Dark Tower Dreams - Part Eight
[OOC: Dark Tower dreams are not worksafe and often contain sex, violence, gore, death, rape, etc. Also, having them is completely voluntary. These are more like visions that strike your character when asleep (if not asleep, your character will be cast into a trance-like, unconscious state). THIS IS WHERE YOU COMMENT FOR YOUR CHARACTER!]
The creatures make way for their two special guests, bowing as they pass through rows and rows of dribbled red. The Wights kowtow and the Garo shriek in greeting, as he takes you to the fountain and set you down on the lip. "Look around, son," he smiles. "This I did all for you."
You smile. "Thank you, Daddy," you coo. He starts with a grimace.
"Thank you, Stray Dog."
Breathless whispers lay against their skin, lips moving in silent circles to the rhythm of their own bodies. Hands grasp fistfuls of fabric, rustling as they slide against each other.
"Alex," She whispers, back arching to meet him.
She nuzzles up against his neck, letting the word rest against his cheek.
"Yeah?"
Not that she minds. She knows he likes it. That it makes him feel like he belongs despite the chaos. That he's found something real outside all the pain and grief and tragedy. There's a tender pause in their coitus and he stares down at her, sweat dripping down his neck and shoulders.
"I love you." It rolls off her soft lips.
Alex smiles and moves to brush a stray bang out of her face.
"I love you, too."
You lift the heart from Jill Valentine's chest and present it to the crowd, allowing them to shriek and squeal and leap upon their dinner with half-hearted grunts. They swallow and devour all that's left of their prey, making gurgles like children, hissing and spitting in pleasure.
"Are you all right, Daddy?" you ask, coming back to his side. He pats your cheek and nods.
"All of this for you, my son," he says, hugging you. "So we can be together. And look how the children enjoy their meal."
They are no longer monsters, but the people they just killed, Prince eating a mermaid, Sheva wolfing down a serpant, and Lannister swallowing what's left of a demon. The people bow once more, blood dripping from their chins, as the moon begins to sink from the sky and the mist rises up.
You can hear noise coming from down the hall, voices soft but easy, the gentle lull of peaceful conversation ringing off of stone walls. It's the event the entire castle has been on about for the better part of four days now, a grand feast to celebrate the most recent tournament. The King himself looks resplendent seated upon his chair, head of the table and to his right, the tournament's champion.
It is a bustle of activity without much happening at all. Servants and knights alike are wandering past you, pushing through the hall with lazy gaits, congratulations offered and wine being poured. The young lady beside you smiles, all but glowing in a simple gown of sunshine yellow. Instead of commiserating with you on your latest hardship she
cants her head, comments on the gowns of the ladies of the court. It is a vein of conversation not wholly enthralling, but familiar to you nonetheless- just as your location is. She stands with you, lingering almost in the doorway and her voice fades out like a whisper because your attention falls instead to the scene before you. Each movement, each laugh- the lords and ladies at the banquet look as though the entire ordeal is as practiced as a dance. Folds of rich fabric, silks and satins and velvet and leather, blue, red, violet, imperial gold and each cascade like falling water, paired for some with a billowing cape and for the ladies, with jewels that flicker like stars in the night sky.
Your own gaze drifts downwards, to the silver pitcher in your hands and you realize only then, with a start, that you aren't dressed for the occasion at all. In place of the tunic and trousers you'd always thought ridiculous, there is naught but your ordinary work clothes- brown and faded and dirty, a hole forming just at the elbow. Your head turns right, moves to look at your companion, to ask why your friend hadn't told you about your state of dress before this but in here place is a woman in red.
Dark hair cascades around her face, frames eyes that are frighteningly blue and when you move to jerk away she catches your arm. Her grip is like iron on your arm and she smiles, something hard and cold as the laugh she offers you. "You don't belong with them," She explains, and you know that these are words you've heard before, the sentiment
familiar but no less repulsive. "You aren't one of them, you belong with us. With your true family."
