peacefullywreathed: (won't have my life turn upside-down)
Solomon Wreath ([personal profile] peacefullywreathed) wrote in [personal profile] impudentsongbird 2013-02-03 04:49 am (UTC)

Silence. Physical silence, at least, which was different to metaphysical silence, and Solomon idly noted that he was beginning to tell the difference between the two before realising that silence was not a good thing. It wasn't a good thing because if Tenebrae was silent, and not speaking, not trying to appeal to him, then it meant that he was too angry to.

And when Tenebrae got angry, people suffered.

Solomon barely had a chance to brace himself. It wouldn't have made a difference if he hadn't.

Necromancy surged around him and his magic tried to rise to meet it; his body arched, his stifled groan coming out a rising whimper. Solomon tried to breathe and managed it for a moment--short, gasping breaths locked into his throat by the whimper. For those two seconds, he managed a balance of control and trembling pain.

Something lashed around his ankle, something so cold it would have made his whole leg go numb if the sensation had been physical at all. It wasn't. It pierced the very soul of him, a cold that rushed his being until the cold and the writhe of his magic was all he could feel. He screamed, bucking, his body held suspended and hands clawing the air as he tried to escape that agony.

Magic thrummed around him, a rising wave of Necromancy which surged around him like a blanket. The magic in him answered, sucking in the Necromancy and spinning it around in his soul like a dehydrated man given a few measly drops of water. There wasn't enough for it to be a wash; he couldn't access it. But his magic craved. It craved and screamed and lashed at him, driving him with such overwhelming need he couldn't think on anything except that he was in agony and time didn't exist at all.

"STOP!"

His back arched over and over, the pain made worse by the fact there was nothing against which to brace himself; no wall, no floor. Nothing but air.

"Stop! Stop! St--"

Something in him shifted. A rush of something breaking, imploding, everything sucking inward instead of outward as was his magic's instinct. It robbed all the breath from him, making him convulse as--

church he's in a church, a church he knows with a man he's only known for a few days, a good man whose soul shines broad. The church gleams light and it makes the darkness in his hand even deeper, and he lifts it to summon magic but it shrieks, the glow recoiling until--

Alleyway. Alleyway and he's standing before a being which shines, a rock in a current of the lifestream, a soul like stained-glass and one of clinging darkness; he's standing there and afraid and he draws on his screaming power to attack the shining being, the angel. His power shatters and everything in him tumbles, spinning with shock and pain at the backlash and--


Solomon hit the floor on his shoulder with a jarring blow that made him cry out, pain sparking down his back. It felt distant, an afterimage in the haze of the never-ending wracks which gripped his body.

want more give more give it to me

Solomon let his head sink to the floor, gasping for breath amidst sobs, his face slick with bloody tears and body clenching with the unending tremors of his magic's call.

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