One Shot Challenge

A Dance to No Music

Theseus___

(I have been brewing up inspo for this for ages)

Angst (a lot)

Death

Sadness

Decay (I tried)

I shall not question

Dream SMP (cannon divergent AU)

TW:  anything above, lore, violence, blood, Astra is trying to make the readers cry. I don't know- other sad stuff,

A brunette walked out to the center of the grand white room. His hooves echoing in the empty space. Where memories should be. A familiar song floated through his head. One with no memory tied to it, yet still there.

He placed his hands up, as if he were waltzing with someone. Memories floated back to him with each step he took. He used to dance a slow waltz with his father before all that happened.

It felt like he was looking back at himself in the mirror. Light brown hair and vibrant eyes looked back at him.

He felt time whirl by, the next time he passed the mirror, he was in a crisp dark blue uniform, eyes set, but still gleaming with hope. The brunette stood by a trusted friend's side as he blew them all up in a dark room.

A young boy stood at the podium, an explosion on his lips. He said his words, click boom he was dead, died in the party he decorated. Dead before the explosion. The next time he saw his reflection was in a gleaming battle axe, his eyes no longer held that childish hope, a burn scar across his face.

A speech of revenge, a speech of death. Death did not come.

Destruction came instead, obsidian webs spread across the sky, raining down doom in bright flashes and explosions.

He stood in the snow, waiting for the little piglin to come through the portal. He appeared with the brunette's husband (you know the lore). The boy, now a year older, scooped the little one up, hugging him tightly. Someone with split hair came to join the hug.

The brunette stared into a mirror. Horns, much like his father's, and floppy ears. A blind eye, a burned face. A black symbol on the back of his jacket.

This was his reality, not a trace of the small boy with innocent eyes.

A white hand tapped his shoulder, drawing him away from the mirror. Asking him to dance.

They waltzed much like the brunette did with his father. The black and white figure smiled down at him.

Green and red eyes looked at their best friend lovingly, they loved days like this, where they could dance and play the part.

But the beautiful house faded, and the black and white figure found himself alone, trying to hold onto the whispers of memories. They collapsed on themselves, hugging the space their best friend turned husband used to be.

But soon enough they picked themselves up, dancing again, all alone this time. They spun on their toes, their hair whipping around, their tail snapping as the spin stopped.

They remember a time where a flag of freedom reigned. When three friends, not much younger, walked along a path, wondering what they could do now they were a year older.

He could watch their own hands do things they weren't supposed to. He could watch himself do things because his hands were not his hands. Their body was not theirs and their mind was not their own.