—Timedate November 3rd, 1985 CE—
It has been millennia since the dreamer stirred.
Centuries pass as he is haunted by visions of fire and rebirth. Decades fly by, but it is all the same to the wretched dreamer. Denied his power. Denied his kingdom. Denied his destiny. All that he has left are the dreams.
They had opposed him against all reason, standing against him and his terror. He had laughed at the futility, victory was his. The universe was his. But he had lost. Their swords had burned, empowered by the dying breath of that damned Moth. They fought him with a cunning and strength he'd long thought extinct, inflicting as much pain on him as he had unleashed upon a thousand worlds. He had lost. He had lost.
Now he dreams of the future, of fire and rebirth. Of the final game. Of the Final War. His mouths curl into a snarl that could almost be called a smile. He stirs and shakes his body, feeling his ever present chains and then, something else. Something new. The other touches his mind, reeling at the vastness of it. It is alright little one. He says to it. I will not hurt you. The other knows this is a lie. But it is too late. He grabs on to it – on to her – with all of his might. He is flooded by an explosion of color and light, a deluge of new dreams. Running these visions through his mind, he smiles.
Hope at last. He finishes his games with the young one, flinging her back to her Earth. Falling back to the dreams, he is content with the knowledge that soon he'll wake.
It seems that in his end lies his beginning after all.