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Sep. 17th, 2011 06:46 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigaljaybirdA day later, Jason's learned enough of his new power to keep control, at least to the point that he won't hurt anyone by accident. Gone is the fear of yesterday, and in its place is a delirious kind of purpose, the power in Jason so raw, so unchecked, and as of yet unwielded against an appropriately worthy foe.
He could bring down buildings if he wanted to, and not by blowing himself through him. He could pull down trees, scream holes in the fucking mountainside. He can shout so loud he can lift himself from the ground and keep going, but it's not to the neighborhoods Jason goes, or to mountain peaks, or to freedom on the winds. He plunges himself into the deeper parts of the forest, climbing towards the water tower and to the monstrosity that lies within its shadow.
The enormous golden horn, shining dimly in the dappled sun, beautiful and terrible, dented by steel and arrows and desperate hands. Katniss' Cornucopia. Jason hates it almost as much as she does.
He stares at it, reaching for old staples, for the anger inside him that's always raging so near to the surface. Rarely has he had the opportunity to let it out, and even more rarely on so worthy a goal. So intent is he on the horn, on its golden bow and hateful arch, that Jason hardly notices when he's no longer alone.
He could bring down buildings if he wanted to, and not by blowing himself through him. He could pull down trees, scream holes in the fucking mountainside. He can shout so loud he can lift himself from the ground and keep going, but it's not to the neighborhoods Jason goes, or to mountain peaks, or to freedom on the winds. He plunges himself into the deeper parts of the forest, climbing towards the water tower and to the monstrosity that lies within its shadow.
The enormous golden horn, shining dimly in the dappled sun, beautiful and terrible, dented by steel and arrows and desperate hands. Katniss' Cornucopia. Jason hates it almost as much as she does.
He stares at it, reaching for old staples, for the anger inside him that's always raging so near to the surface. Rarely has he had the opportunity to let it out, and even more rarely on so worthy a goal. So intent is he on the horn, on its golden bow and hateful arch, that Jason hardly notices when he's no longer alone.
