Chapter Text
You are the lamb.
You are the sacrifice.
You are the chosen one.
That rhetoric has been forced down Theseus’ throat since the day he was born. It is the first thing he ever heard, and it will likely be the last. It is what you were made for, Dream always says, Prime chose you for this. Theseus would smile and giggle when Dream pinched his round little cheeks. You were born for this. You are a gift, sent by the heavens above! He will dance in blazing fire and he will hear his title chanted like a hymn as he goes up in flames.
He will die knowing that he created paradise.
It is the day before his sixteenth birthday. He wakes at noon, far later than any other. He panics. He’s late for morning prayer! Late for his dancing lessons! Late for his recital! Oh Prime, Dream was going to be so angry —
“Good morning, sundrop.”
Theseus’ eyes dart to the voice. The sweet, familiar voice that comforts all his worries, advises all his queries, and answers all his questions. Dream wears no mask today. Theseus sees the wonderful, kind face of his mentor, his teacher, his older brother, Dream. A soft smile graces his sharp features, curling around his freckled face. Theseus smiles back.
“Did you sleep well?” Dream pushes a blond lock behind Theseus’ ear. “I wanted to let you sleep in. Big day tomorrow!”
Theseus grins. “Thank you, Dream.”
“I bet you’re hungry.”
“Oh no, I’m alright—” Theseus is quickly cut off with the growl of his stomach.
“No need to be humble. Come now, let’s get breakfast.”
Dream taps the white robe which hangs on Theseus’ door. It is the same robe he wears every day, a plain white with a leather sash for his waist. Symbolic of your purity, Dream's voice comes from the back of his head, symbolic of your innocence. Dream slips out of his room.
His gaze lands upon a golden headdress which sits upon the vanity across from his bed. It’s made of gold, spiked to emulate the rays of the sun. Dream insisted on keeping it in his room. You are precious, Theseus, Dream says, you must understand. Connect with your crown.
Theseus emerges from his comfortable bed and begins to dress himself. It’s easy enough; this has been his routine for years. He still feels a bit groggy—he hasn’t slept this late since he was eight or nine. His robes fall to his feet, creating the smallest train following behind him. He runs a comb through his hair, styling it exactly the way Dream liked it.
He stares at himself in the mirror.
Something is missing.
His eyes fall upon the golden headdress. He looks around—no one is watching. Gingerly, he places the regalia atop his head. He looks back into the mirror.
Perfect. He looks perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
“Theseus? What’s taking so long?”
Theseus jumps. He places the headdress back on the vanity and rushes to the door.
“Apologies, Dream.”
Dream rests a hand on his hair. Precisely where the headdress sat, just a few moments before. “You are forgiven, Theseus. We are so close to your special day, after all.”
Theseus trots after Dream, just a few paces behind him. The people in the halls bow as they pass, smiles bright on their faces. Theseus waves at all of them, the gentle, passive wave he learned from Dream. A few drop to their knees. Some even go as far as to clutch his robe, asking him for a blessing, for his guidance. He rests a hand on their head and continues on his way.
They arrive in Dream’s private quarters. A platter of strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries awaits, alongside with a loaf of French bread and a generous helping of butter. Dream’s breakfast is significantly smaller; only a slice of bread on his plate. Theseus licks his lips.
Dream smiles. “Go ahead, Theseus.”
While he tries to be civil, he devours the meal as if it’s his last. Strawberries stain his fingers. Purple blackberry juice is smeared all over his face. Breadcrumbs stick to the sweet juices, a dollop of butter halfway in his mouth. Dream simply chuckles and chews on his piece of bread.
“It’s good practice for your feast tomorrow.” Dream says, offhandedly.
Theseus thinks. He thinks about the endless table of meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, and desserts. He thinks about how he will be expected to gorge himself, to strip every piece of chicken from the bone, to spread soft cheeses on toasted bread, to lick the crumbs from his plate until he is nearly unable to move.
Nearly.
