Author's Notes: Soooooo... I really really really love writing dreams. I also really really really love writing horror. I also really really reaaaaaaaaaally love combining these two things together into nightmares that would put Freddy Krueger to shame (or so I like to think, lol.) I know I already mentioned that the chapters would start getting darker, but I still want to give another heads up. I have a pretty vivid imagination and a lot of issues to try and work through, so when I write things like this I tend to get really descriptive. No pulling punches, you know? So there's a few warnings I'd like to put out there. They include: major internalized homophobia and sexism, homophobic terminology, horror, blood (lots of blood), death, decay, emetophobia, disturbing elements, nightmare fuel, etcetera etcetera. Basically, it's all kinds of fucked up and I want y'all to be aware of that so you don't get unexpectedly triggered.

For more notes from yours truly, check the bottom of the page.


Crimson eyes flutter open to the sound of deafening silence, widening in fear and confused desperation as they take in the heart-stopping sight of a destroyed Ikebukuro. The scarlet-flooded battleground seems to stretch in every direction, nothing but rotting bodies and severed limbs for what must have been miles. He pushes himself up, grimacing in disgust when his palm squishes into something moist and cold and disgusting.

He doesn't want to think about what it might be.

He wipes the offending mush off onto his dirt-covered pants and shakily tries to stand, his legs and arms as weak as jelly. The smell of death and decay is overwhelmingly strong, the vile stench torturing his nostrils. He surveys the scene, trying to find even the slightest sign of life among the sea of corpses- but there's nothing, not a single twitch of a finger or groan of pain no matter how much he's starting to wish for one.

He takes a step forward, pausing when something crunches under his foot. It doesn't sound like bone- it sounds like metal, or glass, or plastic. Something manmade. He looks down hesitantly, his blood running cold when he recognizes the familiar pair of specs his friend (his only friend) has worn since high school.

Had.

"No... no no no no no..."

But he's already caught sight of the scarlet-stained lab coat, already caught sight of the shiny steel stethescope, already caught sight of the way Shinra's body lies limp and lifeless on the mud-soaked earth. He backs away quickly- too quickly- tripping over his own feet and landing on his ass next to yet another horrifyingly familiar face.

No. Not just one.

Two.

Two faces. Two horrifyingly identical faces, as still and expressionless as a pair of twin dolls.

You were supposed to protect them.

He does the only thing he knows how to do...

...he runs.

He runs and runs and runs until his throat is dry and his lips are chapped and his lungs are burning, his feet growing heavier and heavier every time they slam against the ground. It feels like he's moving through molasses, slow and thick and suffocating. He can't breathe. He needs to breathe. He doesn't want to die.

He sees it then, a sparkling crystal pond that sticks out from the rest of the ruined city like a glimmering diamond surrounded by nothing but dirt and shit. A statue of a winged woman stands almost ominously in the middle, as if guarding the sky-blue waters; his common sense is screaming at him not to go any closer, but he's too thirsty and tired to resist the temptation of the strange urban oasis. He just wants to survive. He just wants to exist.

He falls to his knees at the pond's edge and greedily to gulp at the water. It's cool, and crisp, and clear... it's everything he had hoped for and more, quenching his thirst and drawing life back into his limbs and resolve back into his bones. He could do this. He could get handle this. He could-

There's a flash of something out in the water that immediately draws his attention, something bright and colorful and shimmering. It takes him a second to realize it's a koi fish. It takes him another second to realize it's a dead koi fish.

Eyes are the window to the soul.

The koi's are like black holes, dark and empty and hollow. His stomach starts to churn, fear and repulsion sending icy shivers down his back. Another flash catches his attention... then another, and another, and another, as more koi start to bob and float to the surface. They stain the pond a nasty shade of red, their beady lifeless eyes watching as he keels over and empties his stomach of its now-bloody contents. He wants to scream, but his voice catches in his throat and chokes him until panic has him on his feet and running again.

You can't escape yourself.

He's not expecting a corpse to grab his ankle- he can't regain his footing in time to stop it from yanking him down, more hands grabbing at his arms and legs and wrists and whatever else they can get a hold on. He fights- of course he fights- but he's exhausted and he hurts and he's scared. They pin him down and tear at his hair and clothes, exposing bare skin mottled with ugly bruises and savage teeth marks.

You can't even escapehim.

The statue is suddenly looming over him, only now he can see her for what she truly is. He giggles deliriously as his valkyrie casually takes off her head and tucks it under her arm like it was the winged helm it wore.

Do you honestly think someone like you can go to Valhalla?

His manic laughter turns into screams when jagged teeth rip into his throat, poisoning him with a pitch-black venom that flows like acid through his veins. He struggles desperately, clawing and kicking and flailing until he's able to wrench free and make a break for it. He doesn't bother looking back to see if any of them are following. He doesn't want to know if they are.

Someone that's a liar.

There's a brightly shining rainbow ahead, a stark contrast to the dark world he's fleeing from. It draws him in like a moth to a flame, the promise of something existing beyond this hellish warground igniting a spark of hope in his heart.

Someone that's a coward.

He sprints up the rainbow like a child sprints up a slide, slipping on the slick surface as he tries to climb high above the putrid masses. He kicks his shoes off, bare feet gripping better than the soles of his boots.

Someone that's weak.

The same shadowy darkness coating his skin begins to leak into the arc's vibrant hues, the blight corrupting and corroding its colors until they begin to crack and crumble underneath his weight. Fear has him clambering franticly up the slope towards the stormy clouds above, nails scraping painfully against the flawlessly smooth expanse when he loses his balance and starts to skid backwards towards the death and devastation below.

You know, we have a word for people like you.

The black rainbow shatters and he screams in terror as he suddenly finds himself plummeting to the ground, a sickeningly soft pile of corpses cushioning his fall. A fleeting feeling of relief is immediately snuffed out by countless cold hands slowly dragging him down into the writhing mess of faceless bodies, his vision blurring as he starts to suffocate under the dead weight.

Argr.

She stares down at him as he struggles uselessly for freedom, her ethereally beautiful face distorted by scorn and revulsion. The slur appears like a brand on his chest, searing his skin with a white-hot agony that has salty tears stinging his cheeks.

It hurts, doesn't it? The truth.

He doesn't answer. He can't answer. He's too exhausted, his mind fading in and out of consciousness.

So why don't you do your precious humans a favor...

He chokes out one last bitter, defeated laugh.

...and just stop existing.

He closes his eyes and lets the whole world go black.


Author's notes: Old Norse culture had a love/hate relationship with homosexuality. It was perfectly fine to have sex with another man if you were the "active" partner... however, if you were the "passive" partner, you might as well have given yourself a social (and possibly even a literal) death sentence. There was a very heavy focus on strength and self-reliance when it came to personal honor and ethics; the Nords believed that a man that allowed himself to be used sexually was too weak and cowardly to fight his own battles or make his own decisions, and was therefore unworthy of the same rights and respect as everyone else. The term argr means "unmanly, cowardly, and effeminate" and was one of several insults used to describe men who acted (whether willingly or not) as the "woman" during homosexual intercourse. To be argr was so shameful that it was legitimately okay to fucking kill someone for falsely accusing you of it. What's more, if you didn't attempt to defend yourself and deny the accusation, they would assume that meant it was true and you'd get fucking outlawed. Outlawed. Since the Vikings believed only warriors who died in battle could enter Valhalla, it stands to reason that they wouldn't consider anyone argr to be worthy of joining them in the afterlife. At least... that's my take on it.