It is at night the vision becomes clear.
Blood.
Enough blood where the killing fields would become a swamp. Where plants turn red and black from usual beautiful green.
And that blood becomes fuel for fire. Raging across the strewn bodies as they clamber against one another screaming for mercy between wet blades.
In those faces were both his family and those of Duscar.
That blood draped itself over his hands and up to his shoulders. And Dimitri could nary tell if this was the beginning of tragedy or the start of holy retribution.
But it was that dream where the fire of blood lust would only grow more appetizing.
As his eyes open, something lay clutched in his heart.
Was it horror? Sadness? Grief?
Or was it a different thing?
Was it lust? Joy? Ecstasy?
Sometimes laughter bubbled as he woke from the dream.
Sometimes it was sobs.
But always the same feeling:
Blood.
Even when Dimitri would lay his head upon the bed and writhe as maggots do… there would always be such a sweet expression over his pretty face.
The often-same expression a bride would provide the groom when steps from marriage.
This was his comfort.
Blood.