched and keeps in a cage at the top of his castle, my body bearing the mark of his ownership and favoritism. The gilded pet. I’m the darling of King Midas, ruler of Highbell and the Sixth Kingdom of Orea. People flock to see me just as much as they come to look upon his gleaming castle worth more than all the riches in the entire realm. I’m the gold-plated prisoner. But what a pretty prison it is.

Es fácil. muy fácil cruzar el barco. Pasar sin que nadie se moleste siquiera en mirarme. Es la arrogancia de los hombres pensar tan poco de las mujeres. Y también será su perdición.

Observé cómo se desarrollaba el plan de Midas mientras tejía una historia de lo que había sucedido. La gente sabe todo sobre el Toque de Oro de Midas. ¿Pero su lengua dorada? Para mí ese es su verdadero poder.

pedestals with a spotlight shining on us, playing whatever part we need to in order to make it through the day—in order to help ourselves sleep at night.

Remember your place, saddle,” Queen Malina says, drawing my gaze back to her as she begins to walk away. “You’re just a pet for Midas to mount. A souvenir to show off.

I admit, I don’t know a lot about the inner workings of a king’s mind. I don’t know how their advisors advise them. But I do know this: All men, whether they’re a king or a peasant, covet what they do not have.

If those stars really are goddesses waiting to be born, I should warn them to stay where they are in the safety of their twinkling light. Because down here? Down here, life is dark and lonely, and it has noisy bells and not nearly enough wine.

I'm ridiculously fun. You kind of have to be when the only person you hang out with is you. I wouldn't want to bore myself.

El Rey Midas no cree en la sutileza. Hace alarde de su renombrado poder, y la gente se inclina maravillada o hambrienta de envidia

I’m the darling of King Midas, ruler of Highbell and the Sixth Kingdom of Orea. People flock to see me just as much as they come to look upon his gleaming castle worth more than all the riches in the entire realm. I’m the gold-plated prisoner. But what a pretty prison it is.

I hear the short shouts. The swords meeting in vicious swipes. And the abruptness of it acts like a shock to the brain, dredging up memories as my past and present meet. Fighting is too close and too loud, and I’m sprawled on the ground just like I was on a different day, during a different fight.

And the night is crushing me. Crushing me on all sides, as every part of what happened presses against my mind, replaying, picking it apart. Showing me again and again what happened, from the moment I woke up to right now.

I’m his. That’s what he always says. I’m precious to him. I’ve been his for ten years, and in all that time, he’s never let anyone near me. Midas saved me. He pulled me from ruin and put me in a castle. I gave him my heart, and he gave me his protection. One look. He said he took one look at me, and he loved me, and I loved him right back. How could I not? He was the first man to ever treat me with kindness. How can he ruin that

I admit, I don’t know a lot about the inner workings of a king’s mind. I don’t know how their advisors advise them. But I do know this: All men, whether they’re a king or a peasant, covet what they do not have. And these two men covet Fourth Kingdom.

I lift the gold goblet to my lips as I watch the show of naked flesh through the space between my bars.

slept like the dead all day, so I should be well-rested and ready to go, but instead, I feel tired and sodden, like a towel wrung out.

I pull away from his ministrations and lie all the way back, dipping my head and hair beneath the water. With eyes closed, I let it envelop me, let it press into my skin, let the warmth soothe my body like I wish it could soothe my aching heart.

I make myself a promise right here and now though. If I somehow make it through this, if the Red Raids don’t ruin me completely, I won’t allow myself to be stagnant anymore. I won’t allow myself to be so weak and inept. I should’ve known better, after my childhood, after all the things I’ve been through. I should’ve known better than to become so complacent or languid. If I could go back, I’d shake myself. I became like Coin, that solid gold bird forever resting on his roost. I clipped my own wings, I stayed listless on my perch. So if I make it through this, if I live, I vow to myself that I won’t let it happen again. I won’t say idly by and keep letting men crush me in their fists.

Looks like you lost that bet, hmm?” “Ah, but I didn’t actually get to take the bet, did I?” Sail laughs and shakes his head. The fact that he can always be in such good humor, regardless of what’s going on around him, is a testament to his character. “You got lucky this time. I won’t let you off the hook so easily next time.” “Thanks for the warning. Good night.” “Night, my lady.

Even with my hands landing against his shoulders, Sail still goes down. All I’m able to do is twist him up, to keep his face pointed at the sky. Mouth dribbles red life, breath like choked water. Blue-tinged lips to match his eyes as they rain. My heart shatters itself against my ribs. He looks at me, my teardrops landing on his. I sob. He shudders. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I cry. Lying for him, as he did for me. And with his last breath, he nods.

I’m moving rather than stagnant. I’m out in the world, and I’m embracing it rather than hiding from it. So that’s something, at least.

I drop my head, shaking it. “I was so damn terrified, so hurt. I don’t know if I can get past that.” “Like I said, I didn’t think,” he tells me, a stroke against my cheek before he drops his hand. “You killed a king, Midas. Used him to attack another. What are you going to do?” I ask, the worry gnawing at my insides as my teeth gnaw on my lip. “Don’t worry about that,” he tells me. “I have a plan.” I can’t help the bitter snort that escapes me. “I suppose you’re not going to tell me it, just like you didn’t tell me that you were tricking Fulke about giving me to him.

I can’t stand King Fulke of Fifth Kingdom. He’s a sleazy, crass old man with the power of duplication. When he uses his power, he can duplicate whatever he touches exactly once. It doesn’t work on people, thank Divine, or I bet he would’ve tried to duplicate me ages ago.

It’s funny how he can make me feel both immense desire and crushing disappointment at the same time.

