Your name is Dave Strider, and you are staring into the face of Death itself. Death looks an awful lot like a ragged, mutant dog-bird-thing in clashing, brightly-colored fabric that could very nearly be considered ironic, and oh my fucking god are those your brother's shades no that would be impossible because Bro never loses his shades and there goes the flash of light reflecting off of a blade and there is nothing you can
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are supposed to be making sure that tall, skinny douchebag doesn't make off with some pretty important gear. Unfortunately, said tall, skinny douchebag is faster than you expected, even faster than Bro (is that possible it shouldn't be possible how is that possible) and he sure as hell isn't pulling his punches to slap you with the flat of the blade if you can't get a passable defense up in time and there is nothing you can
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are melting. You cannot think for the overwhelming heat that envelops you. There is nothing left to think about. Someone is screaming above the roar of the flame, and you are in no condition to realize that it is your own voice. You are a supernova burning out too hot, too fast, too young, too soon, and there is nothing left for you to do but throw your head back and let it consume you, there is nothing you can
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are holding the corpse of your best friend in your arms. There is so much you should have said to him, so much you could have done, so much you could have prevented. How could you have let this happen? What the fuck were you doing when you should have been stopping him? If you had just dropped him a line, asked him what the hell was going on, what the plan was, then maybe this could have all been avoided, but it's too late now, there is nothing you can
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are pretty sure that, no, this time you really are staring into the face of Death itself, and it's a metric fuckload more terrifying than you anticipated. That is a straight up motherfucking demon and you can feel time itself warping and fluctuating around it, and then it opens its mouth to scream but that is most certainly not a standard fucking scream and there is just enough time left for you to step in front of your best friend because there is nothing you can
Your name is Dave Strider, and for one sick, disorienting, agonizing second, you can't remember which Dave Strider you are
and
there
is
nothing
you
can
someone is
here
warmth
arms
real
john
is
here
stay here
be
real
He is saying something, very quietly. You cannot hear him. It doesn't matter. What matters is the voice itself. The softness of it. The warmth and inflection. Soothing. Steadying.
Real.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are a tainted god. A twisted idol. You were once powerful, and now you have very nearly fallen into madness because your power was too great to bear.
There is a hand on your shoulder. For a moment you can't remember who it belongs to. You don't know where you are. Something is wrong. It's too quiet. It can't be this quiet. The roaring tumult in your head is going to deafen you in this silence. The voice is too soft to drown it out.
The hand squeezes gently, and the roaring clicks off, as though he had found the mute button, leaving naught but echoing silence in its wake.
Your name is Dave Strider, and for you, the line between dream, memory, and reality is fuzzy at best. You don't remember all at once. If you did, you would have been driven quite insane a long time ago. Instead you remember in flashes. Memories that are false. Fantasies that are true. Dreams that are real. Nightmares that are intimately, inescapably yours.
He is still speaking quietly. His fingers knead at the muscles in your shoulder. He should be asleep, some part of your mind whispers, he is always asleep, though you never remember being careful not to wake him. You are never in your right mind when you find yourself here—except you are not here at all, you are beginning to realize very slowly, slowly but surely as the voice continues to roll over you and the warmth works its way into your bones.
He came to you this time. God only knows how he knew. Maybe you screamed and woke him. Maybe you didn't. The details are irrelevant. He is here now. His words are low and gentle, soft against the raw pain in your skull, and you fall into them eagerly, closing eyes you hadn't realized were wide open and staring into nothing.
"It's alright, Dave. It's okay. This is real. Everything is okay."
He repeats himself over and over, the babbling stream of syllables more soothing in sound than the actual context of the words. You are in no position to process context right now. Maybe tomorrow, when you wake up and your mind is once more functioning in some semblance of coherence. Right now what you need is this warmth. You need the skilled fingers that ease the knots out of your shoulders, pushing them away with practiced ease. You need the familiarity, the safety, that radiate from him and swirl around you like a calming breeze.
When you sleep again, you feel him beside you. You know he will not leave you.
The nightmares do not trouble you again.