(Dyn)

  Dream 1 - Homework

  Dyn sat in the middle of a , zoning out and staring bnkly at the chalkboard. It looked like any other school day—except for the way the light kept flickering in strange, insistent pulses overhead. The teacher at the front, a vaguely familiar figure, scribbled rapidly, chalk tapping against the board like a tdown.

  'What css am I in?' Dyn wondered, fidgeting in his seat. The edges of the desk dug unfortably into his sides. He g the board but couldn’t make sense of the teacher’s handwriting. It was so terrible he couldn’t tell whether they were letters or numbers.

  Then, the teacher turned around. “Alright, everyone, get out your homework.”

  The sound of unzipping bags and shuffling papers filled the room. Dyn leaned over and reached into his backpack, a pit f in his gut. No kle of papers, no notes, books—nothing.

  The teacher strode down the aisles, colleg assigs. He stopped in front of Dyn.

  “Where’s your homework?” the teacher asked impatiently.

  “I—uh—it’s—” A cold sweat ran down Dyn’s back. He always did his homework. So why was his bag empty?

  The teacher frowned, waiting. Students turned in their seats, gring at him, whispering uheir breath. The whispers swelled, ringing in his ears like a swarm of buzzing is.

  “You’re unprepared,” the teacher sneered, staring down at him. “Did you think you could just show up without doing the work?”

  Dyn’s mouth went dry. The whispers behind him grew louder—nation, disappoi, ridicule.

  “Dyn,” the teacher said, sounding annoyed.

  He opened his mouth to expin, but no words came.

  “Dyn...” the teacher repeated, his voice eg strangely.

  He couldn’t expin why he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t even remember what he was supposed to do. His head dropped into his arms, and he buried his face. Everything smelled like campfire and peppermint.

  “Dyn...” the teacher called again—insistent—louder.

  His heart pounded as the teacher loomed closer, his shadow engulfing Dyn’s desk. The lights flickered again, dimming as the room seemed to close in on him. His chest tightened.

  “Dyn!” Charles yelled, his voice cutting through the haze.

  “I don’t have it!” Dyn blurted, jerking upright in bed, his heart still rag as his surroundings came into focus.

  Dyn found himself in Charles’ bed, turning to see the rugged elf standing over him, holding the glowing arrow.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “Had that dream again, where I’m ba school.” He stretched, gng around. “Are we there yet?”

  “What did you do to my threads?” Charles asked, stepping aside and pointing to the craft area with the arrow.

  “I ahem,” Dyn replied, patting the bed in search of his cloak. Sleeping shirtless was ohing, but being pantsless again? Not happening.

  After his disappoi with the books, it took all of five minutes before boredom threatened his sanity. Normally, he’d be glued to his phone, endlessly scrolling memes, but the cupcake i forced him to go cold turkey on his i dopamine.

  The glowing arrow provided about ten minutes of eai. He danced around the room, brandishing it like a wand while trying to recall the spells and curses from his childhood.

  “Aloha-mora!” Surprisingly, did not unlock the other room ireehouse. “Expectorant!” Earned him a ed question from Charles whether he had a cough. “Whiskey!” Only made his rash tingle, but that turned out to be a new symptom. And for the grand fihe most heinous of curses: “Abra Cadaver!” Luckily, no one was around to get hurt—or witness his antics.

  He sidered the craft er but the sewing mae, with all its moving parts, was intimidating. Plus, he wasn’t a fan of needles. But a rack full of colored threads had caught his eye, Charles had ed to put them ba any sembnce of order—all in plete disarray.

  Dyhe hanizing them by color, with the rainbow as his guide. Starting with red and ending with purple, he even sorted the gray, bck, and brown threads. Those went uhe rainbow, arranged from lightest to darkest.

  “anized?” Charles raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I sorted them by color.” Dyn finally found the cloak and bu up in his p.

  “By color?” Charles didn’t look or sound particurly thrilled.

