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It's cold.
Colors swirl in Briar's eyes. No, not colors. No colors here.
It's so cold.
Endless white corridors stretch in every direction, flickering with black shadows. Briar searches for something, anything, to tell him what to do, where to go. Nothing is solid.
He longs for the sun, the sky, the wind howling in his ear. He longs for warmth. For color.
He longs for life.
At the Institution, life is a luxury. Here, life is a luxury.
This is a dream.
The realization comes as a whisper. This is a dream. He's not really here. But why is he here?
The dream changes. It's cold, so cold. The smell of blood is sharp and vivid.
He's in a room, an oh-so-familiar room. There's a boy, oh-so-familiar, curled in the corner. Briar hears Oscar's screams and feels his pain and his heart weeps. Adriel is dead. Matthias is dead.
Briar is dead, and it's all his fault.
These aren't your thoughts, The dream whispers. These aren't your memories.
I'm a coward.
The words are a whisper and an echo and a scream all at once, in the way that only dreams can accomplish. They brush against the dream like a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage.
Memories. Oscar's memories.
You died for nothing, Briar. Iām alone.
No. I'm still here.
Speaking to the not-quite-a-dream is an effort in futility. Briar has no presence here, no power here. The dream frays along its edges but remains, unchanging. Oscar remains, hurting, hurting.
Footsteps, oh-so-familiar, shake the dream. Briar trembles and Oscar stills- one, terrified, the other, relieved. Each crack of a heel on hard stone cracks the dream, until a doorknob turns and Oscar resigns himself to death, for what fate is worse than a life of guilt and solitude?
Colors swirl in Briar's eyes. No, not colors. No colors here.
It's so cold.
Endless white corridors stretch in every direction, flickering with black shadows. Briar searches for something, anything, to tell him what to do, where to go. Nothing is solid.
He longs for the sun, the sky, the wind howling in his ear. He longs for warmth. For color.
He longs for life.
At the Institution, life is a luxury. Here, life is a luxury.
This is a dream.
The realization comes as a whisper. This is a dream. He's not really here. But why is he here?
The dream changes. It's cold, so cold. The smell of blood is sharp and vivid.
He's in a room, an oh-so-familiar room. There's a boy, oh-so-familiar, curled in the corner. Briar hears Oscar's screams and feels his pain and his heart weeps. Adriel is dead. Matthias is dead.
Briar is dead, and it's all his fault.
These aren't your thoughts, The dream whispers. These aren't your memories.
I'm a coward.
The words are a whisper and an echo and a scream all at once, in the way that only dreams can accomplish. They brush against the dream like a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage.
Memories. Oscar's memories.
You died for nothing, Briar. Iām alone.
No. I'm still here.
Speaking to the not-quite-a-dream is an effort in futility. Briar has no presence here, no power here. The dream frays along its edges but remains, unchanging. Oscar remains, hurting, hurting.
Footsteps, oh-so-familiar, shake the dream. Briar trembles and Oscar stills- one, terrified, the other, relieved. Each crack of a heel on hard stone cracks the dream, until a doorknob turns and Oscar resigns himself to death, for what fate is worse than a life of guilt and solitude?