Title: Immure
Author: Caitlin/Aciel
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Category: Drama/Angst
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, so you don't get anything.
Spoilers: Much of "Talisman"
Characters: Clark, Martha, Jonathan, Jeremiah Holdsclaw, Pete, Chloe.
Summary: In the event that Jonathan was unable to heal his son, what happens when Jeremiah returns to try and kill Clark again?
Part 1
It was burning. Red, hot, fiery pain that sent waves of agony coursing throughout his body. Clark didn't think he had experienced anything that hurt as much as this – not even his encounter with Van and the kryptonite-bullets a few months earlier came close to overcoming this. This intense flame of pain that was weakening him as each precious minute passed by.
It was true that Jeremiah Holdsclaw had indeed made Clark Kent fear for his life. He had been wrong when he had assumed that the elder man would possess the same weakness as he. The kryptonite had taken no affect on Jeremiah other than to give him the upper hand in killing whom he believed was an impostor of his people's saviour, Naman. But Jeremiah had failed. Laying, bleeding on the wooden floor of his loft, Clark was still alive. For now.
'I have to do something,' Clark thought to himself, 'And soon.'
Rolling onto his side, Clark squeezed his eyes shut tightly and gritted his teeth together, then rose up slightly on his right elbow. From there he proceeded to drag himself down the foot-high ledge from the upper part of his loft to a lower landing. The blood that continuously seeped from his abdominal wound left a thick trail leading from the pool, which had already gathered during his immobile state after the sudden shock of being stabbed had come over him.
Step by step, he painstakingly worked his way down the stairs of his family's barn. Gripping the handrail tightly as he leaned most of his weight onto the sturdy wooden beams, unable to fully support himself on his own, Clark's legs shook with the effort of each step. But he still moved forward. If he could just get to a phone to call his parents, everything could be fixed; everything would be all right—Wouldn't it? Clark wasn't so sure. The fact that the blade of that knife had actually penetrated his skin was highly unsettling. Even the small amount of kryptonite that he had revealed should not have been enough to weaken his skin to the point of allowing such injury. The intensely throbbing pain reminded him of that.
After some time, he finally made it down to the cement floor of the barn. With no handrail to guide him along, Clark was unsure of how to continue on. He was feeling dizzy by this time. Vertigo swam through his mind as colours swirled about in his eyesight, his vision greying at the sides. Supporting himself on tool benches, support poles, crates, and anything else that could help keep his balance, Clark clumsily made his way towards the barn door. Eventually he got there, and with much effort he began taking strained steps across the pebbled dirt drive to the farmhouse.
The sun had gone down by now, leaving a pink-orange hue set upon the distant fields. Crickets chirped from the surrounding grass, and the cows, needing to be brought in for the night from the pasture, were calling out for their owner's attention. But at this time, he was too involved in staying upright and keeping himself awake.
'Only a f-few more st-steps,' Clark puffed, 'Al-almost there.' With his left hand pressed firmly on the deep wound, and his right out in attempts to maintain his balance, Clark continued on. At some point only a few metres from the white picket fence, his knees gave way and Clark ended up sprawled on the dirt ground. A groan of pain, and cough producing blood later, Clark stumbled back onto his feet, dragging himself over to a fence post and pulling his body upwards. Now depending on the fence, he shuffled his way along to the house. The pain coursing through his veins had started to dull to a numb, tingly feeling. His head pounded in agony, his mouth dry, save for the metallic-tasting blood, sweat dripped down his back, and dizziness kept his eyes shut tightly.
He felt his left foot hit the stairs and he made his way onto the porch, practically crawling on all fours. Pulling open the screen door with a bloodied hand, Clark leaned directly onto the kitchen counter to keep himself up as he reached out for the telephone. But his supporting hand slipped on the countertop for its blood-saturated state, and Clark was sent falling to the kitchen floor.
The phone was out of reach. Clark found himself containing no energy to move any further. He was unable to call his parents who were still out visiting with the Jackson's from town. Clark had no idea what time it was, so he was unsure of when they would return home. Return home to find him lying on the kitchen floor, dying. Because that's what was happening, Clark realized. He was going to die. There was no sure way of healing the stab wound, cut deep into his chest. He could sense his life's blood quickly draining out of him as his body turned numb. Lying huddled up on his stomach, he found it shortly becoming harder and harder to breathe. With his head against the cool floor, Clark's eyes swam with unshed tears. Who would save him?
At last his eyelids fell closed as he let numbness wash over him and descended into darkness.
With the moon high in the sky and stars shining brightly, a soft light spread over the town of Smallville. It was very late, especially for the middle-aged farm couple that generally kept a curfew of eleven pm. But it was now almost 1 in the morning, as they finally entered the driveway of their farm. Parking the truck, the two climbed out and held hands as they walked up the path to the front porch.
Smiling softly to her husband, Martha Kent slipped her keys into the lock and opened the door.