Then, he will be expected to dance the solo waltz he has been preparing for all his life. The exhausting, amaranthine dance that would continue until he is consumed with fire. He will be dressed in fine clothes, adorned with bracelets and necklaces and earrings, but most importantly, his headdress. He will become a new star; a sun that will eat the current one. He needed to surfeit—he needed the strength.
“If you’re done with your breakfast, we can go to the garden.” Dream suggests with a smile. “You need to meditate before your lessons.”
Theseus nods and leaps to his feet. Dream laughs. He rises alongside him, with a napkin in hand. He dabs the sticky residue off of his face.
“Theseus, you’re nearly sixteen. Clean up after yourself.”
Theseus flushes. “Sorry.”
Dream pats his shoulders. “You’re alright. Now come on. The children are waiting for you.”
Their walk through the halls is busier than the one to Dream’s quarters—word got around quickly that he awoke, and people sought blessings, or greetings, or a decision on which flower arrangement he liked the best. Dream had to herd him through the crowd, like cattle, just to get him to the garden.
Just before he sits down, a pair of children crash into his legs. He laughs goodnaturedly, kneeling to their level.
“Are you alright?” He asks, patting their heads.
“Yeah!” One shouts. He notices that, in their hands, are flower crowns.
“We’re okay!” Two follows. She gives him a gap-toothed grin.
“What do you need?” Theseus says.
One giggles. “We dun’ need anything!”
“We have somethin’ fer you!”
One and Two place the crowns on his head. Theseus notes that one is made of chrysanthemums; the other, of daffodils. He chuckles.
“Beautiful. Thank you.”
The children scamper off, laughing all the way. Theseus watches, almost envious. He turns to Dream.
“Ready? Calm?” Dream asks.
Theseus nods. He sits, cross-legged, on the grass. Dream joins him, and reaches out his hands. Theseus takes them and closes his eyes.
He allows his mind to go blank. Everything smooths out. Simple darkness, easy, peaceful. His breathing slows. His mind wanders.
He lands upon the ceremony. He imagines the dais he will stand upon, just slightly raised so that he is visible to the congregants. He imagines the decorations, all of which he has specially chosen (with guidance from Lady Prime, but mostly his personal opinion), that will adorn the chapel where he dances. He imagines the fire that will grow and grow until he is consumed by it, until he burns to death.
What does it mean, to die, when you are not mortal? Is it truly death, if he is the son of Lady Prime, if he is promised eternal life? But he knows how painful it will be. He’s been burned twice—the first time, at his birth, and again, when he leaned on an open oven. Dream made sure that never happened again. Burning is sacred. He always said. Never enter the kitchen without me again.
Burning is painful. Theseus hates pain.
What is pain to a god?
Is he unworthy, if he fears pain?
“Dream?”
“Yes, Theseus?”
“What if I’m not enough?”
Dream is silent. His face drops, a disturbing departure from the gentle smile that accompanied his unmasked face. Theseus can’t help but believe he made a mistake.
“Are you insinuating that Prime’s decision was not right?”
“What? No, I—”
“Are you, perhaps, implying that you are false hope? That you have dragged these people from their lives, from their families, only to destroy everything they’ve worked for, because you’re not good enough?”
“Dream, I’m sorry, I—”
“You best be sorry, Theseus.”
Theseus falls quiet. The words feel like a slap to the face. He stares, ashamed, at his lap. He feels a hand on his cheek.
“You are precious, Theseus.” Dream’s features have softened once again. “You are the golden one. The chosen one. You will save us all from damnation.”
Dream brushes his thumb across Theseus’ cheek.
“Please,” Dream pleads, “never question Prime’s will again.”
“Yes, Dream.”
“Good.” He smiles. “Now go on. Go practice your dance.”
———
It is his sixteenth birthday. The blessed day. The holy day. Dream wakes him, bright and early. As soon as the sun comes up, Theseus is ushered out of bed.
“It’s our special day!” Dream says. “Come now. It’s time for morning prayer.”
He’s quickly dressed in his white robe. Theseus reaches for his leather band, but Dream stops him with a tut.
