Mark couldn’t breathe.
Every time he tried to drag in a breath, his lungs felt frozen, unable to expand. Or maybe there just was no air left to breathe in his little pocket of space. He’d tried shifting some of the bodies off of him, only for them to cling to him or someone to step on all of them. His world narrowed to this sliver of existence, crushed against the ground beneath him and bodies on all sides. Someone was screaming. Several people, actually. Mark realized that he was one of them, which might be part of why he couldn’t get enough air.
Panic gripped him. Mark struggled to not make things worse. His body crawled with adrenaline, spurring him to act, but thrashing and lashing out would only expose him to more damage. He didn’t know how to fight this close against this many. He didn’t know how to not be crushed or trampled. He couldn’t extricate himself from this mess. He barely knew what mess he was in, since bodies pressed up against him from all sides like some twisted parody of a young man’s fantasy. He was buried in women and all he could think was that he wanted to breathe.
Mark was scared.
His fear shamed him. Shaman were supposed to be the strong pillars of the pack. They might not be able to fight all the fights or know all the skills, but they were supposed to be calm and wise and have advice for how to handle anything. Mark had never felt weaker than this.
His body shook, muscles trembling as he continued to endure. He pushed against the weight burying him, enlarging his pocket of air briefly. Mark thought he’d be able to dig his way out of this mess if only they didn’t cling to him and step on him. If only it was over and it was just him and the exhausted and the dead.
He tried not to think about the dead.
The more he tried not to think about death, the more it leached into his consciousness. The woman to his left at the bottom of the stack had stopped clinging to him. Her hands lay loosely around his forearm, limp and unmoving. Someone had trampled her hard in the last wave. He tried not to think about that sensation of power that rose from the dead and dying, the released energy piercing through the Veil to take their soul away as a ghost. Fear gripped him at that image. Mark could imagine the ghosts being as maddened in death as life, trying to drag him away with them to somewhere far beyond life.
Only, ghosts weren’t all terrifying. Mark didn’t have much experience with ghosts, but he’d gotten more accustomed to the idea of them as people he couldn’t see. And he had seen two of them. Zeren was beyond terrifying, which helped nothing to dwell on right then, but Daniel had been normal and sweet and sassy. So determined to jump into danger if it would help his friend. Mark remembered the flirting and the barely-there kiss he’d shocked the ghost with in the spirit realm. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but he found some peace in it now. Not all ghosts were bad. Not all death was bad.
The ritual’s oppressive atmosphere rose higher. Mark wondered where Daniel was now. The ghost was probably tied up in that ritual, terrified and alone, with no one who could come to save him. In comparison, Mark’s position wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t dead. He didn’t think he was even seriously injured. He was trapped, but help was out there. He just had to hold on. He could get through this. And if he did, he could get back to helping people.
Slowly, Mark managed to get his breathing under control. His lungs still ached and his air tasted of fear, sweat and blood, but he could breathe. He let his world become no more than the length of one breath. Air flowed in, pressing against his sore muscles and the weight burdening him. He held it for a beat, forcing himself to not hyperventilate. Then back out again, expelling waste air. He tried to expel his terror at the same time in a form of mediation, but every exhale came with the fear that there wouldn’t be enough fresh air on the inhale.
Mark no longer had a sense of how many people were tangled together in this writhing, clinging mass of magic and humanity. They weren’t air tight but with so many people all breathing and screaming and afraid, they weren’t conserving air either. He pushed those thoughts away, keeping his existence to the length of each breath. Nothing mattered past that. No fear or hope. Just endurance.
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Then two things happened in rapid succession that knocked Mark right out of that strange trance. The first was the cessation of the compulsion spell upon the cultists. Those hands that had clung to himself and the bodies that had heartlessly clamber onto top of each other like dirt suddenly froze and broke apart. As much as the rush to overwhelm and cling was painful, so was the rush to flee or fight for freedom. One chaos exchanged for another as they lost their magically induced rage and gave in to fear instead.
That fear turned to panic as the second effect hit. Something was wrong with the ritual. Or maybe it was supposed to feel like that at a certain stage. Mark didn’t know for sure. What he did know is that the aura of oppression and fear went from chilling to unbearable, feeding into the realistic confusion and trauma around him. He flared his mantle, drawing his quills up defensively but with no intention to shoot them off. The external emotions eased off of him with that. But not off everyone around him. Screams of rage and madness turned into those of terror and pain.
