05-26-2021, 08:12 PM
The blood from Basilica's wound paints her lips in a way Orville has never seen before. The way in which nightmares are not real to Orville suddenly and viciously disappears. This is a nightmare. A living nightmare. Blood paints her mouth and she manages to look dreamy even with such a ghoulish smile. Orville swallows hard, lifting a single back hoof as if he might retreat.
But he doesn't - doesn't even move one hoof backward. He stares just long enough to burn this image into his brain, to never forget. Tragedy like this can exist. Sadness like this can exist. Madness exists. Before, he didn't want to think it real but now - now he longs to erase such misfortune from existence.
"Won't you grow tired, Basilica?" he asks, stepping closer. "You look so tired," he murmurs, frustrated and unsure, wanting to step into her side to offer her something to lean on. "You can't keep this magic up forever . . ." But he wonders if she's even listening, or if he's even listening; because she says she's tired but he can barely hear it. Alarm bells ring in his head. Loud and raucous, the call of sudden and unforgiving death.
"You won't wake up, Basilica," he says, repeating her name, trying desperately to emphasize how badly she needs to stay awake. How he can't bear witness to another's final breath. "We can lay by the river," he whispers, this time giving in and pressing his neck to hers. "But you have to promise to stay awake. Maybe we can count the stars I brought you."
But he doesn't - doesn't even move one hoof backward. He stares just long enough to burn this image into his brain, to never forget. Tragedy like this can exist. Sadness like this can exist. Madness exists. Before, he didn't want to think it real but now - now he longs to erase such misfortune from existence.
"Won't you grow tired, Basilica?" he asks, stepping closer. "You look so tired," he murmurs, frustrated and unsure, wanting to step into her side to offer her something to lean on. "You can't keep this magic up forever . . ." But he wonders if she's even listening, or if he's even listening; because she says she's tired but he can barely hear it. Alarm bells ring in his head. Loud and raucous, the call of sudden and unforgiving death.
"You won't wake up, Basilica," he says, repeating her name, trying desperately to emphasize how badly she needs to stay awake. How he can't bear witness to another's final breath. "We can lay by the river," he whispers, this time giving in and pressing his neck to hers. "But you have to promise to stay awake. Maybe we can count the stars I brought you."
@[basilica]