"Fear manifests into nightmares, and nightmares turn into reality. It is the truth of terror."

"Do you have a date?"

Tyler chokes on a fry, coughing in to the nearest trash can. When it comes back up, he spits it out, hands tightly gripping the rim as he wheezes over it.

"Dè an ifrinn, mata," he shoves Toby with a weak growl, tearing up slightly as a result of his fit. "Don't do that."

"Well, do you?" the chubbier boy questions with fascinated curiosity.

"No," he spits back, quite put out. "Why on earth would I?"

Toby shrugs sarcastically, wincing as it seems to bring him pain. "I don't know, maybe it has to do with you being the guy every girl is crushing on."

The forgetting boy grimaces, looking up to find the hallway filled with more females than before. It appears that he's become a desired target for most of the girls in the grade, at least judging by the amount of lovesick eyes he gets.

He rolls his eyes and returns to munching on his cold french fries. There's no interest for him in picking favourites. Or anyone at all.

"Why?"

His friend gives him an expression of utmost shock and horror. "Dude! You're tall, muscular, and have amazing hair. Your jawline's sharp enough to cut somebody!"

Tyler snorts, shaking his head in amusement.

"You are the definition of tall, dark, and handsome!" Toby insists animatedly, glancing about every now and then with a bit of hope in his eyes. "Us boys dream of being like you."

"Don't," the boy suggests, rolling his shoulders lazily. "It's not fun bein' me. 'Sides, who else would compete for the lassies?"

"Lassies?" he asks, confused by the term.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "Means girls."

"Oh."

"Don't ye have to meet Jim this mornin'?" a fry is tossed into the air, only to be caught in the open jaw of the thrower. 

He watches with mild amusement as the younger boy panics, calling a loud goodbye as he runs down the corridor.

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes him turn around, a curious expression on his features. He's greeted by the nervous face of Shannon Longhannon, one of the girls in Jim's grade, who then takes a massive step backwards.

Tyler offers a small smile, unfortunately aware of how she blushes. "Ye all right there, Shannon? Anythin' I can do to help ye?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but seems to find that her words are stuck. Again, she tries to say something, only to shut her lips after a few moments.

The boy sighs quietly, chucking his empty styrofoam container in the bin beside him. "Is this 'bout the Spring Fling?"

Tentatively, she nods her head, looking ready to bolt in the opposite direction at any given second. She seems to already know his answer, given how loose her shoulders are and avoids eye contact. Wise enough to prepare herself for the inevitable worst.

"I'm sorry, Shannon," he places a hand on her arm, bending to meet her eyes. "But I cannot accept. It's not that I'm already goin' with somebody, but I don't exactly..."

She catches his drift, nodding in obvious disappointment. "Sorry for bothering you."

"No, no," he corrects, pulling her back slightly. "Ye didn't bother me. Don't think that. Yer not a bother, Shannon, I swear. I just don't really go after, uh, lassies like yerself."

"Oh," she realises, her voice small. "You're..."

"Yeah," he agrees before thinking quietly for a moment. "If ye 'ave no one else, I can go with ye. It won't be a date, but a thing between friends?"

Shannon smiles softly, "You don't have to."

"As ye friend, indeed I do," he insists cheekily. "'Sides, I want to."

They share a look, and he hands her a small slip of paper, smirking to himself as she skips off. The jealous glares are not what he wanted for her, but at least the females of Arcadia Oaks High are off his back.

The bell goes off and he frowns, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in warning. Something's not right, and it's messing with the atmosphere.

Tyler yelps in surprise as something cold burrows into his ear, whining in disgust and horror. It's not right, nothing should do that. Nothing should so easily evade him.

Then he blinks, and everything's dark. He can no longer see the flickering florescent lights in the ceiling, nor the hint of sunlight through the small windows. He can hardly see his own feet.

"Traitor," a voice hisses in his ears, making him spin around to find nobody there.

"Scum of the earth," another harasses, and a force knocks his feet out from under him. "Foolish beast."

