The first time he’d been through this…

Nic had been beaten a few times in his life, yes. But never to the point of near-death. Never with the striking end of an iron-ringed staff. As the governor’s son thrashed the weapon across his back, Nic’s mind had gone black with humiliation and anger. Every blow sending him deeper into the pit as his body began to fail and he could only curl up against the raining blows.

Now they felt like lovetaps. Getting beaten hurt, would always hurt, but Nic knew how to control that pain. As the largest of the boys shoved him to the ground and the staff whipped across his face, he spat up teeth in globs of blood. It came back around and his nose broke with a sickly, cartilage-heavy crunch.

But it was worth it.

To the other side of him Tawley was fighting, needing all of the other three to hold him down. Nic loved him for that. He would’ve fought to the ends of the earth to save Nic.

All Nic needed to do to save him was take the beating.

The staff whipped against his back. His shoulder. Muscles bruised and skin split. It felt clinical. Nic had been torn apart in the heat of battle, this was just child’s play.

His lack of reaction - besides the instinctual, grunting sounds of pain - seemed to make the prodigal son angry. The staff tapped against his chin, tilting his bloody head up.

“What’s a matter boy? Mute?” The face that looked down on him was all cruelty. There were people in the world, and then there were monsters. No matter how long you looked into those ice-blue eyes there would never be anything human.

His whole body was burning with pain. He drooled blood across his bottom lip as he just said, “No.”

“Nicolas.”

A voice tried to push into his mind. Tried to speak to him through ages.

Nic ignored it. It belonged to another time, a time where he’d fucked everything up. He’d do better this time.

“Why don’t you try begging for your life? I’m quite merciful.”

Nic couldn’t help himself. He laughed, pushing out more blood. The staff whipped around and smashed against his jaw, bent in his teeth, twisted his neck until the muscles strained and bruised.

“Nicolas! Listen to me.”

“Just kill him, then. Not very fun.” The bastard spat, annoyed but barely paying attention. His eyes were turning towards Tawley.

“What?” Nic grunted. “Is that how long you can last? I was just-”

The hand of the boy holding him down slammed his face into the mud. “Just getting started…” He coughed out anyway.

Their leader just sneered. “Trying to save your friend a beating? Too bad. I think he’ll make better sounds than you, mute.”

Nicolas groaned. The first blow made Tawley scream, whining like a dog as the staff slammed into his head and drove him down. He would get worse than Nic - he did make better sounds.

“Nicolas, this isn't you. You don’t give up. You don’t let them win. I know you might want to change the past, but it can’t be done. You have to remember who you are…”

“I don’t have to do shit!” He screamed. He wouldn’t go back. Not to that time.

“Nicolas. Tarquin is in danger.”

“What did you say…” Nic wheezed. It was like all the blood had gone still and cold in his bdy.

“Shit,” The boy holding him down laughed. “This one’s talking to himself. I think he’s a mad one, isn’t he?”

“Nicolas, I can’t tell you more. I- I shouldn’t even be able to tell you this much. But Tarquin has tried to send you a message. It’s waiting for you. But if you die here- if you let the dream have you- he will die with you.”

“Time to go, madboy.” The thug kneeling on him lifted his knee off Nic’s back and leaned back to draw his knife, planning to slit Nic’s throat like a pig.

“Nicolas. People are counting on you. It’s time to wake up.”

“Time to go…” Nic echoed numbly.

It had been a beautiful dream. He'd let himself believe. Believe he could change the past, that he could save them all, that he hadn't fucked up everything beyond all repair. But a dream was all it was.

He had to wake up. He had to save the people who could still be saved. Nic sighed...

And moved.

Nic twisted underneath his foe and grabbed the knife first. The boy had gotten sloppy - used to Nic not fighting - and didn’t react in time. Nic’s other arm clinched him around the shoulders and pulled him down onto the blade. The knife made quick, darting bites along his belly, opening him up as he groaned in breathless pain and horror. Three quick strikes and his stomach was torn open. Seven and it was a mass of gore spilling onto Nic as the boy dissolved, his body in the dream-realm unfurling into mist.

The others had barely noticed. They were busy holding Tawley down as he fought, as the young master struck his face and shoulders with the staff.

Only one of them had seen, out of the corner of his eye, what had happened.

He opened his mouth to yell.

Nic tackled him full-tilt and carried him to the ground, knife striking down into the thug’s eye and through into his brain. The boy died with a shocked expression left hanging on his face. Nic twisted, the boy turning into mist underneath him, and rolled up onto his feet as the others broke away from Tawley in horror.

Two down. Three to go.

They stared at him like he was a bloodsoaked ghost.

