Fic: Lazarus Risen (Kensei)
Summary: Set during Kindred. This isn't the first time that Kensei has died.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Títle: Lazarus Risen
Kensei slashes his forearm. Blood gushes down his fingers and onto his shirt. It doesn't take the broken skin more than a few seconds to weave itself back together, the torn edges meeting as easily as two pieces of fabric bound by an invisible thread. Except, that there is no thread. There’s no needle piercing his flesh, no bandage to hold back his blood. There’s only him and a wound that refuses to stay open.
Trembling, he remembers a rope tightening around his neck, his throat struggling to catch a breath that will never make it past his mouth. He remembers panic and pain and a jeering crowd shimmering before his darkening sight as he jerked and twisted and died. Nothingness followed, a hollow, empty void in his memory, then sharp light erupted in front of his eyes. An agonized coughing racked his body as feeling rushed back through him in a torrential flood. He grabbed at the solid earth cushioning his body, the soil encrusting itself under his fingernails. Aghast faces loomed above him, crying out in god fearing disbelief. The noose that strangled his life away dangled from the nearest man's hand, its frayed ends swaying in a breeze created by his own desperate breaths. They let him go, his punishment met. To hang by the neck until dead.
Dead. He'd been dead. Dead then, dead now, yet each time his eyes had opened to contemplate, not the ineffable light of the afterlife, but the same terrestrial sun he'd seen every day of his perfectly healthy life. He cuts himself over and over, stabbing deeper into his flesh each time, biting back his screams on lips that heal as quickly as his skin and he gapes as every time the injury disappears, his arm as hale as it has always been.
The world rumbles under his feet.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Títle: Lazarus Risen
Kensei slashes his forearm. Blood gushes down his fingers and onto his shirt. It doesn't take the broken skin more than a few seconds to weave itself back together, the torn edges meeting as easily as two pieces of fabric bound by an invisible thread. Except, that there is no thread. There’s no needle piercing his flesh, no bandage to hold back his blood. There’s only him and a wound that refuses to stay open.
Trembling, he remembers a rope tightening around his neck, his throat struggling to catch a breath that will never make it past his mouth. He remembers panic and pain and a jeering crowd shimmering before his darkening sight as he jerked and twisted and died. Nothingness followed, a hollow, empty void in his memory, then sharp light erupted in front of his eyes. An agonized coughing racked his body as feeling rushed back through him in a torrential flood. He grabbed at the solid earth cushioning his body, the soil encrusting itself under his fingernails. Aghast faces loomed above him, crying out in god fearing disbelief. The noose that strangled his life away dangled from the nearest man's hand, its frayed ends swaying in a breeze created by his own desperate breaths. They let him go, his punishment met. To hang by the neck until dead.
Dead. He'd been dead. Dead then, dead now, yet each time his eyes had opened to contemplate, not the ineffable light of the afterlife, but the same terrestrial sun he'd seen every day of his perfectly healthy life. He cuts himself over and over, stabbing deeper into his flesh each time, biting back his screams on lips that heal as quickly as his skin and he gapes as every time the injury disappears, his arm as hale as it has always been.
The world rumbles under his feet.