Concordia: Dreamnoblade Oneshots and Songfics

The Dream of a Girl Doll

Life is dull for Dream, terribly boring in almost all aspects.

In here, within the four walls of a cramped room and the blanket of darkness that covers it, he laments his fate. There is but barely enough living space for one person, filled with old furniture and dust and countless crafts. There is but one window right above his head, and even light seems scarce with how branches obstruct the sun's beaming smile. He has explored the world of this room a thousand times over, having long known the grooves by the headboard of the bed and the blemishes of paint on the desk and the creak of the floorboards by the door.

Oh, how he longs for the embrace of something other than the suffocating night. How he longs for times long past, for the golds like sunlight to wash over his hair and the greens like grass to tickle his feet. How he longs for the world outside of his prison, how he longs for the fresh air amidst the cloud of dust, how he longs for the sensation of ocean waters crashing against him like a distant memory.

However, he cannot. He doesn't have the energy to even dream of doing what he so wishes, doesn't even have the energy to dwell on wishful thinking. His legs cannot move to take him to lands unknown, his arms cannot lift themselves to reach out to the light, and his lips cannot fall open to let slip what he truly wants to say.

The door creaks open slowly, and it brightens up the alert eyes that had been staring at it for hours in anticipation. A familiar face stumbles into the room, haphazardly dropping all belongings on the floor before crashing onto the bed.

Long pink hair falls on bed covers like red seawaters as Techno lies there unmoving, knuckles white as he grips at the sheets with trembling fists. His clothes are tousled, his hair tangled, and his arms stained with the coals of one of the town's many factories. Every day was just like this, just as cruel in both work and pay, just as merciless in both necessity and leisure. Every day was just like this, but it doesn't make it any less painful to watch.

Techno twitches a bit, slowly tilting his head upwards with a tired gaze. He whispers out into the empty air, voice hoarse. "... I'm tired."

I know. Dream thinks, trying to muster as much strength as he could to convey just as much. As always, it's futile. As always, he can't do anything.

"I'm so tired, but I don't have the time to rest." Techno heaves out an exasperated sigh before forcing himself to get up. He shrugs off his uniform carelessly and tosses it onto a chair before walking to the small closet, taking out a new pair of clothes and wiping down the soot on his arms.

Dream stares in horror, frantically trying to communicate. He would instantly force him to lie back down, if he could. I wish you did.

"It'll be okay, don't worry." Techno walks over to sit across from Dream, bangs falling over crimson eyes when he refuses to acknowledge him. "I just need to work harder."

Please don't. Dream almost pleads, almost begs. He can't, even if he wanted to. Please lie back down and rest.

Despite the exhaustion in his frame and the fatigue in his movements, Techno still chooses to work on his creations. He's a craftsman by heart; though society forces him to take time out of his day and reluctantly work an unfulfilling and underpaying job to live, his passion for the art will never be quelled. He just tries to make ends meet, between long hours at his job and the even longer hours that craftsmanship demands for decent results. Even with all that, he does wonderfully at what he puts his heart to.

It would be honorable... if it weren't so damaging.

Nimble, trained fingers handled the wooden parts with care, feeling for their size and texture before picking one out to add onto an ongoing project. The blade at the side is picked up, and Techno begins cautiously shaving off the excess and slotting it into the missing area to test for its fit. After a few minutes, a lithe arm is finally attached to a flawlessly made ballerina figurine. A small smile makes its way onto his perpetually weary face as he leans back to open a drawer, pulling out old paints that are halfway dried. All it takes is a drop of water and the swipe of a brush to bring the colors back to life again, to paint with light strokes on the delicate statuette.

And yet, even with Techno's masterful ministrations, it's clear his health is deteriorating at the rate his works are improving. Previously soft skin had been littered with small scars and wounds that never seem to close, with all the blade mishaps that are slowly becoming more and more common. Previously sharp vision had been clouded, with all the times he squints to perceive things even barely a meter a way. Previously sharp memory and careful demeanor had been lost to time, with all the forgetfulness and clumsiness as prevalent as ever in hindering his progress and making him work more to compensate. It is a painful cycle; it is an inevitable loop. Dream wants so badly to do something, to maybe hold him close, to maybe tell him it'll be okay, to maybe help him by shouldering half of his workload.

However, Dream cannot do as he wishes. His mouth is forced shut, his hands are fixed in position, and his feet are glued in place. He's powerless, far too powerless. He wants to do so much more, and yet nothing can make the impossible come true. So, like every other time, he just watches sadly as Techno slowly works himself to death while trying to accomplish his life's goal.

After all, Dream is simply another porcelain doll sitting atop Techno's desk.