Wheeling Gull Isle it must be that old evil spirit; so deep down in your ground

her breath comes fast, darkness beckoning at her vision again. she fades, the edges of her being beginning to fray, unable to sustain consciousness long in this broken body. low, keening sound as the mere pressure of being aware tugs at wounds and fuels the ever-burning hurt. 

but she is not going to die, at least not at this woman's hand. favour. she manages to pick out of from the woman's words, and her gaze slits open again, painfully. "favour," she breathes, a question even though the intonation is lacking. she has not been constrained like this in her life, and though she would rage at the notion should she have had the chance, the brokenness of her and the sea of pain she struggles to stay afloat in are far too pressing. if she stopped to consider anything else, she would slip beneath the surface. 

"yes." she's no idea what she's agreeing too, but this is not a question or a compromise; it is the only way she'll live.