"That was a nice time at Jim and Molly's, wasn't it?" She spoke to her husband.
"Well, I don't know what to say about that overcooked roast, but..." Jonathan started teasingly.
Martha lightly slapped her husband's arm. "Oh, Jonathan. You know--" She suddenly stopped talking. Confused, Jonathan was about to question her silence, when he looked to the kitchen.
"Clark! Clark!" Martha screamed out, running down the hall to fall to her knees by her son. He lay immobile on the kitchen floor, the cordless phone cast aside unintentionally, huddled over on his stomach. Jonathan too, soon kneeled down beside their fallen boy.
"Jonathan, he barely has a pulse!" Martha exclaimed, moving her hand from the boy's neck to run her shaking fingers through his dark hair.
"Help me turn him over," Jonathan replied, his voice urgent. Together the two gently rolled Clark onto his back where they discovered his injury. Dark, sticky blood soddened the white plaid shirt from a point on his chest. Martha gasped, Jonathan swore. "Quick," he ordered, "Get something to stop the bleeding."
Martha rose and hurriedly went further into the kitchen, heading towards the sink. But as she made her way, her foot suddenly slipped on the wooden floor. Looking down, she was shocked to find that she had slid in a pool of blood. Her son's blood. Shocked, Martha glanced over at her husband, where he too sat stunned.
"Hurry, Martha," he finally said, "It's pretty bad," Turning back towards his son, Jonathan ripped open Clark's blue undershirt to reveal the odious wound. He leaned down to attempt to listen for his son's breath, but could not hear a sound. At this time, Martha had returned to his side, a washcloth in hand. "Martha, he's not breathing." He informed her.
With an erratic sigh, she answered, "Help him."
Jonathan began performing CPR on Clark, whilst saturating his hands in the boy's blood. Counting, he occasionally stopped to release breaths into his son's mouth. Martha sat beside him, running her fingers through Clark's dark curls and whispering soft, calming words in hopes that the ailing boy could hear her. The couple continued on like this for what seemed like hours, but was only really about ten minutes. Their son had begun breathing on his own with a wavering sigh, yet he still lingered in unconsciousness.
"What do we do now, Jonathan?" Martha asked him, "How could this have happened to Clark?" Desperation was in her voice as her tear-filled blue eyes gazed into his of the same colour.
"I don't know, Martha. It must have been the force of Jeremiah Holdsclaw," He replied, "I guess we should just get him cleaned up-"
"And then what?" Martha questioned, a little more harshly than she had intended.
"We wait."
Author: Caitlin/Aciel
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Category: Drama/Angst
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, so you don't get anything.
Spoilers: Much of "Talisman"
Characters: Clark, Martha, Jonathan, Jeremiah Holdsclaw, Pete, Chloe.
Summary: In the event that Jonathan was unable to heal his son, what happens when Jeremiah returns to try and kill Clark again?
Part 1
It was burning. Red, hot, fiery pain that sent waves of agony coursing throughout his body. Clark didn't think he had experienced anything that hurt as much as this – not even his encounter with Van and the kryptonite-bullets a few months earlier came close to overcoming this. This intense flame of pain that was weakening him as each precious minute passed by.
It was true that Jeremiah Holdsclaw had indeed made Clark Kent fear for his life. He had been wrong when he had assumed that the elder man would possess the same weakness as he. The kryptonite had taken no affect on Jeremiah other than to give him the upper hand in killing whom he believed was an impostor of his people's saviour, Naman. But Jeremiah had failed. Laying, bleeding on the wooden floor of his loft, Clark was still alive. For now.
'I have to do something,' Clark thought to himself, 'And soon.'
Rolling onto his side, Clark squeezed his eyes shut tightly and gritted his teeth together, then rose up slightly on his right elbow. From there he proceeded to drag himself down the foot-high ledge from the upper part of his loft to a lower landing. The blood that continuously seeped from his abdominal wound left a thick trail leading from the pool, which had already gathered during his immobile state after the sudden shock of being stabbed had come over him.
Step by step, he painstakingly worked his way down the stairs of his family's barn. Gripping the handrail tightly as he leaned most of his weight onto the sturdy wooden beams, unable to fully support himself on his own, Clark's legs shook with the effort of each step. But he still moved forward. If he could just get to a phone to call his parents, everything could be fixed; everything would be all right—Wouldn't it? Clark wasn't so sure. The fact that the blade of that knife had actually penetrated his skin was highly unsettling. Even the small amount of kryptonite that he had revealed should not have been enough to weaken his skin to the point of allowing such injury. The intensely throbbing pain reminded him of that.
After some time, he finally made it down to the cement floor of the barn. With no handrail to guide him along, Clark was unsure of how to continue on. He was feeling dizzy by this time. Vertigo swam through his mind as colours swirled about in his eyesight, his vision greying at the sides. Supporting himself on tool benches, support poles, crates, and anything else that could help keep his balance, Clark clumsily made his way towards the barn door. Eventually he got there, and with much effort he began taking strained steps across the pebbled dirt drive to the farmhouse.
