Chapter Text
“You are to put an end to her.”
Her voice is as cold as the fingers that card through his hair in faux kindness. These are the same fingers that had dug through his back only days ago to re-open wounds as a statement of punishment. Those same fingers now grip his scalp with a force not needed, for he would obey if only asked – but his pain was her joy, and she would indulge in it at any moment she wanted to. Any moment she desires to. It was always her desires, never his. He thinks... no, knows he’s content with this – for a weapon cannot have its own individual desires, and a weapons desires are merely an extension of its owners.
“Do I make myself clear, child?”
He must have spoken, as she shows her teeth in a smile that would never – could never – reach her eyes and releases her grip. His head falls back limply to face the floor as though her hands were strings and his body a puppet. This was not far from the truth he thinks, reflexively accepting the spear passed to him. She was truly serious this time then, wasn’t she? To slay the Goddess of dust, to weaken Morax’s stability – it’s a want she had expressed for hundreds of years, but a want that has never been achieved due to the continued war and the other inconveniences that have gotten in her way.
The story of the dream eater was a tale told with terror throughout the lands, and the Goddess of dream’s weapon was one that stroke fear upon the mere mentioning it. Slaying gods is something he has done before, it is something he is known for doing; but he cannot help but be... slightly doubtful at the prospect of going through with this specific desire, this specific command. He does not worry for himself, no, but for the result that'll inevitably impact her people.
Morax was not a kind god, she had always echoed. He would often hear preaches of how she wishes the god of contracts would perish, and how she was the better of both. Yet his power reached lengths so great that he remained untouchable to her, and every step forward would be another step too far behind. Would Morax not seek revenge if he succeeded? Would he not seek out the innocent lives under his mistresses’ dominion personally, and slaughter them with his own bare hands? A selfish, deep part of him wishes that he fails this task, so that he is granted the freedom of his own demise rather than having to deal with both horrible outcomes as a result to failure.
The binding of his name in her power was partly for show – he has long been slapped with the cruel reality that if not her wielding him, someone worse will. This reality chains him completely and utterly to her will, and binds him so deeply that he's sure it's unbreakable.
“Are you hesitating?”
A voice cuts the silence, breaking through the haze of thoughts and sending a familiar chill across his skin. His conditioned habit comes to the forefront of his mind, and he prostrates himself lower below her feet with the grip at his spear tightening in a hopefully pleasing show of determination. “No Mistress, of course not! This one will obey.”
His words thankfully do not show his fear – she had always hated that waver in his words, despite actively seeking out different methods to make him fearful. Such mind games were the reasoning for the external calm demeanor that often contradicts his internal feelings, and not even the karma that weighs heavy in his soul is enough to waver eons of lessons beaten into him for displaying displeasure towards her. The suppressed flinch that prickles beneath his skin at the fingers that pet his cheek with a hint of nails goes unnoticed, and he remains low even as her fingers break his skin.
“Now go. Indulge yourself in the dreams of those that try to stop you and come back victorious.”
He stands.
And he walks, and walks, and walks. Walks through the shadows that welcome him with open arms, walks through the territory belonging to Morax and the Goddess of dust. Walks through the guards' posts who don't even notice his arrival, and stops his tracks at the sight of the scene before him.
The Goddess is beautiful – she sits in a garden alone, littered with flowers he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. She holds an aura of peace and love, one that is so pure and true that it almost makes him choke on it. And he was to kill her, end that peace, and consume those dreams in a futile attempt to sate the burning hunger at his stomach as a reward. He has been here before, in this moment – seen beauty he does not deserve to see in both gods and mortals alike. Seen the way their very existence blesses the world and seen the terror in their eyes as that beauty is whisked away by his own tainted self. The Goddess still does not become aware of his presence, and continues to bask in the silence of calm soothing wind. Would it be selfish of him to wait just a few more moments? To hesitate, just for a moment, to also bask in this soothing silence until it has to be broken?
He does. He allows the wind to brush his hair against his face, caressing him with a gentleness he almost wishes he could lean against. He allows his senses to fully consume the beauty of the world that surrounds her, just for a moment more.
Then, he grips his spear and walks forward with the feathery-light steps Mistress had always praised him for. He walks with a power that burns his throat and stings his eyes in the way it pumps through his veins. He does not say any words, he does not speak, even as the Goddess turns around in alertness upon noticing the darker shift of the scenery around them.
He strikes. She strikes, too. She fights, and fights, and fights. It is a dance of dust and wind, a battle that is only known by the spears occasional scrapes against the floor. Dust covers his eyes; she then uses this as an opportunity to bind his limbs – her attempts are in vain. With a strong imbued of power at the tip of his spear and a pain striking up his arm, he fatally strikes a final time.
