Clark's whole body goes rigid, tugging against the handcuffs like he's having a seizure, and he lets out a strangled cry. His whole body hurts, as the silver kryptonite invading his brain and blood is forced downwards, collecting together in one spot, cohering into a dense little splinter. It works its way out of him, dropping from the cut on his finger and landing on the bed with a heavy thump. It's tiny, almost deceptively innocent-looking, but behaves as though it weighs eighty pounds.

His fever breaks, fresh sweat forming on his face, and he relaxes back down with a sigh. He still hurts, like the aching aftereffects of having the flu, deep down in his bones. But the fire is gone, the hallucinations are clearing, and his fear is fading away. He keeps his eyes closed, just trying to breathe, and the image of the Tree takes root more fully in his mind, the flames going out in a torrential downpour.