With the increased aura of the ritual came a wave of nausea and a storm wind. Thunder suddenly cracked high in the air above them, though no rain fell. The stagnant air ripped away, only to bring in a wind scented with vomit, blood, and urine. The stench of a terrified humanity.
Mark shoved against the ground, gaining leverage to drive his body upwards through the tangle of limbs and bodies above him. He almost made it before something hit his shoulder hard, sending him stumbling against another woman, who shoved him away as she fled in terror. Mark flexed muscles he normally wasn’t even aware he had, trying to stay standing and not go down again to land on the groaning bodies surrounding him. He poured power into his shifter strength, feeling muscles tear and heal as he weathered the storm of wind and panic to get solid footing.
Once he did, the most mobile of the cultists around him fleeing away from the pile in which he stood, moving around him rather than through him now, Mark looked around. And nearly threw up himself from the horror scene awaiting him.
In the center of the clearing was the tree, surrounded by a whirl of magic that fed into a literal and physical storm of power, cutting that space off from the rest and hiding it behind a wall of shadow and magic. Lanterns had been scattered around the clearing for the initial celebration of the cultists. Most were on the ground now, though several were still hung on poles or held in trembling hands. Flashlights swept over the scene, held in the hands of searching people and as beams dropped on the ground. Forest debris kicked up by the wind flashed through the light, making monsters of everyone.
The bodies of the injured lay everywhere. Everyone Mark saw, shifter and cultist alike, bore at least bruises and scrapes. Many sat or lay on the ground, crying in pain or holding different parts of their bodies or throwing up until they had nothing left to give. Others were entirely still, especially in the mass around him. The compulsion had created a central mound of bodies into which many had been pulled and then clung to so that they couldn’t leave. Those on the top of that pile were fleeing, running into the forest. Some were being caught by scattered members of his pack, both from his team and from the support team, but both sides were clearly in shock. Most of the runners were let past to whatever mercy the night might provide.
Mark wobbled on his feet, unable to comprehend what he was seeing and feeling. Sound lost all meaning. His ears rang and what hearing he did have only heard an interminable wail of wind and wounded. He didn’t want to sort that noise out into meaning, letting it wash over him. His body shook. He was soaked in sweat and spattered with blood.
Mark had no idea whose blood it was he wore, his own or someone else’s. Probably both.
Everything felt unreal and nightmarish and yet also viscerally undeniably present. The trip into the spirit realm’s representation of the killing tree ritual had been surreal and horrific, but he’d been able to compartmentalize that. It hadn’t been real, no matter how solid the spirit realm made it seem. This was real, no matter how surreal it felt.
The air and wind cooled the sweat on his skin, making the hairs on his arms prickle. Time felt slow and sluggish. Mark saw everything in slow motion, perceiving quickly and absorbing none of it in his overwhelmed mind. When the call for assistance had come, he’d never hesitated. Now he wondered why he was here. How was this mess righteous? How did anyone fight in wars if this unorganized brief skirmish was enough to traumatize Mark? He didn’t think he’d ever understand.
A hand brushed his leg, making Mark jump and shiver, prepared to fight off another wave of clutching hands. No further touch followed the first one. He looked down. A woman lay there, partially on top of several women with her legs pinned under another person. Her eyes were dazed and blood trickled from a cut on her cheek. She moved her hand weakly, reaching out, her lips moving in a soundless plea for help. Mark stared, transfixed, until another crack of thunder made him jump again.
His brain finally kicked in, pushing his fear and trauma down to be handled at a time when he could afford to break down. Or well, he wished he could just be that composed. Mark had no idea how anyone could just get over this. But he had something that could help.
With shaking fingers, he dug into his mage’s kit. The bag had miraculously stayed with him, likely by virtue of its sturdy construction, but as he discovered when he reached inside, its contents fared less well. He winced as he sliced his fingers on broken glass, finally dragging his gaze away from the injured long enough to do a proper search.
Luck was with him. One of his focus potions was still intact. Mark drank it quickly, letting the artificial calm settle over him. His knot of negative emotions lay just underneath that blanket, present but no longer overwhelming him. That was all he needed to begin to act.