The sun had gone down by now, leaving a pink-orange hue set upon the distant fields. Crickets chirped from the surrounding grass, and the cows, needing to be brought in for the night from the pasture, were calling out for their owner's attention. But at this time, he was too involved in staying upright and keeping himself awake.
'Only a f-few more st-steps,' Clark puffed, 'Al-almost there.' With his left hand pressed firmly on the deep wound, and his right out in attempts to maintain his balance, Clark continued on. At some point only a few metres from the white picket fence, his knees gave way and Clark ended up sprawled on the dirt ground. A groan of pain, and cough producing blood later, Clark stumbled back onto his feet, dragging himself over to a fence post and pulling his body upwards. Now depending on the fence, he shuffled his way along to the house. The pain coursing through his veins had started to dull to a numb, tingly feeling. His head pounded in agony, his mouth dry, save for the metallic-tasting blood, sweat dripped down his back, and dizziness kept his eyes shut tightly.
He felt his left foot hit the stairs and he made his way onto the porch, practically crawling on all fours. Pulling open the screen door with a bloodied hand, Clark leaned directly onto the kitchen counter to keep himself up as he reached out for the telephone. But his supporting hand slipped on the countertop for its blood-saturated state, and Clark was sent falling to the kitchen floor.
The phone was out of reach. Clark found himself containing no energy to move any further. He was unable to call his parents who were still out visiting with the Jackson's from town. Clark had no idea what time it was, so he was unsure of when they would return home. Return home to find him lying on the kitchen floor, dying. Because that's what was happening, Clark realized. He was going to die. There was no sure way of healing the stab wound, cut deep into his chest. He could sense his life's blood quickly draining out of him as his body turned numb. Lying huddled up on his stomach, he found it shortly becoming harder and harder to breathe. With his head against the cool floor, Clark's eyes swam with unshed tears. Who would save him?
At last his eyelids fell closed as he let numbness wash over him and descended into darkness.
With the moon high in the sky and stars shining brightly, a soft light spread over the town of Smallville. It was very late, especially for the middle-aged farm couple that generally kept a curfew of eleven pm. But it was now almost 1 in the morning, as they finally entered the driveway of their farm. Parking the truck, the two climbed out and held hands as they walked up the path to the front porch.
Smiling softly to her husband, Martha Kent slipped her keys into the lock and opened the door.
"That was a nice time at Jim and Molly's, wasn't it?" She spoke to her husband.
"Well, I don't know what to say about that overcooked roast, but..." Jonathan started teasingly.
Martha lightly slapped her husband's arm. "Oh, Jonathan. You know--" She suddenly stopped talking. Confused, Jonathan was about to question her silence, when he looked to the kitchen.
"Clark! Clark!" Martha screamed out, running down the hall to fall to her knees by her son. He lay immobile on the kitchen floor, the cordless phone cast aside unintentionally, huddled over on his stomach. Jonathan too, soon kneeled down beside their fallen boy.
"Jonathan, he barely has a pulse!" Martha exclaimed, moving her hand from the boy's neck to run her shaking fingers through his dark hair.
"Help me turn him over," Jonathan replied, his voice urgent. Together the two gently rolled Clark onto his back where they discovered his injury. Dark, sticky blood soddened the white plaid shirt from a point on his chest. Martha gasped, Jonathan swore. "Quick," he ordered, "Get something to stop the bleeding."
Martha rose and hurriedly went further into the kitchen, heading towards the sink. But as she made her way, her foot suddenly slipped on the wooden floor. Looking down, she was shocked to find that she had slid in a pool of blood. Her son's blood. Shocked, Martha glanced over at her husband, where he too sat stunned.
"Hurry, Martha," he finally said, "It's pretty bad," Turning back towards his son, Jonathan ripped open Clark's blue undershirt to reveal the odious wound. He leaned down to attempt to listen for his son's breath, but could not hear a sound. At this time, Martha had returned to his side, a washcloth in hand. "Martha, he's not breathing." He informed her.
With an erratic sigh, she answered, "Help him."
Jonathan began performing CPR on Clark, whilst saturating his hands in the boy's blood. Counting, he occasionally stopped to release breaths into his son's mouth. Martha sat beside him, running her fingers through Clark's dark curls and whispering soft, calming words in hopes that the ailing boy could hear her. The couple continued on like this for what seemed like hours, but was only really about ten minutes. Their son had begun breathing on his own with a wavering sigh, yet he still lingered in unconsciousness.
"What do we do now, Jonathan?" Martha asked him, "How could this have happened to Clark?" Desperation was in her voice as her tear-filled blue eyes gazed into his of the same colour.
"I don't know, Martha. It must have been the force of Jeremiah Holdsclaw," He replied, "I guess we should just get him cleaned up-"
"And then what?" Martha questioned, a little more harshly than she had intended.
"We wait."
