The world told me once that monsters do not dream.
The thought was well reasoned, after all dreams were far to human to be had by monsters. So what of nightmares then? No, the sleep of a monster is dreamless and fearless, the world told me. Fears and Dreams are human things.
My dreams came slowly, as if from the outer edges of my consciousness. If I was determined I could ignore them more often than not. Then the dreams changed. The darkness came first, then the blood. I dreamed of horror, I dreamed of pain. In the light I led my people straight. The path to safety and salvation is supposed to be straight. That is what the world had told me. But while leading my people though that path of safety my own hands were stained beyond repair.
My dreams became nightmares. The weight of my fears crushed me as the blood on my hands thickened. Eventually I could not recall their original form or color.
I looked back once and saw my people suffering. So I trudged on determined to bear the pain for them.
I cannot tell you when they noticed. I do not know. But the whispers came to me slowly and then surrounded me quickly. They called me strange at first, unnatural and odd. Then I became inhuman to them and soon I was a monster. Cold and harsh, unforgiving and capable of terrible destruction.
They call me Wanheda now.
The Commander of Death