“I had something made for you.” Theseus hears the smile in his voice. “For our special day!”
Dream pulls a pale blue sash from his pocket. Theseus glides his hand over the smooth fabric. It feels like liquid in his grasp, oh-so soft and sweet. He looks to Dream, as if for approval, and Dream nods.
“It’s called satin.”
Theseus wraps it around his waist, careful not to wrinkle the pretty fabric. Dream ties it in the back. Theseus stares at himself in the mirror. He does a little twirl. He notices the bow behind him, pronounced and obvious, and Theseus grins.
“Do you like it?” Dream asks.
Theseus nods vigorously.
“Wonderful. Alright, come now! Your people await you!”
Dream guides him down the hallway. It is empty, though that is to be expected, as everyone is gathered in the chapel. Despite this knowledge, it is jarring. Emptiness is something he will never have to feel again.
Dream opens the door to the chapel. Theseus sucks in a breath and steps through.
Eyes. Hundreds, thousands of eyes fix onto him, pinning him in place. A few marvel at his new sash; others stay silent. He purses his lips in a half-smile, looking on at the crowd, trying not to make eye contact. He takes his first step down the aisle.
Heads turn to follow him as he follows a precession of people. A child leads the precessional; she carries a crook with a bell on the end, filling the spacious chapel with its gentle chime. Behind her, a boy holds a bleeding lance. The blood drops onto the stone floor, laying a path for the third person: one of Dream’s closest confidants, cupping an empty grail.
They peel off to the sides of the dais—the glorified soapbox that Dream preaches on—and bow their heads as Theseus walks past. The dais is decorated with flowers and fruits, the various centerpieces of his follower’s crops. He looks back, and Dream has followed him to the front of the chapel. He sits in the first pew, the smiling mask meant to encourage, but instead, unnerves him.
Theseus steps onto the dais, face stretched into a shaky smile. He turns around to face the crowd. He sees nothing but eyes; hears nothing but bells; smells nothing but incense; feels nothing but anxiety; tastes nothing but sweat. Fear rises from his stomach, the vessel he must fill later, and coils around his throat like a poisonous smoke.
He opens his mouth to speak, but his mouth is dry. He glances at Dream, who offers him no guidance, no help, as he struggles to find words for his friends and followers. He chokes, just slightly. The crowd becomes nervous. They shift, searching for a more comfortable seat to offset the clamminess of their chosen one.
“Thank you,” Theseus stammers, “for attending morning prayer today.”
The crowd trains their eyes back on him. They clap politely.
“It is an honor,” he licks his lips, “to be among you.”
Dream’s eyes stab through him. His face is concealed, but his gaze pierces him the way an arrow kills a rabbit. It only makes him worse.
“Um,” he stumbles on his words, “I’m sorry. I simply do not have the words to say how much I appreciate you all.”
The crowd murmurs something. Theseus pretends it is thanks.
“Alright. Thank you.”
Theseus nods. He stands for a moment, then hurries off the dais. Shame boils in his gut, churning like the butter on his breakfast that he hasn’t had. He feels hot, fat tears roll down his cheeks. He’s such a fool. What would Dream think?
He doesn’t have to wait too long for an answer as the chapel empties. Dream finds him hiding behind the choral seats. Oddly, Theseus finds no sanctuary in this church.
“Theseus!” Dream says his name like a curse, spitting it out like nothing.
Theseus says nothing in response. He knows better. He shamefully clings to a pew, snot and tears streaming down his face.
“Answer me now, Theseus.”
Theseus looks up, vision blurred with tears. Dream grabs his face with a gloved hand. Theseus winces.
“Dream, I’m sorry, I—”
“Silence!” He shouts.
Theseus’ jaw snaps shut.
Dream removes his mask. His eyes brew with uncalculated fury, face twisted into a sneer. Theseus snivels.
“You have embarrassed me before our people.” Dream hisses. He releases Theseus’ face, tossing him to the side. “If this is how you choose to begin the day of our release, I am beginning to reconsider if you are truly Prime’s son.”
