"Accident" (Tauverse Drabble)
Woah what? Spot's actually written something for the first time in months??? Yeah, a quick warm-up w/ some Tauverse stuff! Specifically inspired by my novembmare piece for day 13, in which I drew Nightmare with his 3rd horror's jacket!
Warning for this one: Depictions of death, as well as implied suicide. The rest of it is spot-typical blood and gore and grief! Gods do I love writing about grief...
Enjoy!
“A fool.” Nightmare muttered to himself.
Once more, as had happened before, Nightmare found himself in this room. The very first room he dedicated to keeping a mortal. It had been a foolish impulse, one inspired by the destroyer and his little minion, though now-adays he wasn’t sure which of them was truly pulling the strings in their little private puppet show. At one time it had been bare of all but necessities. Bed, wardrobe, and end table. There had been a mirror here as well. It sat discarded in the corner, covered by a cloth.
The first inhabitant of the room had certainly left his mark. Within days the woodwork had gashes torn like flesh against the grain, the mattress removed from its frame to lay hazardously in timeout, and the mirror shattered and pieces strewn just so. Nightmare had not bothered to clean the space. If the mortal wanted to live in squalor, who was he to force it otherwise? All he cared was that it obeyed him when the time arrived.
The second had undone the work of the first. Covering stains and mending tears. It seemed to not enjoy the state of the room, even replacing the mattress upon its empty throne where it once had sat. That one had lasted longer than the first, its manner more mild and its thoughts centered. Perhaps it was because Nightmare had rid it of that determined soul when he took it. It had decreased its misery, but Nightmare would not afford it having a master besides himself. He had found a way to return that misery to it, though he was not as successful in breaking it as the first. Its foolishness, the hunt for a new owner, had done it in.
The third, as he observed now, had been rather cluttered. Over the years the inhabitants had slowly received things. Shelving, book cases, things moved from one place to another as Nightmare became distracted with his other prey. There had been no reason to bother removing it, as the inhabitants hardly had the time to admire anything they might have believed to be theirs.
After all, in this domain as was his own.
The shelves sat strewn with all sorts of things. Carvings of wood and shavings of dust, gashes on the wardrobe now turned to swirling images of a night sky the visionary had never seen itself. Books and pages cluttered alongside blades of all kinds. Multiple white t-shirts and black, what had they called them, basketball shorts lay askew at the base of the wardrobe’s dark maw. The rugs looked covered in shed fur and dark drips of what Nightmare knew to be the burnt magic of a monster half-dead. This inhabitant had been more prone to leaving its mark wherever it went.
That being said, the marrow and mana on the duvet was but an inconvenience. One of his prey had insisted that it be moved to a familiar place. Recovery time speeds up when one knows where they are, supposedly.
It had not been quick enough. The waste of time devoting one of his dogs to care for the other left him with little force when out on his ‘visits’ was not conducive to his reputation. Would do him no good. The thing had been beyond saving, and as he’d done before, he’d acted again to put it down. Only now, he had a pesky pile of dust strewn in the fabric of the cover that would only serve to irritate him.
Nightmare turned away from the scene, allowing one of his tendrils to scrape against the carpet, rubbing off the marrow and dust alongside the stains the thing had left behind. He would not be taking any of its presence out of this room. Not yet.
.
The table was tense. Nightmare preferred it this way, the things which lived at his mercy shying from the hand which feeds. Even with food on their plates, the open seat to the left of the one called Dust was the center of attention. Dust would not turn to look at it, though Nightmare was unsure if it was due to the absence or that if it tried it would only have Nightmare to gaze at instead. Meanwhile, the one called Horror could not rip his eyes away from the space. Nightmare had denied him entry to the room of the one who claimed that seat for the past two days.
It was refreshing, the sense of unease which covered the room along with the scent of fresh food. Nightmare did not need to eat, he only sat and supervised. Keeping everyone at the table until all had completed their meals.
If he did not do this, the monsters had a tendency to starve.
.
It hadn’t taken long, not at all.
It had irked Nightmare, when he awoke to the terror emanating from somewhere in his home. He did not need sleep, but he found when an aura of despair was as persistent as this he grew content and drowsy. Book in his hand, still opened to the page he had been reading when he had drifted off, it became obvious that something had happened to his prey. Only one aura was present.
He had not rushed. The sense of urgency was long lost on him, savoring the terror and mania which drifted through the halls such as a pleasant candle. His tendrils curled around him as he quietly swept towards its source, each hall dark and silent.
It was a testament to the strength of will of Horror.