"What?" he asks, both scared and confused. "Why do ye call me that?"

"It plays innocent," one chuckles. "Pathetic."

"What do ye want from me?!" the boy cries out, answered only by more empty voices.

"You are a liar!" 

He turns in circles, praying to find an end to the darkness. The discovery of nothing has his hands trembling and knees quaking.

"You killed him!"

"My father's dead because of you!"

"I watched them burn!"

"And what did you do?"

The boy cries out to the hidden people, desperate and alone. "Who are ye? What do ye want?!"

"You betrayed us," a low voice speaks, void of emotion and thick with cruelty. "All of us."

"But who are ye?" he screeches into the emptiness, struggling to keep himself from having another episode. "Tell me who ye are!"

"We were your friends," he spins on his heel in an instant, coming face-to-face with the hollow gaze of a young man with ravens' feather hair. "We thought we knew you."

"And then you turned against us," a blond man in chainmail corners the boy against an unseen wall, a sword tight in his hand. "You slaughtered us."

"What?!" the child cries in horror, eyes wide and mouth agape. "I-I couldn't! I would never!"

"They died because of you," he raises his weapon above his head, the steel reflecting in the light of the boy's eyes. "And you will pay the price for your actions."

He shrieks, diving out of the corner at the last second in terror. His feet trip over themselves as he stumbles upright, slowing his reaction to the sudden appearance of an elder man in front of him.

A shout of fear escapes him again, and he watches with mute horror as the man's kind face crumbles to ash, accusation and betrayal reflecting in his glassy eyes. His ragged robes alight with wicked flames, and his screams echo within the boy's ears.

"No!" he cries with a voice unlike his own, thick and heavy in grief. "No!"

"This is what you've done."

Tears brim his eyes as he finds a valley of flames before him, charred ruins and twisted bodies burning within the red. They were a people. Children and women and young men. All of them disintegrating into dust in the wind.

"I didn't do this," he whispers, biting back a harsh sob. "I couldn't."

"One cannot avoid their own past," a voice like gravel speaks, hatred in every word. "And you cannot escape your destiny."

Visions flash before him, colours of gold, silver, and bronze. A kind laugh, a cruel chuckle. The glint of the sun in the eyes of another, a broad smile. A thank you, a goodbye. The sound of steel on stone, the mutterings of something foreign. One by one, they return. Link by link, the chains of iron break apart, scattering old memories into his mind.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," he shakes his head, backing away from the scene. "I did not do this."

"I trusted you!" a younger voice bellows with wet anger. 

"You turned your back on us."

"What have you done?"

"It's your fault!"

"Get out!"

"I didn't do this!" the boy sobs, biting his knuckle as he continues to shake his head.

"Join me."

"Take her hand."

"I'm the only one who accepts you."

The voices grow louder, drawing him to press his hands over his ears. They're deafening and he can no longer hear his own denying thoughts, the bad now outweighs the good. 

The boy cries aloud, calling out in guilt and terror. He falls to his knees, agonized screams tearing themselves from his lungs as he cries. He didn't do this. He can't have. They lie.

An unnatural chill crawls up his spine, and he becomes vaguely aware of another presence behind him. He doesn't care, even when a cold blade presses against his neck.

"I've waited centuries for this," a low voice chuckles. "And here you are, vulnerable and alone. I might finally spill your blood."

He swallows thickly, grasping on to his bracelet for comfort. To his unrecognised surprise, it's warm to the touch.

"But, alas," the person continues, and the blade disappears, "that blasted Stricklander would protest. Until our paths cross again, forgotten one."

The presence vanishes and he screams, curling into himself. His mind fights an internal battle, clashing against words that are not his own while struggling to comprehend all that is new. It's overwhelming, it's frightening. And he is alone.

"I didn't do this," he mumbles, sobbing weakly. "I never did..."

If only he could convince himself. When one fears false accusation, it is impossible to truly believe the truth. Doubt forever clouds the minds of the brave.