Theseus whimpers.
“Well?” Dream snaps. “No defense? Are you unworthy, Theseus?”
“No! No, I swear I’m worthy!” He leans forward, clutching Dream’s robes. “Please! I’ll be good!”
Dream pulls himself out of the touch. “Then you’ll prove yourself. You will return to your quarters immediately. I will send a letter, which you will memorize, and recite at your banquet tonight. Do you understand?”
Theseus nods.
“I said, do you understand, Theseus?”
“Yes! I do. Dream, I’m sorry.”
Dream says nothing. “Go to your room, Theseus. Do not speak to me until the feast tonight.”
Theseus is left cold and alone in the chapel.
———
Theseus sits across from Dream, each at opposite ends of the table. It’s the first and only time he will sit away from Dream—every single meal previous, they had sat side by side. The pit grows in his stomach.
Without Dream, he feels very small. He grips the armrests. He is the most beloved person among them. He has nothing to worry about. But without Dream as his crutch, he feels like nothing. Like nothing at all. Not like Lady Prime’s son, not like the crown jewel of a goddess, but a small child, lost in a crowd. He bites his lip.
Everyone stares at him. They’re watching him, expecting him to say something. His flunk at morning prayer has left him jittery. He knows that he and Dream will be the only ones to eat at this banquet. And even so, he will only drink wine. He watches Dream rise from his seat, clinking his glass.
“Welcome, everyone!”
Polite clapping fills his ears. Nothing like the roaring cheers that will echo through the chapel during his dance.
“We are here to celebrate the life of Theseus, the son of Lady Prime.”
More clapping. A cheer or two.
“At this feast, Theseus will eat as much as his godly appetite demands. He needs the energy for his battle against false idols!” A beat for applause. “Only then, may the rest of us eat.”
Smiles. All eyes are back to him.
“I would like to give Theseus a moment to speak. Hush now, our savior has wisdom abound.”
Theseus stands up. He forces a smile.
“Greetings, kind followers.” He says, forcing the shake in his voice to flatten.
No one seems to notice.
“I must thank you for being here. Without your hard work and dedication and wisdom to know the truth, even in a world full of lies, our salvation would not be possible.” He regurgitates everything Dream gave him. The words don’t feel right on his tongue; artificial, unreal. These are not words he’d say. “I thank all of those who have created these wonderful dishes for me. I would also like to thank all of you for being here. It is a wondrous day.”
He locks eyes with Dream, who has removed his mask in order to sip his wine. He nods approvingly.
“Now, I would like you all to help me one more time.” He smiles. “Please, take my plate. Add whatever you’d like. Strengthen me with your love and grace.”
He hands the plate to the first person on his right, who smiles at him. They add a chicken leg. They pass it to the next person, who siphons a scoop of rice onto his plate. The tray circles around the table, all of those who sit at his banquet getting to add a different dish. He sits, smiling passively, despite the turmoil that tumbles in his belly.
He is handed the plate once again. Hunger eats him from the inside out. The fasting had been purposeful—and Prime, it would help him through this. He inhales.
He can’t deny it. The food smells delicious. He gingerly places a strawberry in his mouth. Flavor explodes on his tongue—sour, sweet, bitter, saccharine. His mouth waters. He pops another into his mouth. And another. And another. And another, until he’s shoving handfuls of berries down his throat. The table murmurs with excitement.
He moves to the breads. Someone hands him a bread knife, and another pushes dishes of butter and cheese towards him. He remembers his training; he knows which cheese goes with which bread, the correct amount of butter to spread. He takes a bite.
Dream’s voice enters his head. More savagery. It whispers. More enthusiasm. They’ll eat it up.
He takes a bigger bite of the rye. He can hear the elation of the gathering behind him. It travels through the crowd, and soon, he’s inhaling sourdough, focaccia, brioche, naan—anything and everything. Even breads he’s never heard of. He chews with his mouth open (something he was once warned against, but is now encouraged) in a display of ferocity. The crowd watches eagerly, practically drooling with glee.
