03-22-2021, 02:24 AM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
When the walls seem to come alive with memories it does not bother her perhaps the way that it should. It incites a prickling beneath her skin, a tingle that shivers up her spine, but mostly she just notices how she does not sound like any of them. She has begged him before, or at least her version of begging—so much softer than the way most would. She pleaded more like she was asking for a favor, a request that he please not drown her, even as the sea was already rushing into her lungs.
When he killed her on the mountain, she had said nothing at all.
Every star-burnt memory and failed test, every wrong word or wrong move that left her blinded could be played out on these walls and still, she is not like them. She becomes acutely aware of that when the echoes fade back into silence, and she wonders why she does not scream, why she does not panic, or fight. She accepts everything mostly quietly—like some amenable lamb that lays itself on the altar willingly, and while she calls it sacrifice she is sure anyone else would call it stupidity.
And yet he always brings her back, and he always comes back, and she is encouraged by the idea that maybe the other lambs are simply doing it wrong.
Her dark eyes turn back to him when he says he has considered keeping her here, and the placid way that she smiles and shakes her head betrays the way her heart had jumped in her chest. “You would get bored if I was here all the time,” she says softly, scanning the rock and stone they walk by—the walls that do not echo of her, or at least not in a tortured way, since somewhere in this place is where the illusion of the valley had been crafted, for her. “And you’d solve all the mysteries far too quickly,” she adds with a sideways glance and a coy tilt of her haloed head—as if they did not both know she would never resist if he were to try.
When he killed her on the mountain, she had said nothing at all.
Every star-burnt memory and failed test, every wrong word or wrong move that left her blinded could be played out on these walls and still, she is not like them. She becomes acutely aware of that when the echoes fade back into silence, and she wonders why she does not scream, why she does not panic, or fight. She accepts everything mostly quietly—like some amenable lamb that lays itself on the altar willingly, and while she calls it sacrifice she is sure anyone else would call it stupidity.
And yet he always brings her back, and he always comes back, and she is encouraged by the idea that maybe the other lambs are simply doing it wrong.
Her dark eyes turn back to him when he says he has considered keeping her here, and the placid way that she smiles and shakes her head betrays the way her heart had jumped in her chest. “You would get bored if I was here all the time,” she says softly, scanning the rock and stone they walk by—the walls that do not echo of her, or at least not in a tortured way, since somewhere in this place is where the illusion of the valley had been crafted, for her. “And you’d solve all the mysteries far too quickly,” she adds with a sideways glance and a coy tilt of her haloed head—as if they did not both know she would never resist if he were to try.
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —
it's okay, I'd wait 100 years <3
@[Carnage]