01-28-2019, 04:31 AM
ryatah
hell is empty and all the devils are here
The water doesn’t stop, and the realization settles over her that it’s not going to. It had been a foolish notion, to think that he would put an end to it. Gifting her new eyes had been a ploy, an excuse to have a reason to hold something over her, and she had already known that. Asking him to stop something he had already started, when she essentially owed him, was fruitless.
She has drowned, once before. The second time when she died, when she had really died — and stayed dead, rotting at the bottom of the ocean for years and years, only stirred awake when the lands were rocked by the Catastrophe. The magic here was strange, channeling into unexpected places, sparking dead things back to life that had no business being alive. Like her. She had never questioned it, but she has managed to avoid death ever since.
Until now, of course.
She isn’t sure which is worse, when she had made herself drown, or now, being forced to drown. But the water fills her lungs and it burns just like it had the first time, the sea filling all the spaces where air should have been. It only takes a few minutes to lose consciousness, but those moments stretch on endlessly, until the darkness settles in.
When life is shot back into her, she awakes shivering against the cold cave floor, water dripping from her mane and streaming like tears down her face. A cough wretches her body as she expels the last remnants of salt water from her lungs, and for the second time in such a short expanse of time, his dark red eyes are the first thing she sees when she opens her own — some sort of twisted angel that gives her sight after he has blinded her, and brings her back to life after he has killed her.
There is fatigue, even though she hadn’t been dead for long (she thinks — time didn’t make sense when she is dead), but she forces herself to stand anyway before she answers him, refusing to lay trembling on the floor before him. ”It was like being dead,” her voice is course from the salt that burnt her throat, and she looks at him from behind a saturated forelock. Her eyes close for a moment, and when they open they are soft again, compliant, yet wary. ”I’m sorry,” She says, because she is used to it; used to being obedient, used to doing as she was told without questioning it, and apologizing when she hasn’t. ”I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you.”
She is infinitely foolish, it would seem, as she stands damp and quivering before him, and still the idea of asking to leave has never even crossed her mind.
She has drowned, once before. The second time when she died, when she had really died — and stayed dead, rotting at the bottom of the ocean for years and years, only stirred awake when the lands were rocked by the Catastrophe. The magic here was strange, channeling into unexpected places, sparking dead things back to life that had no business being alive. Like her. She had never questioned it, but she has managed to avoid death ever since.
Until now, of course.
She isn’t sure which is worse, when she had made herself drown, or now, being forced to drown. But the water fills her lungs and it burns just like it had the first time, the sea filling all the spaces where air should have been. It only takes a few minutes to lose consciousness, but those moments stretch on endlessly, until the darkness settles in.
When life is shot back into her, she awakes shivering against the cold cave floor, water dripping from her mane and streaming like tears down her face. A cough wretches her body as she expels the last remnants of salt water from her lungs, and for the second time in such a short expanse of time, his dark red eyes are the first thing she sees when she opens her own — some sort of twisted angel that gives her sight after he has blinded her, and brings her back to life after he has killed her.
There is fatigue, even though she hadn’t been dead for long (she thinks — time didn’t make sense when she is dead), but she forces herself to stand anyway before she answers him, refusing to lay trembling on the floor before him. ”It was like being dead,” her voice is course from the salt that burnt her throat, and she looks at him from behind a saturated forelock. Her eyes close for a moment, and when they open they are soft again, compliant, yet wary. ”I’m sorry,” She says, because she is used to it; used to being obedient, used to doing as she was told without questioning it, and apologizing when she hasn’t. ”I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you.”
She is infinitely foolish, it would seem, as she stands damp and quivering before him, and still the idea of asking to leave has never even crossed her mind.