Chapter Text
Three hours.
That’s how long it takes Dream to patch the prince up. His knees ache, rocks from the ground of the tent digging into the patchwork of his clothes as he leans over the kid’s crumpled body. His hands work frantically, wound after wound, dampening a rag and tying up a bandage and keeping the boy propped up while he struggles to see what shape the assault has left him in. Once the adrenaline seeps away, there is a deep exhaustion in him, and he struggles to continue working as the sky only darkens around them. There is no end in sight.
When Dream finally sits back, relieved, Thomas looks more like a corpse than an actual human being. His chest is bare- Dream eventually gave up at working around most of the boys’ clothes- and wrapped in bandages, from a haphazard attempt to heal his ribs. The boy’s left arm is in a makeshift splint, from two sticks Dream found around the forest the one time he ventured out, earlier in the morning. During that same trip, he also stopped by to grab some sort of healing salve from one of the medic’s tents, which is spread across the bruises covering almost every inch of Thomas’s skin.
The cuts on his legs are bandaged, and Dream has managed to relocate his bent shoulder. Thomas still looks awful, a few scrapes weeping blood and his face a mess of red and blue and bruising purple, but he’s alive.
That is what matters, in the end. That Dream actually manages to keep this kid alive, and healing, and at least somewhat able to walk. He can’t mess this up. He can’t.
Thomas isn’t allowed to die. The words replay in a dull sort of monotone, again and again in his head. Dream sits back against the cot, looking at his work. Early rays of sunlight shine through the fabric, and the prince looks worse in the light, but he is breathing and sleeping and his wounds can do nothing but get better.
At least until someone or other gets their hands on him. But that’s a problem for another time.
Dream fishes a flask out from under his cot, hidden against the support of the tent so the soldiers won’t see it, and takes a swig. Eventually, he knows, Thomas is going to wake up, and then he’ll need water and food and Dream will need to change the bandages covering his injuries.
But for now, everything is peaceful. The camp is quiet. Dream can rest.
He gets up on his cot. His sole blanket is taken by the prince tied up on Dream’s floor, but the slowly arriving sunlight makes it warm enough that he’s fine to sleep in just his jacket.
His eyes slip shut, and for the first time in days, Dream falls into a dreamless sleep.
When he wakes next, it’s to someone kicking the side of his cot.
Dream opens his eyes, sunlight blinding him for a moment before he adjusts to the day. He can just make out the outline of the sun up above, almost reaching its highest point in the sky. It’s around noon, then, if his perspective isn’t off.
His cot jolts beneath him as something hits it, again, and Dream groans. He flips over to face the wall, exhaustion rooted deep inside of him, trying to stay in this moment for as long as he can. Being able to sleep without interruption is a privilege he rarely receives, and he isn’t ready to give it up.
Then there comes a muffled shouting sound, barely audible. There is a moment of abject confusion, his body tense as Dream waits for something, anything, but then the moments from the early hours of the morning come flooding back. The thought has him scrambling up and off the cot, searching on the ground for the prince.
Sure enough, there he is.
The kid glares at him, and for once, Dream can understand the apprehension. His hands are free, courtesy of the night before, but between the splint and the bandages he might as well still be tied up. One ankle is connected to the wooden support of the tent, but his other foot is loose and positioned right on Dream’s cot, where he’d been jostling it.
His face is bruised, but the swelling has gone down, the black eye as prominent as ever. The gag in his mouth (a precaution, Dream tells himself) prevents him from getting a word out. Thomas is making a loud noise through the cloth, scowling at Dream as he holds up his hands in an attempt to calm the boy down.
The kid sounds absolutely furious, which, fair. Dream does have him tied up in a tent, in the heart of an enemy camp. If Dream was in that position, yeah, he’d be less than overjoyed.
(He is in that position, he has been for the past three years, and he knows from experience how much it hurts. How much fear is coursing through his body at every given moment, he can never relax, never let up, unless he wants the consequences to snap back like a whip.)
“You shouldn’t do that,” Dream says, after a long, agonizingly quiet moment. “You’re injured. You don’t want to reopen anything.”
In response, Thomas kicks the cot again, harder than before. The kid winces, but he doesn’t look away from Dream’s face. A clear challenge.
And Dream isn’t up to any challenges, thank you very much. He kneels down, uncomfortably close to the prince, and looks at the bandages wrapped around Thomas’s leg. Sure enough, they’re tinged brown, and there's a red spot that’s only growing the longer Dream watches.
