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Sunday had never even considered defying the Dreammaster before.
Under the teachings of Order, each and every time, place, and person had its designated role and duty— a student should obey his teacher, a subordinate his superior. Perhaps once or twice, when he was a child, he had succumbed to those base urges and engaged in a bit of mischief here and there, but he was no child now— thus, he had no reason to consider disobedience.
Until now.
Until the one who he treasured most had been cruelly snatched away, murdered within a dream, her body lying still and empty for eternity within the Reverie’s dreampool.
The Charmony Festival was fast approaching. The culmination of Amber Eras of effort had arrived— and on the eve of the performance, the one who should have been center stage had vanished into lingering traces of memoria.
How could an aria go on without its singer?
Moreover, how could he usher in that long hoped-for Sweetdream Paradise without the one he most desperately longed to create it for?
Continue with the preparations, the Dreammaster had instructed him, Dominicus’ arrival cannot be delayed. The matter of this so-called ‘Death’ is unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
And for the first time, Sunday had disobeyed. He had pushed forward with his investigation, determined to find the one who had killed his sister, who had broken her wings and sent her plummeting to the ground. Evildoers must face retribution, after all— why should a monster like that experience the bliss of an eternal sweet dream?
That person must be stopped, must be punished— Robin’s killer must face that same pain a thousand times over— even if it meant going against the will of the other Family heads and defying the orders of the Dreammaster.
Ah, but that man’s eyes roamed all throughout the land of dreams. Sunday could not escape their notice, though he sequestered his own thoughts from the resonance of the dissonant Harmony that joined the minds of the Oak Family together. No sooner had he sent that serpent-tongued gambler on his way than did the humming distortion of the Harmony press in around his own mind, uncomfortably close, drowning out the sound and sense beyond the deep bass and shimmering tremolo of its resonance.
“It isn’t like you to be rebellious, Sunday,” the Dreammaster’s voice echoed through his mind.
Sunday grimaced, shutting his eyes as a rush of wings heralded the arrival of a flock of ravens, and a chorus of footsteps moving as if to a conductor’s baton proceeded through the halls of Dewlight Pavilion.
“I…” Sunday began, before a ringing in his ears cut him off, splitting his consciousness and rendering his powers of speech null.
“Though I wish no suffering upon you, and at another time you may have been forgiven with a mere warning, the hour has grown late, and the dawn will soon be upon us,” the Dreammaster went on. “When the Order descends, the one who ushers it forth must not be tainted by the rot of disobedience. So tell me, Sunday— how shall I punish you?”
Sunday fought to maintain his composure as the twisted Harmony continued to assail his mind, but he could not stop himself from doubling over. Though his own powers of Tuning may surpass that of even his mentor, the thought of resisting this assault did not even cross his mind— how could he do such a thing? In truth, he had been disobedient, ultimately intending to delay the Charmony Festival if he could not find Robin’s murderer in time.
Ah… he had set things in motion already, had he not? That fellow from the IPC should prove to be capable enough, and despite the Brand of the Harmony upon him, he still retained the freedom that Sunday lacked to uncover the nature of the plot.
As for Sunday himself…
Robin lay in her eternal slumber, her voice that would have once created paradise never to be heard again. For her, even if only for the sake of her memory, for the sake of justice, Sunday would endure any punishment.
“I have defied the will of the Family, and my actions have threatened the ‘Harmony’ that maintains the dreamscape,” he replied at last, through gritted teeth. “As such, I must submit to the thorns and the waters, so that my transgressions might be burned away by the flames of suffering.”
“Indeed,” the Dreammaster replied in the myriad voices of the Oak Family members that had gathered here in this chamber. “The Harmony may be forgiving, but the Order cannot be questioned. You know this well, Sunday— and yet, because of your faithful service all these years, I am willing to grant you a lighter punishment. Do you sincerely repent and vow to change your ways?”