Now the meat. He already feels full. But he must carry on—he cannot stop. He cannot fail. He grabs the chicken leg and bites a large chunk off. A child in the audience squeals with joy. They’re immediately joined by others, egged on by the thrill. The eyes on him bore into his back, but he must continue. They’re happy. He must make them happy.
Something scratches the back of his throat. He coughs. A hand goes to his neck, and he applies pressure. He quickly spits it up—a wishbone. He grins and tosses it towards two children in the crowd—the two children who gifted him flower crowns the day previous—who scream with delight and begin to fight over it.
He focuses on a piece of steak. His mind flashes to Henry, his favorite cow from the stables. He looks at the woman who put it on his plate. The cattle herd. She smiles and nods, as if to confirm his suspicion.
Lady Prime.
He has to eat Henry.
He chokes back a sob. He tries to hide it from the attendees. He hangs his head low. Why? Why would they do this? They knew how much he loved Henry. So why? How could they be so cruel to him, on his sixteenth birthday? His special day?
He looks at Dream, who watches with an expression of indifference. He chose the meals for his banquet. He chose to have Henry slaughtered. But he promised. He swore.
Is this punishment? Punishment for his failure this morning? He said he was sorry. He is sorry. He cries. Discomfort ripples over the faces of his followers. He stabs the steak on his plate, sending the first and only glare he’s ever given to Dream. How could he?
He stares through Dream as he takes a bite of Henry. He allows the tears to fall, as he eats his most beloved pet, as he continues his feast. His followers relax, just slightly. He eats the steak slowly, painfully, never breaking eye contact with Dream. His mentor’s face remains unchanged.
He swallows the last bite. There’s a hesitant whoop of encouragement. Soon, the audience claps. It’s polite and kind, but there’s no real meaning behind it.
He takes a deep breath and moves on to the pork and the fish. He forces a smile. He eats with much less vigor than before, but enough to keep the crowd happy. He finishes and pushes the first plate away from him.
His stomach is full. His vision swims, reminiscent of a whirlpool in a draining bathtub. Nausea curls in his throat, emerging from his belly. He can’t do this. He can’t. He looks at Dream again. He sips his wine, and then gestures to Theseus’ own. He takes a large gulp as his followers fill his plate with desserts.
How much time did he have between his feast and his dance? Surely, he must have some, for he must dress in ritual regalia. He stares at his lap, propping his head up with his hands. The gravity of his sacrifice weighs him down, heavy like lead on his shoulders.
He can barely take a bite of pie. His stomach stirs, angrily cramping in places he didn’t know he could even feel pain. He makes a point to eat at least one bite of each dish. He can’t even spread the food throughout his plate to create the illusion of consumption—all eyes are on him.
He forces a spoonful of ice cream down his throat. He smiles, though beads of sweat roll down his face. He pushes the chair back and stands up, giving a deep bow. His followers cheer, then begin to dig into their own plates. Finally. Finally, a moment of peace.
He rushes to the restroom, trying his best to appear calm. The crowd allows him through.
As soon as he finds his solitude, he lurches over the toilet. Everything spills out of his stomach, dribbling down his chin, souring his mouth with bile. He sobs. His throat constricts and he vomits again. The door creaks open, slow and deliberate. Theseus doesn’t have to look to know who it is.
“Leave me alone.”
“Theseus.”
“I said leave!” He shouts, his voice gurgled with stomach acid. He glares at the man above him. His face is scrawled with pity.
“Oh, sweet Theseus.” Dream says, kneeling by his side. Vomit surges from his throat, soiling his robe. He leans over the toilet and groans.
“You poor thing.” He says. He rubs Theseus’ back, a gentle, kind motion that almost makes Theseus forget Dream’s cruelty.
“Go away.” Theseus spits. “You killed Henry.”
“Me? I would never!” Dream says. He sounds offended. “In fact, you’re the one who asked for it.”
“What? No, no, I—”
“Yes, you did. You wanted to be the one to do it, but I know your tender heart. So I had the cattle herd do it.” Dream says.
