He can’t help it. He hasn’t forgot how much it hurts, but even being prepared, even having spent a year forced through this change again and again, he can never stop the vocalization of the pain anymore than he can stop the involuntary thrashing of his body as his cells wither and fade –and crack, or at least that’s how it feels– and another hundred and fifty years of age are forced onto the thirty-something this regeneration seems to carry.
And when it’s over and he can breathe and see again, there he is in his old familiar place, on his hands and knees on the ground at the Master’s feet.
no subject
He can’t help it. He hasn’t forgot how much it hurts, but even being prepared, even having spent a year forced through this change again and again, he can never stop the vocalization of the pain anymore than he can stop the involuntary thrashing of his body as his cells wither and fade –and crack, or at least that’s how it feels– and another hundred and fifty years of age are forced onto the thirty-something this regeneration seems to carry.
And when it’s over and he can breathe and see again, there he is in his old familiar place, on his hands and knees on the ground at the Master’s feet.