Dream ► 03
[Spoilers to Chapter 5: A Clockwise Doom]
He is always too late.
There is no warning. It is a street like one of the hundreds that interweave their paths throughout the land’s capital, nondescript and innocuous for all that it is the dead of night, with houses shuttered and streetlamps dimmed. He’s not even sure why they are out here tonight, and there is no warning beyond a prickle at the back of his neck that makes him turn, looking back behind him to where Oz stands at the other end of the alleyway. He opens his mouth to call to him - when had he fallen so far behind? - but something about the way the boy’s hand is curled over his chest makes him pause, the prickle sharpening into a single spine of dread that stabs deep.
Oz looks up, eyes wide in pained surprise, and his arm drops away to reveal the clock-like seal stamped against his skin.
The hand moves for the final time.
Darkness erupts from the ground, through the ground, swirling around Oz as if to mark out its prey, and he’s barely aware of the frantic cry that leaves his lips as he twists and breaks into a flat sprint. He runs and he doesn't know when Oz fell so far behind because the street is long and dark and growing darker.
The bell tolls, and it hurts his ears and it hurts his head and he stumbles, but there is no time to falter because the glow is swelling, growing, expanding to wrap Oz up in the darkness and he’s so close, he’s so close, he just has to be faster. For once in his life he just has to be fast enough.
He’s so close and the dark tendrils twine around the boy like a malicious vine, like the rope of a noose, like a prisoner’s chains, pulling him down, dragging him away. There are depths beyond the depths, and this time there will be no reprieve, no way to follow, and he throws himself forward because there will be no way to save him if he does not do it now.
Hands reach, fingers brush, and a last desperate cry pierces his ears, his mind, his heart.
And then it’s gone. The blackness is gone. His knees hit the ground, hand still outstretched, but there is no one to take hold of it. Oz is gone. There is nothing left but
a bloodied sleeve
cold, hard, impenetrable stone, and the echo of a girl’s giggle lingering in the air.
He is always too late.
[He leaves the Dreamberry behind. It will follow, because it always follows, but perhaps it will give him enough time to get away from the cottage and the people within it.]
He is always too late.
There is no warning. It is a street like one of the hundreds that interweave their paths throughout the land’s capital, nondescript and innocuous for all that it is the dead of night, with houses shuttered and streetlamps dimmed. He’s not even sure why they are out here tonight, and there is no warning beyond a prickle at the back of his neck that makes him turn, looking back behind him to where Oz stands at the other end of the alleyway. He opens his mouth to call to him - when had he fallen so far behind? - but something about the way the boy’s hand is curled over his chest makes him pause, the prickle sharpening into a single spine of dread that stabs deep.
Oz looks up, eyes wide in pained surprise, and his arm drops away to reveal the clock-like seal stamped against his skin.
The hand moves for the final time.
Darkness erupts from the ground, through the ground, swirling around Oz as if to mark out its prey, and he’s barely aware of the frantic cry that leaves his lips as he twists and breaks into a flat sprint. He runs and he doesn't know when Oz fell so far behind because the street is long and dark and growing darker.
The bell tolls, and it hurts his ears and it hurts his head and he stumbles, but there is no time to falter because the glow is swelling, growing, expanding to wrap Oz up in the darkness and he’s so close, he’s so close, he just has to be faster. For once in his life he just has to be fast enough.
He’s so close and the dark tendrils twine around the boy like a malicious vine, like the rope of a noose, like a prisoner’s chains, pulling him down, dragging him away. There are depths beyond the depths, and this time there will be no reprieve, no way to follow, and he throws himself forward because there will be no way to save him if he does not do it now.
Hands reach, fingers brush, and a last desperate cry pierces his ears, his mind, his heart.
And then it’s gone. The blackness is gone. His knees hit the ground, hand still outstretched, but there is no one to take hold of it. Oz is gone. There is nothing left but
a bloodied sleeve
cold, hard, impenetrable stone, and the echo of a girl’s giggle lingering in the air.
He is always too late.
[He leaves the Dreamberry behind. It will follow, because it always follows, but perhaps it will give him enough time to get away from the cottage and the people within it.]