"Remember, then, that I warned you," he said, all but ignoring the part where she suggested he might need help. He could do this -- would do it, for his pride and his progeny both -- but chances were he wouldn't be doing much in terms of Power and magic for awhile after this. Not until he had time to recuperate and had a few good meals in him. Maybe he'd go back to London for a time.
He shook his head, forcing the thought of mind, and lowered himself to his knees beside Samuel, fingers slipping under one of his shoulders to roll him onto his back. He looked down at him, willing himself to see his adoptive son rather than the man that had hijacked his body, and brushed his fingers over his forehead lightly, murmuring an apology. He leaned away when he was finished, allowing himself a moment of silence, gathering Power to him again and pushing it through the blade, then leaned back in, hovering over Sylar, and drove the tip of the sword through the top of his head savagely.
Samuel cried out, half-sitting up for a moment, before sinking back into the floor. For all that that likely would have killed anything, though, vampire or not, he continued breathing, albeit suddenly heavily. More than that, he was writhing on the floor now, fingers balling into fists and then relaxing, head snapping from one side to the other, his skin running riot as if something was alive underneath it. And while the latter was not particularly part of the process, John imagined it had something to do with the fact that Sylar's body was wearing Samuel's face and ignored it. Just as he ignored Peter who had appeared at the edges of his vision, apparently startled.
Leaving the sword where it was, he pulled away again, and put his hands to his chest just above where his rib cage came together and started muttering fiercely, whatever he was saying far too low to be picked up by even Lydia's ears, and in the same tone he had used on Halloween. It was clearly having some sort of effect on Samuel, though, as his movements became more violent, John's hands on his chest following suit, holding him down now rather than touching him. This continued on for several minutes, all of it building to fever pitch, the sense of raw Power in the room tremendous, Samuel's eyes snapping open, black and unseeing, slurred curses slipping out between clenched, fanged teeth, and then finally, he stilled. John, however, did not move his hands.
"Let him go," he ordered, loudly and clearly, though his voice was strange. Like fire on some deep, visceral level. Peter shrank back out of his line of sight. Samuel screamed, the sound building in volume, shifting halfway to Sylar's voice as his body snapped back into its rightful form in a swell of Power, and then cut off abruptly, Sylar sinking back into the floor, tendrils of smoke rising from his flesh. It spiraled up, encircling the pommel of John's sword, sinking into it, and then it was gone.
John shuddered, swaying as he leaned over Sylar again to curl his fingers around the grip of the weapon, barely conscious himself, and took a deep breath. Then, once he felt at least somewhat steadied, he pulled the sword out of the top of his head, the blade unbloodied, and dropped it to the ground. With shaking fingers, he pushed Sylar's hair out of the way, checking for a wound, and when he found none, he reached for the sword again, and got to his feet, moving to the mirror.
"Bring the bag over here," he said, his voice faint now, distant, as if he were barely managing to stay awake and upright. "I need more of those leaves to trap him further."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-11-14 03:27 am (UTC)He shook his head, forcing the thought of mind, and lowered himself to his knees beside Samuel, fingers slipping under one of his shoulders to roll him onto his back. He looked down at him, willing himself to see his adoptive son rather than the man that had hijacked his body, and brushed his fingers over his forehead lightly, murmuring an apology. He leaned away when he was finished, allowing himself a moment of silence, gathering Power to him again and pushing it through the blade, then leaned back in, hovering over Sylar, and drove the tip of the sword through the top of his head savagely.
Samuel cried out, half-sitting up for a moment, before sinking back into the floor. For all that that likely would have killed anything, though, vampire or not, he continued breathing, albeit suddenly heavily. More than that, he was writhing on the floor now, fingers balling into fists and then relaxing, head snapping from one side to the other, his skin running riot as if something was alive underneath it. And while the latter was not particularly part of the process, John imagined it had something to do with the fact that Sylar's body was wearing Samuel's face and ignored it. Just as he ignored Peter who had appeared at the edges of his vision, apparently startled.
Leaving the sword where it was, he pulled away again, and put his hands to his chest just above where his rib cage came together and started muttering fiercely, whatever he was saying far too low to be picked up by even Lydia's ears, and in the same tone he had used on Halloween. It was clearly having some sort of effect on Samuel, though, as his movements became more violent, John's hands on his chest following suit, holding him down now rather than touching him. This continued on for several minutes, all of it building to fever pitch, the sense of raw Power in the room tremendous, Samuel's eyes snapping open, black and unseeing, slurred curses slipping out between clenched, fanged teeth, and then finally, he stilled. John, however, did not move his hands.
"Let him go," he ordered, loudly and clearly, though his voice was strange. Like fire on some deep, visceral level. Peter shrank back out of his line of sight. Samuel screamed, the sound building in volume, shifting halfway to Sylar's voice as his body snapped back into its rightful form in a swell of Power, and then cut off abruptly, Sylar sinking back into the floor, tendrils of smoke rising from his flesh. It spiraled up, encircling the pommel of John's sword, sinking into it, and then it was gone.
John shuddered, swaying as he leaned over Sylar again to curl his fingers around the grip of the weapon, barely conscious himself, and took a deep breath. Then, once he felt at least somewhat steadied, he pulled the sword out of the top of his head, the blade unbloodied, and dropped it to the ground. With shaking fingers, he pushed Sylar's hair out of the way, checking for a wound, and when he found none, he reached for the sword again, and got to his feet, moving to the mirror.
"Bring the bag over here," he said, his voice faint now, distant, as if he were barely managing to stay awake and upright. "I need more of those leaves to trap him further."