With each word, the warm light of the hall has faded and you find that every breath she's taken has carried you further and further away. The walls have vanished entirely, the stone floor replaced by green grass- coming into focus is a marble altar and you find that you can no more look at the stone there than at the woman's face. Your face turns upward, searching for the chandeliers of the ball room- for the high ceiling and instead the sky opens, covering you with rain.
COMMALA COMMALA COMMALA COMMALA COME
It's still white, all white, from the alabaster- marble- carpet- sand- rock- floor to the alabaster- marble- mural- thatch- sky ceiling. You hold your hands up in front of you and resign yourself to watching the way your fingers bend and stretch.
"Who are you?" Snow White asks, clutching the corner of her dress as she stands.
The world around you, or whatever is left of it, is beginning to slow down. Even your own movements seem too sluggish, every motion made a dragging effort. Forever has come and gone and passed before your half-lidded eyes.
"Can you help me?" Cinderella implores, casting a wary glance at the creatures edging in toward her.
And then one day you have visitors. The creak of a faraway door pricks the lull in your thoughts- but the door's still shut. Footsteps, followed by the low hum and crackle of static, further break up the silence. It's enough to drive a man mad, and sure enough, you feel the rage surge within you. There's confusion there, wariness, fear, but the anger usurps them one by one, until all you have left is your hatred for- for whatever fools have dared to come near the pod. Your emotions escape your control and you glance up toward the shadows that are fast approaching.
"I didn't... mean to do that, honest," Hercules insists, wincing at the mess of broken pillars in front of him.
You reach for something- something your muscles have been trained to hold, but your hand closes in over empty air. You'll have to make do. You crouch down, leaning forward as you estimate how much closer the intruders will have to get for you to strike.
And strike you will.
She's taught you strategy. You watch her weave her spells between the steps of the dance she's putting together, piece by piece. The lines of her body are clean and smooth. Her magic work is impressive. You keep in the shadow of the archway, out of sight. Your gaze roams the castle walls and windows, down and up and back to her. Part of you picks apart her attacks, figuring out ways to dodge or reflect her offensive maneuvers and shatter her defense. Part of you thinks nothing at all and is content to be that quiet. She's never known you're there until the day she breaks routine early, passes under the arch, and stops, eyes wide and blinking. The flush on her cheeks must be from the workout.
She's taught you strategy, you've taught her caution.
She passes by you with a look, but she hasn’t gotten far when she slides back with a heavy crunch. The movement catches your attention, but you're too slow, too impossibly slow. You manage a single step toward her, but she's encased in her armor now. A sliver of her helmet dangles at the side of her head. Her face is visible. Horror and worry keep her blue eyes wide. She cradles something in her arms, but you can't make out what exactly it is. It looks like ice. A boy made of ice.
You turn your back to her and hope everything works out for the best.
"You're up early," you greet the boy over the rim of your mug as you exit the kitchen. You nod in his direction, but your focus never wavers from the closed door at the end of the hallway. He gives chase right off the bat.
"I couldn't sleep. Something big is going to happen today," he declares. You almost manage to suppress the urge to roll your eyes as you finish off the last of the coffee.
When you don't take the bait, he scrambles out ahead of you, walking backwards and keeping right in your way to make sure you're giving him the attention he, for whatever reason, believes he deserves this morning.
"What?" Your response is paired with a hardened gaze that fits your enthusiasm level better than it ever will his.
Not that the blond even tries to glare back. He beams, folding his hands behind his head and grinning ear to ear.
"I'm going to win our training match!"
It stops you in your tracks. You lower your now-empty mug. The motion is enough to bring a flinch to the surface of his absolutely, painstakingly cheerful attitude. You stare him down until the smile falters, just a split second of uncertainty weighing on the upturned corners of his mouth.
"Oh," you answer and shove the mug into his chest, forcing him to unlace his hands and hold it.
"For a moment there, you had me worried."