Something’s been torn, a scab ripped open when the prince moved. Which is inconvenient, especially now that he’s not passed out on the floor. Now that Dream has to deal with a living, breathing, awake person, this whole thing suddenly feels a lot more difficult.
Well. It’s not like he can do anything about it.
Thomas mutters something through the gag, but Dream doesn’t understand a word of it. He raises his hands up, palms forward, hoping it conveys what he wants it to. He’s not a threat. He hasn’t been for a very long time.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Dream says, and sits back on his heels to give the prince a bit more space. “My whole, uh, my whole job is to keep you alive, really.”
The prince gives him a skeptical look- which is more difficult than it sounds, considering the bruises and the black eye and the gag in his mouth. It’s pretty clear that he doesn’t believe a word.
“I’m not,” Dream repeats, an anxious edge creeping into his voice. A long silence follows his words. “I’m, I’m going to remove the gag now. Okay?”
Thomas pauses, and he looks apprehensive, eyes flitting from Dream to the door to the rope around his ankle. Then, maddeningly slow, the boy nods his head.
Dream reaches forward, behind the boy's head, and gingerly unties the back of the gag. It takes a moment, but it’s looser than before. He never did learn to tie a proper knot.
Thomas jerks back as Dream pulls away. “ Fuck you,” Are the first words out of his mouth.
“I, uh-”
“ No, fuck you! ” Thomas cuts him off, his whole face twisted in a scowl. “You fucker , get away from me!”
Dutifully, Dream rocks back onto his heels, the gag falling from his hands to the floor in his haste. Thomas is glaring at him with a sort of hatred Dream sees all too often in the eyes of the soldiers he treats- each and every one of them holding the belief that Dream has something wrong with him, and more importantly, is wrong, like his very existence is a sin to their gods.
“I’m, I’m trying to help-” Dream gets out, before his words are inevitably drowned out by the boy across from him. The prince curses again, louder and near yelling. Dream suspects that soldiers can hear them from halfway across the camp, if they aren’t knocked out from the prior night’s events.
“I hate you,” Thomas says, wincing at every word like it pains him, but Dream knows it’s just the soldier and ribs that are really bothering him. “I’m going to get out of here, and them I’ll kill you and, and everyone else in this fucking camp, you hear me? You’re dead, I swear to Prime, you are dead- ”
Dream opens his mouth again, and Thomas swears louder, like it’s a challenge. Promising threats louder and louder until they blur together. Dream glances at the gag on the ground, the thought flashing through his mind that he should stuff it back in Thomas’s mouth, but Dream isn’t sure that he’s strong enough to overpower the prince, even if he’s tied up and beaten to hell.
“I just-” Dream tries again, stops before he’s even begun. Everything feels too loud, Thomas’s eyes on him, and his hearts a swirl of pity and fear and pointless anger. Helpless, Dream grasps for the gag in the dirt, and Thomas’s yelling gets impossibly louder.
His hands shake as he grabs the fabric, still wet, which is gross. Dream catches the look on Thomas’s face, the fear slipping through the anger. He’s screaming at this point, words losing meaning as he struggles in the ropes.
There's movement from the corner of his eye. Dream turns, dust getting thrown up into his eyes as the folds of the tent are pulled open and rays of sunlight stream onto the dirt covered floor.
A soldier steps into the tent, face obscured by shadows as he turns away from the sunlight. It takes a moment for Dream to recognize him- General Sam, somehow even more polished than the night before. Without the whiskey softening his features, the General has a look in his eye, dark beyond Dream’s comprehension.
There is a moment, The General staring down at them and Dream staring back at the General. It’s immediately broken as Thomas begins to yell again, which he’d paused for a moment when the man first appeared. Dream clings to the fabric in his hand, and then he stuffs the gag in his pocket. It’s one thing to gag the prince- it’s another, far worse, to offer the gag to the general and let the man do it for him.
“I suspected you were awake,” Sam says to Thomas, his words tinted with amusement.
Then the man’s eyes turn to Dream, and the faintest traces of a smile immediately disappear in favor of a scowl. Dream scrambles to standing, but the general grabs him while he’s still on his knees and pulls Dream up by the collar. He chokes for a moment, bringing his arm up to cough into his jacket.
“General, I-” Dream scrambles for words, all too close to the man in front of him, hyper aware of the way his hands tremble, how loud his breathing is. His mind is a blank canvas, lost on what to say.
