Chapter Text
When the vibrantly glowing flames of fire licked at the covered sky, they always threw shadows of dancing silhouettes onto the scrappy, ash darkened walls, revealing a story of twirling souls intertwined, swaying across the dry and limited space provided, performing within the bounds of a humble home, yet spinning and spinning until the flames got lower, eventually burning out and leaving nothing but scorching cinder and the faint memory of one last, hopeful pirouette.
Clay watched as the fiery orange and red hid behind a blanket of darkness, softly glowing beneath veiled remnants of a lively maestro. He watched as the shadows casted across the walls disappeared into thin air — watched as the room got colder and the faint sounds of cackling slowly faded from his ears, no longer a melody of comfort but the echo of inevitable fate.
His eyes searched for the remedy of flaming hot fire, and his soul mourned the loss of everlasting warmth as he felt goosebumps rise on his fair skin, his body freezing up and his arms coming up to cover himself under the false pretence of a loving embrace — a soft promise of safety and the reassurance of a gently beating heart beside him, full of nothing but kindness and infallible forgiveness.
Clay was alone in this world — alone underneath the hidden vastness of a night sky full of shimmering stars, and the empty loneliness within his heart only amplified the bitterness of the cold, only made him tighten the grip around his own frame, chasing the feeling of a love he’d never be able to be at the receiving end of, ever again.
They were coming for him, he could hear the approach of distant footsteps on solid, already tenderly frozen ground. He could hear the leaves crunching and hear sticks breaking. The walls around him served as no protection, neither from them, nor the cold. A force was getting closer to his silently shaking frame — footsteps were nearing the walls they’d not even have to break down in order to get to him.
It was so, so cold, but Clay felt like he was burning alive. The sharp pain in his eyes burned behind his eyelids, burned underneath his skin and burned deeply inside of his constricted throat. A warm, too hot and smouldering line of something flowed through his veins instead of blood — it was ripping at his seams, tearing at his soul.
Clay didn’t dare speak, nor did he dare look up. He feared to be confronted with the faces of people he once loved, still did. He feared to look at them and only feel the pain, only watch as tears would blur his vision, until their eyes, nose and lips would be nothing but a painting of grey, stone-like expressions — lack of emotion and love irrevocably immortalized in an icy statue of no care, no familiarity.
“They are right.”
Clay listened, body unmoving and breath hitched, as the noises outside got louder, as the footsteps on the ground seemed to disturb the quiet peace of nature, seemed to make the earth roar. It was too loud in his ears, it hurt, it hurt so much to listen to the crescendo of doom, unable to do anything, unable to say a word because not a lie, not the truth would be able to slip past his dry, quivering lips.
“Yes, they are right to think this about you, Clay. You are evil — a bad spirit.”
He was vile — a looming shadow on the top of a tree, looking down upon the hearts of innocent people, desiring to reach out and tug at their heartstrings, tie them together, watch them bleed out with eyes begging for mercy and mouths open in one last prayer. He was foul — wishing nothing but the worst upon the good, taunting the gods above, painting over their divine grace with odious intent.
But Clay was none of that — he had never felt any of the things people accused him of. He had never done anything bad, had never hurt a soul, but he was evil, he was a demon. He had come into the lives of his people and had made them miserable, and for that alone, he believed the punishment he had to face was justifiable. It had to be.
“Why did you have to come into our family? Why did you have to use my son’s body to live out your life? Couldn’t you have chosen someone else?”
Clay’s tongue burned with the desire to beg for forgiveness, beg for mercy and for acceptance. An atrocious taste of guilt was all he could taste, all he could think about as he continued to feel his entire body ignite with something he was not able to comprehend, nor did he wish to. But the emotion flickering beneath his pale skin ached, it ached everywhere Clay was aware of, and unsaid words lay on his hurting tongue — words he did not know the meaning of, but hoped would make all of this stop, would put an end to the continuous paroxysm of agony pushing past his bodily borders, past his humanly limits.
“Clay, they’re waiting. I cannot reason with them — I don’t even know if I should. Please tell us the truth, say it and we can maybe help in some way.”
