Dream the Second
There was a spider. Crawling on the wall.
Small and black. A black widow?
He didn't know.
But something was very wrong.
It was cold in the room. Cold and dark and definitely lonely. Colder, for the fact that his costume was ripped in several places. And he was chained to the table. A cold, stone table.
A figure stood above him, hooded, dark, chanting. Somehow… somehow he knew that it whatever was under that black cloak was not human.
Trolls.
No. No, no, no, not again. This wasn't happening. This wasn't right. It didn't look right. The room, it wasn't big enough, there was no ceremonial pyre, burning, no army of trolls. There should not be chains, he should not even be conscious…
But yes. He was back there, again. And he was, in fact, unconscious, eyes closed. But he could see himself, somehow. As if watching from outside. And this time, there was no Alpha Flight reserve team coming for him.
He knew that. He knew what was happening, suddenly, and that he would not be saved. This time it was the end.
So dark. So cold.
Good god, why couldn't he wake up?!
He watched, raging, impotent, and terrified all at once. The figure looked upward, arms raised, and slowly backed away from him, having finished his chant. His own disembodied gaze followed the troll's and he saw it… a pendulum.
No. No this is not right. This isn't how it happened!
How what happened? It's happening now.
With sick fascination, he watched the wicked blade of the think make its huge swipes. Back. And forth. Slowly sinking closer and closer to his body.
Wake up, wake up, wake UP!
But it didn't matter. He knew he wouldn't. No. He would be forced to watch as the shining thing sliced him in half, little by little. Would be still be able to see, when they began the feast?
Sickness, rising up in him.
No. Not possible. This is not me, it didn't happen like this.
The panic. The absolute horror of knowing that it's going to end. And that it's going to end painfully.
He would never see anyone again. No one that he loved. Most of them had gone before, but if he could just… see her… tell her…
He felt the air move, as it lowered, a mere foot from his abdomen. Felt it go by in a nauseating whoosh. Oh god. Why was it so cold…
A spider. It crawled over his leg, he could feel it tickling. It rushed up him, over his belly, onto his chest. He could feel its legs through the fabric of his torn costume. A spider.
And the hooded figure was still watching him, from below.
Ayez la pitié! Have mercy! Why must be watch this?! Why must he see it?!
This was not right. It had not happened like this! No!
Another whoosh of cold air over his midsection. The blade snagged his costume, this time. He was cut. Just barely. He could feel the blood, in a razor-straight line across his stomach.
He was cut. God, oh god, he was cut.
And he was about to watch himself, feel himself die.