Chapter Text
Every year, he had the same dream. In his dreams, he saw himself in a great big castle, its halls were vast and always lit with candles, paths led with carpet, surrounded by gray stones. The paintings on the wall, they moved! Yet, every time he focused on those paintings, they would blur - and he would awake. Sometimes he walked through them, sometimes he sat at their front, watching as people in long flowing clothes ate and spoke before him. Sometimes he would be wearing robes himself, and it made him wonder. Other days, he would look outside a tower, and hills and forests surrounded it, but he felt that there was more in store for the castle. Sometimes when he looked outside, he would feel a quickening in his chest, and his body would panic, before the dream ended. Other times, he would explore, but he wouldn’t remember his path, never. He tried to stay, to learn more about the castle - to learn more about his dreams, but he could never seem to do it. No matter how hard he tried, the dream would always end - as it did every year.
But this night, Everett Winters wouldn’t wake up. He had a thirst to find answers, and he was determined. He walked through the halls, watched the sky appear in the large rooms, and passed by sets of armour made out of stone, and metal - and they moved. He couldn’t hear, nor speak, and the faces that looked at him seemed to blend into nothingness when he tried to see - but he was happy. He felt alive - powerful in a way he never was when awake. Every night when he had the dream, he would walk the halls, and every night, a strong sense of familiarity would be right upon him, teasing his soul with each step. He took a seat at a table, as he gorged himself on food that he could never really tell the taste of. He couldn’t smell, he couldn’t feel - he just was. He was powerful here. The doors would open on their own, the stands of metal knights would lift their legs at attention, like they were the Royal Guard. If this were a castle, then, of course, he was the King! Everett had felt alive in these halls, even if he wasn’t there.
This night, he wandered - he wandered the halls, didn’t look at the paintings, or in any reflection of any mirror. He simply walked by them, his blue eyes looking straight forward - he wouldn’t bite, as he knew where he would wake if he left this castle of dreams. Left, his mind reminded him - he had gotten this far last time, before he got distracted. His feet marched on - guided by curiosity and a thirst. It was never quenched, not when he was here. Everett didn’t know why, exactly. He knew in this dream, his body wasn’t his. His legs were longer,and he felt stronger. His hair had felt longer, at least the thought so; it would occasionally fly past his eyes. But he couldn’t confirm; he couldn’t see his reflection after all. It wasn’t him - wasn’t Everett. But that was fine, as long as he could wander. As long as he was King. His heart thumped, his foot treading the line where he knew his dream ended off last time. This time it wouldn’t end, it couldn’t end. He didn’t want to wake up.
Shifting on his unknown feet, he continued on his path. Rows of moving paintings were surrounding him, yet he didn’t pay them mind. The only sound he could hear was the sound of his own footsteps, heavy and deafening to him. Down the hall, and then - stairs. They moved! Up, up, up, he went. This was exciting, new to him. Something was up there, on the moving stairs. Each step on its own was a triumph; he had never felt so alive. Something up the stairs, it called to him. He craved it, like an itch hadn’t been scratched until he discovered it. One floor he had traversed, never before had he been so high up in his life! He felt strong, like a King over his tower, but there was another floor - and the boy went higher.
The staircases shifted and shifted, his body reaching heights he could have never imagined. Paintings surrounded him, and for the first time in ten years, he noticed one. It was an old man, frail - but underneath his fragility, he could sense power. His eyes were an emerald green, and his cloak was long and flowing, touching the ground. The old man stared back at him, and he began to bow, of course. Everett was a King. Then, blue eyes stared at green, and in the reflection of the man's eyes, Everett saw himself. No lower did the old man go. The boy stood there, staring. Drawn, but his legs were carrying him at a pace he couldn’t even recognize.
Steps he climbed, each one he went higher than before. This felt the longest his dream had ever lasted - his birthday dream, he called it. This must’ve been the best birthday he’d ever had - and up he went until there were no more stairs to climb. This was new, he thought, no mirrors, no moving portraits. No soft white candles, but large metal torches. Everett liked this very much; it was new. New was always better, right? His walk was unperturbed, the worry that he’d wake up long gone. He felt like a King, like nothing could stop him. Some suits of metal stood diagonally across him. One saluted with the same cadence as the rest had, but one was slower. He didn’t pay it any mind. Across the long stretch of hall, grayer than normal, there was a simple wooden door. Everett walked towards it; curiosity filled him. Normally, the doors before him in his dream-castle opened without hesitation. But now…they stood still, annoyingly closed. He extended his hand, and pushed against it - but much to his surprise it didn’t open. He suddenly felt very cold, as if the torches in the halls had been put out.
He tried the handle, his hand pressing down on the metal, twisting it to no avail. He reeled, a sudden anger on him. Open, open, open, open! He thought furiously - he didn’t know why his heart was racing. His blood boiled, his calm temperament gone - he was raging, and furious. He was a King! This was his castle, this was HIS right! The twisting sound of the knob turned to banging, fist hitting against wood, thumping like the sound of thunder on a quiet day. His. His, his, his! HIS! He commanded the door open, he opened his mouth to scream - but no voice came out. His lungs seemingly burst; it was painful. Then, for the first time, he heard another sound. A voice, maybe? It was taunting him from behind the door. He couldn’t hear. He placed his ear to the door, and he heard words in a tongue that he couldn’t understand. But it was regal, it was heavenly. He strained his ears before the voice turned loud, and it began to boom.
“Unworthy…!” The voice taunted, loud and dangerous, slithering up his eardrum.