Perhaps Sunday could have put on a show of repentance, carrying out the script he knew so well, and escaping most of the pain to come— but Gopher Wood knew him too well, and to say that he truly repented would be a lie that the Dreammaster might well see through.
So, he remained silent.
“I see,” the Dreammaster mused, and a long, heavy sigh of regret issued from the lungs of the half-dozen Family members under his command. “Then I suppose it cannot be helped. You have jeopardized multitudes for the sake of the few, and remain unrepentant even in the face of punishment. Such rebellion cannot be tolerated, especially from one such as yourself.”
The distortions in the Harmony grew even more oppressive as they enveloped Sunday in a haze of color, though that keen feeling of distress had faded, replaced now by that overwhelming sense of authority that he himself so often wielded, now turned against him.
“O, Triple-Faced Soul, bind his hands and feet with shackles of thorns, so that he may not flee from his punishment,” the Dreammaster’s voice echoed from the walls and the vaulted ceiling, turning to a chorus even beyond those he had already gathered, “and flood his mind with water to cleanse the wine of revelry, so that he feels everything just as it would feel in the waking world.”
As Sunday’s senses were set alight, he could feel the shackles of the twisted Harmony upon him, latching into his skin, while his mind cleared, his perception shifting so that he felt as “awake” as one might possibly feel within a dream.
“If you endure the pain of your punishment without complaint, then you will find atonement amid the flames of suffering, and emerge from this trial consecrated anew,” the Dreammaster said then, once the incantation had taken effect.
Sunday bowed his head. “I accept whatever punishment must be inflicted upon me.”
“Go then, to the Moment of Serenity,” the Dreammaster instructed. “There, in the Chamber of Consecration, you will find your atonement.”
Sunday did as he was ordered, silently crossing through the Moments of the Dreamscape from day to night, as though it were any other walk— his appearance impeccable, without a wrinkle in his clothes or a hair out of place, just as always, despite the turmoil within. He was aware of the keen eyes of the ravens watching him from the rooftops as he went.
Even amid the Family’s sweet dream, there were still those who sought to cause suffering and pain— and thus, still a need for a jail, where those who had committed minor offenses would stay awhile to atone for their wrongdoings, while those who had committed serious crime would have their dreams turned to nightmares before they were forcibly awakened and expelled from the Reverie.
It was this last punishment that Sunday now faced— apart from the awakening and expulsion. He did not care to preside over such affairs, and avoided the Moment of Serenity when he could, but he had seen this creation of “Nightmares” before, as a youth who was learning what it took to manage the Dreamscape. He could still recall the criminal’s screams of agony, his voice raised in a tattered plea, begging to wake up, begging to leave…
There was a reason that so many who were driven out of Penacony never attempted to return. For once the sweet dream had become a nightmare, it was easy to come to fear dreaming altogether.
Sunday lifted his chin as he entered through the jail’s gate. Even this place was a dreamweaver’s work of art, having that same air of opulence that the rest of the sweet dream shared. He greeted the Bloodhounds he passed with a practiced smile, all the while distorting the Harmony to mask the fact that he had even been there in the first place. Exhaustion clung to his every step already, a sick dread curling in his stomach next to the grief and anger he had tried so hard to suppress these past days.
The Chamber of Consecration lay beneath the jail’s main floor, accessible only by a hidden lift. Even many of the Family were unaware of its existence— a place of tribulation not for errant dreamchasers, but for Family members that had erred. Sunday entered the chamber to find a pair of the Dreammaster’s puppets already waiting, surrounded by an array of neatly-arranged tools and devices that could only be described as “torture implements.” In the center of the room was an iron chair with a tall backrest. A brazier of hot coals, already lit and radiating a warm yet sinister glow, was positioned not far away.
“Remove your shoes, gloves, and outer coat, Sunday, and then take your seat,” the Dreammaster instructed, and Sunday did as he told, neatly placing his shoes next to each other on the floor, carefully folding his coat and gloves and placing them on the table beside the door. He walked forward, slowly crossing the room. He turned around and then sat as ordered, smoothing out his coattails as he did so.
