Life or Death. II.

                                    

                                          
Word count: 1.8k.

It has been five days since you have stepped foot on the frozen lands of the eastern arctic, and your prey has finally stepped foot out of comfort.
It is midnight, and the lights have already been snuffed. You listen acutely, blood rushing through your ears and heart bouncing up and down from throat to stomach.
Soft knocks on wood inform you that Dream was cautiously traversing the boardwalks of the connected cabins, and a soft whisper indicated that cloth was dragging along with him.
You're sitting against a tree, the trunk the only thing stopping Dream- or anyone in the commune- from discovering you. You had been woken up from your daze of a night watch by the slow creaking open of the door, and now you're upright, back arched and mind alert.
You pick yourself up from the snow, making barely any whispers of noise as you pick out the sound of crunching snow, and you peek around for a brief moment. A puffy, crimson cloak hugs tightly around him, and the absence of a shining crown or pair of smoky wings allows you to confirm that it wasn't Techno.
The wind whistles gently through the trees as the footsteps grow louder, and then you hear Dream slip through the fence. The steps become growingly disproportionate in timing, and you realize numbly that Dream is limping.
You brush it away; Dream was ferocious when fighting, and especially through pain.
A shadow passes through the tree line to your left, and you close your eyes, holding your breath. You'll ambush him, and hopefully, it will all go smoothly and he'll go down without any fighting.
This is it. This is it.
You'll do it. You have to. The world balances on your shoulders, and you need to kill him before he exacts revenge or causes any trouble.
You'll beat him. He's the better fighter, warrior, strategist but- you have to.
You'll beat him, because you'll have no chance of winning if you enter the fight doubting yourself.
A cool breeze brushes over you face, and you open your eyes, aflame with energy and confidence.
Only-
Only to meet a skeleton. A zombie, a shell of Dream's former health. His long, straw-like hair is aberrantly white, bleached and soulless and emitting death.
He simply lacked... life.
A horrified breath tears out of your lungs, and you are struck by fear, if only for a moment.
The wind sweeps across your face again, bitter and cold as Dream flinches and pirouettes to face you, yet his movements are agonizingly slow, unreflexive.
You stare at him and he stares back, his eyes dull in the darkness yet awake and drowning in terror.
The sword in your hands, once sparking and eager to draw red lifeblood, grows unnaturally heavy and cold along with your heart, and the warmth drains out of your face.
"Dream?" The single word tests the frozen air, and you shift your stance, realizing that you had stood like a stone for the past minute.
You remind yourself, You have a missio-
"Just- just make it quick," Dream utters, and his knees fall under him as he sinks into the snow, bowing his head. Consumed with defeat and raw desperation, submission.
This-
This can't be Dream, your mind rejects your eyes and ears' stories of a broken man, and yet your heart knows and your blood turns to ice.