No longer was the voice majestic, but now it was like a knife cutting through his skin. Callous, and strained, and worst of all - mocking. Mocking him? In his own castle? The thought was maddening.
Everett felt rage, banging on the door once again. Let me in, let me in, let me in! He tried to scream, though the door didn’t budge. He was King. He was King!
“Blood tainted; foul!” The voice cried again, hissing furiously in his ear, and behind him, and around him. He continued to bang on the door, trying to rip off the handle and break in the structure. He was king…he was king…!
“Traitorous boy! Traitorous blood! Unworthy of my respect!” The voice boomed, and Everett shuddered. He felt his body weaken; he felt his legs lower. No…he was king…?
The ground shook, and behind him, the sound of marching footsteps. With some dread, Everett turned. The suits of armour from before, who once saluted and stood at attention, had their halberds pointed at him.
No…he was-
-=-
Awake. Everett shook up - a cold sweat on him. Why was he sweating? He felt a rough hand on him, shaking him while he woke.
“Up, boy! Up!” Chris exhaled; his gruff voice alone was enough to put the fear of God on any child's back, but he was used to it. The older man regarded him with a cautious gaze, poorly hidden behind his brown eyes. Chris was a tall man, and thin. His gaunt face was riddled with minor scrapes and bruises. His gray hair was thinned out and brushed back, as if trying to spread out the look of emerging baldness in him.
Everett blinked, surprised by the man’s intrusion, but before he had time to say anything, he was dragged off his bed.
“It’s Sunday - you’re helping me with the delivery - now get up.” Chris said, already seemingly dressed - seemingly because the most Chris could get on was a pair of worn trousers and an ill-fitted shirt. Everett scrambled to follow him, his little legs following the taller man.
“It’s my birthday!” Everett exclaimed, rushing to get out of his daily routine. He should be eating cake, playing with his friends, and lying around. He didn’t want to move boxes. He just wanted to stay home.
“Yes, well then you can move ten boxes for me now that you’re ten-.”
“I’m eleven!”
“Well then, ya’s can move eleven boxes now, can ya? Now move yer arse!”
“Where’s mum?” He asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Everett was never a morning person - he was rather fond of the nighttime - but he’d always wake up in confused dazes.
“Away.”
“Can we see her?” Everett asked, his voice soft. Of course, Chris wouldn’t know - or care - but it was his birthday. Mum always knew, though, or at least she’d acknowledge it.
“No, yer off with me for the day, boy.” Chris said, tossing Everett’s rain jacket at him, before leaving the house. Staring outside, Everett heard and saw rain pouring down heavily. He sighed, stepping outside and feeling the droplets hit his face. He at least wanted to sleep in. He found himself stepping inside puddles - water seeping through his shoes, and he winced. One day, he’d buy his own boots, he always told himself. A nice pair, with fur!
It was an hour drive to Plymouth, and very soon they were riding outside of the Borough. Chris had deliveries to do, and Everett would often help him - the older man starting to need additional assistance to carry the boxes he had stuffed in the trunk. One day, they’d get a bigger car - but that day was far from coming now. They passed by a few spots, laden with grass and a few scattered trees, and as they drew closer, they finally had a view of taller buildings, the shadow of clouds covering the sun as they stepped outside the car.
Everett felt the raindrops hit his face, sliding down his rainjacket to hit the pavement, as Chris hopped out and walked to the back of the Van.
“Here, boy.” He said, the van doors opened with a click, and Everett felt a cool breeze as he saw packages of raw beef and chicken displayed neatly in the back of the van. He climbed the steps, the freezer air sending a chill down his worn jacket, and he began to grab the smallest packages and place them on the edge of the van's door - Chris talking to some stranger in his view - as he began to lift.
He wasn’t a strong boy by any means, not like some of the other kids in school. He was a scrawny thing, his fingers lanky and his nails a bit too short - hard to grab the boxes, but he did anyway, the wet cardboard almost slipping from his hands.
One would think that after a year of doing this, he would have gotten better at it - but alas, he hadn’t gained a single muscle. At least he was growing taller; there was that to be thankful for.
The two worked for quite a while, until the minutes had turned into hours. It was no longer morning, it was no longer raining - and back up to town they had to go. The two travelled, Chris spouting on about something that he had found funny, Everett trying to drown it all out as he looked out of the Van’s window. The skies were still gray, but no rain had fallen. He shivered, the worn raincoat doing little to keep him dry, the rain seeping into his undershirt. He wished he were dry.
“-Are you deaf, boy?”
“Hmm? Sorry Chris-” Everett stammered, suddenly realizing that the older man was actually addressing him.
“What do ye want for dinner?” He asked, his voice strangely soft. Soft enough for Chris, that was.
His stomach growled at the mere thought of that. He had been out there for hours, and he hadn’t had a bite to eat. He held his stomach, embarrassed, but he knew the man across the seat wouldn’t comment on it.
“Uhm, pizza-”
“Piss on that. I’m not eating that greasy shit.”
“Oh - uhm, I don’t know?”
“Well, what do you know?”
“Potato soup?” He asked, hopefully. He had always enjoyed his potatoes, bland as others thought they could be; he rather liked them. Mum made the best potato soup. Chris hummed, but didn’t comment. The edge of his neighbourhood was in view, and as they entered into the driveway of the rickety house he called home, he felt quite comfortable now. He stepped out of the van, his shoes dry, and he kept his hands in his pockets, undisturbed. He shed his raincoat, the material dry against his hand, and he stalled for a moment. Something was different; he didn’t know what. He shrugged it off as Chris barked something at him.
He noticed an extra pair of shoes in the house as they entered, and his face lit up with happiness. Mum was home.