He could not be helped, not now, not ever. He was evil, the spawn of something so vile, nobody could truly understand him, nor his mission on this earth. Clay did not understand it himself, nor would he ever begin to. It was not within his sphere of comprehension, nor theirs. He was an appalling oddity — a rotten fruit amongst fresh ones, nested in a neatly knit basket.
Clay was helpless — weak and small he was, at heart, at core. Unable to move his limbs, unable to lift his hands to defend his honour, or perhaps beg for mercy. He was unable to meet the eyes of his loved ones, unable to face the harsh truth of an affectionless stare within their gaze, too fragile not to break at the smallest of motions.
“I understand.”
Nobody understood. An evil curse was not meant to be recognized by a mere human, nor was it supposed to be forgiven. If you were born with one, then you must have done something wrong. If you continued to live as you were, if you did not denounce your foul ways, you damned yourself.
Clay didn’t know what he had done to be wrong — he did not understand why it had to be him. Did not know why his mother no longer loved him, why his sister looked at him with fear. Did not understand why his father seemed to be aching, trying to hold onto the hope that perhaps, all of this was merely a bad dream. That perhaps, his son was still his son.
“I need to protect my family.”
Clay would never be part of a family again. Perhaps, he never was in the first place. A cursed fool he was, nothing more, nothing less. He had brought this upon himself somehow, even if he did not know how he had done it. He must have forgotten, for sure — he must have consciously made the choice to defy the good, to defy the nature of a human and chase abominable temptation.
“I am sorry, Clay. I truly am.”
His father had a good heart. He was someone whose soul shone brighter than the sun, whose eyes had stardust in them, and whose all-encompassing love never wavered, no matter if there was someone respectable on the receiving end, or a sinner.
A sinner like Clay.
“You are not my son anymore.”
He never had been. A son like Clay could not be born from a father like him — a monster could not stem from a humble man.
“Clay, why do you not change? I look older than you.”
His sister’s face was youthful, but the years had left their marks on her. Worry lines and shadows of wrinkles, sleepless nights under her eyes and echoes of soothing words on her chapped lips. She was a mother also, to three beautiful children — her body bore a warmth that Clay could never possess himself. Her goodness shone as bright as day when her children cried in her arms and she brushed their soft hair out of their faces, whispering words of love into the crowns of their heads, arms protecting them from all harm, from the cold, from the evil. She had grown from being so small, her hand would easily disappear in the large one of her father’s, into perfectly fitting there whenever she helped him get from one place to another — his aging body giving up on him, caving in and causing each breath to be harder, each step heavier.
Clay never changed.
“I will never forgive you for what you’ve done to us — to me, to your father and your sister. I hope to never see you again.”
His mother’s usually vibrant, blonde hair had greyed as the years had gone by. Her posture had slumped and her pace weakened. Her face had sunk in, her eyes had dimmed, and her smile had faded. She had grown old, had let the years catch up to her, spending most of her days outside, doing all the work she still could with her fading eyesight and hearing. She worked hard every single day and let the years treat her as nicely as they could — she stood her ground and did not allow them to knock her down. She remained graceful, despite the hours of worries, and her skin grew thicker with each new day, each new hardship, each new hushed whisper about her cursed son.
Clay never changed.
“Leave.”
And there was nothing else left to do.
Clay listened as the footsteps approached their door, heard a demanding fist banging on the wood, and he let himself be grounded in the moment as the footsteps of his family rushing to the front overshadowed the ones outside. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of their voices for one last time, and he pretended to hear their delighted laughter, pretended that the last he’d ever hear from them was something kind, something loving and achingly reminiscent of a past where everything was alright — before they had started to get suspicious, before the town had begun to teach him that he was not human, and that he did not belong amongst them.
Clay did not look at his mother, nor his father or sister. He did not focus on what they were saying, he wasn’t sure they were even saying anything at all. He knew what expression his mother was probably wearing, knew that his sister was shielding her children behind her pinafore, and he knew his father was still hoping he’d tell them all the truths he did not know.
The fire had burned out — the dance of silhouettes had ceased. There was no more warmth, no more comfort, within the walls of the place Clay used to call his home.
There was no point in mourning when in only a short while, all he could mourn would be the loss of something he wasn’t sure he was ever supposed to be graced with.
