[OOC] Dream
He thought, only for a moment, that he dreamt a good deal. His mind seemed for an instant the only safe place in all the universe, he could smile and believe what was on his face, yet he could not remember why he had to hide his smile. It was crowded in his head, like an overstuffed library, full of leather and books stuffed with vellum and belief; the words written by hand, then stamped on with rapid cold machines, set by human, set by argument after altercation after war after peace after human. Even so, whether inscribed by man or machine, the words all came from some head, all convoluted with some sick bias and yet he loved them all for their faults. He could read books slicked with oil, stuck with blood and soaked in ink, and each medium would make no difference, it was the meaning of the symbols, the fear or power of a pen that he longs for. He felt himself wander for hours, reading as he went, but each and every word went through his head backwards. He knew them before he saw them on the page. But this library suddenly put up delicate red velvet barriers you can't come through here anymore we promise it's for the better but he's moving on anyways. He is watching the floor. He misses his books.
"We're going. We've got to move on."
All the stories, he loved the stories. He walks through a door, an archway, a lined hallway paved with coffins. He doesn't question whose they are or why they're empty. He was listening to a man, whose age he couldn't tell but neither did he care, who stoically read of the greats - the heroes and gods who could rise above and live with their all, their mistakes and loves and lusts and success. The great Zeus, wooer of a thousand women, father of at least twice that number, Mighty Thor and his Hammer that struck the heavens…and let down only rain on an already wet people, ever-seeing Horus, the hawk who watches with one eye, son of the Sun, the judgment of your trials through life.
"Ah, yeah? What's tha' new name this time?"
He imagines himself as each of these beings, powerful enough to sink islands and raise Hell, weak enough to chase a pretty face like a puppy on a string. He sits entranced, all at once both a child and a perfect adult, but they stories are turning into instructions and they are changing him, his shape. His vision grows sharper, but his neck begins to bend, a singular eye ever staring grows. One Eye that sits on the nape of his neck, and the only ever-seeing part of his being, but in order to see all, he must put his head down, watch the ground with his human eyes. Or close them.
"Don't be a fool, brat. You cannot be both."
Such is why he can't see the face the mouth or eyes or soul of the one who speaks the last words in his dream. Oh he knows, but he cannot bear to sit up straight, to force his neck upwards like an imitation of a god's creation and stare this thing in the face He knows it, from the long callused tips of the fingers, to the slight strain in the voice, the pain of weight of the world but he is not Atlas, never one to bear the brunt of others, but that golden apple
"I thought this was what you wanted to be. What we wanted."
And he's only afraid, but not of dying.
Too late to think about it now, the dream is over. He will never fall to the tricks of Hercules.