You pat his shoulder as you move on, but your eyes are off of him and your point is made. So much so, once you've passed through the door and made your way into the light of dawn, you catch yourself smiling. You keep that expression as you stroll over the bridge and the land warps, the wind whistling and rocks rumbling to form a wasteland around you.
You stop before him, arms at your sides. The desert air is stifling, but a light breeze has picked up and it sweeps across your face.
"I believed you'd find your way by now," the Master intones, arms crossed comfortably behind his back.
You don't move as the shell comes and goes and finally speaks, forming words on a tongue too familiar, forming thoughts in a mind too obscure.
"If you give in now, what will become of you?"
You can sense its power, its name, the truth it ushers in with every breath it needn't take. Your eyes screw shut to keep your secret hidden. You're overcome with shame and a more acceptable emotion: absolute hatred. A rage like wild fire tears through your veins, bringing with it a stab of a pain but dashing from your mind the remorse, the unease.
Your heart's been at its lowest ebb for some time now, hasn't it? Now the need for solitude is overbearing. Your concentration is returning, but something else has to give way to make room for it.
Your fingers tighten around the Keyblade's steel hilt again.
Nothing, you growl, lip curling. Nothing and I hate you. I hate you. I hate what you are, I hate what you've done. Nothing but a monster. Nothing but a demon, a ghost of a demon tainted with everything that did not belong to him.
Nothing but the mirror shattered and remade to show false images.
"What do you want?" Comes your next demand. The night doesn't seem all that dark when you open your eyes and stare into the shadows that linger between all that's left and all there ever was.
"Nothing." You've lost them both.
The source of your new strength is enabling the nightmare to fight on. You can't bring yourself to look away as you rush forward and all the effort, all the trying is cut short. The Keys rain down around you as you fall and the ground once so far below rushes up to meet your back. The solid crack of metal on rock knocks the air from your lungs. When you stir again, pushing off the old Keys that pin you down, the darkness overwhelms the broken thoughts left in your mind.
There is nothing left.
And when all is done, so are you.
It was night, when he called for you. It was night when you headed to the library with the blue sky around you and rain pelting the windows. It was night and you breathed in the smoke of the candles.
"Master," you said, and you weren't bowing but bent, bent with your head in your hands. The pain was terrible, more than you could be expected to bear. And it wasn't night at all, at least not for long. Blue gave way to gold and red. The light of day slanted in through windows still mottled by raindrops. The light marked the floor with intricate, haunting patterns, blue and yellow, white and black. They danced before your downcast eyes, leaving bright spots swimming in your vision.
The pain brought you down to your knees.
Your Master was oblivious to your and their torment. He stood with his back to you, but when you managed to lift your head, you couldn't be sure it was him at all. There were a dozen men there, turned away, paging through dusty tomes of various sizes and colors. Some cradled the books in their hands, others laid them out on the tables and desks and shelves situated in front of them. The walls, once lined with shelves of books, began to fade.
"What do you know of the Unversed?" Your Master's voice escaped a face that wasn't his.
You braced yourself on one arm, dug your fingers into your temple.
"Everything," you heard the answer- in your voice, too- and you twisted around in time to watch the image of yourself approach you, pass through you, and stride on toward what was and wasn't and never would be your Master.
"I'm tired of waiting for you," he extends his arms and holds them out, gesturing for your acquiesce.
The intruders come to a stop exactly one step outside your chosen strike zone. It's close enough now, but the figures are still an inky blur. You squint to see past the glaze. Two strangers, too fools. Maybe they're lost. The echo of footsteps doesn't begin until they've stopped moving and the disconnection is jarring enough to keep you from attacking. The strangers' outfits are also unnerving. They're both dressed in black, black like your own robes, but the fabric catches the light and silver tassels decorate the material.
"Are there any clues of his whereabouts?" She calls up to you as you start down the staircase.
