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The headache had come on suddenly and it left Dream in agony, curled up on the floor of his room. It pounded and twitched and stuttered and pulsed. The pain was sharp and violent and everywhere. It was all consuming. He couldn’t think of anything but the pain, and the debilitating nausea it summoned. Dream wanted to turn himself inside out, to peel off his skin and crawl away from his own body.
He’d never experienced anything like this in his life. It was foreign and terrifying and it seemed as though it would never end, as he spent hours, what could have been days, curled into a ball, hands covering his eyes as any light seemed to multiply the horrific sensation ten fold. His eyes watered and he sobbed weakly, ready to pray, ready for his life to end. Surely this was death, come slow and painful for all the sins he’d committed.
Yet as he approached that final breaking point, there was something else, emerging slow from the pain. What had been darkness became a blinding white, painful and violent, and then it was in his ears, a voice. It was in his thoughts but the words were not his own. Set them free, the voice said, low and tender but not quite human, not quite animal. This is the voice of a god surely. Dream had seen images from them but has never heard their word.
He heard that voice, he saw craters of white stone, the shadow of a black beast that strikes fear into his heart. There was a growl, and sparse static-like screeches of creatures. What should make him fear from them instead sparks pity, as though he looked through the eyes of whatever god spoke to him.
Free them from the beast, the god said again, and images flashed faster. He saw the nether, he saw wandering endermen being slayed with a sword. He saw a hand combing blaze dust with something blue, and tossing it into the sky. But something else struck him, the hand that he saw. It was familiar, intimately so, yet it was not his own.
Then he saw the dragon, it’s writhing body laid down in the craterous ground, a young man standing over it, a heavy diamond sword poised against it’s black scales. And Dream recognizes him before he turns around. When he does it almost hurts. He recognizes the boy he’s grown up with, the soft lines of a face he’s seen a thousand times, a thousand different ways, and how different it looks here, through the gods eyes. George, Dream thinks. And he watches, watches as this George plunges his sword into the throat of the dragon. Yes, the god says, and Dream’s head pulses with pain, George is chosen, you must show him the way.
The name slips from Dream’s lips in a pained cry, “George!” He called out, voice broken from crying as the pain in his head reached a violent climax. Something about his friend had seemed so wrong there. And he couldn’t help but think of all the danger he’d seen, it was impossible the gods wanted George to do all that. He’d always seemed so… fragile to Dream.
Then, just as quickly as the pain had arrived, it receded, leaving Dream’s body shaking in a violent aftershock, tears still staining his face. He wheezed and panted, finding himself sitting up now, eyes falling to the floor as his thoughts ran rampant. It took several minutes for him to finally notice the priest who had entered his room.
His pale robes and gray eyes were unassuming as he watched Dream, quietly and patiently, resting a hand on his trembling shoulder.
“That hasn’t happened yet?” The priest, a newer initiate to formal priesthood, asked gently when Dream finally noticed his presence.
“N-no none of my visions have ever been this painful,” Dream said exhaustedly. He wanted to lay his head down on the pillow, eyelids already heavy from the ordeal, but he knew the Father would have questions for him, it was part of their agreement. But it was easier to relay the information to this man first. The priest shook his head, eyeing Dream sympathetically, but he almost looked scared, like he was just barely containing his fear.
“No, sir your eyes were glowing-” the priest began. Dream felt a strange panic rising within him, not realizing how disconnected he could have been from his body for that to happen.
“What? That’s impossible,” he tried to rationalize.
“My eyes do not deceive me often, sir, and neither do my ears,” the priest said with a peculiar mix of nervousness and confidence. Dream cocked his head to one side, allowing him to continue. “I heard his voice through your lips.” What the fuck happened to me, Dream thought, hands resuming their shaking at a violent level.
“What did you hear?” Dream asked lowly, and the priest's eyes glimmered with hope and curiosity.
“I heard that he has picked a Chosen One,” the priest said. “George,” he rolled the name over his tongue as though it was something sacred. “If I might say,” the priest stuttered, “this is incredible news, it makes you a true prophet, and we need to alert the Father at once. We need to find this, George.”
“No,” Dream said, before he even had a chance to think, “It’s some kind of mistake, the gods don’t want him. He can’t be the one to slay the beast.”
“To slay the beast?” The priest said with wide eyes, and Dream nodded solemnly, but the priest continued, adamant in his belief. “The gods don’t make mistakes, sir.” He was shaking his head from side to side, pushing himself to his feet in the frantic manner of a startled bird. And then he was nearly launching himself towards the door, sprinting down the corridor in a most un-priestlike fashion.
Dream was left alone, heart still racing, thoughts still jumbled, but one thing was clear in his mind. George couldn’t kill a dragon, Dream had to keep his friend safe at any cost.