Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

The thought that there would be no guidance in a new world was one that terrified Peter, a hollowness growing in his chest as the fact struck him. He looked desperately at Maea, hoping that she was lying, that she would take it back, offer him so purpose, some way to go. She did, but it was not the clear answer he wanted. All he knew how to do was obey and survive, with only one half of the equation he would spiral into self destruction. Sad, scared eyes searched Maea’s face, hoping to find a shred of comfort or familiarity in the pale girl, Peters gaze following the motion of her fingers on her hair before returning to her face. It was a small mercy, he supposed, that his guide was so gentle and soothing. The feeling of kindred he had felt upon first seeing her had returned, helping to keep him grounded, and calmer than he had been, by at least a breath. The offer of a place to stay was met with surprise, and a quiet wave of gratitude. A place to stay and things to do were at least a step in the direction of normalcy for him. And it sounded simple. Nicer than Peter thought he deserved, at any rate. ”I’ve never done um... done farm things.” The words were shy, almost reluctant now. Peter didn’t want to give her reasons to reconsider, but he didn’t want her to waste any of her time either. Still he couldn’t help but follow it up. ”But I learn fast, and I... I’m good at listening.” He even tried to offer a smile. The corners of his lips barely quirking up before he grew too self conscious and looked down. Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.