#crybaby.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋꒷꒦︶ twin peaks. ꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

It was an impulsive request, a desire they've had since they first stepped foot in this place but have yet to vocalize until just a moment ago: Run away with me.

Their hands are shaking horribly, nails charred, cracked, bloody against Puck's door. A fresh ward smoldering there locking (protecting) the twins inside together, making the room smell of smoke.

They had been doing so well they thought, had carved their way into a position that kept them busy and valuable. The easiest thing they could have done was die, but they weaseled their way behind a desk instead. Once sniveling and crying at all hours of the day, the slaughterlamb had become stoic, unshakable, unrecognizable compared to the dead meat they dragged kicking and screaming to the altar that first day.

But now they had fallen back, back to day one, so exhausted and scared that they can hardly see straight. They were a hair away from death again and again and again and again and againandagain an d again and they've hit some sort of limit. Blood still drips from Iago's arm where one Bhaalist had attempted to saw off their hand while the others held them down, knowing it would draw Puck, accounting for that fact, excited to see him enraged, hoping Iago draped over the altar would be tempting enough that he wouldn't bother sparing them in his rampage this time.

He did, of course. This time.

"I know, but-" they take a gasp of a breath, palms still against the door, sizzling. "I can't do it. I can't take it, Puck, I tried so hard, I did. I thought I... I thought I could, but-"

Shame rises like bile in their throat, but they ramble on, "I don't- I dont want to die here, Puck. I know it won't fix anything, not really, but I- I am going to die, Puck, I know I am, I know, I know. He shows me every day- they all tell me that every day, and, believe me, I know! I just- I don't want to lose you and die here."

When they stumble to face their brother, the destined young Lord of Murder, they feel so small, eyes welling with tears, injured hands wrapping around themselves for a modicum of comfort, voice wavering and desperate, "Please, Puck."