Nic was loose on his feet. His body seemed wrong. Too big, too long, clumsy and giant. The bruises and blood of his beating clung to his face and made his limbs heavy like iron weights. But he had this. They were three children, maybe seventeen, and he was-

He was Nicolas Winterhome.

He’d been through hells they couldn’t imagine. The memories were flooding back now. Whatever hold the dream had on him was fading. He remembered blood and he remembered battle. He knew who he was.

“Kill him!” The leader demanded, aiming his staff towards Nic. The other two looked at each other as they released Tawley to slump in the mud.

And he didn’t die easily.

He slipped back as the first thug came at him, swinging a wolfstooth club. He slid under and came up, jabbing his knife into the boy’s belly and wrapping his other arm around the boy’s waist. As the pain made his opponent go limp. Nic used his body as a battering ram to slam into the thug behind him. All three went down in a brutal tackle.

It was all coming back to him.

The things he’d gone through.

The things these monsters had done to him.

He lifted off them, pulling a sword from his opponent’s belt. It slid out with a deadly rasp, a good length of steel. “This…” Nic began.

“This is for what you’d do, given the chance.”

He hacked down. Bone and flesh were split like butter under the sharp edge, hacking one thug’s face in two. The other was crawling away, whimpering, and Nic reversed his grip and drove the sword down through his spine.

The young master’s staff swept towards his face. Nic dodged easily, even with his shaky, beaten body. He ducked below and came up, smashing his fist into the boy’s face. They were children. He had the experience of a man in a child’s body.

He wasn’t afraid to use that. No, he relished the chance.

His sword whipped across the young master’s face. It carved from chin to nose, ripping away a chunk of the latter. The boy was stronger, with cultivation and techniques- but he was younger, with no ability to withstand pain.

The boy toppled backwards, and Nic hacked down with an overhand strike. The staff intervened for a moment, catching the blade as it rained down, again and again. But with each strike the boy’s hands were faltering. With a final shout and a brutal downhards blow Nic split the staff in two.

Nic leaned down and grasped the young master’s shirt. He pulled the boy towards him, enjoying the way that pretty face was all filled with terror. “You…”

“Let me go!” The young master whined. “Do you know-”

“YES! I KNOW WHO YOUR FUCKING DADDY IS!” Nic roared, and the pommel of his sword cracked down. One blow after another bent the crying bastard’s nose, degree by degree until it was a twisted mass of pink and red cartilage smeared down unrecognizably across his face.

He dropped the crying, blood-smeared creature into the ground, and stepped on his face.

“You-”

“Shut up.” Nic spat.

“I-”

“SHUT. UP.” Nic lifted up his foot and stomped down.

“Nicolas… you have to stop…” Tawley huffed, full of terror. He was smart. He knew what happened when you killed the governor’s son, even in a dream-real,.

What Nic hadn’t known, a lifetime ago.

But this was it. This was his chance for revenge. To hurt the conceited brat who had cost him everything. The idiotic, arrogant monster who’d cut off Markus’ arm. Who’d crippled Kyto and left him bedridden. Who’d killed Tawley.

“No. No I don’t Tawley. I’m sorry.” His eyes stung with tears. “It’s too late. All I can do now…”

He reached down and grabbed the young master’s hair in his fist.

“All I can do now is make this bastard pay.”

He lifted his foot and dragged the boy up. His fist slammed him back down. He repeated the process with brutal delight, venting years of frustration. Years of anger.

“Nic....” Tawley begged. “You’re better than this.”

“No. No, I’m really not.” Nic hit the brat again. He wasn’t better than this. For years and years and years this was all he’d dreamed about.

“It’s not too late…” Tawley was pleading with him. Terrified of the monster his friend had become.

But it was too late. The thing behind him wasn’t really Tawley. It was a dead-eyed memory, trying to lure him into letting the dream carry him away. Into letting this vision steal his memories of the real world. It would have said anything, anything at all, to convince him to give up.

The real Tawley didn’t beg. If the real Tawley had wanted to stop Nic, he would’ve clubbed Nic over the back of his head. This was a pale imitation of his real friend - the dead friend he’d never get back.

Because of this slime.

Nic lifted the broken body of the young master, and held him face-to-face. “Listen to me…”

“I-”

“LISTEN TO ME. I know this is a dream. I know there’s no turning back. But maybe you can hear me. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and remember these words. So listen…”

The boy’s eyes were wide. His bloody ruin of a mouth shook.

“I will find you. And the third time I kill you, I swear to the Tomb and the Sept, I will make you stay dead.”

He drew back his hand. The sword cut down.

The young master’s body went limp.

And the dream broke apart.