Theseus stares at his reflection in the swirling toilet bowl as Dream flushes it.
“I knew it would upset you. I told you.” Dream runs his fingers through Theseus’ hair. Theseus sobs, leaning into him. “You should always listen to me, alright, Theseus?”
“Yes, Dream.”
Dream smiles. “Wait here. I’ll get you another robe.”
Dream vanishes out the door. He returns quickly with a change of clothes. Theseus notices that Dream no longer wears his typical green cloak, but a beautiful white one. He places them on the stand near the sink.
“There you are. I’ll wait for you outside, and then we can get your ritual clothes on.”
Theseus doesn’t see much point in putting on new clothes just to redress. However, he doesn’t exactly want to walk around nude. He doesn’t bother with the sash, simply draping the white robe over himself and shuffling out of the bathroom. As promised, Dream awaits him, leaning on the wall. The banquet hall has emptied.
“Oh, Theseus. You are going to love your outfit.”
Theseus gives a half-smile. The acrid taste of vomit sits on his tongue and cheeks. Anxiety ties his stomach in knots, and it threatens to spill again. He swallows his own saliva to settle his churning belly. It doesn’t do much.
He arrives at his chambers just as a few of Dream’s companions leave. He gives them a kind nod, but vanishes behind his door as quickly as he can. Dream is soon to follow.
“I chose a dazzling red for my dazzling Theseus.” Dream says, completely disregarding Theseus’ expression. Theseus wonders if he simply can’t see.
“Here, come look.”
Laid upon his bed is a brilliant red robe, hemmed with genuine gold. Below the waist, twisting vines curl around the plaiting, detailed with golden leaves and sharp-looking thorns. Atop the robe, a golden band sits on the waistline. Theseus brushed his hand against it—it’s true. Pure gold, sure to be heavy on his hips as he would dance himself to blazing glory.
And, of course, the golden headpiece. Reminiscent of the sun, glowing almost as brightly as he did. He glances at Dream. He nods. All fear melts away.
“Dream! This is spectacular!”
“I know!” He says. “Now, put it on. If you need any help, just call me, okay? I’ll be right outside.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Dream!”
“Anything for my sundrop.”
Theseus grins. Dream slips out, and the door shuts with a heavy thud. As soon as he is gone, Theseus’ muscles unwind. He sighs.
His attire is just as breathtaking as it was. He’s almost afraid to touch it. But he does, as a god’s duty.
The robe is easy enough to figure out; the design isn’t too different from his typical ensemble. One strap goes over his shoulder, the support from that sleeve keeping his entire chest covered. It clasps with another piece of gold. It falls around his knees, though it is longer in the back, creating a similar train. But, the front of the robe is open, revealing his knees. It will be easier to dance that way.
Theseus thinks that the golden band is the hardest part to wear. It must fit over his head, his shoulders, and his chest, but also rest perfectly on his waist. He scoffs. Dream should’ve worked the logistics beforehand, so this wouldn’t be so difficult. But, as all gods must, he does it. He figures it out.
The jewelry hangs off of his wrists and ankles and neck easily. Adorned with rubies and gold, Theseus stares at his reflection as he crowns himself with the headdress.
He smiles.
Theseus is ready.
Theseus must dance.
He waits in the wings of the chapel, anxiously watching for Dream’s cue to reveal himself. Dream rambles on to the crowd, who react at just the right moments. Theseus sighs. They were always better at that than he is. Was? Is? He isn’t sure anymore.
But he is Theseus.
Dream flicks his wrist, and Theseus steps onto the dais. The crowd roars with delight. They scream his name, overlapping voices combining into one cacophony of noise. He knows each face, each name, each voice. He’s supposed to be smiling. He’s supposed to be happy. This is the greatest moment of his life. He’s finally fulfilling his purpose.
So why does he feel so bad?
Dream steps forward. He joins Theseus on the dais, his face and body obscured by his ritual regalia. He places a hand upon Theseus’ shoulder.
“People of Church Prime!“
The crowd shrieks with excitement.
