Fic: Traum
Title: Traum
Rating: G
Summary: All that we see or seam is but a dream within a dream. A brief look into Ofdensen's dreamscape.
*Also, mods? May I get a fic tag?
The dream always began the same.
He lay on his back, his vision obscured by blood and the reaching fingers of trees. He lay in the cold snow, but all around him was burning. A cacophony rose around him, as though a racket of crows had begun to fight, but he knew those sounds were human voices, and most of those voices were dying. Below it all, a low, steady pulse sounded, like a mammoth heartbeat.
He knew he was dying. And despite the noise, he could hear his own breath, sounding coffin-close to his face, strained and full of fluid. Crackling.
He was bathed in a pain so intense it was almost orgasmic. Even after waking, he could catalogue the injuries; they were, after all, somewhere around a year old, and not all of them fully healed.
He could count them as though he were naming saints.
It wold have been a bearable, almost normal dream, until the rattling hiss broke the air. It arrested all sensations, directing them to focus sharply on that awful sound.
The sound became words.
"You're mine now."
And the words became a banner of black blood coursing down a suit front, the head slowly, ineffably and rhythmically, turned clockwise while his words hung in the air like rotten fruit swayed by the smoke billowing around them.
He did not hear his own scream. He did not know if it was eclipsed by that grinding, shrieking hiss or if it had forbidden all other sounds altogether. The sound had robbed him of a mouth that must scream. He could only see those eyes- lids that bound slivers of eternity peeking through frail human flesh, and now swallowing all before them.
Images, bizarre and beautiful, alien and apocryphal, and terrible all the same, bombarded him, images that he felt rather than saw. Images that his mind refused to try to process.
And even while all around him, the ice groaned and cracked, and wood roared, protesting under the fire with muted agony, a slow dawning would come upon him, a terrible knowledge cresting like some black sun:
That isn't a heartbeat; those are drums-
Rating: G
Summary: All that we see or seam is but a dream within a dream. A brief look into Ofdensen's dreamscape.
*Also, mods? May I get a fic tag?
The dream always began the same.
He lay on his back, his vision obscured by blood and the reaching fingers of trees. He lay in the cold snow, but all around him was burning. A cacophony rose around him, as though a racket of crows had begun to fight, but he knew those sounds were human voices, and most of those voices were dying. Below it all, a low, steady pulse sounded, like a mammoth heartbeat.
He knew he was dying. And despite the noise, he could hear his own breath, sounding coffin-close to his face, strained and full of fluid. Crackling.
He was bathed in a pain so intense it was almost orgasmic. Even after waking, he could catalogue the injuries; they were, after all, somewhere around a year old, and not all of them fully healed.
He could count them as though he were naming saints.
It wold have been a bearable, almost normal dream, until the rattling hiss broke the air. It arrested all sensations, directing them to focus sharply on that awful sound.
The sound became words.
"You're mine now."
And the words became a banner of black blood coursing down a suit front, the head slowly, ineffably and rhythmically, turned clockwise while his words hung in the air like rotten fruit swayed by the smoke billowing around them.
He did not hear his own scream. He did not know if it was eclipsed by that grinding, shrieking hiss or if it had forbidden all other sounds altogether. The sound had robbed him of a mouth that must scream. He could only see those eyes- lids that bound slivers of eternity peeking through frail human flesh, and now swallowing all before them.
Images, bizarre and beautiful, alien and apocryphal, and terrible all the same, bombarded him, images that he felt rather than saw. Images that his mind refused to try to process.
And even while all around him, the ice groaned and cracked, and wood roared, protesting under the fire with muted agony, a slow dawning would come upon him, a terrible knowledge cresting like some black sun:
That isn't a heartbeat; those are drums-