"Stop," the first one says and you recognize the voice, and the figure, as that of a girl. What you can't be sure of is whether she's addressing you or her accomplice.
"Just because someone's stronger, that doesn't make them the right one," he argues, rubbing his forehead and looking at the helmet you left on your bed.
"What is it?" Something within the other voice draws your attention, snapping your eyes up to lock on a face too shadowed. There’s nothing there for you to recognize, not yet, but you get to your feet, straightening up and squaring your shoulders. The other, most certainly a man, glances between you and the girl.
"I think I know you," someone is saying but they're so far away, "I think you know me, too... And you called him a friend. Maybe we all knew each other."
He laughs, a soft, puzzling noise. Your molars grind at the sound.
"You're making a big mistake," he speaks out from under the visor that covers his face, "But I don't have to tell you that, do I?"
"He won’t hurt you," you hear the man say slowly, carefully. There's too much confidence in those words. The girl shakes her head and the silver bits on her coat clink.
"Leave him alone! You aren't helping!" The mouse glares at you as though you're the reason the man hunched over in the snow is fading away, vanishing into thin air.
"You’re right," she replies, rubbing at her arm as she manages a single step toward you, "It’s just..."
"You idiot!" He yells, right after he hits you. His hands latch on to the edges of your armor as he continues shouting. It's a shame he's wrong.
You shift as she draws closer and unconsciously find yourself stepping back, giving her room. The chains are suddenly very heavy and you're admittedly very tired. The man moves at her side, but he's obviously not concerned about your presence or the threat you might pose. Not in the same way she is.
"Those with no darkness in their hearts, seven of pure light," the tone of the witch's voice draws your attention: she knows what it is she's talking about, "If they're collected, the whole world would be in one's possession. Not just this world, but all of the outside worlds, as well."
"What?" You think to ask, but the man speaks the word for you and sounds terribly impatient.
"It's a lie." As you lunge for the man in the black coat, the white rushes up and over, stealing away the prison- castle- desert- forest- beach- room. You stumble forward into the open space, looking around for your intended target. They're gone. They're all gone. You've lost them. All that's left in a sputtering swirl of darkness nearby. It's worth the risk. If nothing else, you have to get back to the pod. You pass on through the portal and step out.
Green washes over the white. Green and pink, orange and brown. Alice curtsies at your side and skips away, a pitch black rabbit at her side, but your attention is fixed on the long table in front of you, set with fine china dishes and vines covered in thorns.
"More sugar, dear?" Maleficent inquires and Zelda nods politely, holding out her cup. The raven Diablo neatly dispenses two drops of what might be ink into the Would-be Queen's tea.
"You can't go wrong with sugar. Got that memorized?" Axel's advice is given with a grin that reminds you of snakes and madmen. Claire seems blissfully unaware of the fact that he's spooning something that looks more like ashes than sugar into her cup.
"They never give me any sugar," Pete drags his heels as he passes you by and takes a seat by the table.
"All hearts crave sugar. All hearts need sugar," a sixth participant, hiding his face under a glass helmet, holds his cup up, "To sugar!"
He breaks off his toast as he notices you and rises to his feet.
"Master," you can hear the smile in his voice, "So glad you could join us." He bows.
You hold your hands up in front of you and resign yourself to watching the way your fingers bend and stretch under his still white, all white gloves.
The man smiles and chuckles, picking you up and placing you back on his shoulders. The people return to their homes, lay down, and sleep once more, the sleep of the comatosed and the entranced. The Castle's doors close, the Lux shuts down, and Thorn ceases activity.
Bouncing you on his shoulder, he hums once more. He hums and hums, and you hum along.
"Stray Dog walks the streets each day,
Collecting peas as he walks to and fro
Big peas, small peas,
Every which kind of pea.
Come Monday, he finds a pea.
Come Tuesday, he bags the pea.
Come Wednesday, he shows the pea to his son.
Come Thursday, the pea kicks and screams.
Come Friday, he grinds up the pea.