“It is the blessed day of our freedom!” Dream announces, his voice rising above the crowd. “Our Theseus, our savior , is going to dance us to our emancipation!”
Screaming. Theseus pales.
“We will be free from this hateful world!”
Screaming.
“Free to sing and dance in the name of Prime!”
Screaming.
“We will honor Prime and her only son, Theseus!”
Screaming.
Dream leans over Theseus’ shoulder. “If anything goes wrong,” he whispers, “run to the garden.”
Theseus swallows the lump in his throat and nods.
“Do not mess this up.”
The pit in his stomach grows.
Dream steps off the dais and disappears into the crowd. Theseus gulps. It is time to dance.
He takes his first step. The crowd watches with eager anticipation, and somehow, the silence feels worse than the noise. He tells a story with his body; each movement hits a beat. He tells the story of his triumph over humanity. He tells the story of his godhood.
His arms curl above his head, around his headdress. The sun. He is the sun. His body twists and contorts, creating each character with expressions he can’t fully form, with arches and edges and stances. The crowd watches in wonder, in fascination, as eight people step forward with unlit torches in hand.
The torchbearers wait for Dream, who carries the only light among them, to make his way to the front. He hands the lit torch to one end, and they pass it along themselves, using the fire to light their own torches. The torch ends on the other side of the dais, and Dream goes to collect it. As he does, the torchbearers place their lights in the correct holders. The spots are indicated by the long strips of fabric that reach from the center to the ledge of the dais. They resemble a spider web; each strand concentrating into the middle. Where Theseus stands.
He ignores them, continuing his dance. Leap. Bow. Snap. Click. Lift. Strike. Bite. Scream.
As he finishes the first routine, eight new people emerge from the crowd. They knock the torches over. The lapping fire takes quickly to the cloth, like lightning catches on a haystack. Theseus understands the smell now. Gasoline. The cloth is drenched in gasoline.
He’s only smelled gasoline once—when he was a child. He remembers his birth. An odd thing to remember for most. Sixteen years ago today, he was sent into the world by a mortal mother who had given herself to Prime’s will. The circumstances of his birth were laid out in no uncertain terms—his mother was to lay upon a bed of moss and leaves as soon as she felt the contractions, and the brush was to be set alight. He remembers her screams, her agony, even when he was little more than a newborn.
When the fires finally died, there was nothing but scorched earth, the smell of gasoline, and a small, blond-haired infant, wailing for the warmth that was stolen from him.
It is why he is dying in fire; as he was born, so he shall die.
He falters for just a moment—no one notices. But Dream does. He feels the fire, the intense heat, creep closer, eating away at the cloth, as he moves. He ignores it. He must make Dream proud. He must make his followers proud. He cannot disappoint them.
The fire has gotten to him, and it doesn’t wait for permission to catch. The flesh on his feet bubbles and cracks, the heat seeping beneath his skin. He takes another step of the dance. Pure, unadulterated agony. He bites his cheek to prevent himself from screaming.
He closes his eyes. The fire creeps up his legs, blistering his skin, eating him. He wonders about his mother. Is this what she felt? Did he cause her this much torment? Is this her revenge? His stomach swells as he thinks back to his feast. He ate, so the flames will eat him as well. He shudders.
He’s crying.
The roaring crowd’s voices dampen. He can’t stop. The pain is unbearable, but he can’t stop. The fire begins to crawl towards the crowd. They stumble backwards, shouts of delight turning into murmurs of fear. And it occurs to Theseus. All the rhetoric that has been fed to him for his entire life. It crashes into him like a heavy ocean wave.
He’s human.
“Get down!”
An unfamiliar voice rings throughout the chapel. The screams begin again. They are not happy screams.
Terror. Screams of terror.
White smoke floods the room. Theseus falters. He can’t see the stage. His eyes sting. He squints, trying to shield his face from the thick smog. He gasps for air. His throat burns, only further dehydrating him. Exhaustion pulls at his knees. He’s been dancing for so long. He stumbles, trying to avoid collapse. He can barely see his own feet through the smoke—he supposes that is for the best.
