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The body was warm.
Glassy eyes, unblinking; pale and washed over by the milky sheen belonging solely to those of the dead.
Just minutes ago, seconds ago—wasn’t he alive? Wasn’t he well?
Dream dropped to the floor with his hands shaking. The blood smattered across his skin seemed to heat up as it burned alongside the building fear in his belly.
Minutes ago, hours ago—
—Tommy?
He tried again.
That beautiful yet accursed book in his hand hummed with unbridled energy, bending and relentlessly ordering reality to twist to its view. Of how wasteful the dead were. The laws of life had no business to meddle in these godly affairs, so death, so rot—it should be purged to give way for rebirth.
Purple and green electricity crackled with vicious energy, arcing everywhere like a firework going off in the prison room as every bit of energy Dream could muster poured into working this damn thing to do its damn job. And when the chant was finished with an abundance of magic flooding into Tommy’s corpse; almost enough to blast Dream’s spell-hand to smithereens—
—nothing had changed.
Tommy was still undeniably dead.
Dream gritted his teeth in frustration as anger churned in his stomach. He shuffled to kneel next to Tommy, gently tilting the blond’s head to face his own eyes, before furiously slamming his hand over Tommy’s windpipe to choke at a man who’d never breathe again.
“YOU—”
Why was he so—
“TOMMY!”
—Why was he so fucking mad?
“You weren’t supposed to die,” he seethed.
But you had killed him more times than the fingers on your left hand can count, said a hushed voice in his head.
“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DIE!”
Even if you had been the one to kill him countless times prior?
“Tommy…”
I’m going to count to three—
—but he wouldn’t respond, now, would he?
“We were just having some fun, Tommy…”
Why isn’t the book working—?
“I…”
He doesn’t even want to come back.
“Hey, hey… Tommy! This isn’t funny. This isn’t funny, Tommy. Come on, now. You’re not allowed to die. Not forever—”
You know, there’s no point in reviving the dead if they wished they weren’t alive.
You killed him again and again, revived him again and again, and all for what?
Knowing that he’d come back?
Because of that book you own?
Don’t think you can play god, Dream.
…
The body was cold.
Glassy eyes, unblinking; the faint energy of green and purple fading from its sclera belonging solely to those of the damned.
You can revive the dead.
But there’s no point in bringing them back if they don’t want to be here, right?