“It was just a dream!” [ Samcroft ]
Send me “It was just a dream!” to wake my muse from a nightmare.(always accepting)
The armor is thick, and weighs his limbs down, though the sky blue cape behind him billows in the wind. He recognizes this place; he recognizes the shouting and the screaming, the acrid, burning scent of gunpowder and the boom of cannon fire, the feeling of magick bursting out, sounds of metal clashing together and hundreds of feet and hooves trampling the ground beneath them. His sword is heavy in his hand. People are around him– people he hasn’t seen in centuries, their normally smiling, kind faces all anger and determination and righteous fury. He doesn’t have much more time to recollect, because there’s forces swarming him now. And he fights, and he fights, and he maims, and he kills, and he hates himself for doing it, but he must, even though every single inch of him is screaming to stop, he has to keep going. He has to do what he couldn’t before; he has to save, he has to protect, he has to keep everyone safe, just for a moment, just for a little while longer–
And then he’s on the ground, his face mashed into the earth, his limbs rendered useless by meaty hands. And, he realizes with terror, he remembers this. Oh gods, oh gods, he can’t be living this again, he just can’t–
But the bandits flip him over roughly, pinning him to the ground, and he thrashes, trying to escape, and his mouth tries to make sound but it can’t, and his heart is trying to escape out of his chest, it’s pounding and he’s terrified because they’re jeering at him, laughing at him, taunting, “look at the pretty witch boy squirm… Her Highness is being selfish, keeping all this power to herself… she won’t mind us borrowing some, will she now?” And then an iron collar is forced onto him, and it burns, and the magick in him reacts violently, flaring up as it’s freezing and draining out of him, his life force is draining away… His sword, where’s his sword? Why can’t he move, why can’t he breathe? He continues to struggle, he’s burning, and there’s just raucous laughter and crackling wood… That isn’t right…
Now there’s flames everywhere and the booming voice of the King, “For being found guilty of practicing the arcane arts, unlawful and expressly forbidden in our lands, this warlock is hereby sentenced to execution!” But he’s not a warlock, and there’s another face in the flames… oh Gods, oh GODS, oh please, please, NO, not him, anybody but him, take me instead, take ME, PLEASE!–
His eyes flew open, and he’s breathing raggedly, far too fast, and his heart’s pounding, and his eyes glassy as he looked around, every inch of him trembling. Electric blue eyes found a face in the dark, the same face that was only a few moments ago– No, it was too horrible. It couldn’t possibly be him, he had to be… this must be an illusion, and he’d have to find a way to make it last forever…
Stupidly, he reached a hand out to his cheek anyway, expecting to find only air, but instead, his hand was met with solid, warm, familiar skin.
“…Ash…” he whispered, half wretchedly, in a choked tone, before burying his face into his chest and grasped onto whatever he could reach. His whole body was shaking, his breaths still hard, and he wasn’t crying yet, but his eyes squeezed shut. “...I’m sorry...” What for, he didn’t know; waking him or letting him die, or perhaps both.