The light of the fire has disappeared. The smoke doesn’t clear. Theseus swears that it thickens. The screaming crowd sounds like a disjointed melody. Like the choir during morning prayer. Only wrong, off-key, as if they are being stabbed whilst singing. The worst of the agony in his legs has dissipated for the most part, lulling into a gentle, numb, prickle—but his night just has to get worse.
The smoke chokes him, burning his throat and nose. He cries. He needs to get to Dream. The garden. He has to get to the garden. Despite his torture, only one word runs through his mind.
Failure.
As he searches for an escape, he realizes it’s Dream’s voice in his head.
Perhaps it always had been.
He fumbles through the smoke. It hurts his eyes, his mouth, his legs. He wants to collapse into Dream’s arms. He drags himself and his bloody, bare feet through the confusion. He bumps into a few people, trips over pews that he doesn’t remember, stumbles around corners.
The night air feels cool against his scorched skin. The screaming is muted—it seems to be contained within the chapel. He tastes iron in his mouth. He licks his cheek, which he realizes, is bleeding. He sighs, just once. He blinks, and though his vision is blurry, he looks around.
Red and blue lights flash and blare throughout the night, destroying the supposed tranquility. The momentary peace he felt in the absence of screaming is stolen from him, as sirens shriek in his ears. He can’t think. It’s too loud. He can see silhouettes weaving throughout the trees. He trembles.
Where is Dream?
He sobs. He wants Dream. He wants the mother he never met. He wants to go to bed and wake up late. He wants to fall asleep in loving arms, with kind hands braiding his hair. He finally releases a scream of his own. It is weak, absorbed by the trees.
Every step is another knife in his blistered flesh. He shuffles into the garden. Dream awaits him with an odd metal contraption pressed against his chin.
“Dream?”
His voice is raspy, nothing like the beautiful, smooth sound of his choral song. The thought makes him cry.
Dream leaps off the bench he sits on. He rushes to Theseus. “Oh, sweetie.” He wraps his arms around him. Theseus sobs into his shoulder.
“What’s happening?”
“Very, very bad men found us. They want to take you away from me— us.” Dream murmurs. He presses Theseus into himself. “We need to escape.”
“But how?”
Dream points to the metal contraption on the bench. “That is how.” He lets go of Theseus. Theseus whines.
“I’m going to put it on your neck, okay? You’ll hear a loud sound, but then, we’ll be somewhere else. We can try again. Clearly, Prime wants us to wait a bit longer.”
“Together?”
“Forever.”
Theseus feels cold metal press against his neck. It fills him with fear.
“Stop! In the name of the law!”
It’s an older man’s voice. He’s not of the Church, because the law he speaks of does not align with Church laws. Theseus tenses. His knees give out, and he collapses against Dream.
“Dream,” the man says, “let the boy go.”
“No!” Dream shouts. “Get away… get away. I have a gun.”
“Put the gun down, Dream, and no one gets hurt. It’ll all be fine.”
Theseus sobs. He wants to go home.
“No. No.” Dream stammers. “Leave us alone. We’re not hurting anybody.”
“I beg to differ.” A different voice says. It’s much lower. “Look at him.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to him.” The first man says. “Just let him go and step away.”
Dream releases the gun. Theseus shivers. It’s so cold. Even with the angry heat of his burnt legs.
“Good. Good.” The first man says. He almost sounds soothing.
“Don’t hurt him. Please.” Dream whispers.
“Don’t worry,” says the second man, “he’ll be perfectly fine.”
An arm wraps around Theseus’ waist. He screams. His voice is dampened by a cloth over his mouth. He screams anyway. The cloth smells like flowers. It’s… relaxing. He kicks his legs anyway. They’re taking him away from Dream. His body aches. He fights anyway.
As he breathes in, his brain feels foggy. He’s tired. He wants to go to sleep.
“Rest now, kid. I’m sorry about this.”
And Theseus’ vision goes black.