Come Saturday, he buries the pea outside.
The pea is in the ground,
And by Sunday, it can't be found.
Good night, young pea."
And they all awaken, whispering the same: "...Good night, young pea."
The creatures make way for their two special guests, bowing as they pass through rows and rows of dribbled red. The Wights kowtow and the Garo shriek in greeting, as he takes you to the fountain and set you down on the lip. "Look around, son," he smiles. "This I did all for you."
You smile. "Thank you, Daddy," you coo. He starts with a grimace.
"Thank you, Stray Dog."
Breathless whispers lay against their skin, lips moving in silent circles to the rhythm of their own bodies. Hands grasp fistfuls of fabric, rustling as they slide against each other.
"Alex," She whispers, back arching to meet him.
She nuzzles up against his neck, letting the word rest against his cheek.
"Yeah?"
Not that she minds. She knows he likes it. That it makes him feel like he belongs despite the chaos. That he's found something real outside all the pain and grief and tragedy. There's a tender pause in their coitus and he stares down at her, sweat dripping down his neck and shoulders.
"I love you." It rolls off her soft lips.
Alex smiles and moves to brush a stray bang out of her face.
"I love you, too."
You lift the heart from Jill Valentine's chest and present it to the crowd, allowing them to shriek and squeal and leap upon their dinner with half-hearted grunts. They swallow and devour all that's left of their prey, making gurgles like children, hissing and spitting in pleasure.
"Are you all right, Daddy?" you ask, coming back to his side. He pats your cheek and nods.
"All of this for you, my son," he says, hugging you. "So we can be together. And look how the children enjoy their meal."
They are no longer monsters, but the people they just killed, Prince eating a mermaid, Sheva wolfing down a serpant, and Lannister swallowing what's left of a demon. The people bow once more, blood dripping from their chins, as the moon begins to sink from the sky and the mist rises up.
You can hear noise coming from down the hall, voices soft but easy, the gentle lull of peaceful conversation ringing off of stone walls. It's the event the entire castle has been on about for the better part of four days now, a grand feast to celebrate the most recent tournament. The King himself looks resplendent seated upon his chair, head of the table and to his right, the tournament's champion.
It is a bustle of activity without much happening at all. Servants and knights alike are wandering past you, pushing through the hall with lazy gaits, congratulations offered and wine being poured. The young lady beside you smiles, all but glowing in a simple gown of sunshine yellow. Instead of commiserating with you on your latest hardship she
cants her head, comments on the gowns of the ladies of the court. It is a vein of conversation not wholly enthralling, but familiar to you nonetheless- just as your location is. She stands with you, lingering almost in the doorway and her voice fades out like a whisper because your attention falls instead to the scene before you. Each movement, each laugh- the lords and ladies at the banquet look as though the entire ordeal is as practiced as a dance. Folds of rich fabric, silks and satins and velvet and leather, blue, red, violet, imperial gold and each cascade like falling water, paired for some with a billowing cape and for the ladies, with jewels that flicker like stars in the night sky.
Your own gaze drifts downwards, to the silver pitcher in your hands and you realize only then, with a start, that you aren't dressed for the occasion at all. In place of the tunic and trousers you'd always thought ridiculous, there is naught but your ordinary work clothes- brown and faded and dirty, a hole forming just at the elbow. Your head turns right, moves to look at your companion, to ask why your friend hadn't told you about your state of dress before this but in here place is a woman in red.
Dark hair cascades around her face, frames eyes that are frighteningly blue and when you move to jerk away she catches your arm. Her grip is like iron on your arm and she smiles, something hard and cold as the laugh she offers you. "You don't belong with them," She explains, and you know that these are words you've heard before, the sentiment
familiar but no less repulsive. "You aren't one of them, you belong with us. With your true family."