Nightmare arrived to the common room to find the hulking brute still in his day clothes, ratty and torn jacket covering the view of his broad-shouldered back. He was collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, before one of the broad couches where all of his prey had always found their way to. Moths to the flame.
Horror’s shoulders shook silently, hitching and falling in on him as his skull pressed to the cushions, fresh pain blossoming from the old wound with an astounding amount of pressure. He did not seem to notice it.
Only as he stood over the shoulder of the beast did he see the cause of all the fuss.
A blue jacket. White tee. Black baseball shorts. Slippers. They were slumped against the furniture in such a way that it looked like their owner had simply left them behind in a botched teleportation. Wrinkles and folds fell over the empty space as though a breath gone from ones chest. The hood fell just so, resting on an indent made by so many of the skulls which had rested there before it. Truly, he should have seen this coming and sealed away all of the kitchen equipment.
Both of them had been radiating despair since Nightmare had allowed them to visit that room. He’d told them to clean it up, having taken the time to retrieve all which he needed from it the night prior. Horror had an immediate reaction. Nightmare recalled the way the mass of bone had nearly keeled into the door frame at the sight of the clothes strewn on the bed. Though he had steeled himself and recovered quickly after looking to the other one. Horror had surged forward and begun to collect that dust and the clothes along with it.
Dust, on the other hand, had stopped to stare. It just looked on with eyes which Nightmare imagined were quite unseeing. Those ones always had a habit of gazing beyond the plane which all others existed within. Nightmare had left them, but from what he understood, Horror had handled all of the clean-up, while Dust had walked away with the spoils of the endeavor.
Since that day, Dust had become increasingly despondent, only in speech. It still obeyed, killed with a precision which brought Nightmare much swifter meals, but when left to its own devices, Horror could not prompt it to speak. It was only a matter of time before it escaped him in such a manner.
Nightmare just hadn’t expected the courage to do so. None had succeeded before it.
Now Horror shook with the weight of silent misery.
Nightmare had half a mind to tell him to clean it up now, to get up and walk once more.
Only, he had the suspicion that he would be doing that exact thing of his own volition by morning light. This one was not foolish as were the others.
Ignoring the large monster, he merely swept one tendril forward to scrape through the strewn dust before retreating. Horror would supply him with power enough. He would pay for his mourning period through his grief.
.
Wrong.
Nightmare had been wrong. So, so, foolishly wrong. He had believed he finally had a dog as loyal as he deserved. One with the patience to let a pawn play its course, but the will to see it through to its capture. He had thought that Horror might… remain.
He had seen it in Dream’s eyelights. Felt it ripple through the battle.
When Horror had charged that Swap. When Nightmare was busy throwing that ink stain into the dirt. Dream had aimed his bow at Horror and let loose an arrow.
There had been plenty of them that fight. Horror and Nightmare alike had been swift in dodging them, the aura in the universe so suffocating that Dream was sluggish and hiding behind his allies. His arrows were weakened as was he. Only a few more minutes and Nightmare would have recalled their presence and taken them back to his domain. Just once the negativity became overwhelming to his elder brother.
Instead, he had seen as Horror completely abandoned his pursuit of the swap. The sight of the arrow sailing towards him seemingly putting him in a trance. Turning towards it.
He knew.
He knew that the strike would end his life.
The arrow cleanly passed through his ribcage and snagged the soul, only a little off from center. It caught on the inner lining of his jacket, but Horror’s eyelight went dark the moment the strike connected and collapsed under his own weight. The fool hadn’t smiled, hadn’t frowned, just had a look on his face. The same one he’d had when cleaning the dust from the surfaces in the mansion. The same one he’d had for years. As though it was his duty.
Dream had immediately withdrawn. The Swap, too, stumbled and merely watched as the form of the brute only took a few mere seconds to succumb and crumble to dust against the snow. They both watched on in bated horror as the light of Dream’s arrow faded.
A white tee shirt. Black basket ball shorts. A blue jacket. Slippers.
Dust.
Nightmare recalls squeezing Ink. The enemy tangled by leg in one of his tendrils. He recalls squeezing so hard that something snapped, and when his limb passed through and around it, it sunk to the ground. Burrowing. Reaching for something to destroy at the same time that his body drew to the scene.
It was nothing special. He had seen this exact same scene time and time again. The stains on the jacket, the rips in the shirt, the wear of the slipper, perhaps those changed, but it was not new to him. Another dog had died.
He couldn’t be sure why his body ducked and his hand grasped the fabric at the scruff of the jacket. As though it were the body itself, he dragged it off.
Nightmare did not spare a glance back to his brother or the others he kept, only sinking away into a portal of his own making.
