Solo Panic

[Thomas Cosa]

27th of Spring

Thomas thought it'd been a bell or so since his last episode. He was wet with nervous sweat, his body was shaking, his fear made physical, counting the ticks until something would happen. His gaze lingered against the west facing wall, remembering where, a bell before, he'd kept a candle. There wasn't anything there now.

He hugged himself, shivering, still cold from whatever spell possessed him.

Laria had left only a day again, after the first episode, and Thomas already knew she wouldn't be coming back. She was a survivor, like him, and now he was every bit a threat to her as he was himself. At least she had pretended she would help. It had softened the blow of abandonment.

He sighed, sitting in the quite black of night, the soft glow of skyglass making a halo around the closed windows.

He thought Lhavit, at least, would be safe. Here, he'd become his own threat.

[Thomas Cosa]

He breathed heavily, rasping, his voice hoarse.

Thomas continually watched the point where it had last appeared, set on constant vigilance. It would happen again, as it had before, the cold from his last episode lingering in his body, his panic-sweat chilling him to shivers.

He reached out with a small spell, Auristics, creeping along the skyglass-light made shadows. It swelled on the imprint of the nothing, the air remembering where it had been violently torn apart. The whole of it felt like him, sharp and blocky and awkward. The area was small, a purple blotch of a magical echo. Thomas knew he wouldn't have seen it so easily if the spell hadn't been so recently cast, and even then, the purple was fading rapidly from his enhanced sight.

Still, he lingered, even as the echo disappated into nothing, like there hadn't just been a portal there a bell ago.

Ald'gare would know what's happening to him, he thought, and Alses, too, he added bitterly. Here, so far from Sahova, he was supposed to outmatch anyone at magical ability. So far from the masters of the Citadel, he should've have been a god. And yet, Thomas found himself once again surrounded by his betters, and he hated it.

A flicker of shadow caught his attention, and his magic pounced, splashing against the empty nothing of darkness. It was funny to feel the dark, the absence of light and warmth; something he knew before, he assumed, but Auristics had cleared up for him. Thomas thought it funny how much he was learning about the world now he could really see it.

Caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't catch the slight cold that passed through him. Or the ripple of air that pulsed around the spot he only just been watching. Or how a black hole crawled, bursting from nothing, lingering like a fly on death over the remnants of his last episode.

[Thomas Cosa]

His magic spiked with excited, bubbling with nausea as awareness crawled over his body. Thomas struggled to breath; "in out in out in out," he thought. Two little words against the abyss.

It, It, as he was becoming to call the growing darkness, bloomed. When reality first split, it would have been a lie to say he wasn't a little proud. The tug of his own energy named It his creation, his will, and he remembered (now cursing his idiocy) that he was almost fond of It. Then, It almost ate Laria.

The screaming had startled him, luckily for Laria. It dissipated back into calm space, the ugly purple scars of magic it's only reminder, and only visible to Thomas. Laria had left, promising help, but Thomas knew she wasn't likely to come back. He was a danger to her, and she couldn't be blamed for running. Sahovan through and through, that one; survival always the goal.

Survival would be trickier for him, Thomas eventually realized. There was no running from a magic he couldn't control.

But enough of the past since it wasn't the current problem. The growing hole in the middle of his room was.

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas felt panic, for the most parts. Ugly and hot, panic boiled like a thick stew, oily and heavy in his moments of extreme fits, and only just thinning in his brief moments of clarity. In the later, lingering in a delicate liquid of calm and fatigue, he dared to reach his magic towards It, slowly pushing it away from the bubbling green black mash of his own turmoil.

It was cold, but he expected this. Thomas had already dared to breach his spells into the dark pit and knew it to be freezing. His magic crawled, skittish, dancing with it's caster's fear.

It wavered.

Thomas breathed, closing his eyes, praying for control. Everyday, he was growing more and more comfortable with personal magic, and he would be damned if It stole his confidence away. Again, he breathed. Slowly. Thomas reminded himself in the uses of his own spells, the ease he could sniff out desires and offenses, how quickly he was learning to steer conversation with the colors. In out. Auristics was too useful, and he would master this new magic, if only he could figure out what it did.

He would master his fear, if only for a few moments.

Anything for magic.

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas breathed into his magic, ushering it forth with a wave of his (shaking) hand. Sensitive tendrils stumbled ahead with a hesitant confidence. The cold was a reminder of everything he glimpsed before, on the first day space tore itself apart, but he managed to hold his determined (frail) curiosity.

The emptiness was a shock, but he expected it. The first time, even if Laria hadn't screamed, he wondered how he'd continued his spell. Thomas had known nothing before, or so he'd always thought. The space between things, the stuff he'd always skipped over, had always seen empty before -- ignorance on his part. There were dust mites, pollen, small things he didn't know the names for, and there was warmth. Cold was another thing he thought he knew, before.

The It was terrifying in it's emptiness, it's cold amazing. He would die, certainly, if he ever bothered to cross into wherever he was looking. There wasn't any air he guessed; there wasn't anything. His spell flitted around the opening, tasting at nothing, feeling at nothing except the cold. Thomas knew he couldn't breath without the air, and whatever was inside, if anything, there wasn't air. At least any kind he was familiar with.

His spell lapped nervously around the void, darting in for a tick or so, tasting the undiscovered world beyond. Deadly, but even if there was breathable air, the cold would have killed him. That, or anything that lived in the It. Nuits didn't need air to survive, after all. Only the gods knew what else didn't.

He dared his magic to expand on the other side, which later he would admit was a mistake. The wrong muscle stretched in response and the damned hole grew instead.

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas shuddered; the It bubbled, popped outwards. His vision blurred and he was struck with a wave of discomfort. Kneeling, he steadied himself. He checked to make sure he was breathing: one, in, two, out. It was only then, in between two and three, that he realized he wasn't casting.

He blinked into a mundane world, nighttime. All gray shadows. No It.

Feeling only relief, he crawled to his bed, not bothering to stand up. Thomas pulled himself into cot, rolling into the thin gray blanket, wishing he had a pillow. He went to sleep wondering why everything felt wet.

It had been so long since he'd cried.

[Estrellir Konrath]

Thomas Cosa

Auristics +3
Voiding +3
Investigation +1



Magic: Threat from within
Aura: Echo of a voiding portal
Aura: The void
The void: Tempting cold darkness
The void: Airless & empty

Notes

Beautiful thread. I tend to be wary of extremely short posts, but your portrayal of magic was so poetic I greatly enjoyed this one. It’s the perfect length. Thomas’ struggle was touching as well. PM me with any questions or concerns; don’t forget to edit your grade request.