BLIND | DreamSMP

XIX - Blue-blooded

This chapter contains mentions of self harm. Please read responsibly.

A lone pigeon flapped its alabaster wings forwards, the sleek bird's feathers ruffled by the harsh, cold winds that buffeted its body from all directions. Pine trees flecked the landscape, first in large clusters, then thinning out considerably, until firs barely dotted the snow anymore, and a small cottage appeared on the horizon.

The bird had been here before, months ago, when it was small and vulnerable, fed and nurtured by a man with wings like its own. It grew to trust the man, to come when called and sit perfectly still while a special band and parchment was affixed around its petite ankle. Eventually, the man enclosed him in a wire cage, and traveled with the bird miles and miles to a place where it was no longer frigid, but quite temperate.

It was taken to a house, where the man let him freely roam, returning every so often with kind words and a bit of seed for the adolescent pigeon, who greatly appreciated the gesture, and consequently decided that it would do whatever it could to please the man with the wings.

Thus, when Phil leaned out of the second-story window of his home and called for it, the bird came, perching lightly on the sill with an expectant gaze. The man looked relieved, and promptly began sawing away at the rope binding his hands behind his back, cursing in pain as the friction rubbed his wrists raw. The pigeon sat patiently, waiting.

When the strands finally fell to the ground, the man quickly grabbed paper and pen, scrawled a messy note, folded it hastily, snatched the special band from a drawer, and attached both the letter and band to the tolerant bird's leg. With that, the command it had learned so long ago as a chick was spoken, and it took flight, heading towards its true home.

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Abandoning Tommy, Ghostbur had first trekked east, through forests and prairies, turning north when he hit water. He didn't stop to rest, walking day and night until the grasslands withered and permafrost seeped into the landscape, Dream's words hot on his mind:

"Leave, and don't come back."

"Where?" He had asked, bending easily to Dream's will in an effort to avoid potential conflict.

"I don't care; just don't come around here ever again."

For nearly a month he had wandered without much issue, aimlessly traversing the land, void of intention.

And then it began to snow.

Ghostbur hadn't known snow could burn.

It seared his bare feet and ankles as he tread through the pristine white landscape, intermittent flakes that tumbled down from above biting at his transparent skin; unlike the occasional rainstorms he experienced, the cold cut deeper, setting alight his nerves in an explosion of pain, a perpetual hell of ice he could not escape.

He experienced his first snowfall in a blizzard of terror and confusion, stumbling under a rocky crevice for shelter while the viscous ultramarine liquid he bled oozed from the open sores and blisters peppering his exposed skin. For hours, he lay curled beneath the overhang, convinced that this would be his end. He wasn't sure if ghosts could die for a second time; instead he prayed it was all a bad dream he would wake from soon.

When the dim sun illuminated the freshly-fallen snow, he was roused by a peculiar sensation of hot breath on his ear. Groaning as he hoisted himself into a sitting position, limbs raw and sore, Ghostbur met face to face with a wooly sheep, inquisitively staring at him.

Slightly delirious, the ghost giggled and reached out to pat the animal's head, tearing the delicate scabs covering his wounds in the process, sending rivulets of the cerulean fluid he had dubbed 'Blue' trailing down his forearms and dripping off the tips of his gray fingers, staining the Sheep's coat.