With each word, the warm light of the hall has faded and you find that every breath she's taken has carried you further and further away. The walls have vanished entirely, the stone floor replaced by green grass- coming into focus is a marble altar and you find that you can no more look at the stone there than at the woman's face. Your face turns upward, searching for the chandeliers of the ball room- for the high ceiling and instead the sky opens, covering you with rain.
COMMALA COMMALA COMMALA COMMALA COME
It's still white, all white, from the alabaster- marble- carpet- sand- rock- floor to the alabaster- marble- mural- thatch- sky ceiling. You hold your hands up in front of you and resign yourself to watching the way your fingers bend and stretch.
"Who are you?" Snow White asks, clutching the corner of her dress as she stands.
The world around you, or whatever is left of it, is beginning to slow down. Even your own movements seem too sluggish, every motion made a dragging effort. Forever has come and gone and passed before your half-lidded eyes.
"Can you help me?" Cinderella implores, casting a wary glance at the creatures edging in toward her.
And then one day you have visitors. The creak of a faraway door pricks the lull in your thoughts- but the door's still shut. Footsteps, followed by the low hum and crackle of static, further break up the silence. It's enough to drive a man mad, and sure enough, you feel the rage surge within you. There's confusion there, wariness, fear, but the anger usurps them one by one, until all you have left is your hatred for- for whatever fools have dared to come near the pod. Your emotions escape your control and you glance up toward the shadows that are fast approaching.
"I didn't... mean to do that, honest," Hercules insists, wincing at the mess of broken pillars in front of him.
You reach for something- something your muscles have been trained to hold, but your hand closes in over empty air. You'll have to make do. You crouch down, leaning forward as you estimate how much closer the intruders will have to get for you to strike.
And strike you will.
She's taught you strategy. You watch her weave her spells between the steps of the dance she's putting together, piece by piece. The lines of her body are clean and smooth. Her magic work is impressive. You keep in the shadow of the archway, out of sight. Your gaze roams the castle walls and windows, down and up and back to her. Part of you picks apart her attacks, figuring out ways to dodge or reflect her offensive maneuvers and shatter her defense. Part of you thinks nothing at all and is content to be that quiet. She's never known you're there until the day she breaks routine early, passes under the arch, and stops, eyes wide and blinking. The flush on her cheeks must be from the workout.
She's taught you strategy, you've taught her caution.
She passes by you with a look, but she hasn’t gotten far when she slides back with a heavy crunch. The movement catches your attention, but you're too slow, too impossibly slow. You manage a single step toward her, but she's encased in her armor now. A sliver of her helmet dangles at the side of her head. Her face is visible. Horror and worry keep her blue eyes wide. She cradles something in her arms, but you can't make out what exactly it is. It looks like ice. A boy made of ice.
You turn your back to her and hope everything works out for the best.
"You're up early," you greet the boy over the rim of your mug as you exit the kitchen. You nod in his direction, but your focus never wavers from the closed door at the end of the hallway. He gives chase right off the bat.
"I couldn't sleep. Something big is going to happen today," he declares. You almost manage to suppress the urge to roll your eyes as you finish off the last of the coffee.
When you don't take the bait, he scrambles out ahead of you, walking backwards and keeping right in your way to make sure you're giving him the attention he, for whatever reason, believes he deserves this morning.
"What?" Your response is paired with a hardened gaze that fits your enthusiasm level better than it ever will his.
Not that the blond even tries to glare back. He beams, folding his hands behind his head and grinning ear to ear.
"I'm going to win our training match!"
It stops you in your tracks. You lower your now-empty mug. The motion is enough to bring a flinch to the surface of his absolutely, painstakingly cheerful attitude. You stare him down until the smile falters, just a split second of uncertainty weighing on the upturned corners of his mouth.
"Oh," you answer and shove the mug into his chest, forcing him to unlace his hands and hold it.
"For a moment there, you had me worried."
You pat his shoulder as you move on, but your eyes are off of him and your point is made. So much so, once you've passed through the door and made your way into the light of dawn, you catch yourself smiling. You keep that expression as you stroll over the bridge and the land warps, the wind whistling and rocks rumbling to form a wasteland around you.