It is… not what he expects.
There are no screams of terror, nor blood that piles onto his already filthy hands. He props her body against his own, holds her head with hands shaken from pain and consumes the last remains of her consciousness. Immediately he can feel the impact – the way the flowers that had previously stood with life now wither into nothingness, as if mourning the loss of the one who had given them life to begin with. Upon the last sip of her dreams, the body laying limply in his arms begins to melt into small specs of dust that the earth welcomes in their soil kindly.
Ah, Goddess of dust – many gods have met their end the same way they had their beginning. Come from dust, leave as dust. Distantly he wonders; how would he die if slain? Would he turn into something far worse? Would he instead taint the earth with his sins? Or perhaps death was not to be granted for something like him, for it would be a gift and an escape. Perhaps continued existence and forcing him to endure the consequences of his own actions is Celestia’s punishment. He pushes down the lump at his throat that threatens to spill an unwanted noise through his lips at sight of the flowers fading colors.
And how foolish of him to have such emotions in the first place. How ridiculous for a weapon to harbor empathy for the enemies it’s made to kill. It has been done, that is what matters. Taking one last glance at the scene, he turns a heel and leaves. He had done what his Mistress had ordered him too – and he will now return victorious.
His stomach purrs in sick satisfaction of being filled after starvation as he greets the shadows once again. What a cruel reminder of what he has done, and what he must do in order to survive an existence he cannot end.
The part of him that had wished the journey back to his Mistress’ territory would not be an easy one was a silly thought, he had thought – until the feeling of pain beginning to erupt at his wings tells him that his wish was indeed granted.
“It’s them! It’s the dream eater! Apprehend them dead or alive!” A voice shouts, the words echoing against the forest’s trees. Had they already realized it was he who had killed her, then? He thinks back to the flowers that bloomed in her wake and faded in her death – she must have truly been important in other ways too, aside from aiding leadership next to Morax, for them to notice so quickly. He had wanted the journey back to be difficult, yes, but how to deal with that difficultly was not something he considered through the fantasy of death. Should he surrender? No – that would mean the risk of being held as hostage or taken by another god. Should he flee? He retracts that thought almost instantly too, for it was also a bad outcome – if he arrives with Morax’s armies trailing behind his back, Mistress would not be pleased. The last option was to fight, then. Fight in hopes that his body tires enough to either be given death in combat, or die in the aftermaths of it.
Another surge of pain sears through him, this time in his arm, and he stops his steps completely to come face to face to what appears to be Morax’s soldiers. They stand with a various range of weapons, circling around him with eyes filled with rage and hatred. Other Adepti? That was unexpected – why did Morax not use humans for his army like she did? It appears his likelihood of survival is lower than he had thought, if he were to play instead of fight truthfully.
Good.
“Halt, dream eater! Surrender or pay the penalty in death!”
How appealing. Such a gift given on a silver platter, just for him? He feels his mouth tug into a smile at the proposition and summons his power. Joy... is that what he feels? He thinks he feels joy. He thinks he feels that happiness Mistress always talked about, at the feeling of being slammed against the ground. The sight of his feathers scattering about him paints a beautiful picture in his mind of a monster getting what they had deserved. Of someone who had torn so much from so many others finally getting a piece of their own mind in the most brutal way imaginable.
He continues to fight, continues to push until his limbs feel as though they’re on fire – and maybe they are. Continues to battle the Adepti soldiers that surround him from every angle, and only stops when forced to by a stab at his back that has him falling face forward onto the ground. His ears are ringing, his vision is blurred – he thinks an Adeptus now stands above him, or maybe even multiple. He thinks he feels hands trailing down his aching sides moments later and prodding at his wings with accompanied laughter. He thinks, but he does not care. Not even when hands rip his battle shredded clothing, or at the feeling of something breaching him from outside into within, tearing through the resistance of his body and taking him with vigor.
She had taken him like this sometimes too, for punishment. And for once, he does not care if it’s not her doing it – death is no longer a distant dream but now an impending reality, and if all he must do is endure these soldiers’ indulgence to be granted it than he will do so.
He deserves it, anyway. Deserves far worse than the feathers that begin to be further teared from his skin. He does not plead for them to stop, nor does he plead for them to release the tightened grip at the base joints of his wings, a grip that is so tight it that must have dislocated them at this point. His wings instinctively flutter in a futile attempt to combat it – but it remains just that, futile. The voice above him speaks a language he does not understand, but that is okay, he does not have to understand. And while the hands that touch his form are not familiar, the stickiness that coats his inner thighs is. It’s a sick comfort he latches onto through the world that begins to fade.
