Third Person Perspective
He was supposed to be dead.
Blood on his suit, staining his shirt. Tainted with the betrayal of a brother. He was supposed to be dead, but maybe he had been dead for a long time now. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe they had been right. Maybe he was a monster. A monster in hiding, ducked behind a prison cell where no one could see him, where one could only assume he had died.
But whatever he was, green or gold or red, he was alive. And he had one hell of a stomachache. He would say his feelings hurt more than the knife did, but he couldn't remember the last time he felt anything. He was supposed to be dead. Maybe he was. Maybe his heart had given up years ago, and now the only thing left was his head. Better not to lose that, too.
•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•
He was supposed to be dead.
He liked it that way, when everyone assumed and forgot. He was at peace in the snow. He liked being alone. It carried less weight, caused less harm, left fewer marks. He knew, better than anyone alive, what it meant to die. He knew only one person would come to his funeral, only one person to taunt his casket as it was lowered into the ground, hidden behind a mask and a few final letters to burn. He knew, for as long as he lived, that his own words would haunt him. His own promises, his own mistakes, his own favors.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the blade fell on his neck, his own handwriting etched into the steel, hands bound by bargains. Any favor, any time.
Only one person would come to his funeral, laughing "Remember? Remember?" at his corpse. Only one person would come to his funeral to drag him back from the dead, hands as cold as his porcelain smile. Only one person would haunt his ghost. Only one person would come to his funeral, but the world would be there for the wake.
•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•
He was supposed to be dead.
There was no way to survive this, no chance, no hope. He died, and this was his soul talking, except his soul was prickling with the fading aftereffects of a fire resistance potion. The lava was still draining, and by the time it was all gone, so was everyone else. Dream was dead. (Y/n) was dying. He was supposed to be dead. He was not. He was alive and breathing, lying motionless on the obsidian floors, surrounded by ashes. And from them, he rose.
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a/n
wish i coulda dragged out the death a lil longer but breaking the 3rd person pattern is a criminal offense