Send me a 3 for a drabble of your muse dying in my muses arms.
{ that’s the problem with the rush of invincibility.}
death takes you by surprise.
It’s irony that after all these years of running, hiding, twisting and sneaking, it’s a rainstorm that gets the better of them. One second it’s all loud music and stolen kisses - the next they’re veering off the road, tires screeching, metal crunching, glass shattering all around them.
;; topsy turvy goes the car
;; topsy turvy goes their world.
Seat belts are such fickle things, she thinks, when they’ve come to a stop. Jammed and holding her captive, she spits out blood in frustration. She doesn’t have time nor patience for this. Muttering a spell under her breath, it’s slow to release her. She falls, head first on the roof of the car, spewing swear words that would make her father rinse her mouth with soap. Crawling her way out, hissing as her palms rest on shards of glass, she lays on the road. The water continues to pour in torrents, splattering the dark tar with bloody trails and leaking oil. She can only lay there for a few seconds, staring at the grey sky in awe and agony.
Pain has yet to touch her. Shock continues to rage in her system. Her hands come up in front of her face, streaked with crimson.
sana me, me fige, ut mihi novas.
It’s a sketchy spell - she’s never had to heal herself like this before. Nothing happens. Blood flows, rain falls and their lives continue to tear apart. She tries to pull herself up, scrambling with adrenaline and panic. Her body sways, her head spins. Her eyes blink, trying to focus on on the water pouring around her. Closing her eyes, she lets it rush and swirl through her, drawing energy from it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
[ sana me, me fige, ut mihi novas.
sana me, me fige, ut mihi novas.
sana me, me fige, ut mihi novas. ]
She’s shouting at this point, over the thunder, begging for whatever higher power there is to hear her chants. Something stirs deep in the pit of her stomach, flowing through her veins. First it razes the adrenaline, allowing her body to register every injury that has been inflicted. She’s falling to her knees, screaming in pain, trying to continue the spell.
You’d done this before, Sydney Sage. You’ve been in pain before. Heal yourself - you heal yourself or you won’t be able to help her.
Her eyes finally find Rowena. She’s unconscious but stirring, her body looking more broken than the car. She lays on the road, body still half wedged inside the car, her torso on the road in a pool of blood. Sydney always used to say she looked like an angel of death. Now she looks like an angel, period.
Sana me, me fige, ut mihi novas, she screams, over and over again. It’s slow, but it happens. The pain ebbs and flows until it vanishes. Her wounds close. Her bones heal. Of course, they do. Heal me, fix me, make me new, is what she’s been chanting.
She’s quick on her hands and knees to crawl over to her lover; her partner in crime.
“Ro,” she whispers, gently, pulling her into her lap. Her head falls to the side like a broken puppet and suddenly, Sydney fumes.
How dare she lay here like this? How dare she just give up?
Giving up is not what they do.
“Hey,” she slaps her face, not even being light about it. “Wake up, rise and shine. It’s time to play.” Rowena’s eyes barely flutter before sliding shut again.
“Wake up, Ro,” she entices, her nails roughly scraping her cheek, her scalp as she pushes back blood streaked locks of hair. The girl in question coughs and splutters, blood flecking her lips. Sydney wants to kiss them but when she leans down to do so, she’s harsh. Teeth and tongue - that was what they always were. She bites hard enough to draw blood, desperate to get her attention - to shock her awake. Rowena groans but it’s nothing because she’s out again.
“You bitch.” Sydney curses. She pretends that the water on her face is all rain and no tears. Her hands cradle her face, eyes closing as she once again draws energy from the rain.
Da mihi virtutem sanandi, she mumbles under her breath, waiting for the rush of power to flow through her and heal the girl in her arms. Nothing happens.
[ Don’t give up. We don’t give up. ]
She tries again. And again. Again and again and again. When one spell doesn’t do shit, she tries another, then another.
She doesn’t know how long she sits there - much, much longer than she’d ever planned to. Rowena is long dead. At some point or the other Sydney realizes this. Perhaps when she’s no longer stirring in her arms. Perhaps when her voice has turned from screaming to unwelcome sobbing.
“I hate you,” she says, shaking the corpse in her arms. “I hate you so fucking much.” Obviously, Rowena doesn’t respond. She just lays there, head tilted back as if she’s falling, her her splayed around her as if she’s sleeping. Sydney buries her face in her neck, kissing it and then hugging her close. Her voice has turned to reckless shrieking.
“I hate you so much but please, please let me hate you in person. Just come back to me. Da mihi virtutem sanandi. Come back.”
But see, that’s the sad thing about dark magic. It makes you invincible. But it brings death to all those around you. Sydney should’ve known that just because she could heal herself didn’t mean she had the ability to heal others around her - not like this. Not from impending death. After all,
monsters don’t get to heal ;; they only get to kill
So she just sits there in the pouring rain - one angel of death, the other one lying in her arms. [ and there was one ].
{ Sydney should’ve known that two dark things together can never last for long. }
The ambulances and police vans come much later. When the sun has set, and the storm has passed and the howling winds gone. When all that’s left is silence.
Sydney kills every last one of them.
Some she just sucks the life out of. Some lose their heartbeat. Some lose their heads. But she kills every single one of them for not making it on time.
It’s blood and screams and death; and it’s what she does best, right?
It’s been a long time since she’s walked away from a rampage on her own; since the flames bellowing behind her mirror only her face; since the click of her boots on the asphalt is just one pair. She doesn’t look back. She mustn’t.
{ Because that’s the thing about invincibility. }
Like it or not - it’s a one person curse.