The moment he sat down, the iron chair responded to his presence. Golden, thorn-like shackles sprung from its armrests, legs, and backrest, pinning down his hands and arms, his legs, even wrapping around his shoulders, neck, and forehead. Sunday grimaced as he felt the prick of thorns against his skin. None of the bindings were tight enough for the thorns to pierce his skin. In fact, he was far from immobilized— if he were to put up a struggle, he would be able to move quite a bit— but that also came with the caveat that the thorns would pierce his skin if he moved so much as an inch. This, too would serve as a measure of his atonement— if he struggled, if he did not accept the pain inflicted upon him in silence and stillness, then the thorns would be driven into his skin, his resistance unable to be hidden.
Sunday shuddered, and the anxiety within him only rose further as he could feel each thorn’s presence across his skin as a result. He had always been fairly well-behaved, or his transgressions mild enough that he only ever had to endure equally mild punishments. Sunday had prided himself on being good, on meeting expectations— he never thought he would find himself in this seat, and feared he may not be able to endure the Dreammaster’s punishment.
A jolt of fear raced through him as one of the puppets lifted a single, red-hot coal from the brazier with a pair of tongs.
“Ah… it seems you’re beginning to understand,” he said, noticing Sunday’s fear. “Though you will be able to feel the full extent of every torment, this is still a dreamscape under the control of the Family. Do you understand what that means?”
Sunday swallowed. “It means.. that regardless of what happens to this body, even if it is torn to pieces or mutilated beyond recognition, my physical body will remain intact, and everything will be reset the next time I enter the dreampool as if it never happened.”
“Precisely,” the Dreammaster replied. “That is why, though it saddens me that you must endure this pain, I will have no regrets when administering your punishment.”
Even though he felt like he was about to throw up as the “reality” of his fate set in, Sunday still choked back the bile and tried to set his brow, shiny with cold sweat and trembling against the thorns, in determination. “I will… endure it.”
And then, the hot coal, still glowing, was placed on the back of his hand.
It took half a second for the pain to reach him— and then Sunday was sure he was going to lose consciousness, the agony so searing, sudden, and white-hot that his breath instantly evaporated from his lungs— but within a dream, the only way to lose consciousness was to wake up, and the Harmony’s shackles kept him firmly rooted in place.
He barely noticed when another coal was placed on his other hand. By that point in time, the torment had already spread through his body, igniting every one of his nerves as he desperately used every bit of willpower and then some to keep from reflexively trying to toss the coals off of his hands, and then expended even more effort to resist the urge to toss his head and flail his body. His mouth was agape, gasping wildly for breath, eyes wild, pupils darting from side to side in a frenzied spasm as he tried to maintain control.
Two more coals were placed atop his feet, and then, to his half-mad horror, the Dreammaster held open his jaw and placed another hot coal inside his mouth, before pressing it closed to sear both his tongue and the roof of his mouth at once.
“Hold it there until it cools,” he said, his voice sickeningly gentle as he brushed his fingers over Sunday’s trembling wings as if in a futile attempt at comforting him, even while inflicting this terrible pain.
Sunday almost choked on his own saliva, but he still kept his mouth closed even as the bile and blood that tried to spill from his sealed lips escaped through his nose instead. Tears were streaming endlessly down his face, and his eyes were burning as he fought to breathe through airways scorched by the heat… his lungs burned… everything, everything was burning, and there was no escape. His eyes rolled back into his head as his mind felt like it was about to break, every sob or cough he couldn’t stop from rising up in his throat only tearing apart the inside of his mouth even more.
Miraculously, his determination held strong enough to overcome the fierce and agonizing desire and instinct to spit out the coal, and eventually, after what felt like the longest eternity he’d ever experienced, the Dreammaster removed the coals from his skin, opening up his tightly-locked jaw to let the one atop his tongue fall to the ground. Sunday was shaking all over, a strained, choking sound coming from his horribly burned mouth and scalded throat.
