Drabble: Dreams
Darken awoke, drenched in sweat. He did not scream, but his throat was raw anyway. Punctures like crescents lined his palms, small drops of blood welling to the surface.
He straightened his fingers from the desperate claws they had formed in his sleep. They were stiff, frozen.
He closed his eyes, working the joints in his fingers slowly.
He died in his dreams.
Or was he dead in his dreams?
He didn’t know.
A voice called to him. Offered him power.
He was too afraid to answer.
The voice tortured him.
He was burned with green fire. He was sliced to pieces by warriors who would not die.
He was buried alive.
Always he awoke.
And knew it was just a dream.
But the pain was just as real.
The dreams had gone on as long as he could remember.
When he was a child they had frightened him, hurt him, made him cry.
His father had been ashamed.
The heir to D’Hara was a powerless weakling. A disgusting boy who wallowed in sweat-soaked bed sheets, awash in tears. Not even a powerful enough wizard to be worth the time of the great Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander.
The first Rahl in generations not to be taught by a Wizard of the First Order.
A disgrace.
The voice knew those things, and used them. It hurt him, cut him, ruined him.
Not every night. That would be too easy.
Darken never knew when he would receive a visit from the shadow that haunted his mind.
He just knew it was always there.
He learned to hide the pain.
To dry the tears.
To swallow the screams.
To ignore the ghost of his dream injuries.
And his father grew closer.
But still, there was the edge of shame, the hollow smile of potential unfulfilled.
You are mine, Darken Rahl, you have always been mine. The Creator did not give you life, but as a child I gave you death. Serve me, and I will give you the power you seek.
Always the same words. Always the same pain as the voice too powerful for mortal ears shook his bones from within.
Always the burning twisting pain of the fires of the underworld, always the maggots crawling under his skin.
Always the hands twisted into dry claws, ripping at his own flesh.
Always the desire to die.
Always his father’s disappointed face.
Always Panis Rahl’s drunken face as he recounted a prophecy foretelling the death of his worthless first son.
Always the preference for the bastard.
Always the mocking laughter.
Darken did not cry the day his mother died. He did not bat an eye. He did not mind the pain.
Pain was a universal truth.
For the living.
And the dead.
The voice came that night, wearing his mother’s face.
He accepted the power.
And the pain.
And the death.
But only to live.
Darken’s newfound power was not good enough for Panis Rahl.
Nothing was ever enough for Panis Rahl.
Only one thing was good enough for Panis Rahl.
Darken shared his pain.
When the old king fell to the floor, blood and tears leaking from his skin, Darken knelt to whisper in his ear.
“Pull yourself together, boy. It can’t be that bad. After all, it’s only a dream.”
He straightened his fingers from the desperate claws they had formed in his sleep. They were stiff, frozen.
He closed his eyes, working the joints in his fingers slowly.
He died in his dreams.
Or was he dead in his dreams?
He didn’t know.
A voice called to him. Offered him power.
He was too afraid to answer.
The voice tortured him.
He was burned with green fire. He was sliced to pieces by warriors who would not die.
He was buried alive.
Always he awoke.
And knew it was just a dream.
But the pain was just as real.
The dreams had gone on as long as he could remember.
When he was a child they had frightened him, hurt him, made him cry.
His father had been ashamed.
The heir to D’Hara was a powerless weakling. A disgusting boy who wallowed in sweat-soaked bed sheets, awash in tears. Not even a powerful enough wizard to be worth the time of the great Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander.
The first Rahl in generations not to be taught by a Wizard of the First Order.
A disgrace.
The voice knew those things, and used them. It hurt him, cut him, ruined him.
Not every night. That would be too easy.
Darken never knew when he would receive a visit from the shadow that haunted his mind.
He just knew it was always there.
He learned to hide the pain.
To dry the tears.
To swallow the screams.
To ignore the ghost of his dream injuries.
And his father grew closer.
But still, there was the edge of shame, the hollow smile of potential unfulfilled.
You are mine, Darken Rahl, you have always been mine. The Creator did not give you life, but as a child I gave you death. Serve me, and I will give you the power you seek.
Always the same words. Always the same pain as the voice too powerful for mortal ears shook his bones from within.
Always the burning twisting pain of the fires of the underworld, always the maggots crawling under his skin.
Always the hands twisted into dry claws, ripping at his own flesh.
Always the desire to die.
Always his father’s disappointed face.
Always Panis Rahl’s drunken face as he recounted a prophecy foretelling the death of his worthless first son.
Always the preference for the bastard.
Always the mocking laughter.
Darken did not cry the day his mother died. He did not bat an eye. He did not mind the pain.
Pain was a universal truth.
For the living.
And the dead.
The voice came that night, wearing his mother’s face.
He accepted the power.
And the pain.
And the death.
But only to live.
Darken’s newfound power was not good enough for Panis Rahl.
Nothing was ever enough for Panis Rahl.
Only one thing was good enough for Panis Rahl.
Darken shared his pain.
When the old king fell to the floor, blood and tears leaking from his skin, Darken knelt to whisper in his ear.
“Pull yourself together, boy. It can’t be that bad. After all, it’s only a dream.”