Sam hums. Like he’s considering what to do. His eyes look past Dream’s shoulder, to Thomas, who has gone blessedly silent for a moment.
“I thought I told you to take care of him,” The general says.
“Well, I, um-” Dream glances back at Thomas, who is watching the stilted conversation with an expression he can’t decipher. “I am. Sir. He was just-”
“It’s far too early in the morning for this,” Sam says, sighing, cutting Dream off. “I gave you an order, and I expected you to follow it.”
“I was, please, I was just giving him water-”
The general sighs again, mockingly. He releases Dream’s collar, and he backs away, bringing a hand up to his neck and tentatively touching the bruising skin. Again, his eyes stray back to Thomas, who the General’s attention has shifted to. The man steps forward, a predator stalking its prey, and Thomas leans further back in turn. Gone is the boy who was shouting at Dream moments before- he’s turned quieter, near calculating as he watches his opponent.
Dream feels almost like he’s watching a battle, except it’s with glances and knowing looks instead of weapons and blood.
“Thomas,” The General says. His voice is sweeter, like he’s talking to a child much younger. The prince stays wisely silent, shifting where he’s tied but not doing much else. “How are you enjoying your stay?”
Thomas laughs a little, the sound laced with venom. “Oh, it’s just great . Really love the accommodations here, Sam.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” The General says impassively.
“Oh, yeah? Yeah, I bet you are, fucking pussy.” Thomas continues on, voice brash, as Sam straightens. “You actin’ all high and mighty here, in a fucking war camp. When’s the last time you saw the battlefield?”
The prince starts talking faster, insults thrown into the air. Dream takes another step back, already suspect of what’s going to happen. Surely Thomas knows just as well, but he shows no fear in his words. “Are you scared, Sam?” Thomas says suddenly. “Can’t even beat me up, have to get your little, little servant to do it for you?”
It’s just as sudden when the general lashes out and kicks Thomas in the stomach.
Thomas immediately stops his rant, coughing raggedly. On the general's boot, the silver tips are tinged with deep red in an array of droplets. The same red is staining Thomas’s stomach, bleeding through the bandages. One of his wounds opened once more, surely.
“Care to repeat that?” Sam’s voice grows as he spits out the threat.
“Fuck you,” Thomas says. It prompts another kick to his side.
Sam wipes his hands on his coat. Then he grabs Thomas by his bad shoulder, and any curses the teen might’ve mumbled are cut off by a sudden shout. Thomas gasps in breaths of air as the movement likely sends the area burning with pain. Dream watches as what was originally a small bit of blood peeking through the bandages grows, grows, and the panic in his mind is amplified.
He’s already hurt. Dream isn’t sure how much the prince can take.
“Wait-” Dream immediately grows quiet as the general turns to him, a horrid fury in his eyes. He’s still holding Thomas up, and the kid is trying without success to breathe through it. The terror clenching his mind grows tighter, but Dream persists on anyway. “He’s hurt, please.”
Sam scoffs something Dream can’t quite catch. Then he drops Thomas to the dirt, a momentary win that only lasts until the man favors grabbing Dream by the wrist instead.
His grip is tight enough to hurt, and Dream winces, eyes flying from the man’s face to his boots. This is a position he ends up in often enough. The general, when he hasn’t been drinking, is a man whose anger flares up often enough beneath the surface of his mask. The troops never see it- no, it’s something reserved specifically for Dream and few others.
“You do not,” Sam starts, his voice suddenly cold. “You do not tell me what to do.”
The General releases Dream’s arm- the fingerprints left on his arm are bruising red. The man scoffs, spits on Dream’s boots, and he knows better than to wipe the saliva away on the ground. Instead, he stares at the corner of the tent, noticing the ripples in the fabric. The shadow in front of him stays, taut still for a moment, before slowly disappearing from view.
Only then does Dream lift his head. He watches the shadow on the other side of the canvas dim until it disappears, and once he’s sure the man is gone, he finally turns back to the prince.
Thomas stares back at him with naked distrust, arms and legs brought close to his frame. His mouth is open, breathing raggedly after the kick to his side, but the kid is near silent nonetheless.
It would be a relief, Dream thinks. Maybe he would like this kid, pity him, be grateful for his obedience, if not for the position they are both in.
