Nightmares

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All he could see was red. Blood staining the floor, countless arrows lodged into the innocent of dirt, calm masked over with the chaos of aftermath. He saw crimson painting his hands, his heart, his soul. It seeped into his vision and dragged the adrenaline from him. 

There was no recovering from it this time.

The shock of death hadn't fully healed, past and present merging because he couldn't see clearly. He couldn't differentiate old from new in that moment, fields and trees looking the same, only this time he was alone. There wasn't voices with no care for his death slowly fading as his life did. 

There was no one left.

Maybe he should have been happy, he had won, finally gotten sweet revenge for the last time they played this game. It was sickly sweet and bitterly sour. It was as if light and dark, wrong and right, life and death had become one, disorientating and horrible isolating. 

Because he sat, looking over at the axolotl with a fondness he wished to see in pearl as well; Cleo too. It didn't seem right to have them so far away yet most likely watching the pathetic show of vulnerability as the weight of the day had finally settled on his worn and weakened shoulder.

He was so done.

Done with the constant death and loss. Done with pointless alliances that are eventually abolished with betrayal or death; they never stayed, weren't stuck with the universes glue; fate would never be that generous or kind. 

He was done with the persistent cold of solitude. 

So as the night progressed, mobs groaning, unperturbed by their imminent death as the world came to a wistful end, the breeze slowing, he looked back on the first time this happened. When he never got to see the end of the competition, taken out by the one he had killed not long ago, finished by a Zombie who got no break, sword plunged into its chest before it could celebrate.

When grief consumed his thoughts and dragged him to his own ruin. When all he felt was loneliness; as if a part of himself was lost with the one person he couldn't live without. And yet here he was, throughout the days, as his own clock ticked to 12, never once talking to him as he did all those months ago.

An ally, a friend, a husband.

Yet he always lost him in the end, never able to keep his hold on him for long enough to survive.

He couldn't survive his winning night.

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Scott woke up with a start, the memories vivid in his nightmares as he yearned for it to have ended differently. Pleaded for the pain to never have existed, never letting him forget the trauma and hurt from a single month, damning him to a life alone, regretful and without his husband.

Without Jimmy.

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No one ever got past what was, in reality and simple fact, a death game. It was something so evilly well designed it could never be forgotten. Because death, war, mourning, it could never be lost to the scrolls of time, could it? Not when everyone who played was plagued with a simple recollection of a time darker than most other events. 

Because the nightmares never ceased. Something that was so obvious in the script, something he managed to see right through. Because he never thought to wonder that connection forged from nothing would spark something so beautifully tragic that he couldn't take watching the bunker as he looked upon a corpse of hero suits and blonde hair.

Never wanted to admit that Jimmy was his everything, even when the replaying hours together were a figment of his dreams, real but out of reach, buried in the past. It wasn't something he should have cried over on the nights when his kingdom was deathly silent and too cold for comfort, but he did, the echo of the days and nights causing sobs to wrack his frame.

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Scott Smajor, King of Rivendell, Champion of Aeor, Ruler of Elves, impersonation of perfection and picture of grace, didn't sleep any longer, watching as the Codfather walked miles further from his grasp, died over in nightmares he could never get rid of.

He never asked to.

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Out of the 3? Defo my favourite, the words just flowed for this one!

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