I call them ribbons for lack of a better word. I have two dozen long golden ribbons that sprout out on both sides of my spine, spanning the entire length, from my shoulders to my tailbone. They’re long too, so they drape to the floor like a train on a gown, dragging behind me as I walk.

Golden Gold Vine Part One There was a miser who prized her, this golden gold vine. This sapling so gilded, her leaflings did shine. The moment he saw her, he let out a whisper of, “mine.” He’d found her in rubble, along a plain road. Unburied, he took her, in pocket he stowed. Back to his house, where he stared at her gleam. Hands curled to covet, want stitched to seam. What a chance this was, the chance for much more. So he planted her there, right outside his front door. Kept under secrets and hidden she lay. This old miser did find her, did steal her away. Brought to the yard, he planted her there. Fenced her all in to shelter her glare. Soon she grew tiny buds, glinting with gold. He plucked them by one, went to town to be sold. He paid off his debts, bought whatever he sought. But it wasn’t enough, whatever he got. For greed had been planted beside her thin roots. Want had leafed out, along with her shoots. Yet although he watered, soon she did wilt. Her golden did dull and worry he spilt. For his most prized possession looked right to be culled. She wasted away, while he fretted and mulled. It wasn't til so angry, he pulled out his hair. Brown clumps all fallen on the vine bare, that her color suddenly glistened, her vine did then surge. She grew ever much from his body he'd purged. Ecstatic, he knew, what he must do. So this miser clip-clipped, and gold flowers then bloomed. His hair he snip-snipped, gladly shedding his plume. For she would not grow without sacrifice. Only pieces of him would ever suffice. For her to keep growing, that was her price. This golden gold vine was the miser’s own vice. To be continued…

The gold castle sitting on the mountain in the distance must be like a thorn in their sides. A constant reminder of a horizon they can’t reach.

No, you cared enough about getting Miss Rissa out of a tight spot, so much so that you risked looking like the villain. You did something, a little rough, sure, and probably not the most well thought out plan, but you acted. You didn’t just stand by.

To everyone else, I probably seem unchanged. I probably look like the same gilded saddle, the same gold-touched favored. But if you look closer, you might see the gleam in my eye. You might catch the twist of my downturned lips that hints at the discontent lying just at the edge of my mouth.

Lemuria. The bridge that led to nowhere. The bridge was just a track of gray, empty dirt that stretched over the edge of the world, past what the eye could see. That strip of land kept going, with nothing below or around it, nothing existing at all except for the dark, sightless void.

Gold is a big theme here in King Midas’s Highbell Castle.

I’m still no winged butterfly, but I do feel as if I’ve been reborn. My metamorphosis has been twenty years in the making, but I’m ready to be what I’m supposed to be. My old life had to end, had to be cut away, burned down to nothing but gilded ashes. And I can either remain stagnant in these ashes or I can root down into them and sprout up anew. I can thrive.

You’d think I might resent the stars for that, but that’s not the case. Because every time I look up, I remember my mother. Or at least, a piece of her. A piece I’ve been desperately trying to hold onto for twenty years.

These are Fourth Kingdom’s soldiers. King Rot’s soldiers.

No, the man standing there, whose body basks in menace, is one thing and one thing only. Fae.

Because there is no Seventh Kingdom anymore. There is no peaceful alliance. There is no bridge to Annwyn. There are no more fae. …Or so people think.

One second, his skin is ruddy, his tunic stained, his cock purple, his eyes brown. And the next, he’s frozen in time, every inch of him, from the beads on his beard to the toes in his boots, all of it gleaming, resplendent, vindictive. Because I just turned the motherfucker solid gold.

It’s okay, it’s okay. But it’s not okay. Not at all. Because before that nod is even finished, the captain has unhooked a knife from the scabbard at his waist and rammed it into Sail’s chest. Straight through to his heart.

Ropes are wrapped around him, forcing his body straight against the pole. His vacant eyes are still open, looking ahead at nothing, but it was a gaze that was meant for me, a gaze that he offered with his last dying breath. Someone shouts, “Our ship’s finally got a Sail!

They say he doesn’t act with honor even on a battlefield—that he uses his power to make people fester and decompose, leaving their bodies in his fields for the flies to hatch maggots in.

And Sail’s body hangs, degraded and scorned, like a carved figurehead at the bow, the last of his blood already frozen against his chest. But those eyes of an ocean don’t shut. Though they don’t see anymore, either. I turn and vomit on the white-washed wooden planks.

I don’t know if the bones in my body are as gold as the rest of me, but for my sake, I hope they are. I hope my spine is gilded, because I’m going to need a strong backbone if I want to survive.

Lemuria. The bridge that led to nowhere.

Saira Turley did the one thing that no others had—she walked the bridge of Lemuria, and came back to tell the tale. But she didn’t return alone. Because the bridge, that narrow road in the nothing, led to a new world. A world of magic.

but Saira did find Annwyn—the territory in the realm beyond. The realm of fae.

Before Quarter can finish his sentence or go through with his threat, a cold, smooth voice cuts through the air like a boom, a volcano erupting in the middle of a silent twilight. “What do you think you’re doing?

There, in front of Highbell’s wall, hang a dozen bodies, strung up on a row of gnarly, weather-beaten branches. The bodies are…wrong. Abhorrent. They aren’t just corpses. They aren’t gilded heads on spikes, warning people of Midas’s wrath if one should break the law. No, these...these are... “Rotted,” Sail says grimly beside me, as if he were hearing my thoughts. “That’s what the smell is. We’ve been getting these little gifts from King Rot all week.

And even though I just met him, I know this down to my bones. Because this soldier from the slums, he’s not so different from me.

Bile curls in the pit of my stomach, and I cover my mouth and nose with my hand. I don’t need to ask Sail who they are. I can see the purple-plated emblems on their still-visible armor. They’re King Fulke’s soldiers.