You stop before him, arms at your sides. The desert air is stifling, but a light breeze has picked up and it sweeps across your face.
"I believed you'd find your way by now," the Master intones, arms crossed comfortably behind his back.
You don't move as the shell comes and goes and finally speaks, forming words on a tongue too familiar, forming thoughts in a mind too obscure.
"If you give in now, what will become of you?"
You can sense its power, its name, the truth it ushers in with every breath it needn't take. Your eyes screw shut to keep your secret hidden. You're overcome with shame and a more acceptable emotion: absolute hatred. A rage like wild fire tears through your veins, bringing with it a stab of a pain but dashing from your mind the remorse, the unease.
Your heart's been at its lowest ebb for some time now, hasn't it? Now the need for solitude is overbearing. Your concentration is returning, but something else has to give way to make room for it.
Your fingers tighten around the Keyblade's steel hilt again.
Nothing, you growl, lip curling. Nothing and I hate you. I hate you. I hate what you are, I hate what you've done. Nothing but a monster. Nothing but a demon, a ghost of a demon tainted with everything that did not belong to him.
Nothing but the mirror shattered and remade to show false images.
"What do you want?" Comes your next demand. The night doesn't seem all that dark when you open your eyes and stare into the shadows that linger between all that's left and all there ever was.
"Nothing." You've lost them both.
The source of your new strength is enabling the nightmare to fight on. You can't bring yourself to look away as you rush forward and all the effort, all the trying is cut short. The Keys rain down around you as you fall and the ground once so far below rushes up to meet your back. The solid crack of metal on rock knocks the air from your lungs. When you stir again, pushing off the old Keys that pin you down, the darkness overwhelms the broken thoughts left in your mind.
There is nothing left.
And when all is done, so are you.
It was night, when he called for you. It was night when you headed to the library with the blue sky around you and rain pelting the windows. It was night and you breathed in the smoke of the candles.
"Master," you said, and you weren't bowing but bent, bent with your head in your hands. The pain was terrible, more than you could be expected to bear. And it wasn't night at all, at least not for long. Blue gave way to gold and red. The light of day slanted in through windows still mottled by raindrops. The light marked the floor with intricate, haunting patterns, blue and yellow, white and black. They danced before your downcast eyes, leaving bright spots swimming in your vision.
The pain brought you down to your knees.
Your Master was oblivious to your and their torment. He stood with his back to you, but when you managed to lift your head, you couldn't be sure it was him at all. There were a dozen men there, turned away, paging through dusty tomes of various sizes and colors. Some cradled the books in their hands, others laid them out on the tables and desks and shelves situated in front of them. The walls, once lined with shelves of books, began to fade.
"What do you know of the Unversed?" Your Master's voice escaped a face that wasn't his.
You braced yourself on one arm, dug your fingers into your temple.
"Everything," you heard the answer- in your voice, too- and you twisted around in time to watch the image of yourself approach you, pass through you, and stride on toward what was and wasn't and never would be your Master.
"I'm tired of waiting for you," he extends his arms and holds them out, gesturing for your acquiesce.
The intruders come to a stop exactly one step outside your chosen strike zone. It's close enough now, but the figures are still an inky blur. You squint to see past the glaze. Two strangers, too fools. Maybe they're lost. The echo of footsteps doesn't begin until they've stopped moving and the disconnection is jarring enough to keep you from attacking. The strangers' outfits are also unnerving. They're both dressed in black, black like your own robes, but the fabric catches the light and silver tassels decorate the material.
"Are there any clues of his whereabouts?" She calls up to you as you start down the staircase.
"Stop," the first one says and you recognize the voice, and the figure, as that of a girl. What you can't be sure of is whether she's addressing you or her accomplice.
"Just because someone's stronger, that doesn't make them the right one," he argues, rubbing his forehead and looking at the helmet you left on your bed.
