Title: That We Be Made Worthy
Author: pronker
Fandom: Justice League Dark
Summary: "That's another fine mess you've gotten me into, Magic," says John Constantine to no one in particular.
Setting: TBD.
IOIOIOIOIO
Hands. Human? Demon? No, human. Hands held his long hair back, pulled every stitch of clothing from him while he relaxed and let them do it. Wait - why wasn't he fighting? Wasn't he always fighting something?
"Milord! Stay at rest - we are in your service! We are aiding you!"
He'd heard that one before. He Reached for a spell of protection and came up empty. Now his breathing tightened even more. He gasped out his most basic need. "Oi! Where's me cigs?"
Hands again. A different, quieter, voice of control and command owned these hands as they slipped a linen tunic over his head. The neckline snagged his beard until he himself lifted shaking fingers to pull it free. "Stand fast, milord Emperor," said the voice of calm. "We will fight with you till the bitter end." Now a third set of hands pulled up a pair of linen drawers and tied its waist strings as the hands' owner muttered Emperor of naught.
Emperor? John Constantine sniffed the stale air to gauge the era. Past, far past, not dinosaur past, but bloody far past. Springtime on Planet Earth, Middle East, someplace near a sea. Mediterranean? Black? Arabian? Red? Dead? He didn't know. The immediate surroundings proved easier. Deep within a hiding place of thick stone which ought to hold out against any weapon this time could throw at them. He sniffed again. Fear sickened these three to their very hearts, yet their bodies screamed with strength as potent as their body odor.
His sight improved and he saw why the three owned casual strength that in his era would justify his pickup line Where do you work out, luv? Four swords leaned against the far wall where a slitted window allowed enough light to show dust motes wafting to and fro. Two swords curved slightly and he thought he saw only one edge to these; the others pointed true and straight with double edges showing a great many nicks and stains. These were not swords for parades or cosplaying. These meant business and hefting them in battle required abs, delts and forearms of steel.
"Me cigs?" he asked, desperately craving tobacco so he could think of which demon, demigod, superhero or so called "friend" to blame for landing him here in an unknown battle. From outside the chamber came sounds of running feet, screams of distressed females and the measured tread of invaders. Somehow he knew he was not one of those.
"Your cigs? We removed the sigils of your rank, milord. You protested, but at the last realized the wisdom of it."