Tremmors (Slave)
I haven't updated this series in a hot minute
Balance.
Being in control of your weapon required balance. For a knife to lay swiftly in your hands, you had to be still, calm, and connected. Fear broke the connection forged with a weapon, fear ruined control, stole the peace, the steady hand that held it.
Killer's hand was trembling.
The tremors were subtle, hardly noticeable to the untrained, naked eye. But he could see it. It sent ripples through the surface of the blade, balance frayed. Dream had healed his fingers tremendously, but even a master of healing wouldn't be able to reverse the force of a blade splintering every bone in his hand into hundreds of fragments. He felt as if he'd been given a prosthetic, and had only one day to learn how to work it before he'd be thrown into the Paralympics. In essence it was still his hand. The hand that had won him many fights, and crowned him top fighter in many tournaments. This hand had been responsible for Dream expanding his territory by 23%. It had done so much, yet it had only taken one fatal blow for the future to crumble, left as ashes on the floor to be swept away.
Clenching in a fist, he gripped the knife tightly, expression fowl. He should have been better prepared - he'd trained himself to ignore Lust's hypnosis, he'd learnt the signs of it taking effect and how to shake them off. Yet he'd fallen for it nonetheless. His failure to do so had resulted in the possible loss of the tournament. If that happened who knew what would happen to him?
Dream usually threw away his fighter slaves after their first loss, finding a better one to succeed him next year. He'd only been excused from that fate because he'd won twice before, and Dream knew his potential. He had to impress this year, or he might be thrown back on the streets. And he couldn't have that.
It shamed him to admit, but he'd got used to the life of luxury that came with living by Dream's side. He had three meals a day (each of which were so obscene that the old street-wise him would have most likely thrown up if tasted). His bed was soft and his blankets warm, a huge contrast to the concrete floor and wooden platforms he used to curl up in when on the streets or in a cell. He had access to the best weaponry across the continent, with craftsmen making custom knives exactly how he wanted them. Dream allowed him to order whatever knives he pleased as long as he trained wit he them. But admittedly he had a few stashed in his room that had never drawn blood or sliced bone. They were too pretty. He liked to take them out sometimes, lie them on his pillow and simply admire them. If he were kicked out that would all be gone. No more meals. No more bed. No more knives. No more anything.
He'd go back to being a rat on the streets, his fame and title stripped from him. Perhaps he'd hear of the tournament, listen to people rave about Dream's newest fighter, his newest trophy. The idea made him feel sick, because without Dream he was nothing. He liked to think he was his own person, someone with a sense of individuality and authority. But he was nothing more than a meagre street boy with skilful hands who Dream had upgraded to royal standard. As easily as he gave him all these luxuries, he could take them away with a cruel click of his fingers.
He had been so focused on his own worries that he hadn't heard the door the the room open. He didn't notice the two presences behind him until a cold sneering voice cut through his mind. It was cruel, somehow almost darker than Dream's. Deep, smooth, dangerous.
"You're shaking, boy."
His fingers snapped tighter around the knife, neck twisting to glare at the figure that loomed over him. It was him. Nightmare. He had watched him tear a fighter apart into a bloody pulp with those tentacles two days ago. King Cross had never once been on the champions board, yet all of a sudden he'd spent almost the entire GNI of his kingdom on a creature straight out of a horror film. Now suddenly he was in position for one of the top three. He unnerved Killer. He hadn't had enough time to process his fighting style - it was hard to predict when he had six limbs to tear into you. He could fight him next..
Stood next to the creature, Ink stared down at him, pupils blank and grey like his own. His baggy trousers were torn and stained an ugly mauve, essence of Geno still smeared across his bones. He was certain this was the last tournament the glitched skeleton would manage. For him Death would be a relief. The emotions given to him in the fight seemed to have worn off, expression reading nothing. He was studying him, his hand. He didn't like it.
"Yeah, I'm shaking in fear." The sarcasm dripped like blood from a blade, his damaged hand shoved in his hoodie pocket fast. He didn't like how they stared at it, the way they unpicked at his vulnerability until they'd pulled a tumbling thread of information fit to wrap around his neck and tug. He stared at them both, perhaps intimidated by Nightmare's freakishly large height, and amused by Ink's smallness. The artist was even smaller than him (and that was saying something). He'd never managed to see him at a close range like this before; it had always been from a far distance, watching as that paintbrush shattered a man's skull to pieces. "You should be scared too; I'll be facing one of you two next."
The comment fell short of what he hoped and Nightmare sneered, knees dropping so he could crouch to his level. "You can hardly hold a butter knife to cut your dinner up, I don't think it's us who need to be worried."
He shuddered, forcing his feet to stay planted to the floor firmly. Fear wasn't something he'd give him the luxury of sensing. He was sure the other was like a dog - could smell your emotions. Freak. "Reassure yourself, if that's what you need."
