04-12-2023, 09:26 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-12-2023, 09:27 PM by Marcus DuBois.)
Marcus...Malik...none so complex existed. His thoughts were pure emotion, reactive and reactionary, deeper than words or meaning. He didn't know who he was. He was just...was just...he just was. That was all. He was. Whoever- whatever he was- drifted in nothingness, untethered to anything. It filled him with unease, the lack of anything, of structure or form. At times, he felt an awareness of...something close by and he 'lurched' toward it. But the nebulous form was too far. Despite the nothingness all around, yet he felt as if he was floating toward something, toward even more nothingness.
And the only feeling he had was terror, fear as the nothingness drew closer. An unmaking that he somehow instinctively knew would not- could not- be undone.
He sensed another nebulous something close by and lunged again. Nothing. Again, in the timeless void, again and again it happened, even as he felt closer and closer to the unmaker. The terror was there. But something else, too. Anger. Rage. Resolve. Revulsion. Refusal. An ineffable 'No', beyond thought.
He lurched again, his "movement" a function of his anger. He felt the nebulous forms as being close, but they were still too far away. Again...again....again. Time had no meaning here except for the inexorable drawing close of the unmaker. Again...he lunged...again...
...Malik felt tired. His body fought him, the lethargy heavy on him, the tiredness deep and in his bones. A weight on his chest...and a memory stirred. Someone...sitting on him. Despite the tired, he stirred, the anger feeding him. The Force was a trickle, flickering, a candle guttering. He stretched out toward it, grasping, and felt the stir of life. Jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, he opened himself up, pulling that power toward him.
The fire burned along his nerves, rode his veins, searing him from the inside and he felt a cry ripped from his soul. It was terrible and hurt beyond words. It was orgasmic and he reveled in the pleasure of feel and life and body. The cascading avalanche of fire and ice scoured through him and he felt his muscled tense, vitality and power giving him mobility. One those icy peaks, the jagged, dangerous, deadly freezing mountains of the Sith perspective, he stood, sliding and riding the avalanche of roaring ice flows and lava, searing and burning his mind in turns. And he found the balance, the singular knife's edge, the point upon which he stood, the chasm of nothingness on either side of him. And despite it all, he reveled.
His eyes flickered and then opened, the brightness tearing at his eyes, but he refused to shy away. The pain of burning was not just in his mind. His skin was slick with sweat and felt sensitive. Flows of fire danced around him. His first reaction was fury. Ryker. Somehow Ryker had broken the shield and was attacking him.
Marcus looked again. The threads were careful. Near his body. Not touching it. Reaction held off by a hair, he stirred, tried to move. The thing was there, the darkness, the shadow form. It quavered, having seeped out him, hovering, pulling in on itself away from the threads of Force.
Malik was tired of the game. He wove a net of fire, feeding it more and more power, the Force, the weight of earth and spirit and water, compressing around it. He felt a scream beyond sound rip from it, and he squeezed more, a smile forming on his lips. He fed the black hole maelstrom with energy that was mass, increased the energy with each draw of the power until he felt at his very limit.
The blackness- it wasn't shadow anymore, compressed as it was- was solid, a writhing mecury like liquid, darker that dark. He held the net tight, past the pain and strain of the Force that burned his muscles and mind, held and held and held, his rage and anger the only thing that kept him holding...
the blackness seemed to invert, compressed on itself into nothingness.
It was gone.
With a slump, shoulders and arms that were tense slumped and he lay there, breathing, letting the power flow out of him.
With it went most of his strength.
But he would not stay like this. Summoning a different power, he lurched, rolling to his side. It took longer than he liked and he was none too study, but at last he stood. He looked at Ryker, feeling the power wafting off of him.
A small smile appeared on his sweat covered face. "You did it. Good." He paused. "Thank you," he added. He wasn't sure if that was easy or not. If he felt it or not. But it needed to be said. Marcus knew that. "Come on," he said and shuffled to the door. He paused against the door frame, mentally preparing himself. Then he headed out. The climb was long and arduous. But he would walk out here as he had come.