.
As he recalls, he did not go to the mansion. In fact, he found himself in the forest at the border of his universe, the one where he would find a soul every so often. Not longing for escape, only testing the limits of just how far he could go.
The place was barren. Nothing like what he knew briefly of his first home. The one where Mother had given him this task. He couldn’t understand why that came to mind now. Mother was no more and these trees were not her. They were not lifeless, only mindless, unable to speak or think or despair the sunlight they never got to see. They did not even bother to grow leaves any more, for there were no animals to each from them and no reason to grow. Dark haze settled in his wake.
The jacket in his hand was gritty.
He pulled it before himself, staring down.
The hood was not the only section lined with fur, he realized. The inside too had it, dirty and musky from years of wear with little wash. The sleeves had tears and damage from the prior battle, though they were accompanied by signs of mending. Within it, among the dust and marrow, sat the impact mark. A section of the fur burnt by the heat of positivity. No doubt that was the location which his soul had shattered in.
A shaky breath entered NIghtmare’s lungs. It shook in a way he did not like and was all too familiar with. A feeling of red hot shame crept up his spine until it engulfed his neck. Failure. A voice whispered in his mind, though he’d only known it to hiss when he missed an attack or misread a word. He did not know why it found the right to criticize him for this.
He had not shot that arrow. He had not stopped Horror in its path. He had not wished for it to end his life. That had been… beyond him.
Failure.
He started moving again. One foot stomping before the other against the forest floor, decorated in leaves which did not decay.
This dog had died without his permission.
.
“He’s alright, Boss.” The voice carried into the library, deep and a little raspy from strain unknown to him.
Nightmare did not turn, listening as the heavy steps stopped just short beside his armchair. Nightmare had not bothered to ignite the hearth. The book in his hands had been open to the same page since he’s opened it an hour prior.
“Dust’s stayin’ with him right now. Just got up too fast from his chair is all.” The voice continued to report, though it was followed by a quieter, “Idiot won’t take a break to recover.”
He had never been one for healing. Nightmare had accepted that even since his creation it had been a skill which escaped him. His soul still twisted in shame when he found himself unable to help his own. Even simply wound care always went wrong when placed in his hands. They had learned the hard way that his rot entering an open sore could produce agony beyond any normal injury. It had once been a means to an end, but now only forced him away in a crisis.
When Killer had suddenly collapsed to the ground, fallen from his wheelchair, all inhabitants had converged. Dust was up first, followed by Horror. Nightmare had felt nearly as useless as Cross when the two of them stood and watched Horror carefully hoist Killer onto the couch.
When his head had lolled loosely to the side, Nightmare had fled.
He could recall once. A Killer laid on a bed. A strike to the spine making it impossible to move, nothing but a marionette with severed strings. Then, it had not affected him so much.
“Is…” Nightmare’s voice nearly caught in his throat, and he could feel the eyes on his back. “Is he conscious now?” Nightmare wasn’t sure he could handle it if he were not. That had been Killer’s status far too often.
A breath of silence.
“Not yet.” Was the answer he received, “But he was mumblin’ something about the cafe, so it can’t be that bad.”
The end of the words had a humorous lilt to them, like a laugh caught at the back of a throat.
“Horror?” Nightmare finally turned his head to look up at the monster.
Horror peered down at him, red eyelight centered right where Nightmare thought it’d be. His frame was so much fuller than the others, his cheekbones rounded and soft, the sweater he wore drowned him a bit, and though the sleeves had been rolled up, his hands still bore the fingerless gloves killer had gifted to him last month. His jacket sat tied against his hips, and he didn’t avoid Nightmare’s gaze as he examined him.
He reached out a tendril, snaking it through the air. Horror’s gaze flicked to it for only a second before the stare returned to him.
“Yeah, Boss?” He replied in turn to Nightmare’s call.
His tendril connected with Horror’s shoulder, snaking around it and against his arm ever so slightly. Horror only shifted under the pressure, subconsciously allowing more room for it to settle against him.
“Update me when he awakens.” He ordered, though his voice was probably much too uncertain for it to be all that intimidating. “I wish to have a serious discussion with him about caution in his weakened state.”
The look he received from Horror was graced by a wide grin and a snort.
“Yes, Boss.” He agreed with a nod, “He might actually listen to you. You’re the only one he takes orders from.” Horror mused with a warmth.
Killer was the first. Of them, at least. Nightmare had always given him such responsibility, he had not imagined his confidence would grow as it had.
Then again, he had never imagined that this warmth would ever force his cravings of pain to subside either.
