𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍 ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ ˢᵐᵖ ʷᵃʳ

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

This story will involve gore, violence, politics, dystopia, religion (albeit pseudo), mentions of abuse, and mature language.

Now presenting the wrathful lamb, the cruel (first name).

The setting takes place in the far East; penned in by sheepfolds, whereupon women wore dresses as white as snow in pairs, with their hands folded over their front and eyes facing down.

Into the era of fertility, you were only twenty-one; the maiden of immaculate purity and painful innocence, uniting within the darkness of shadows with every breath, disappearing into the ground as if you were a wave of cherry blossom petals, destined to be swept away by a Prince Charming and betrothed into the canticles of a starving lover.

At least, that was what you had prayed for with a beaded, frigid rosary to your lips every night.

The (last name) family, to which you belonged to, were of divine nobility, consisting of the ability to read in a land where books were enveloped by the deep roar of flames—just yours was filled with madness and deranged relatives that could trace the source of the corruption to one particular man who claimed he saw God in the darkness of his closed eyelids. And perhaps he was telling the truth; maybe it was God that spoke to his ear, maybe it was God that gifted him the ability to see through the opacity of human bodies and into their souls. But just like a God did he adopt his tendencies for cruelty and suffering: Real Gods require blood, and he, a half-God, possessed the perilous lust for annihilation.

Praying, praying, praying. Although your father had told you of your role in this world, in this utopia, that the weight of humanity rested on your uterus, you could not control the whorish desire to see beyond the membranes of femininity plugging you into your virginity. Dreaming of a fantastical, glamourous wedding of firelights unfurling like a newborn universe before your eyes, of fire opals that blazed like a heart in your hand, of diamonds strung over your neck like a fantastical web of tears, of gardens with roses the size of a baby's head reeling into a crimson, rubious splendour.

Praying, praying, praying. Although your betrothed was swathed in white silk and gold and a kind, cloudless gaze, the reflectiveness of his face only revealed the beasty lust in death; How horrible, you would think to yourself, is it that if I loved myself enough to follow him to his bridal chamber, I would have to die. For his smile only gleamed of sadness when he saw the swell of your chest, the sharp glare, the acknowledged loneliness in being his young bride. Perhaps he had wanted an even younger bride—a child bride, and the cool smell of your adulthood must have repelled him like a finger to wolfsbane.

Praying, praying, praying. Although you had manifested into your palace dreams and ballrooms, the lashing never stopped. Not even able to find pleasure in the servants of the mother-in-law, who cackled at the utter despair in your gaze, as if your pathetic legacy of being Bluebeard's bride was nothing more but a game of patience until you submitted into the mysterious solitude of his locked chamber. Being beaten half to death, and only when you pried the broken pieces of the (last name) God within you did you get locked up in your own perennial monstrosity, vibrating into a poignant, salty smell of blood and iron. The iron maiden swallows your screams for death, calmly witnessing the collapse of your skin into your soul, welcoming centipedes and cockroaches to crawl over your skin in a desperate attempt to reach yourself once more, because is that not what being a person it? To feel relation to something else?

You are stuck here.

It is only from a great plume of gunpowder and fire did the shackles to God free the lamb from the sacrificial table.

You are condemned to solitude and darkness; the empty embrace of the Iron Maiden had completely disembowelled your heart. Your breath the only indicator of time; the silence too long, an eternal landscape in the blackness of the Iron Maiden, with a look about it being on the point of always shifting, melting, and rushing back darker than ever; your words like the noise of bones cracking as you tear your way out of this metal womb; this hollow core, this invention of carnivorous dread, this scallop shell from the posthumous, baleful existence of a forgotten divinity.

You are condemned to solitude and darkness; it is now you, and nothing will match its burning, feverish loyalty to your soul, feeding on your weeps of suffering.

You are condemned to solitude and darkness; you will hurt the incarnations of your demented ancestors and pull their voices out of your vocal box with your bare fingers.

Run, run, run. The Iron Maiden's free. She's gotten a taste of freedom, that hysterical rage, that deep hurt.

What are you made of but tears and blood?

╼

A/N

I couldn't resist making  DREAM SMP WAR AU fic. I'm upset that there isn't as many fanfics for this, and I wanted to have a go at this because I've been obsessed with dream since late 2019.

You can probably tell from this chapter that it's going to handle with sensitive topics; most of these are snippets from a dystopian feminist "novel" I was working on before, but decided to modify it to fit this.

Obviously, Tommy and Tubbo are not going to be romantically involved because they are minors.

There will be explicit violence and gore because this is a war.