The dream draws him in like the undertow, water filling his lungs and boiling his flesh, and there is a laughter ringing ringing ringing in his ears, soft and gentle and kind.
He Rises
It has been watching him, this laugh, and Kostya drowns face down, face up, eyes staring into the sun until then bubble and burn, the eat drawing lines into his flesh and divvy his body for the slaughter. One part rump roast, two parts chuck, the rest is spoiled. The rest is sullied. The rest has yet to be purged clean, bathed in acid in the name of our Herald, in the name of, in the name of, in the name of.
He Calls
The weapon is silent, the weapon is a tool and tools that do not work get replaced. Upgraded. Forgotten. Enhance the user. The water hisses against his skin and crackles against the red lines under his skin, corruption drawn and visible, gleaming with sorrow and fuelled by enmity. The sky is rough brocade and velvet, stars sewn into it the flesh, needles pricking his skin to sew in the patches and they ignore his screams.
In Dreams We
This is not just a dream, he knows, and the presence that has weighed upon him, that has burned its way through his neck, that has watched him across the globe and across two worlds, is here. It is watching, and it is waiting, and Kostya opens his mouth to scream because he is a terrified rabbit in the jaws of a predator with four rows of teeth and as many eyes. The eyes glow red. The red sings sweetly. The melody is a reminder to what he owes, a reminder to the tithe he must pay with his
memories by being here.
Rise to His Call
Who are you, who are you, and the voice does not answer because there is still so much to prove, and only the most loyal of dogs are rewarded with their treats. There is all the time in the world and Kostya feels the sands of a thousand hourglasses slip out from beneath him, burying him in the grains and the bodies beneath him give way. There are hands on his ankles and ankles around his ears and the disgusting slide of flesh to flesh and it dawns, the realisation dawns, the realisation swarms his every atom and fiber and cell.
The Nightmare
He does not have to be afraid. There is wind in his hair and he stands atop a cliff, below him is pikes and above him is a ceiling pressing down and there are walls closing in and the sun is bright green. There is a cliff and the only way out is down, and the eyes are watching him, measuring, counting, judging, but that isn't new. He has been measured like a racehorse for some time: How big are his arms. How much space around his teeth. How much is he willing to bear before it is too much and the loyalty vanishes.
Before
There is only one answer, to the question that isn't being asked. Kostya isn't smart but he's sharp enough to not play pretend. There is no room for lies. His bones crack under the pressure of make a choice, do the right thing, do the only thing you know how to do. He knows he has to jump but he doesn't know how high, but the insistence is there. The spikes grow longer. There are severed bodies beneath, there are ruined corpses below, there are butterflies that kiss his cheek and beg for him to go.
The Nightmare
Kostya jumps and the pain is all too real, and the single moment is multiplied. The single moment is magnified. The pain is eternal and the separation of his spine is magnificent, a glory that should be witnessed again and again and again, and he does. He closes his eyes and sees his body dying on repeat, on repeat, on repeat, on repeat. Organs spilling and the spikes running blood red and black with an ichor that seeps from his eyes and mouth. And, still, the requiem plays in a fever pitch and wings of hands from beneath cradle him, lifting him off the spikes and his body is in two three four seven pieces, held together by gristle and not even the slightest ounce of regret.
To Come
The hands put him back together and the ichor seals his wounds, and on his face is a smile, gentle and beatific. He has passed. The loyalty has been tested and the years of pain endured in a single moment are made worthwhile. He has passed. What test, he doesn't know, the details remain insignificant, and nothing is beautiful and everything hurts.
He has passed.We Serve
Kostya knows there will be a gift, soon, even if it is not one that he remembers receiving. Touch is what others should fear from his hand. He may suffer and he may die, but touch is now another tool in his arsenal, a method of delivery for maladies to be gifted unto others. Pain is not the enemy. Wounds are the balm. Sickness is the health. Torture is the kindest thing to give to those you love.
The Return
He wakes up.
