Stage lights pulse. The percussion drums a ba-dum...ba-dum... in painful Adagio. Life seeps from Fever's nape for all the audience to see and hear and feel in terrible acoustic vibrations.
(Tension wound tight with no relief. Tears stuck in tiny ducts. Teeth grinding teeth into short, useless knobs and lungs stilled by demon hands, unable to suck in breath. But her heart works. Her heart works, hammering away in her chest like prey kicking in its trap. Fighting fighting fighting, pressing face between bars in mindless panic—
Blood in her mouth. On her tongue. The urge to vomit overwhelms her but her body continues its song and dance, as required.)
Shnk— wet metal working its way out from where its burrowed.
FEVER falls.
The stage lights come down.
A spotlight— bright and piercing white— envelops Fever. Orin steps into it. Says nothing as she lowers herself onto one knee, pressing palm hard against the laceration, incantation or prayer or promise on her tongue which no member of the audience can hear.
(The blood is real and warm and slick against Ripley's hand. Her fingers depress at its wound-center. Blood continues to lull out.)
cw emeto mention
Stage lights pulse. The percussion drums a ba-dum...ba-dum... in painful Adagio. Life seeps from Fever's nape for all the audience to see and hear and feel in terrible acoustic vibrations.
(Tension wound tight with no relief. Tears stuck in tiny ducts. Teeth grinding teeth into short, useless knobs and lungs stilled by demon hands, unable to suck in breath. But her heart works. Her heart works, hammering away in her chest like prey kicking in its trap. Fighting fighting fighting, pressing face between bars in mindless panic—
Blood in her mouth. On her tongue. The urge to vomit overwhelms her but her body continues its song and dance, as required.)
Shnk— wet metal working its way out from where its burrowed.
FEVER falls.
The stage lights come down.
A spotlight— bright and piercing white— envelops Fever. Orin steps into it. Says nothing as she lowers herself onto one knee, pressing palm hard against the laceration, incantation or prayer or promise on her tongue which no member of the audience can hear.
(The blood is real and warm and slick against Ripley's hand. Her fingers depress at its wound-center. Blood continues to lull out.)
The STONE is her's.
ORIN raises it to the light, rapt.
She is favored.
She is chosen.