"What is it?" Something within the other voice draws your attention, snapping your eyes up to lock on a face too shadowed. There’s nothing there for you to recognize, not yet, but you get to your feet, straightening up and squaring your shoulders. The other, most certainly a man, glances between you and the girl.
"I think I know you," someone is saying but they're so far away, "I think you know me, too... And you called him a friend. Maybe we all knew each other."
He laughs, a soft, puzzling noise. Your molars grind at the sound.
"You're making a big mistake," he speaks out from under the visor that covers his face, "But I don't have to tell you that, do I?"
"He won’t hurt you," you hear the man say slowly, carefully. There's too much confidence in those words. The girl shakes her head and the silver bits on her coat clink.
"Leave him alone! You aren't helping!" The mouse glares at you as though you're the reason the man hunched over in the snow is fading away, vanishing into thin air.
"You’re right," she replies, rubbing at her arm as she manages a single step toward you, "It’s just..."
"You idiot!" He yells, right after he hits you. His hands latch on to the edges of your armor as he continues shouting. It's a shame he's wrong.
You shift as she draws closer and unconsciously find yourself stepping back, giving her room. The chains are suddenly very heavy and you're admittedly very tired. The man moves at her side, but he's obviously not concerned about your presence or the threat you might pose. Not in the same way she is.
"Those with no darkness in their hearts, seven of pure light," the tone of the witch's voice draws your attention: she knows what it is she's talking about, "If they're collected, the whole world would be in one's possession. Not just this world, but all of the outside worlds, as well."
"What?" You think to ask, but the man speaks the word for you and sounds terribly impatient.
"It's a lie." As you lunge for the man in the black coat, the white rushes up and over, stealing away the prison- castle- desert- forest- beach- room. You stumble forward into the open space, looking around for your intended target. They're gone. They're all gone. You've lost them. All that's left in a sputtering swirl of darkness nearby. It's worth the risk. If nothing else, you have to get back to the pod. You pass on through the portal and step out.
Green washes over the white. Green and pink, orange and brown. Alice curtsies at your side and skips away, a pitch black rabbit at her side, but your attention is fixed on the long table in front of you, set with fine china dishes and vines covered in thorns.
"More sugar, dear?" Maleficent inquires and Zelda nods politely, holding out her cup. The raven Diablo neatly dispenses two drops of what might be ink into the Would-be Queen's tea.
"You can't go wrong with sugar. Got that memorized?" Axel's advice is given with a grin that reminds you of snakes and madmen. Claire seems blissfully unaware of the fact that he's spooning something that looks more like ashes than sugar into her cup.
"They never give me any sugar," Pete drags his heels as he passes you by and takes a seat by the table.
"All hearts crave sugar. All hearts need sugar," a sixth participant, hiding his face under a glass helmet, holds his cup up, "To sugar!"
He breaks off his toast as he notices you and rises to his feet.
"Master," you can hear the smile in his voice, "So glad you could join us." He bows.
You hold your hands up in front of you and resign yourself to watching the way your fingers bend and stretch under his still white, all white gloves.
The man smiles and chuckles, picking you up and placing you back on his shoulders. The people return to their homes, lay down, and sleep once more, the sleep of the comatosed and the entranced. The Castle's doors close, the Lux shuts down, and Thorn ceases activity.
Bouncing you on his shoulder, he hums once more. He hums and hums, and you hum along.
"Stray Dog walks the streets each day,
Collecting peas as he walks to and fro
Big peas, small peas,
Every which kind of pea.
Come Monday, he finds a pea.
Come Tuesday, he bags the pea.
Come Wednesday, he shows the pea to his son.
Come Thursday, the pea kicks and screams.
Come Friday, he grinds up the pea.
Come Saturday, he buries the pea outside.
The pea is in the ground,
And by Sunday, it can't be found.
Good night, young pea."
And they all awaken, whispering the same: "...Good night, young pea."