Blood in his lungs. Had to be a dream.

Had to be, had to. Every breath further underwater, every breath - bubbling, sucking red water. Less air, less air. Each time. Every breath tastes cold, fear pressing in hot on his mind from the outside. It'll be fine, it'll be fine.

Nothing comes out of his mouth but heavy crimson; nothing goes in but death and cold.

Had to be.

The weight in his body, swelling. A foreign, aqueous weight. The terror is boiling his mind; where. Where is his salvation. Where is his ending, where is the resolution - dreams have to end.

Blood smearing on his hands; hands clutching at that clammy arm. Cold, pallid, too gray to be alive. It can't be human.

Had, to.

He gurgles, as the hand caressing his throat clamps tighter. Scarlet foam on his lips. Realization that he can't see- strikes. Numbly. The nightmarish fire searing at his brain called fear, slows cognizance.

Horror crawls down his body, glacially, a putrid heat knifing through his bones. That monstrous face, inhuman, jagged jigsaw shapes stitched together; visible through the blindness.

"You have a job to do, my friend."

A dream... ?

The spindle-fingers dance across his veins, chill racking his skin as the fire eats at his insides. Worms, slithering, through.

"Stop deceiving yourself. Stop wasting time."

Rust-flowers blooming in his mouth, copper petals pressing up against his tongue (his cheeks, between his teeth) with an acrid tang. He can't even move it anymore, roots snaking in-between the skin; wiring shut his jaw with throbbing sutures.

...No.

"Get to it."

No.

That clammy arm with spindle-fingers slips away, like smoke from greedy hands. His soul is seeping from his neck, gushing. So far underwater now; the pressure stops the bubbles from escaping. Silence, stillness, crushing and cold and black.

A vision.

So this, this is, the end. The weight inside his body vanishes, swept away by inky hands. Crimson dread dies agonizingly slow.

A...

Prophecy.