  “I know what you’re thinking: brown is teically dark e and could go in the rainbow, but I made aive decision to lump it in with the light-to-darks. It would've ruihe whole rainbow vibe.”

  “Dyn,” Charles sighed, motioning around the room with the arrow. “There aren’t any lights in here.”

  Dyn nodded. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “I prefer to work in the dark. That means I ’t actually see the thread colors.”

  “Then how do you know which thread to use?” Dyn asked, frowning.

  “I had them sorted alphabetically. It was easy to remember.”

  “Oh…” Dyn realized he’d messed up Charles’ system. “Sorry about that.”

  The rugged elf closed his eyes and pihe bridge of his nose. “We’ve arrived at Dartmouth. Did you touything else?”

  “I tried the books, but it turns out I ’t read,” Dyn said, gesturing toward the bookshelf.

  Charles followed his gesture. “That’s unfortunate. You really should learn to read. Illiteracy is—"

  “No,” Dyn interrupted, “I know how to read. I just couldn’t read your books.”

  “That’s peculiar,” Charles replied. “Only two of them are mundane.”

  “What?” Dyn squi Charles.

  “I keep two mundane books around to practice reading. The rest work like y,” Charles expiwirling the arroointing its tip at the band on Dyn’s finger. “They trahe words so you uand in your own nguage.”

  “Only two...” Dyn said. ‘If I’d just checked one more,’ he thought, thinking of all the wasted hours he could’ve spent reading. “Okay, but how do you read if there’s no light ireehouse?”

  “I don’t,” Charles replied, gesturing to the reading nook. “That’s my library, where I keep my books. I travel often, which gives me plenty of time to read while I drive during the day.”

  Charles gnced back at Dyn. “What did you do with the rest of the time?”

  “Slept,” Dyn replied.

  “Aire day?” Charles raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, not the entire day. I tried reading a couple of books, dabbled in some wizardry, and anized your thread rack. I only slept most of the day.”

  “How’s that possible?” Charles frowned. “A day is an exceedingly long time to sleep.”

  Dyn shrugged. “Depression, mostly.”

  Charles walked away, leaving the room and taking the only light source with him. The sound of another door opening was enough to get Dyn out of bed. He’d been curious about the magical treasures hidden behind the forbidden locked door. Charles hadn’t explicitly said he coulder, but the magical lock spoke volumes.

  Fumbling in the dark, Dyn actally kicked the bucket, sending it flying across the room. Charles reappeared with the glowing arrow and a bundle under one arm, snatg the bucket mid-flight like a goddamned ninja.

  “How…” Dyn eechless.

  “Buckets aren’t toys,” Charles said, pg it back beside the nightstand.

  “I didn’t—”

  Charles pushed the buo Dyn’s chest, f him to take it. Two items: first, a pin gray shirt, and on top of it, a loaf suspiciously ed in kraft paper. Notig Dyn staring at it, Charles said, “That’s for when you get hungry.”

  Dyn picked it up, gave Charles a look, and asked, “Is it…?”

  “Yes,” Charles firmed.

  Dyn sighed. “Thanks.” Trying not to sound rude, he pulled on the shirt, which, of course, fit perfectly. Theood and slipped on the rust-colored cloak.

  “We o get yistered with the League of Adventurers first, then we’ll visit the hospital to check your injuries,” Charles said.

  Right now, ‘oh my god it itches’ had custody of Dyn. Rubbing his palms up and down his legs helped a lot; fri was his friend.

  “Or...” Dyn raised a finger, “we could swing by the hospital first, and then do that hall of justice pledge thing.”

  Charles shook his head. “While inve, your medical issues aren’t life-threatening. It’s more important to get you into the system for your own prote.” He turned, walking toward the hallway, still holding the only light.

  “How’s that going to protect me?” Dyn asked, trailing after him—no way he was getti in the dark.

  Charles turned around. “I’m tired, Dyn. I haven’t slept for more than a quiap in days. Once you’re registered and safe, I finally rest.”