An abrupt feeling washes over him, something new and almost terrifying – and his world melts into a black he hopes is an end of the curse of him being born.
The Goddess of dreams was a name suited for one completely out of touch from reality. She did not have skills of combat, nor did she ever have realistic goals. At most, she was gullible. She was never an issue herself – she could could have never done this herself. And despite her words that have promised far worse than this in the past, her hands are completely and utterly clean of blood. She was weak, Morax had no reason to fear her empty threats of her coming here.
Her weapon though… her weapon was anything but weak.
The dream eater was a cowardly extension of herself. He was her bloodhound, and one who dirtied his hands in her stead. An adeptus who would feast on the dreams of those he was sent to kill and left to return to the god akin to a dog returning to its owner. She was weak, yes, but the caution of her weapon is a caution he and Guizhong have long taken. And even then, never did Morax expect the Goddess of dream's stupidity to extent to outright foolishness. He would almost consider the thought that she had done this as a way to get killed, suicide even – but while weak, her strong ideals remained, no matter how foolish they were. He can’t help but feel a taste of bitterness on his tongue at the idea of the god being granted death as an escape from her consequences. The arrow that breaks her skin is not as satisfying as he’d like it to be. It does not do anything to aid his broken heart.
Guizhong, Goddess of dust, his co-ruler, a friend – her spirit ceases to exist. And while the outcome of thousands of innocents now being under his rule and freed from a horrid reign upon the Goddess of dream's death is a beautiful one – the glaze lilies that no longer color the world is not.
What is Morax to do now?
He walks and leaves her territory – now his, by right – and pushes down every thought that attempts to break his resolve. He could not afford to grieve, not at a time of war, not when his people need him. Though... the sight of the Goddess of dreams weapon being dragged inside his office in a bloodied heap by his soldiers just mere days later was admittedly not a sight Morax had wanted to see.
He cringes at the dark stains that follow their trail, and stares in silent shock upon further noticing the state of the body. The weapon – the killer, the one who had killed his beloved friend, is now limply held up by two prideful Adepti who both share smiles of victory, with weapons completely disregarded for emphasis of it. Blood continues to drip through the two limbs that Morax would not be able to recognize if he had not already been acquainted with many bird-like species – and even with that prior knowledge, it still takes a moment to fully recognize that the two limbs hanging lifelessly on his back were wings due to how damaged they were. His soldiers continue to smile pridefully, even as his face turns into an expression that is certainly not pleasure.
“What is the meaning of this?” He asks in controlled calm, remaining seated at his desk full of contracts and legal documents and only barely shifting his position to peer at the body over the table. And it’s moments like these were Morax is thankful for the fact that age grants patience – for he only barely holds back the urge to snap at his own soldiers at the sight of them prodding the smaller bodies wounds as they begin speak.
“My lord, we bring you the one responsible for the Goddess of dusts demise. We hope it gives our great lord comfort during this time, knowing that he now sways between the line of life and death.”
It does not give him comfort, no. In fact, the exact opposite – but to take out his tension and suppressed grief accompanied by feelings he does not understand on his soldiers would not ease the situation at hand. Frowning, he speaks with a gesture of his hand; “Take him to the healers. I will come to check on his condition later. If the dream eater causes trouble, alert me immediately.”
“M-my lord! Would it not be unsafe to keep him unrestrained, let alone alive? Lest he – ”
Morax sighs, and the soldiers stop in hesitancy, considering their next words. Perhaps they were right – perhaps it would be foolish to leave the infamous dream eater responsible for the Goddess of dusts slaughter roaming free unattended. But... Had it truly been the little adeptus’ fault? To be an extension of a god was to enact their will – but that will had never been their own, no? The grief and the pain of her life being so cruelly taken from this world threatens to rise – but he pushes it down and manages to maintain his composure. He will deal with that thought later.
“Restrain him in a way convenient for the healers, then. Off to it.”
His soldiers stand still in supposed shock at his words, and maybe Morax cannot blame them for it. From the little adeptus’ condition, it appears a battle had been fought – and while well trained, it is still a wonder how such a dangerous being managed to get reduced to this while his soldiers stand with little to no injuries. Despite his curiosity he does not ask, and gestures them to leave with a sterner expression. They do so after a beat of silence and drag the body carelessly out of his office. Once again alone, he allows himself to fully process what had happened. Would it have not been kinder to put the little adeptus out of his misery? Morax would have assumed he was already dead if not for the small twitch of his fingers when his soldiers had prodded at his wounds. What was he to do with such a dangerous being if he were to survive? Morax had no need for more soldiers, let alone one capable of…
He glances back down at the papers at his table, picks up his pen, and continues his work. The blood that remains smeared on the floor is almost mocking in the way it contrasts against the white floors.