A low grunt scraped from the others throat, blue eye narrow as he watched him. Rising back to his full height, he smirked, mouth twitching to show that jagged, white set of shining teeth he was certain could rip someone's throat out. "Go running back to your master. You'll be no fun to fight when crippled, it'll hardly be an honourable win."
Killer scoffed, feet finally allowed to twist and lead him marching out of the training room, knife still in hand. They weren't supposed to bring the weapon out of the confines of the room, but he didn't care in the moment. Pace slow and unbothered he scowled, fingers flexing shakily. Words muttered behind him, a whisper of a threat caught on the echoing brick.
"To make it a fun fight we'd simply have to kill him."
His spine prickled, pace almost quickening. It wasn't uncommon for fighters to be killed in the arena; he himself had caused the death of five before. Often the lower kingdom fighters would forfeit at the first moment of bloodshed to avoid death. Those in higher up had a degree of pride to carry, not for themselves, but for their masters. To surrender was viewed as an embarrassment, a mockery. You'd be expected to die before surrendering. Dream certainly wouldn't allow him to surrender - it would almost be as shameful as coming 3rd. Forfeit wasn't an option. Dream would watch him die before he allowed a public display of mockery like that.
Muttering under his breath he grasped his injured hand, thumb tracing over the cracks, bruises and jagged breaks. It would be useless in the final; he'd have to use his left. It was hardly a comforting compromise. Twisting the corner sharply he scowled, eyes so focused on his curled fingers that he only noticed the figure in front of him too late.
Two bodies collided, Killer's shoulder thudding into a firm chest. He stumbled, a snarling insult spat from his lips before he thought to check who it might be he bumped into.
"Moronic idio-"
Golden eyes burned into him and the words dried up on his tongue, throat tight as he lurched to an upright position. "Ssshit- Dream I-"
"I hope you were talking about yourself, Killer." His voice was icy, expression fowl as he watched the other shove his hands into his pockets. He completely ignored his ignorant babbling nonsense of how 'of course I was talking to myself-!' And rambled excuses. Instead he reached out, grasping his left wrist. "How's the hand?"
The other hissed, his hand wrenched into view. "It's fine-"
But Dream could see it tremble. He could clearly study each shuddering tremor that rippled through it, the weak twitch of his fingers as they curled and grasped at the air. "What have I told you about lying to me, Killer?"
"I-" He swallowed his words, gut twisting in summersaults - not the good ones. Hiding things from Dream wasn't possible, he saw through all the walls he put up, all the defences he thought would succeed. Head ducking he stared at the floor, not wanting to see the others expression as he swallowed. "It's not- good."
Tongue clicking sharply in annoyance the king reached out, grasping his hand and intertwining their fingers firmly. "Walk with me."
The action felt clunky and awkward, his fingers struggling to lock around his successfully. It was almost painful, yet the moment the King's golden magic bled across his fingers he felt instant relief. Dream's healing magic was almost unmatched, a power he'd built from his youthful years when the people exploited him. He didn't use it often now, but when he did it was blissful. He recalled how once a fighter had snapped his collarbone in a fight. He'd still won, but the moment the other had forfeit he remembered collapsing, vision swimming with red. When he'd awoke he'd been alone, Dream by his side and warm hands pressed to the break. It had healed like brand new. But a hand was much more tricky than that.
Their journey through the corridors occurred in silence, neither speaking to each other until they reached the doors to outside. Killer felt his feet drag, skull ringing. He needed to rest before the final. Today was the semifinal, where Nightmare and Ink would fight for a position in the final against himself. He wasn't sure which opponent he dreaded the idea of fighting more. In his usual manner he'd have been exited for both; he'd never fought either of them. The him from yesterday would be eager, bouncing, betting. But the him today could only think of how it would feel to have his skull splintered by a paintbrush or a tentacle.
"They say Nightmare is the crowd favourite to win this year." Dream spoke with little care, and to anyone who didn't know him, he might have sounded unbothered. Killer knew better than that. But he didn't speak, letting the other do the talking for both of them. "But whoever you're against, I won't be able to assist like last time."
He felt his soul plummet, his body suddenly feeling very heavy. "What do you mean-?" A weak croak. Was it a pride thing?
"Ink is emotionless. He has no positivity to manipulate and latch onto. Nightmare has a negative barrier unlike I've never seen before. It's.. like the opposite to my aura, I haven't established it yet." His tone was grave, as if he too had already considered the possible outcome of Killer's death.
"Ttthis is the part where you tell me you'd rather face the humiliation of me pulling out over my death-" He didn't know why he even suggested it. Why would Dream even consider the option?
The silence was deafening. The King wouldn't look at him, and in fact it seemed as if he pretended he didn't hear the comment at all. His hand fell from the others, Killer's fingers twitching and curling against the cold of the air. It felt odd, wrong without the warmth of Dream's healing magic. The hand snuck back into his pocket, knuckles already aching. He was just about considering whether to repeat his sentence when Dream finally spoke.