Clay felt the piercing sensation of icy air hit his reddened cheeks and sensed a shock travel through his body as he trembled under the intense loss of false security. The air around him was too tight, too open, there weren’t enough barriers to keep him inside, to secure him. He was out in the open — just within reach of the people he desired to ask for forgiveness, but couldn’t, since he did not know the words to begin to delineate.
Clay deserved this — that had to be the case.
Everything in the world changed — seasons, emotions, people. During autumn, leaves would fall, and during spring, they would grow back. Sometimes, love disappeared, only to blossom once more, a previously trivial spark ignited. People were born, and then they grew old, they died.
Clay never changed.
The words of the people outside were incoherent — he could not understand what they were saying, but it did not matter. Their tones were harsh, but seemed to sound so far away, like a distant threat still able to be eliminated — a possibility and opportunity to turn the inevitable around.
But it was too much — too little, too late.
So, Clay angled his head towards the sky. Thousands of glistening stars looked down upon his frame, gazed at him with all the compassion and reassurance he was never, and would never be, able to get. Feeling a cold tear run down his cheek, Clay focused his stare at the brightest star he could see, its light reaching towards him like a caring hand with a gentle promise, and he leaned in further, chasing the supposed warmth of the cold night sky, longing for a chance to change.
Yet it was too little, too late.
Clay closed his eyes once more, the memory of a bright star shining behind his eyelids ever-burning, ever comforting.
And then, he took a step forward, far into the deepest darkness of the night.
Right into the arms of his murderers.
___
They put a cloth over his eyes, they tied his hands in front of him, and they pushed him towards a direction he could not see — kicked him whenever he fell to the ground, cursed him out whenever he failed to stand back up quickly enough.
A promising young man — charismatic, charming, and absolutely talented. As good of a hunter as a scholar, a bright future was a given. Still young and naïve, but oh so lively — elegant chaos of a whirlwind in the lives of everyone he knew — a man they saw as a leader, a man they trusted and adored.
He could hear noises around him — leaves dancing in the wind, harsh breathing, something breaking underneath the soles of his feet. Distantly, he could hear a bird humming a lullaby he believed was for his ears only, one last act of kindness towards his decayed soul, and he felt the loneliness in his heart expand.
So pretty — eyes deeper than the vastest lake, hair more golden than the rays of evening sunlight, skin so fair it rivalled the softness of a cloud, a smile wider than the broad night sky bleeding into early morning.
Water, there was water. He could never mistake the soft sounds of something hitting the surface and sinking to the very bottom. Crickets and cicadas sang all around the lake as a choir in a theatre, and he felt safe, so safe.
He made them proud, he made everyone proud — so skilled and talented, he was a promise to them all, a guarantee of something far greater than their little town ever knew. So loved and admired, they knew one day, he’d be a hero. One day, he’d be a tutor, and one day, he’d be a father.
He wished he could have seen the sunset one more time, appreciating it in all its beauty — the display of soft and intense colours intertwined as one, ethereal softness of a sight so magnificent, a human could never replicate it, nor fully understand and learn to appreciate its gift. He wished he could have looked at the moon once more — so seemingly cold but still guiding lost souls through the bitterness of a frightening night.
He was an illusion — like a mirage on the hottest days of summer. But they adored him, each and every one did. The life in his eyes was solid, it was steady and mighty, no matter how unreal he sometimes seemed, people saw him as the realest of them all.
There was commotion around him, that much he could sense. Something akin to dread settled in the pit of his stomach, but he reminded himself that this was what he deserved, that this was the conclusion to a life he was never supposed to lead. It was not the fault of the people around him — not the ones who put the cloth over his eyes, not the ones who tied his wrists together, not his family, not his friends, not even strangers. It was all on him, all his fault. He had to accept that, and learn to forgive the ones who only did what they had to do.
But an illusion could shatter, a mirage would eventually fade. A young man unchanged arose suspicion — his parents growing older, his sister ageing and breaching off on her own. All around him, the seasons came and went, but he stayed solid, stayed unmoving, while everyone else around him danced in a whirlwind, never stopping, never letting him catch up.
