(no subject)
Settle & Sink
9-12 / ?
missed parts 1-4? read. 5-8? read.
(9)
He had dreamed of it constantly in the weeks after the flight to the forest, waking up wild-eyed and gasping, feeling starched fibers tighten around his neck. That single instant as the ground dropped away and he became weightless and too heavy at the same time. Allan had known what "a conversation" meant, and also what the alternative was. This time around, he was going to make the right choice.
(10)
Remembered slipping under the wave of heat, pulsating and unbearably fierce, lapping at his skin and mind. Losing the feeling in his feet and his fingers and his arms and his legs until everything was fire, roaring and devouring and ravenous. Remembered his mouth, dry and cottony, and his swollen tongue. Time passing, moments or days, until the sudden coldness of metal on his wrists and the brush of air and the flare of agony and the impact of cool stone on the skin-that-was-not-his. Remembered soft voices and the slow, undulating susurrous of whispers.
(11)
It was a long time before he could open his eyes , and he had to shut them again as soon as they cracked open. Lights had burst, burning and disorienting, and he tried once more, slowly, feeling involuntary tears on his cheeks. Wooden slats. There was no energy to look elsewhere- or to do anything else. He could not move, limp as a child's toy, and panicked, fighting for some sort of feeling in his limbs. He found pain, which was enough and at least familiar, and exhaled. Something in his chest made a crackling sound and he coughed, suddenly without oxygen or thought. Felt liquid in his mouth and on his lips, and tasted ruby. Tried to draw a breath and failed, felt phantom fibers on his neck. Saw black velvet.
(12)
Awoke the second time to a tightness on his chest and soreness in his limbs. Registered, for the first time, that he wasn't on the stake anymore; wasn't in the castle. He felt packed earth, shade, dirt, smoke, cold wind. Sherwood.
9-12 / ?
missed parts 1-4? read. 5-8? read.
(9)
He had dreamed of it constantly in the weeks after the flight to the forest, waking up wild-eyed and gasping, feeling starched fibers tighten around his neck. That single instant as the ground dropped away and he became weightless and too heavy at the same time. Allan had known what "a conversation" meant, and also what the alternative was. This time around, he was going to make the right choice.
(10)
Remembered slipping under the wave of heat, pulsating and unbearably fierce, lapping at his skin and mind. Losing the feeling in his feet and his fingers and his arms and his legs until everything was fire, roaring and devouring and ravenous. Remembered his mouth, dry and cottony, and his swollen tongue. Time passing, moments or days, until the sudden coldness of metal on his wrists and the brush of air and the flare of agony and the impact of cool stone on the skin-that-was-not-his. Remembered soft voices and the slow, undulating susurrous of whispers.
(11)
It was a long time before he could open his eyes , and he had to shut them again as soon as they cracked open. Lights had burst, burning and disorienting, and he tried once more, slowly, feeling involuntary tears on his cheeks. Wooden slats. There was no energy to look elsewhere- or to do anything else. He could not move, limp as a child's toy, and panicked, fighting for some sort of feeling in his limbs. He found pain, which was enough and at least familiar, and exhaled. Something in his chest made a crackling sound and he coughed, suddenly without oxygen or thought. Felt liquid in his mouth and on his lips, and tasted ruby. Tried to draw a breath and failed, felt phantom fibers on his neck. Saw black velvet.
(12)
Awoke the second time to a tightness on his chest and soreness in his limbs. Registered, for the first time, that he wasn't on the stake anymore; wasn't in the castle. He felt packed earth, shade, dirt, smoke, cold wind. Sherwood.