Illyana fights S'ym, Saturday evening

[x-snowflake.livejournal.com]

Illyana is attacked by S'ym Saturday evening, and, in the process, some truths are uncovered.



The argument with Angelo -- she hated that "Oh, I'm trying so hard to be good" attitude he threw at her every chance he had -- had thrown her off. The argument with Kitty had put a sick feeling in her stomach all week; and even running, which usually knocked her into some kind of sense into her admittedly thick skull, hadn't done much for her. Her legs ached -- she'd sprinted too much -- and her breath was short. By the time she reached the steps to the mansion, she was unhappy, hot, out of breath, angry, and not paying much attention to the world.

Things might have gone quite differently if she'd been able to. Afterward, when she thought about it, there wasn’t much time to react. Or any time, really, just a flash of light and a surge of power and she was airborne for a long, terrifying moment before she hit the ground. She couldn't teleport. Something was wrong.

She was on her feet before she could think about the pain, or the fear, or the anger; she was turning, stumbling away, getting fragmented glimpses of her attacker -- "S’ym," she breathed, scrambling to avoid what might certainly have been a killing blow; she saw the damage the heavy arms caused. Her sword flashed momentarily, and disappeared just as quickly when a hand the size of a dinner plate threw her bodily against the house.

She was aware of broken glass, and thinking that Mr Marko was not going to be at all pleased with her. Her body was moving of its own accord, practically without input from her brain -- move there, block that, jump over the railing onto the lawn and buy yourself half a second to think, Illyana, because that’s what you need.

The exchange was brief. Something -- a claw, please gods let it not be poisoned -- sank into her stomach, and she was still reacting to that when the other dinner-plate-sized hand landed on her chest and threw her backwards. She landed hard, and climbed unsteadily to her feet; stood there for a moment, orienting herself in terms of her feet on the ground and the demon in front of her. Her voice had gone, and she had no witty repartee to share. In fact, she could barely breathe without hyperventilating; her breath came in bursts almost like sobbing. She could hear blood pounding distantly in her ears.

Today wasn’t really going her way.

S’ym laughed; she remembered the grating sound all too well. "Pathetic," he said. "No, S’ym will not regret killing her. He has been waiting for so long. Cruel of her to deny him when he has been waiting." Against him she knew she looked tiny, white-blonde in contrast to the bruise-colour of his skin, her height insignificant against the Goliath on the lawn. Her t-shirt clung to her torso, wet with sweat and blood, and she resisted the urge to put a hand over her injury; there was too much riding on this.

He laughed at her. She felt shame well up in her stomach, stinging her eyes glassy; shook it off with a toss of blonde hair that left her fighting vertigo. "He couldn’t stop me," she whispered, finding some will to put in her voice, and some arrogance hidden in some distant corner to dredge up. "You’re not going to, either." She took a slow, careful step backward, and he seemed not to notice, or mind. She needed distance for this. "You should go back to Limbo."

It rang false. He laughed again.

"The old master was fooled by her tricks. S’ym will not be fooled. S’ym has been watching her pretend to herself that she is human -- he knows what she thinks she is." She had never hated the sight of his fleshy, pointed face more. "The old master let her think she was human. S’ym knows what she is -- the true demon, the Darkchilde -- "

She let him talk; the words barely made an impression this time, slid off while she regained her balance and tried to think. He was faster and stronger than she was -- of course he was, he knew it -- she could tell that he was playing with her. It was why he was letting her catch her breath, so that the kill would be sweeter, the payoff greater.

There was one opportunity.

"Go away," she called hoarsely. "Go back."

"She should not have come back here." S’ym was laughing openly, unfazed, and she hated the look on his face -- the sheer insolence of it, that he would laugh at her -- that he would dare to try to kill her, she was going to kill him -- "He’ll get them, all of them. Once S’ym has torn her to shreds, S’ym will start with the little ones -- he will take the kitty-girl, he’ll rip her apart, strip her skin -- "

She lunged in the face of opportunity, taking the surprise and preparing herself for the inevitability of what was about to happen; it could go two ways, and in one of them she died.

She went for him with her right arm, lashing out hard and fast like she really meant it, feeling her body protest, and grit her teeth when he grabbed it, letting him twist it, briefly registered the crack issued -- and her scream -- when it snapped, and in that instant the Soulsword blazed, this time in her left hand, and this time stuck directly in S’ym’s throat.

"What was that you were saying about Kitty?" she asked quietly, trying not to tremble. The glimpse she caught of her arm, too-white and too-black and bleeding, swelled nausea in her throat, and she focused on the demon screaming in front of her.

Killing him would mean another one taking his place. Reluctantly, she withdrew the sword;.

S’ym fell, drained. He seemed smaller, now, weaker; and he was oozing blood from the where the Soulsword had struck him. "She was lucky -- to hit S'ym," he gasped. "She should be -- killed for -- "

There was a long moment where she stood with the sword at his throat, blood trickling down her face sluggishly; she reached up with the broken arm to wipe it out of her eyes. "I’m going to say this once," she said, somehow finding enough air to raise her voice. Here, she had to sound like a queen, not a stupid little girl who’d let herself get too comfortable. "Limbo is mine by right. Your service is mine by right. I will have that service, or I will strike you down and find another willing to take your place. There are many such others." She paused, staring him down with eyes that flashed -- momentarily -- red. "You will submit to me and my power," she continued, after the silence had stretched to breaking point, "or you will die right here and right now. You will take your friends with you -- I know you must have brought them -- and you will return to Limbo. Do you understand, S’ym?" A stepping disk opened a few feet away from him.

He was defeated. His shoulders slumped. "Yes," he muttered, shuffling toward the portal, half-limping, practically vibrating from the shock of the Soulsword. "Yes, S’ym understands."

She swallowed bile and lifted her chin. Her head was pounding. "Pardon me?" she said softly. There was a pause.

"Yes, mistress," S’ym grated; there was a long moment where his mouth opened in a wide ‘O’ as her sword brushed his skin -- a scream silenced by his inability to draw air. She withdrew, stepping back a foot or so.

"So that you remember whose power is greater in the future," she said, voice strangely high and clear. "By right of my blood and heritage, I own you and Limbo both. If you threaten me or mine again, I will not be so lenient. Don’t forget that. Now go," she said, gesturing almost lazily with the sword to a portal. Her vision was blurring -- fifteen more seconds and he’d have her, hands down. She hoped he didn’t know it.

He didn’t.

When he was gone, the portal closed with an almost audible snap. She took a step back, sparing a glance behind her to see if there were onlookers. She could see people -- funny that she couldn’t identify them. Didn’t she know them? "Excuse me," she said faintly. "I have to go throw up."