Something heavy was thrown into the water — he felt a faint mist hit his bare ankles, chilly water awakening his mind somewhat more, despite him already being wide awake. He picked up the sounds of waves, probably resulting from the object being thrown into the water, and he swallowed — the watery mist on his ankles had already evaporated.
And one day, too many seasons had passed. Too many leaves had fallen, too many flowers had wilted. His sister’s hair was greying, his parents’ backs were hurting. And he? He stood tall, stood still, unchanged, unmoved.
They were talking beside him, they were cursing at him, ordering him around. But he did not move a single limb, too scared of what was to come, too ashamed of his own incompetence to accept the unacceptable.
Evil, they baptized him as vile. Too out of their world, nobody understood why he stood still, nobody understood why he did not move like his sister did, his parents, all of them. They were unsure, and fear settled in their minds — unstoppable thoughts of impending doom, they feared the thing they did not comprehend. They loathed what they did not understand.
Someone pushed him forward, and he fell. His forehead landed in water, his fingers gripped cold sand, and his mind was reeling. It was all too much, something coarse was touching his stomach, and stones were digging into the soft skin of his torso and legs. Someone grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet, someone else grabbed his ankles roughly and held them in place with a force that was inescapable.
And still, he stood steady, stood unmoving. His sister birthed her third child, his father lost sight in one of his eyes. But he did not move. So, everyone moved on without him.
They locked something around his ankles — it tied them together, just like his wrists. It felt so cold against his already freezing skin, dug deeply into his flesh, it hurt so, so much. But he did not whimper, did not say a thing, simply let it all happen, let them do what they had to in order to get the evil out of him. And when they pushed him forward, someone caught him before he could fall, because his feet were tied together, and something heavy held them back.
It was only a matter of time — they would have come to get him no matter the hour of day, no matter the weather, the intent. They wanted gone what they did not understand, so they came to collect the evil token of their town, to bring him away — to finally see him move. Move, move, move, until no one would ever see him again.
Someone grabbed him and put him on the object. It was wooden, relatively small. It swayed like the tender cradle of a loving mother. It was a boat — of course, it was a boat. He focused on the movement of the waves underneath him, tuned out the voices around him. He did not want to hear them — he wanted to listen to the waves, to the choir of crickets and cicadas, to the merciful bird and to the stars and the moon instead. But then he had to stand, their grip on his arm leaving blue-purplish bruises, yet it did not hurt as much. Hitting the sharp water surface, however, truly did.
An evil spirit did not belong amongst brightly shining stars. An evil spirit did not deserve to breathe the air of life.
He felt the icy cold water touch his skin — paralyzed and unmoving he remained as he began to descend to the bottom, something heavy at his ankle pulling him down, but not as heavy as the shame and guilt within his pathetic, traitorous heart. The cloth over his eyes slipped away and ascended to the surface, but he continued down, down, down. He was unable to move, unable to scream — the water engulfed him entirely and he felt his limbs grow tired, felt a heavy pressure in his head and ears, began to feel the scorching hot pain spreading in his lungs like a wildfire and take up his entire mind and soul until he ripped open his eyes wildly and opened his mouth for a scream nobody would ever hear. And despite all the guilt, all the pain, he desperately tried to squirm out of the things keeping him tied up, seizing in the water in the hopes of somehow lessening the pain, of somehow freeing himself from his restraints and swimming back up to the surface and pray until the sun would rise, for a life he could lead, for the humble charity for a pitiful sinner.
He deserved nothing but agony, he deserved nothing but Hell for the simple reason of his existence. It was what they had told him, it was what he had to believe, chanting it in his head like a mantra, if only to deafen the doubts.
The sheer exhaustion hit him harder than anything he had ever felt before. The slow, creeping sensation of wanting to go unconscious gradually began overtaking his mind, luring him into a false sense of calm, quieting his heartbeat, promising the pain to stop — the sweetest form of temptation, and it made his struggles against the restraints die down steadily, yet surely. He stopped resisting, stopped trying to free himself — the fire in his lungs had overtaken his body, as had the exhaustion. He could no longer feel where the agony began and where it ended, could no longer remember what it felt like to take a deep breath of fresh air. It all seemed so distant, so insignificant now, and the sounds of his own fight were slowly drowned out by the silent echoes of faint, long faded laughter of familiar faces, replacing the panic in his mind with utter, melancholic acceptance.
