The shadows rolled, arching in a manner which indicated their controller had been taken by surprise. Solomon just barely saw the sharp movement of a man being slammed up against the wall by someone in a coat and hat, wearing a scarf--
No, I'm imagining things, I must be--
The knife felt heavier than his hand; he let them both drop to the bed, resting on his thigh. In spite of the adrenaline, his eyes didn't want to stay open; he forced them too nonetheless, but only managed halfway. It was enough to see movement, shapes, and through the slow thrum of his pulse in his ears he could hear the soft grunt and rustle of a quiet battle.
More than that. His skin tingled and his mouth felt like it had ash in it, and part of him realised dimly that the weight he felt in his chest and body was more than just the drugs. Shadows swirled around him, jabbing and binding--or trying.
It was a whirl of motion Solomon couldn't quite focus on. He felt too sick, too exhausted, too drugged. It felt like forever and only a few seconds at once before there was a clatter of an object on the floor, another slam and the sorcerer forced his eyes properly open again to see the hatted figure pinning the other against the wall. Breathing quick and a bit uneven, Solomon turned his eyes down to see a broken, snuffed candle still in its obsidian candlestick. A small one, a portable one, the sort peasants used to use when enclosed lanterns were too expensive to buy.
Him.
Of course they'd send him.
Abruptly Solomon shivered violently in his bed, his heart pounding all over again, his mouth dry. Something rang in his ears, something that wasn't his own blood--something that sounded like a discordant scream.
"Stop," he whispered, and his eyes fell shut. That only made it worse. He could feel his magic in him, weighing him down like a ball and chain, except that it moved. Seethed, even. Reached for the power coming to it, the power in which Solomon had always taken comfort and now only made him want to run. Only half cognizant, Solomon Wreath trembled in his bed, and breathed in the cold, dark impending death, and heard the echo of that Scream in his ears.
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No, I'm imagining things, I must be--
The knife felt heavier than his hand; he let them both drop to the bed, resting on his thigh. In spite of the adrenaline, his eyes didn't want to stay open; he forced them too nonetheless, but only managed halfway. It was enough to see movement, shapes, and through the slow thrum of his pulse in his ears he could hear the soft grunt and rustle of a quiet battle.
More than that. His skin tingled and his mouth felt like it had ash in it, and part of him realised dimly that the weight he felt in his chest and body was more than just the drugs. Shadows swirled around him, jabbing and binding--or trying.
It was a whirl of motion Solomon couldn't quite focus on. He felt too sick, too exhausted, too drugged. It felt like forever and only a few seconds at once before there was a clatter of an object on the floor, another slam and the sorcerer forced his eyes properly open again to see the hatted figure pinning the other against the wall. Breathing quick and a bit uneven, Solomon turned his eyes down to see a broken, snuffed candle still in its obsidian candlestick. A small one, a portable one, the sort peasants used to use when enclosed lanterns were too expensive to buy.
Him.
Of course they'd send him.
Abruptly Solomon shivered violently in his bed, his heart pounding all over again, his mouth dry. Something rang in his ears, something that wasn't his own blood--something that sounded like a discordant scream.
"Stop," he whispered, and his eyes fell shut. That only made it worse. He could feel his magic in him, weighing him down like a ball and chain, except that it moved. Seethed, even. Reached for the power coming to it, the power in which Solomon had always taken comfort and now only made him want to run. Only half cognizant, Solomon Wreath trembled in his bed, and breathed in the cold, dark impending death, and heard the echo of that Scream in his ears.
"Stop. Don't ..."