02-22-2018, 09:46 PM
A roar slowly rose up like a great slumbering beast and burst at his ear drums. Jensen squeezed his eyes shut, knowing there was only one real way to calm the storm that was brewing. For if it broke, violence would follow. Death rode swift wings, flung about when anger escalated and rationality fled.
He pulled the powers of the Gift into his grasp and began to wield the elements. Air and spirit sparked life to the lights. Earth charged the lights into majestic colors. They sprung skyward like a great fountain, ratcheted by the swing of his arms.
His brow focused as he pulled the flows tighter, coalescing the strands of neon lights into one glorious beam of energy. It reached the top of the stadium. Then, as he craned his neck, pierced the heavens itself. Maybe even disappeared into space.
The beam did its work. It distracted every single person into silence. Tens of thousands of still, shocked faces roared with the deafening absence of sound.
Jensen let the bar of light disappear with a measure of regret. It had no use other than majesty. It had been beautiful to behold. Like the light of God's throne itself.
He blinked and realized everyone waited to hear what he was going to say. The memory of a million faces tuned to his cracked his resolve. The hunger of ears begging for the nourishment he could provide tempted him to speak and sate the beast of desire roaming their lost souls.
When a gunshot burst, the sound echoed in the silent bowl of the stadium like a great hammer hitting its anvil. Nearby, someone collapsed on the stage. Jensen spun in terror. The fleeting moment of victory killed as surely as this man.
When he saw the victim, he rushed to Sigvard's aid. He barely saw someone from the stage leap to collapse the attacker. Around them, screams rose, people trampled to get away. The ant hill was kicked.
Jensen placed both his hands on the man's chest and the flows came swiftly. The panic in Sigvard's eyes faded as the healing took effect. Jensen squeezed his hand, nodding that he hang on. It was almost done.
When he looked up, he realized three speakers from the stage had their wallets open, watching. Jensen stared into the backs of those cameras like the lens truly devoured a piece of his soul.
They captured every moment of healing. Right up until Sigvard sat up, clutched at his chest, pulled apart his shirt and gaped at the smooth skin beneath. When he grappled Jensen in a tight hug, Jensen didn't resist.
This was the moment his secret disappeared. He spent the rest of the day tugged and begged for healing. First from the stage-goers. One elderly gentleman had prostate cancer. A young woman was infertile. Gout. Viruses. Astigmatism. It didn't matter. The tears in their eyes with each restoration gave him the motive to help the next.
Sigvard stayed near. Hours later, he had to literally strong-arm his way out of the stadium through a service entrance to escape the masses, dragging Jensen along.
Jensen didn't resist. There would be no more resisting.
Sigvard
He pulled the powers of the Gift into his grasp and began to wield the elements. Air and spirit sparked life to the lights. Earth charged the lights into majestic colors. They sprung skyward like a great fountain, ratcheted by the swing of his arms.
His brow focused as he pulled the flows tighter, coalescing the strands of neon lights into one glorious beam of energy. It reached the top of the stadium. Then, as he craned his neck, pierced the heavens itself. Maybe even disappeared into space.
The beam did its work. It distracted every single person into silence. Tens of thousands of still, shocked faces roared with the deafening absence of sound.
Jensen let the bar of light disappear with a measure of regret. It had no use other than majesty. It had been beautiful to behold. Like the light of God's throne itself.
He blinked and realized everyone waited to hear what he was going to say. The memory of a million faces tuned to his cracked his resolve. The hunger of ears begging for the nourishment he could provide tempted him to speak and sate the beast of desire roaming their lost souls.
When a gunshot burst, the sound echoed in the silent bowl of the stadium like a great hammer hitting its anvil. Nearby, someone collapsed on the stage. Jensen spun in terror. The fleeting moment of victory killed as surely as this man.
When he saw the victim, he rushed to Sigvard's aid. He barely saw someone from the stage leap to collapse the attacker. Around them, screams rose, people trampled to get away. The ant hill was kicked.
Jensen placed both his hands on the man's chest and the flows came swiftly. The panic in Sigvard's eyes faded as the healing took effect. Jensen squeezed his hand, nodding that he hang on. It was almost done.
When he looked up, he realized three speakers from the stage had their wallets open, watching. Jensen stared into the backs of those cameras like the lens truly devoured a piece of his soul.
They captured every moment of healing. Right up until Sigvard sat up, clutched at his chest, pulled apart his shirt and gaped at the smooth skin beneath. When he grappled Jensen in a tight hug, Jensen didn't resist.
This was the moment his secret disappeared. He spent the rest of the day tugged and begged for healing. First from the stage-goers. One elderly gentleman had prostate cancer. A young woman was infertile. Gout. Viruses. Astigmatism. It didn't matter. The tears in their eyes with each restoration gave him the motive to help the next.
Sigvard stayed near. Hours later, he had to literally strong-arm his way out of the stadium through a service entrance to escape the masses, dragging Jensen along.
Jensen didn't resist. There would be no more resisting.
Sigvard