The pain did not subside, either. Even once the coals had cooled and been removed, he could still feel their burning, aside from the places where he’d lost feeling altogether. He opened his bloodshot golden eyes to look down through the blur of tears at his hands. They were still shaking violently, the skin turning from white to red to wine-dark, and then all the way to sickening black in the center of the burns.
The second of the Dreammaster’s puppets, once Sunday had calmed enough to regain some sense of coherence, took out a fine glass and a bottle containing a crystal-clear drink.
“Now that the trial is over, I’ve brought this bottle of a special tonic, distilled from the ‘pleasure’ of the dreamscape itself. A single sip will relieve your pain, and allow you to return to reality with the memory of your suffering turned mild as an evening breeze,” he said. “Would you like some?”
Sunday started to nod his head, but stopped as he recalled, thankfully, the thorns that were binding him. He opened his mouth to say, “Please,” but all his seared tongue could manage was a pitiful sound of pain.
“Of course,” the Dreammaster replied, as he popped the bottle’s cork and poured the glass half-full. “But first, let us see the results of the trial.”
The thorny bindings retreated, and Sunday slumped down in the chair, trembling from pain and exhaustion as the Dreammaster approached.
He swept aside the fringe of Sunday’s hair, then pulled back his sleeve to inspect his wrist, and then tsked his tongue, shaking his head. “Ah… how unfortunate.”
A mirror was held up in front of Sunday, then, and he saw his own face stained with tears and sweat, his nose running profusely. He truly looked utterly pathetic— but that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst was that across his forehead ran a series of puncture wounds, dripping red blood to roll down his face in tandem with his flowing tears. A ring of the same wounds could be seen around his neck as well.
Though Sunday had tried his best not to struggle and strain against the thorny bindings, at some point in time he had lost the ability to maintain control, reflexes and instinct winning the war within his mind and body. He couldn’t even recall when it had been, for he had been far too overcome by the pain from the hot coals burning through his flesh.
The Dreammaster carried the glass over to him, raising it up toward his lips— before tipping it sideways, spilling the cold liquid all over Sunday’s lap.
Sunday was unable to hold back a pitiful cry of despair as the promised antidote to his pain disappeared, a cry that was cut short as another set of thorny tendrils wrapped tightly around his wrists and abruptly pulled him upright, arms stretched painfully above his head as blood ran down in rivulets to soak his sleeves from where the thorns pierced him. They continued to pull him upward until his feet could only barely touch the ground on tip-toe, so that it was impossible for him to support his weight on anything but his strained shoulders.
“Unfortunately, you did not show enough self-restraint, and so your punishment will continue,” the Dreammaster’s voice echoed over the tumultuous cacophony of his heartbeat and raspy, panicked breathing, “until you learn to accept it unflinchingly.”
The crack of a whip split the air, and Sunday couldn’t help but thrash in pain as it lashed across his back, barbs tearing holes in his shirt, tearing deep gashes and welts in his skin. He didn’t have even a moment to recover before the second lash landed, and then a third, and fourth, and on and on and on for hours until he finally was too exhausted, too deep in shock to even react to the falling blows as his body screamed for respite.
Only then, at last, did the torment cease. Only then was Sunday released from the cruel thorns’ grasp to fall to the ground, and only then, without any further relief, did the Dreammaster remove the Harmony’s bindings from him and allow him to return to the waking world.
Sunday opened his eyes in his suite’s dreampool back at the Reverie. His body was whole and uninjured, only the ghosts of his ordeal remaining in his mind. He got up, took several careful, shaky breaths, and poured himself a glass of Asdana’s White Oak.
He raised the glass to his lips.
It slipped from his shaking fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
And only then, did Sunday allow himself to crumble to the ground, arms locking around his knees, and cry for the first time since he was a child.
But all that would escape his lips was a single, choked sob.
Just that, and nothing more.