4. My muse throws a punch at yours

Everything was fine until he felt the familiar feeling of chains around his joints, around his neck, heavy and cold against his skin and the burn of old wounds and scars reopening, blood bubbling up in his throat as he coughed and fought for air.

He saw light, or some semblance of it, red and glowing with some demonic presence standing over him. There weren’t things he had endured for a very long time, but it was so real and painful.

Except it wasn’t. 

He was laying in bed on a sweltering summer night, in the throes of a terrible nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. Gripping sheets with frantic fingers, digging nails in and biting his tongue as he struggled, the presence was suddenly beside him.

A hand tearing free from his restraints, a blow was launched at the offender. It landed, from what he felt. Hard. 

『✦』 Gene stared at the other man, his            hand making contact with the hilt            of his sword. He wasn’t sure if he            if he even wanted to fight Garroth.            Surely he’d lose this fight too, just            as he had with so many others.            It’d be cowardly of me to not try.