"You and I both know I can't do that."
Though it was the answer he expected he felt his gut drop, breath hazy for a short moment. "Right." It was curt, mouth pressed in a thin line.
Dream's gold eyes flicked to him, impassive. His focus wavered, from his face to the castle behind him. "It's not a choice I take lightly, Killer. You've served me well."
The words had a sour taste building in his throat, spine prickling with distaste. "You know for a moment, just a moment, I had fooled myself into believing you might care about more than just your ego and Kingdom expansion. I guess that thinking was weakness, not logic."
The king stood, watching his fighter as he twisted, feet carrying him away fast. "Do not turn your back on me, Killer."
His words went ignored, and three steps later the assassin was out of his view. He tipped his head to the sky, the other's words drifting through his mind. This wasn't about personal affections. This was about business.
Killer walked to the communal fighters quarters. He didn't care if Dream expected him in his room tonight, he wouldn't go. Why fear the punishment of disobeying if he were going to die anyway? He walked for his bunk, ignoring the others fighters as best as possible.
Yet it was hard to ignore them all. He saw Dust, the freak who'd placed surprisingly high, sat at the bed next to his own. He regarded him in an agitated fashion, fingers scratching at the back of his neck and mumbles fleeing from his cracked lips. Under different circumstances he might have sat with him, told him how he'd watched him fight, perhaps even form a friendship that would be splintered in the next tournament when they were placed against each other. But he didn't feel like it now, collapsing onto his bed.
If Dream wanted to see him he could come down himself. He wouldn't answer to another slave, not a guard or messenger boy. The king could force himself through the tragic journey of down the castle steps and down along a corridor without a freshly vacuumed red carpet. He wasn't moving.
His skull thudded into the pillow, hand raised above his skull to study his fingers. It wasn't pretty, cracks still spiderwebbing heavily. Soft golden tints filled the breaks, the dying indication of Dream's magic fading from his view. He'd fight to his last dying breath, go out with a bang. He'd make sure he was a fighter to remember.
Sick of the sight of his hand he rolled over, pupils flicking to rest on the wall. From here he could see Ink sleeping in his bed, conserving energy for tomorrow. He looked incredibly unimpressive when asleep, his small height and lack of massive paintbrush taking away the scare factor. Nightmare's bed lay empty. He assumed he was at his Kings quarters.
Lust's bed was empty. He must have been still hospital-bound after what he did to his eye socket. He couldn't help but smile at the memory, recalling the shrieking shatter when he'd splintered through the magic forming his pupil. It had been one of his good fights, and he'd die with pride knowing the man who had previously defeated him was broken on life support in a hospital bed. Cruel perhaps, but that Succubus had caused him months of beatings and retraining. He deserved a week of agony in a bed. Call it a holiday of sorts.
He was aware of Dust shifting behind him and the stuttered pace of Geno limping back and forth in front of his own bed. It was irritating, but he didn't have the energy to tell him to sit down. Eyes falling shut he sighed, cradling his injured hand to his chest in an awkward curl that had his wrist aching. He didn't care. Now he just wanted to sleep, to drift off under the weight of a flimsy blanket, with his head dug into a cold pillow. It briefly occurred to him that he'd never get to sleep in his nice bed back in Dream's Kingdom again. He'd die having slept in a communal fighter quarters with the sound of mumbling and shuffling echoing in his ears.
If his master wasn't such a proud bastard, he might have been offered a final night in his bed. Just to experience luxury. Yet the only times he'd been allowed in that bed had been fleeting moments. Breaths of haze induced desire that had ended as quick as they started. Nothing they had ever done meant anything. He should have realised sooner.
As sleep tugged at his body he sighed, limbs aching. There was no point dwelling on possible alternate futures when his had already been decided.
It was just as he felt his conscious start to slip into blissful unconsciousness that he was shook, a sudden shove at his shoulder tearing him from his near-slumber. A hiss tore from his throat and he twisted to look, eyes met with Dust's skittish ones. "What-?"
He didn't speak, simply indicating behind him. Rolling over he scowled, pupils fixated on the figure who stood in the doorway to the communal quarters. If he weren't scheduled to die within two days he'd have laughed, scoffed, mocked.
Dream looked disgustingly out of place, his lip curled as he glanced across the mess of the quarters. Yet they didn't linger long, burning gold fixed on Killer.
He was surprised he'd came. The idea of the king dirtying his shoes to come down here had hardly occurred to him as an actual possibility. Yet here he was, finger beckoning him over as he spoke, tone unparalleled.
"Come here. We need to talk."
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YUM
Do you think Dream will make Killer fight and possibly die or will he shake his kingdom and lose territory in order to keep him???? Place your bets here
I know this is a Kreme book but I might surprise you idk 🤨🧍
Anyway enjoy enjoy enjoy um
Eggs
What oneshot series would you like to see more of? Or request Some new ideas
-Jess-
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