08-19-2013, 11:19 AM
The thin ice shielding the two men from one another shattered.
Jax pushed too hard. He’d pay for it, but he’d never regret it. He bends knee to nobody.
As though in defiance, he shoved himself to his feet, ready to confront whatever Michael was about to serve, but a shadow fell across the room. Not literally, but the fury of a thousand demons gripped Jaxen’s spine and tried to wrench it out his chest.
A second later, he was on the floor.
Writhing.
He tore at his hair. He dug into his scalp. Whatever burst in his head, it dazed him of all recognition of the present; there was nothing but the compound forcing his soul out through his eye sockets. The wailing of harpies screamed inside his head, and Jaxen threw his arms across his face, howling silently, or perhaps screaming at the top of his lungs but unable to hear his own roar above the symphony of horrors. He knew what this was. Knew but could not escape it. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
Milliseconds stretched to eons.
There was no thought for terror. No consideration of reason. Just unendurable pain.
But something crept in. A parasitic weapon that latched itself onto his soul. He flung it away, lashing out aimlessly, instinctively, but nothing happened. He tried again, and again. Too furious and defiant to give up, but his grip weakened, and the weapon diminished, rushing from his grip until there was nothing but a mortal man.
Next thing he knew, it stopped. The roar. The pressure. The devils boiling his blood within. Jaxen's shirt was pasted to his chest with sweat but the convulsions left him too exhausted to move. When he brought himself to open his eyes, he saw a ceiling, not the inside of a casket, and some relief cooled the reality of what just happened.
Was that the Sickness?
No. That was something else. He rolled his eyes toward Michael, knowing, somehow knowing, he'd done it.
He rolled to his side, groaning, and spit the bile that’d lumped to the back his throat on their worthless floor.
Just when he thought it was over. A new fist of flame reached up and seized hold of his skeleton, and with the death-defying grip, Tony chucked him back to the seventh circle of hell.
When it was over. Moments or years later, he collapsed to the floor, painless, but too weak to move. Every fiber of his being was cleansed of wounds. The skin of his wrists were purified. The bruises to his face and ribs were smoothed. Yet he could barely sit up. Could barely make out what Tony was saying.
Yet he forced himself to listen.
”Okay. You have my attention,”
he said, thin acceptance in his voice.
He crawled to the front of the couch, but remained on the floor, simply glad to summon the strength enough to lean against it. Michael was impassive. Tony was stewing on morbid excitement. He pressed a weak hand to his stomach surprised to find his abdomen wasn’t replaced by an empty pit.
They did this. How? His thoughts were interrupted by a lion’s growl of hunger.
”Seriously. Food?”
He winced, not feeling--actually, he felt great--except for the starving animal gnawing on his innards. And the determined memory of not wanting to go through that again.
Jax pushed too hard. He’d pay for it, but he’d never regret it. He bends knee to nobody.
As though in defiance, he shoved himself to his feet, ready to confront whatever Michael was about to serve, but a shadow fell across the room. Not literally, but the fury of a thousand demons gripped Jaxen’s spine and tried to wrench it out his chest.
A second later, he was on the floor.
Writhing.
He tore at his hair. He dug into his scalp. Whatever burst in his head, it dazed him of all recognition of the present; there was nothing but the compound forcing his soul out through his eye sockets. The wailing of harpies screamed inside his head, and Jaxen threw his arms across his face, howling silently, or perhaps screaming at the top of his lungs but unable to hear his own roar above the symphony of horrors. He knew what this was. Knew but could not escape it. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
Milliseconds stretched to eons.
There was no thought for terror. No consideration of reason. Just unendurable pain.
But something crept in. A parasitic weapon that latched itself onto his soul. He flung it away, lashing out aimlessly, instinctively, but nothing happened. He tried again, and again. Too furious and defiant to give up, but his grip weakened, and the weapon diminished, rushing from his grip until there was nothing but a mortal man.
Next thing he knew, it stopped. The roar. The pressure. The devils boiling his blood within. Jaxen's shirt was pasted to his chest with sweat but the convulsions left him too exhausted to move. When he brought himself to open his eyes, he saw a ceiling, not the inside of a casket, and some relief cooled the reality of what just happened.
Was that the Sickness?
No. That was something else. He rolled his eyes toward Michael, knowing, somehow knowing, he'd done it.
He rolled to his side, groaning, and spit the bile that’d lumped to the back his throat on their worthless floor.
Just when he thought it was over. A new fist of flame reached up and seized hold of his skeleton, and with the death-defying grip, Tony chucked him back to the seventh circle of hell.
When it was over. Moments or years later, he collapsed to the floor, painless, but too weak to move. Every fiber of his being was cleansed of wounds. The skin of his wrists were purified. The bruises to his face and ribs were smoothed. Yet he could barely sit up. Could barely make out what Tony was saying.
Yet he forced himself to listen.
”Okay. You have my attention,”
he said, thin acceptance in his voice.
He crawled to the front of the couch, but remained on the floor, simply glad to summon the strength enough to lean against it. Michael was impassive. Tony was stewing on morbid excitement. He pressed a weak hand to his stomach surprised to find his abdomen wasn’t replaced by an empty pit.
They did this. How? His thoughts were interrupted by a lion’s growl of hunger.
”Seriously. Food?”
He winced, not feeling--actually, he felt great--except for the starving animal gnawing on his innards. And the determined memory of not wanting to go through that again.