Animal mannerisms, previously hinted at, come crashing to the surface as the Thyrsus dashes forward, the only instinct to protect his lover with his own flesh. He waits, expecting a flare of pain, perhaps the embrace of unconsciousness, but the sensation never hits. Instead, a black stickiness, a thousand times worse than the cloying resonance, spreads outward from his abdomen, quickly filling his entire body.
He tries to gasp, to cry out in shock, but his body refuses to respond. It has ceased to be his own. Terror sets in as he realizes what's happening. A prisoner within his own flesh. Cut off, alone. Mike and Triquetra, standing mere feet from him, could just as easily be on the other side of the planet.
He thrashes about mentally, trying to break free, to regain control. And then he feels the other consciousness. Old, powerful, malevolent. This is what had tried to take over his lover's body. And still might, if given the chance.
The struggling ceases instantly, a light switch flicked off. He can almost feel his captor flash a predator's smile in triumph.
But even the deep, dark corner that is still him isn't free of the corrupting influence of the other. A touch of ichor. Probing, searching, harvesting. Even as the thing pretends to be him, effortlessly deflecting his companions' suspicions into sympathy over conjured symptoms. And he watches, transfixed.
Watches the captor effortlessly spins his likeness into a masquerade so perfect, even his lover is taken in. All the while nudging, subtly, toward his own ends. A kernel of doubt. If this other could take his place so easily, then what was he?
The constant oily sensation, a reminder that nothing was hidden. That every scrap would be turned against them. And still the Thyrsus is paralyzed, unable to fight when success meant unleashing this thing back on his companions. Sensations flow into him, mocking his helplessness with flashes of plans. Each of them, caught alone, one by one. His to mold, to play with, or to discard.
The Thyrsus squirms in mental anguish. Holding only the weak hope that he won't give his tormentor reason to change his target, visit this on his friends. Fear, isolation, helplessness, horror, all mix together, drawing his mind further and further into the refuge of the animal.
After an eternity, a still small voice. A ray of light in the darkness. "Take him out, and tell my husband I love him." The words echo within him, resonating. Suddenly, even through the mask of animal instinct, he understands. The risk, the sacrifice. Everything she was, put on the line to reach him through the morass.
A spark of defiance. At first small, subtle. A single name, and an attempt to shift it to one of the few people he trusts completely. The feeble effort is easily batted aside, but the spark, once ignited, can only grow. The captor, caught suddenly off-guard, is ejected, and the wolf surfaces to reclaim what is his. The beast lends its gift of power, and hands reshape into wicked claws to mark the exchange of roles between hunter and prey.
A sobbing scream, the full extent of the sacrifice playing out before him. A dangerously bucking floor, easily avoided despite lack of warning. Thought, in any traditional sense, had long since boiled away. Everything fades except his target, the one at whose hands he had suffered so much. Claws flash out, raking against dry, papery flesh. The prey falls to the ground, but demands its price. The imminent collapse of the building itself.
A sudden, primal fear courses through the Thyrsus, offset only by the need to protect. He slows, bringing up the rear. Seeing to his companions' safety even as painful flashes begin to break through the barrier of pure instinct. But in an instant, everything changes. The prey, back on its feet, killing, absorbing.
There is no decision, for little faculty remains to make such. Simply a fierce clash of instincts. A vastly unbalanced fight, and the need to survive is quickly overwhelmed. In an instant, he spins around, running back toward the epicenter of the nightmare, caring for nothing but that his tormentor be destroyed.
Claws flash, prey evades. Mad laughter amidst a dance of death. But soon the dance changes. The prey opens its arms, as if in a hug. Vicious blows rain down, the thirst for vengeance allowing for nothing else. Thin flesh continues to shred, even as the hug closes.
Images.
A young boy cut off from the others growing into an office worker considered too creepy to hang out with. He tries drugs but that only dulls the pain, and even then he feels it, the alienation, the loneliness. He tries to kill himself, but succeeds in something far different. An Awakening, to the path of the Lead Coin. He feels everyone united in death, something that touches every life, and he awakens with new hope. He throws himself forward, becomes liked, and gets a promotion to head of the Rec department. He is constantly talking to others, having them want to hang out. He uses his magic to pull of great feats and protect those around him. They become his people.
Then he hears them. The people talking behind his back. He's still creepy to them, but he's the boss so they owe him respect. They don't really like him, but he does great things so they are jealous. He's the one who can promote you so kiss his ass.
He doesn't resist when death comes for him a second time, but he doesn't move on. The others may not like him but HE will protect them, and the only way he can is to make this whole CITY his and crush anyone in his way.
The vision fades.
A wrongness. Companions, staying to fight. Was it not enough that he offered up his own life? Why should they insist on doing the same? But fate draws him onward. His course is set, and cannot diverge. All his energy funneled to one last act. A simple glare, the only signal he can spare the effort to transmit. And only the weakest of hopes that it could somehow drive them to action.
In the instant of distraction, furious blows go wide, giving the tormentor-turned-prey a few precious seconds of unlife. Seconds that are immediately put to use. A ceiling, collapsing collapsing toward him. A sobbing scream. One final spell, and echoing words as its ephemeral corpus is finally destroyed.
"I know you. I am like you. You are alone on your pure white throne."
He had known death would come. Accepted it, and embraced it, on the level of pure instinct. So he simply waits, for the avalanche of brick and stone to crush him, and bring an end to his life.