Kyriakos: DAY 86

[takewing]

[Suddenly, the books on several of the shelves spring to life--they flutter around the room and open above those present. As they do a magic circle springs out of their pages, enveloping the players in a beam of light and making them vanish into their pages--two to a book. Inside is a featureless room with an indestructible paper-like substance lining floor, walls and ceiling, inlaid with an intricate pattern of metallic roses. My, what long thorns they have …

On the floor somewhere nearby is an incredibly sharp quill and a bottle of an inklike substance--which is clearly labelled as ‘Not intended for ingestion unless you wish to die painfully, you twit.’]

((HERE))

Comments

[takewing]

Ha. Ha.

[Giving those thorny patterns an utterly contemptuous look.]

If you think that I'm killing somebody for you, Echoes, I pray that you choke on your disappointment.

[unlocksmith]

[a-ah. . .]

[frowning very deeply, before he swiftly approaches the walls and runs his hands across them, looking for weaknesses]

[takewing]

… Be careful near those roses.

[unlocksmith]

[runs his hands over one]

They're harmless for now.

[making sure to inspect eeeeevery inch of wall. he even tries to dig his fingertips underneath the metallic rose patterns, to no avail]

. . . and you wouldn't be killin' anyone. Nyssa is savin' that honor for herself.

[takewing]

I'm thinking more of the numbers than of the act itself. The numbers, the people those numbers represent.

[Muttering that half to herself as she moves to examine the ink and quill.]

"Not intended for ingestion unless you wish to die painfully, you twit." How kind of them to warn us.

[unlocksmith]

It still ain't on you.

[saying that a bit more firmly, and he lets out a frustrated grump as he pushes away from the wall]

[he glances over at her, eyeing the quill and ink well]

[he rolls his eyes]

I s'pose we should be thankin' them for the message.

[takewing]

If the method of delivery is a punch to the face, then yes, we certainly should 'thank' them.

[Picking up the quill, gently running her finger across the sharp edge.]

… and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to disagree with you there, if only partially.

[unlocksmith]

[he scoffs, and watches as she runs her hand across the edges of the quill knife]

. . . figured you would.

But would you really cast blame on the pairs that do survive so quickly?

[takewing]

Not at all.

[Hmm. Takes the bottle of ink and opens it, quill still in her other hand.]

That isn't my issue. We all have the right to live, and the right to fight for our lives as we see fit. Equal right, I should add, in case you're on the verge of misunderstanding me.

[unlocksmith]

No. . . I'm not.

[wandering over, reaching out to pluck the quill from her fingers so he can examine it as well]

If you don't blame them, then why blame yourself?

[takewing]

[She makes a mildly irritable noise when he takes it, but doesn't try to grab it back just yet.]

It's … ahh, somewhat difficult to put into words. At least a quarter of the people present are going to die, yes? Likely more, taking into account those pairs who refuse to make a choice. Next, I consider the simple fact that I … hm … well.

It's the same as Nyssa's last "game," in the end. Nobody wants to die, but some would take walking away alive better than others. … and then, third but by no means last or least, there's this: Wren. Nightingale. Sparrow. Rosella. Crane. Rook. Sirocco. Belt. Leo. Technic.

Lastly, and most importantly—to me, at any rate—is my utter lack of desire to bow to Nyssa's whims. My life is my own, to live or to give as I see fit, and she has absolutely no right to demand that I pay for it.

[unlocksmith]

[testing the balance of the quill blade in his hand, to see how well he can wield it]

. . . all of those are reasons given to argue for not playin' at all.

None of them seem like reasons you should blame yourself for people dyin' in this game.

[takewing]

If I make any attempt to survive this game, it will be for you, Spark. Just you.

But my heart wouldn't be in it. [She speaks softly and earnestly, fingers clenching tight around the bottle of ink.] My heart would be with our friends and teammates who are trying desperately to survive. If I lived, while they died … yes, I would blame myself.

[unlocksmith]

For what?

[lowering the quill knife to his side, and addressing her completely]

For. . . survivin' when others died? Or for what you view as being complicit with their murders?

[no accusatory, merely an attempt to understand. the question is genuine]

[takewing]

…

[Sighs, capping the bottle, and turns to face him.]

If I tried to survive this, I'd be walking down a path that I don't truly believe in. Out of … love for you. [Tilts her chin up, meeting his gaze firmly.] And I do love you, Spark. You are home to me.

… but I don't have it in me to be that selfless. I'd regret living while my friends died; knowing that most of them are far more scared to die than I am; knowing that while I spared you some suffering in this game, I had to give in to Nyssa to do it. Knowing that one choice to abstain could mean life for somebody else …

[unlocksmith]

. . .

[his grip tightens on the knife, knuckles practically turning white]

. . . I am not selfless enough to let you die.

[takewing]

I'd come back.

… my answer would the same with or without revivals. [Revivals don't make death okay, after all.] But I will come back from this.

[unlocksmith]

[the sure don't, and his gaze narrows at her. briefly]

I am not selfless enough to let you go through with this. Revivals or not.

I can't, Bl--. . . Nalea. I can't.

[takewing]

[Tenses briefly at the use of her name, flicking a glance at the rose patterns on the wall.]

I can't not. I know myself well enough to say that I will never forgive myself if I walk out of here and find any one of my friends dead. And Nyssa—[her lip curls.] Nyssa. The idea of giving her the satisfaction makes my skin crawl.

[unlocksmith]

[suddenly gripping at her wrist-- firmly, but not so tightly it hurts]

And I will never forgive myself if you don't walk out of here alive!

[takewing]

[tense tense tense under his grip, but she slips the bottle into her pocket and grabs his hand.]

[she says nothing for now, chewing over desperate arguments and counters and, gods damnit, they can't both get what they want—]

[unlocksmith]

[he's about as tense as she is, his teeth gritted together tightly]

You are-- you are a good person. . . I don't understand it, but I admire it, because I cannot be even one-tenth of the person you are.

But how many times. . . how many times will I have to watch you die while we're here? How many times will I have to hold your cold hand as your life painfully returns?

How many times will I stand helplessly by as you die for your beliefs?

[takewing]

[she was afraid it might come to this.]

… There is no way for me to answer that without hurting both of us.

[her voice and expression are absolutely neutral, but there's something raw, something painful flickering in her eyes.]

Do I give up who I am for you? Do I force you to suffer for me? I'd rather do neither.

[unlocksmith]

You would do neither. I would not force you to.

[she might be able to tell that he's trembling, ever so slightly]

There will be. . . numerous times after this in which you will give up your life to preserve who you are in here.

[he lifts his free hand up and places it over his heart]

I know you. I know Kyriakos. I know this will not be the last time we're asked to make a decision like this one. This time. . . I am asking you to consider allowing someone else to carry that burden for you.

[he tilts his head up, expression firm]

. . . allow me. Please. This once. . . allow me.

[takewing]

[…]

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