Guards started for Ryker- the blood dripping arm- when had that happened- and the gun had that effect- but Marcus spoke. "Leave him! He is with me." The look on his face said it all. "He has earned his pardon."
It would be hours yet until bed. Ryker was free. He had proven his loyalty and dependability. That was all that had mattered. Marcus needed to make sure a place was made for him in the Wizarding housing.
And the only feeling he had was terror, fear as the nothingness drew closer. An unmaking that he somehow instinctively knew would not- could not- be undone.
He sensed another nebulous something close by and lunged again. Nothing. Again, in the timeless void, again and again it happened, even as he felt closer and closer to the unmaker. The terror was there. But something else, too. Anger. Rage. Resolve. Revulsion. Refusal. An ineffable 'No', beyond thought.
He lurched again, his "movement" a function of his anger. He felt the nebulous forms as being close, but they were still too far away. Again...again....again. Time had no meaning here except for the inexorable drawing close of the unmaker. Again...he lunged...again...
...Malik felt tired. His body fought him, the lethargy heavy on him, the tiredness deep and in his bones. A weight on his chest...and a memory stirred. Someone...sitting on him. Despite the tired, he stirred, the anger feeding him. The Force was a trickle, flickering, a candle guttering. He stretched out toward it, grasping, and felt the stir of life. Jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, he opened himself up, pulling that power toward him.
The fire burned along his nerves, rode his veins, searing him from the inside and he felt a cry ripped from his soul. It was terrible and hurt beyond words. It was orgasmic and he reveled in the pleasure of feel and life and body. The cascading avalanche of fire and ice scoured through him and he felt his muscled tense, vitality and power giving him mobility. One those icy peaks, the jagged, dangerous, deadly freezing mountains of the Sith perspective, he stood, sliding and riding the avalanche of roaring ice flows and lava, searing and burning his mind in turns. And he found the balance, the singular knife's edge, the point upon which he stood, the chasm of nothingness on either side of him. And despite it all, he reveled.
His eyes flickered and then opened, the brightness tearing at his eyes, but he refused to shy away. The pain of burning was not just in his mind. His skin was slick with sweat and felt sensitive. Flows of fire danced around him. His first reaction was fury. Ryker. Somehow Ryker had broken the shield and was attacking him.
Marcus looked again. The threads were careful. Near his body. Not touching it. Reaction held off by a hair, he stirred, tried to move. The thing was there, the darkness, the shadow form. It quavered, having seeped out him, hovering, pulling in on itself away from the threads of Force.
Malik was tired of the game. He wove a net of fire, feeding it more and more power, the Force, the weight of earth and spirit and water, compressing around it. He felt a scream beyond sound rip from it, and he squeezed more, a smile forming on his lips. He fed the black hole maelstrom with energy that was mass, increased the energy with each draw of the power until he felt at his very limit.
The blackness- it wasn't shadow anymore, compressed as it was- was solid, a writhing mecury like liquid, darker that dark. He held the net tight, past the pain and strain of the Force that burned his muscles and mind, held and held and held, his rage and anger the only thing that kept him holding...
the blackness seemed to invert, compressed on itself into nothingness.
It was gone.
With a slump, shoulders and arms that were tense slumped and he lay there, breathing, letting the power flow out of him.
With it went most of his strength.
But he would not stay like this. Summoning a different power, he lurched, rolling to his side. It took longer than he liked and he was none too study, but at last he stood. He looked at Ryker, feeling the power wafting off of him.
A small smile appeared on his sweat covered face. "You did it. Good." He paused. "Thank you," he added. He wasn't sure if that was easy or not. If he felt it or not. But it needed to be said. Marcus knew that. "Come on," he said and shuffled to the door. He paused against the door frame, mentally preparing himself. Then he headed out. The climb was long and arduous. But he would walk out here as he had come.
Guards started for Ryker- the blood dripping arm- when had that happened- and the gun had that effect- but Marcus spoke. "Leave him! He is with me." The look on his face said it all. "He has earned his pardon."
It would be hours yet until bed. Ryker was free. He had proven his loyalty and dependability. That was all that had mattered. Marcus needed to make sure a place was made for him in the Wizarding housing.