there is only us | wilbur soot x reader

Chapter 41 - The End

Schlatt POV

How tragic is he who runs with no destination?

I hated poetry. I hated all things idiotic and time-wasting, really. I thought poetry was stupid. I thought a lot of things were stupid. Most people.

But there is value in stupidity. The wise know to watch and learn from their mistakes, to chart the paths they must never take. I fancied myself sharp, so I versed myself in the dull. I carried books of poetry with me wherever I went, meaningless metaphors and wretched ramblings, and read them like bedtime stories. Piece by piece, I would pick apart poems until they were nothing but letters on a page, jumbled together in some vague collection of words. It was no use trying to understand. The mystery bored me. I thought it was all so stupid.

Nothing more than pretentious authors with too much time on their hands and shallow minds, trying to dress up simple sentences with extra syllables and misleading implications that suggest false depth. How tragic is he who runs with no destination? Terribly tragic, really. What did that even mean? Who was touched by such a thing?

I swore to myself, years before I was ever a man, that I would be above frivolous things like poetry. When I grew into my height, I took pleasure in looking down on things. I puffed out my chest and held my head high, perfect posture to balance destiny's crown. I told myself that I was made for greatness, molded by invisible hands with purpose and intent. I believed myself. I was yet to be proven wrong.

And then I was running for president. Triumphant on my stage, swaths of people hanging onto my every word, as I spun them spiderwebs of poetry, the language of fools. I was above it, but I had mastered the talent of lowering myself to others' levels for my own gain. I spoke their tongue. They welcomed me as their own. I was the king of fools, bearing a crown of fool's gold. I spread my arms wide. I was running and I knew exactly where I was going. I could see my finish line on the horizon.

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Fools will find discomfort in the shadows...

"Should I be surprised or flattered that you have not sent someone else to do your dirty work?"

I tugged crisply at the folds of my shirt cuffs. I was not afraid, not of this creature. Behind bars with nothing to barter but secrets, he was no threat to me. King of fools, keeper of secrets. This man, if he could even be called that, pale and mangled as he was, knew his way around the shadows.

"It is all dirty work."

He finally stepped into the light, face gaunt and hardened by the shadows my torch cast. He was smiling wide, a mimic of his old broken mask, and I refused to admit it was unnerving. I had nothing to fear. The shadows were a safe haven for cowards.

He laughed at my remark. His canines were narrowed down to sharp points. "I'll be flattered, then."

"You will be silent," I ordered, my voice booming in the cavern. "You will listen to everything I have to say and tell me everything I want to know. And then, maybe, I will consider letting you live."

Dream sat back against the wall opposite the bars. He crossed his arms and tilted his head, assessing. With that same, persistent smirk, he said, "Who are you?"

"My name is Johnathon Schlatt. You survived being stabbed and left to die in the most high-level security cell of Pandora's Vault. How?"

He let out an exaggerated sigh. "My name is Clay, thank you for asking. You might know me as Dream. It's been lovely to meet you, Johnathon."

"You will address me as Schlatt or not at all," I growled, impatience getting the better of me. "How are you still alive?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"