  For the first time, Dyn saw past the rugged exterior. Days of stant sciousness had worn him down. Heavy eyelids sat above his eyes, and even his sun-kissed skin looked bnched. Charles appeared every bit as tired as he cimed.

  “I’m sorry,” Dyn muttered, guilt creeping in. “You’re right. You fed me, clothed me, a me stay in your treehouse. Thanks for helping me.” Remembering Charles had also killed him three times, Dyn decided his rash could wait until after he joihe Guardians of the League—or The Adventurers, or whatever they were called.

  Charles grunted ahem out of the treehouse. Dyn reached the doorway and froze. Panic overwhelmed him. Uo see past his unresolved trauma, reason abandoned him.

  Dozens of them. Scaled monsters everywhere: lurking on the sidewalk, stalking across the street. One even waved at Charles, who nodded back. They paraded in clothes, with teeth, cws, and hidden bdes. Memories—fshes of getting stabbed ao bleed out—raked across Dyn’s mind. Mentally, he was ba the cells, but physically, he trembled ireehouse doorway.

  “What’s the matter?” Charles asked. Dyn tched onto the rugged elf’s voice, a bea pulling him out of the waking nightmare. He quickly retreated bato the treehouse.

  “There’s a lot of them out there,” Dyn said.

  “The drai?” Charles sed the area for uhreats before returning his attention to the chubby man hiding in his treehouse.

  “Yeah,” Dyn said, “there’s a lot of them.”

  “That’s unavoidable. Mother ons is their homeworld,” Charles replied.

  “Could we drive there?” Dyn asked. “And just drop me off at the justice league?”

  “No, the League of Adventurers Hall doesn’t have parking.” Charles stepped bato the treehouse. “Besides, I have a permit for this spot. It’s where I’m allowed to park and sell my wares.”

  The sun was well past its prime, the evening air cooling, but Dy warm. Sooled on his palms, brow, underarms, and in other less fortunate areas. His shirt gre and sticky under his arms and chest. Even ‘I’m literally on fire’ joihe fun. Dyn really didn’t want to go back out there.

  “The hall’s not a far walk. I’d like to get there before the night shift starts,” Charles said.

  “I ’t.” Dyn’s throat tightened, his chest ag, and his breath refused to e. All he could manage was a shake of his head. He was having a panic attack; he realized.

  It was a good thing Charles noticed. The rugged elf took a deep, long breath, his chest expanding, and slowly let it out. Dyn unsciously mirrored him—breathing in, holding, releasing, aing. His urge to throw up and die subsided, and his pulse finally slowed.

  “They’re real. The cws, the teeth, everything’s real. It’s not just pretend—those are actual monsters out there.”

  “They’re not monsters,” Charles said calmly. “They’re just people, like you and me.”

  “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way she looked at me, or the things she did.” Dyn fought not to slip bato the memory.

  He’d almost fotten Charles had killed him too—more than Bronze, even. The rugged elf had that effect: calm, logical, trolled, until he found a reason to get violent.

  Dyn searched through his feelings and thoughts, desperate to find a ast his terror. Dying sucked—he didn’t dispute that—but he o uand their motives. That was the key to getting through this. There was a differeween Charles and Bronze.

  Charles had killed him out of a misguided sense of passion. His heart had been in the right pce; the dagger hadn’t. All Dyn ever saw in that man’s eyes was passion, uanding, and occasionally annoyance. He genuinely believed Charles cared.

  Bronze despised him from the start. She took pleasure in hurting him, killing him. Malice was all he ever saw in her eyes, and without a way to unicate, he couldn’t even ask why.

  He realized dying wasn’t the real problem. Sure, it terrified him and usually hurt like a motherfucker, but the issue ran deeper. Not being accepted—not uanding orse. He could live with dying, funny enough, but not knowing why she hated him hurt in ways worse thah.

  It left him w, ‘What’s wrong with me? What did I d?’ These were the same questions he’d been asking since his mom left when he was eight. He was never good enough, and no one would tell him why.