Post by Deleted on Nov 19, 2014 18:31:51 GMT -8
Robin had never been so afraid in his life. Not when facing down Takhisis for the first time, not when questing in Helheim with his half-sister Hel as his adversary, not even when he though Isis was going to kill him. Those were pale facsimiles of the emotion ‘fear’, and Robin thought his heart would wear itself out, it was beating so fast. It had always been his own life on the line, and Robin had come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t make it to twenty-one. Now it was a life he held more dear than his own, and that petrified him.
There was no recourse, either, nothing he could grab. His magic fizzled at the tips of his fingers, what wasn’t burnt out was ruthlessly bound, beyond his access. Nothing held him back, but at the same time he could not move – he didn’t understand why he could not move. Muscles toned from swinging his two-handed sword strained, but he stayed in position.
Even closing his eyes didn’t help, because they too were forced in position. He tried calling a warning, but the only thing that came of trying to say, “Get out of the way!” was a horrendous croaking noise that ended in a sob. It seemed to do its job, though, because he looked right at Robin. There was no fear or disgust in those brown eyes, though, as they fixated on Robin himself. Robin couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to, even though Baranzubar was in the hands of someone else someone whose form he couldn’t make out. As he watched, that unidentifiable figure raised Baranzubar with clear intent, and skewered Dylan. Robin had to watch his boyfriend, the man he wanted to marry, bleed out from a wound inflicted by his blade.
When Robin was thrown from his nightmare, it was with a scream full force in his throat. His head throbbed in a mish-mash of nightmare, headache, and uncontrolled magic. Clouds of white filling the room were his first hint that something was wrong. The way his skin crawled and prickled, and the uneven chattering of teeth, narrowed it down. His magic was running rampant, sucking all heat from the room. He clenched his left hand, and summoned a spark of fire. As long as it stayed inside his skin – and he could watch the glow filter down to his fingertips – it was fine, but as soon as he tried to release it, it fizzled out. One slow, steadying breath in, and an even slower exhale to center himself. Again, he tried to send fire to the hearth.
No such luck. His hands were shaking so hard that he extinguished his tiny flame the moment it left his fingertips, fizzling out instantly. Spitting out a curse, Robin tumbled out of bed, numb fingers groping for the knitted blanket Francie made him in her nesting phase. The wool had no texture to his skin, and he dug his fingertips into the holes in the selvedge. It didn’t help – what of his skin he could see was turning the sickly, icy blue-green shade of old glaciers. Frost giants had skin that tone, if it could be called ‘skin’, the craggy hide visible through their clothing. Robin usually had illusions in place to prevent his skin from appearing that color if his magic slipped. In the sanctity of his bunk, though, he dropped all illusions.
Frost crept over the mirror on the other wall, painting fantastic and horrific scenes in ice and magic. Robin staggered to his feet, his vision distorted with tears both shed and unshed. They froze instantly upon leaving his eyes, and he probably had tiny icicles going on. He crashed his way to his desk, hitting just about every piece of furniture in his expanded tree house between bed and desk. On the desk, in a box magically sealed to all but his touch, sat a last resort in cases like this, for when his emotions overrode his control. It was a cuff that would completely shut down his ability to access his magic. It was a temporary measure at best – his magic would erode the binding within three hours, rendering it useless again. But three hours was usually enough time to get himself either back under control, or to seek the help of someone who could manage a firmer binding. First, he had to get it on.
The last thing his magic wanted when it ran rampant like this was a binding. So, naturally, the last place it allowed Robin to go was to his desk. Robin gritted his teeth, and begged his legs to cooperate. After a false start (‘take me to my desk’ did not readily translate to ‘I want to go back to bed’), Robin grabbed the box off his desk. His head felt like it was about to explode, too much pressure inside and out for any ordinary human skull to withstand. With a fractured sob, he latched the cuff around his wrist. His magic slammed back inside of himself, burning the underside of his skin.
Now that he had a fire going in the hearth, struck the mundane way, Robin curled himself in the fetal position, and cried. He couldn’t tell how long he cried; long enough to melt the ice on his chin, but not long enough to ease the pain in his chest. Also not long enough for his magic to eat through its binding, so maybe an hour.
Demigods didn’t typically have cell phones. The signal attracted monsters, and after a while, no demigod wanted to face more monsters than they must. Each camp had a few phones, though, enough to keep in touch with mortal family members. Robin had one of Camp Midgard’s phones, kept in a warded chest at the foot of his bed at night. He reached for it, joints aching in a way that meant he was expending more effort than he thought he was, and flipped it open. A few keystrokes, and he had the phone cradled to his tearstained cheek.
“C’mon, baby,” he begged quietly, too aware of how destroyed his voice sounded. “Please pick up.” It was two thirty in the morning at Camp Jupiter – it was possible that he wouldn’t hear his phone. He hoped otherwise.
Ensemble
Word Count 1 050
Tag Dylan Jameson
Afghan