One day, they would come and get him — his mother told him so every single night, every single morning. And he would deserve it — he would deserve eternal torture in the raging inferno that he had brought upon himself.
He let his arms hover in the water, and he knew he was dying. Distantly, he wondered how long it would take for him to hit the ground, how long it would be until he would fall asleep, and finally get to rest — at the bottom of the lake he had played in as an innocent child, unknowing of his fate, his doom, his future. Completely and utterly alone. He wondered what death would feel like, what his family would do once they spent some sunrises without him, and he hoped they’d be able to find the peace they never could while he was still with them, still alive. He missed starry night skies, missed deep forests, missed beautiful sunsets and missed the graceful dance of silhouettes casted onto the walls of his home by the beauty of a breathtaking fire. He felt his mind slip, and he felt darkness engulf him tighter than the waters ever did.
He believed them, he had to believe them. They were older, they were wiser. They knew so much more than him, and had dealt with the Devil before. He had to trust their decision, their choice, and he had to accept it.
But when he opened his eyes once more sometime later, body sore and aching, the surface of the water now brighter than before, he felt truly and utterly lost. He wanted to hug his mother and apologize for taking her son, he wanted to tell his father everything he didn’t know, and he wanted to reassure his sister that he wasn’t evil, that he was her brother. He wanted to hear his family laugh, wanted to see his friends again, wanted to watch, on the surface of the lake, how he grew old just like them, despite knowing that he had never been able to do so before, but hoping that magically, it would all work out now. All of that pain he had felt, the guilt of being alive, weighed him down further, but it made him want to make things right, to fix everything — surely, he had to be able to fix everything.
But he did not want to — not now, not ever. He wanted to have the same right to live as everyone else, and that alone angered them so much more, caused the fear to grow, and before he realized it, they had set out to get him — to finally silence his growing hope.
Fighting with the last energy he had, he tried his hardest to free himself once more. His body burned, his mind was screaming, but he could not stop now. He did not want to end up at the bottom of a lake, did not want to let them take the one thing he had always loved more than anything else in this world — his life. He wanted to prove himself, wanted to show them that there was nothing to be afraid of, that he’d set out to go find the answers to their questions — he’d be able to explain to them why he was the way he was, and they’d accept him, they’d love him once more, just like they used to. So for hours, he fought and fought and fought, until his ankles were suddenly light, and the tightness around his wrists disappeared.
Yet each and every time he looked into their eyes, he saw the hostility. All he saw was the sheer hatred, and the seemingly ceaseless drive for vengeance against an oddity — against him. He was not welcome underneath anyone’s roof, nobody would ever invite him inside for warmth. He was damned to freeze to death outside, while watching the fire glow within their protective walls.
The first time he breathed in fresh morning air again, his lungs hurt more than ever. A numbing pain shot through his entire body, but it felt like coming alive, it felt like waking up from a nightmare. He crawled to the shore, and lay there, staring at the crowns of the trees, the now bright sky, and he realized that this was not how things were supposed to go. He realized that he was not supposed to be breathing — that this was not normal, at all.
He would always be freezing, even under the warmest rays of the sun.
And he had nowhere to go, nowhere to run — he was alone in this world, now that he had gotten out of his own doom. But it was wrong, so wrong, he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, because he realized with a start, that he’d rather have perished at the bottom of the lake, than swam to the surface. He realized that he was probably a lot viler than anyone had anticipated. So he lay there for hours — thinking. And eventually, a bird’s softly sung melody told him to stand — to gaze upon the dark waters of the lake, and say goodbye. The song guided him away. Away from everything he knew. Away from himself.
He would never understand why it had to be him.
That night, at the bottom of the lake, Clay had died.
He had let out his last scream, had moved his last limb, and had seen the promise of the sky for one last time.
But he had woken up to a new morning. He should have died at night.
He had opened his eyes to a new sunrise, had opened his lungs for a new, fresh breath of air.
That night, at the bottom of the lake, Clay had died.
And Dream had been born, instead.