Tenebrae's words rang in Solomon's ears. He didn't exactly roll over so much as sag, and sagging made his weight shift so he fell onto his back, panting and breaths still hitched. His body hurt. His head. His chest. His soul. He hadn't known it was possible to feel pain in his soul as anything remotely close to a physical sensation, but he felt it now.
As if he was being torn in two. As if he had been torn in two, magic and something else, and its rough edges were rubbing up against each other just with his being alive.
"I--" It wasn't much of a response, but he didn't know what he'd meant to say in response anyway. He didn't have any prepared. He'd hardly managed to understand what Tenebrae had said.
Something in him surged, making those rough edges grind, and Solomon arched with a breathless, ragged cry. For a moment all he could see and hear and smell was the Temple, another room in the Temple, with the Scream all around him and a dozen young, slowly staining souls before him, practising their magic while he kept an eye on them.
The vision, the memory, passed and when Solomon looked up, blinking away blood from his eyes, it was to find Tenebrae extending the knife toward him.
YES yes yesyesyesyesyesyesyes--
One of his hands was resting on his chest, near to the knife-handle. Solomon didn't consciously think it or want it, but there was no hesitation before he reached out to take it and slashed the air. His magic sang, cold and shadows rolling around him, a rush of control and power so deep he breathed it as he used those shadows to fling Tenebrae hard against the far wall.
The agony struck a moment later. It wasn't like the last.
Something stabbed into his hand, a nail through his palm; it was on fire, a fire so hot it must already have been ashes. He felt something in him crack, as if his magic had surged through a broken window and raked his soul all over; he couldn't breathe, his lungs locking up and squeezing until he was suffocating. He felt lines, like whiplashes, burn across his back. Worst of all was the weight, crushing him from inside out, half physical and half knowledge that no one was coming to save him.
The dagger clattered to the floor. Solomon Wreath convulsed, curling inward around his completely uninjured hand as he clutched it to his chest and choked on the air he couldn't find.
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As if he was being torn in two. As if he had been torn in two, magic and something else, and its rough edges were rubbing up against each other just with his being alive.
"I--" It wasn't much of a response, but he didn't know what he'd meant to say in response anyway. He didn't have any prepared. He'd hardly managed to understand what Tenebrae had said.
Something in him surged, making those rough edges grind, and Solomon arched with a breathless, ragged cry. For a moment all he could see and hear and smell was the Temple, another room in the Temple, with the Scream all around him and a dozen young, slowly staining souls before him, practising their magic while he kept an eye on them.
The vision, the memory, passed and when Solomon looked up, blinking away blood from his eyes, it was to find Tenebrae extending the knife toward him.
YES yes yesyesyesyesyesyesyes--
One of his hands was resting on his chest, near to the knife-handle. Solomon didn't consciously think it or want it, but there was no hesitation before he reached out to take it and slashed the air. His magic sang, cold and shadows rolling around him, a rush of control and power so deep he breathed it as he used those shadows to fling Tenebrae hard against the far wall.
The agony struck a moment later. It wasn't like the last.
Something stabbed into his hand, a nail through his palm; it was on fire, a fire so hot it must already have been ashes. He felt something in him crack, as if his magic had surged through a broken window and raked his soul all over; he couldn't breathe, his lungs locking up and squeezing until he was suffocating. He felt lines, like whiplashes, burn across his back. Worst of all was the weight, crushing him from inside out, half physical and half knowledge that no one was coming to save him.
The dagger clattered to the floor. Solomon Wreath convulsed, curling inward around his completely uninjured hand as he clutched it to his chest and choked on the air he couldn't find.