There is no room for pity here. Any horror Dream can afford to feel in this situation is for no one but himself. Feeling pity for Thomas, this kid who is chained and bleeding on the floor of his tent, will do nothing but hurt him in the end.
Dream has gotten attached before. To passing soldiers who took kindness on him, to prisoners he’s revived who are willing to talk to him. Each time, it ends with a jolt to his gut as the pain returns, stronger still, when they leave.
He cannot get attached to Thomas. He will not get attached to Thomas. Not if Dream can help it.
Dream looks on as the prince closes his eyes, the furrow in his brow signifying the pain. He will not get attached, no matter how difficult it may be.
He breathes for a moment, savoring the feeling. Then Dream forces himself to focus, to live, and obliges with the urge to survive.
First, he focuses on assessing the prince's injuries. The worst, obviously, is the newly opened wound on his side, leaking blood that drips down his lateral. Dream isn’t exactly sure if it’s a new cut from the kick or a wound he didn’t catch earlier that morning, but he hopes it’s the former. Older wounds often breed infection, and Dream isn’t exactly sure what he would do if Thomas couldn’t fight it on his own.
Whatever the matter, it’s important to check, which is Dream’s main concern at the moment.
“Can I, can I look at that?” He asks. Thomas opens his eyes, follows Dream’s gaze to the cut. The boy remains silent, staring back at him with an expression Dream is unable to interpret.
Finally, Thomas coughs. The noise sounds painful, and it all but confirms Dream’s suspicions of broken ribs. He wipes his nose, his hand coming away dotted with blood.
“‘M fine,” The prince gets out.
Dream winces. Even speaking seems to be an ordeal for him. Not a good sign, but hopefully not anything unfixable.
“Please?” Dream prompts. “I need to- you need it. To close up the wound.”
“I said I’m fine,” Thomas repeats, his voice not any clearer. He sounds like he’s speaking underwater. “I don’t need to get ‘checked’.”
The prince winces again, worse, curling in on himself. With his legs and hands still tied, the motion is less than graceful. Dream suspects it aggravates his shoulder, with the way the joint is positioned. He should’ve bandaged it, or at least told Thomas to try to avoid moving it, but that now seems largely pointless, when there are much larger issues at hand.
Dream forces himself to speak again. “If I don’t look, it might be infected. And that could kill you.”
He thinks the prince mumbled something under his breath. It sounds strangely like “let it.” Dream shivers, despite the warm day, and kneels down. Thomas jerks back, watching his hands warily, and Dream doesn’t let himself panic.
“Please, just- let me do this. I’m going to help you,” Dream says. Dream hopes.
Thomas falls back into silence, every muscle tense. Dream leans forward, one hand just brushing Thomas’s side, where blood is leaking through the bandages. The boy flinches back into the tent pole, shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move beyond that.
Dream takes it as a sign that he’s allowed to keep moving. After retrieving the salve and meager roll of bandages he still has, he has Thomas sit forward and begins the tedious job of unwrapping his ribs. It takes longer than it should- Thomas keeps shoving his hands away and Dream will spend another moment just sitting there- but eventually they’re off, revealing Thomas’s wounds.
It’s a grisly sight, is the first thing Dream truly comprehends. There is a long cut on Thomas’s side that he didn’t bother to patch up the night before, hoping to stitch it once Dream actually got the necessary equipment. It seemed to have scabbed over the night before, but was dripping blood once more from where Thomas had strained himself.
Dream can see where the general kicked him, too. Another cut, surrounded by an array of mottled bruising. It’s still fresh, but the worst of it is already turning deep shades of blue and purple. The bruise spreads all the way down the prince’s side, turning his skin a canvas of colors, strewn about.
Nothing looks infected, which is a relief, but it doesn’t ease most of Dream’s worries. Infection is still likely, in these conditions. He’s seen many soldiers with it before, too far gone for any of the medics to bring back.
There is a part of Dream that wants to turn and run, because really, it is the medics that should be dealing with the prince. They have experience with wounds like this, better treatment. Dream has nothing, and he knows nothing, which will more than likely kill Thomas in the end.
Except he can’t let that happen. Dream cannot allow this boy to die.
He leans closer to the wound, just to prove his theory. None of the skin looks dead. When Dream presses experimentally on the bruising, Thomas hisses and jolts back.
“What the- don’t fuckin’ do that!” He exclaims.
Dream shoots him an apologetic look, still focused on the injury. It isn’t hot to the touch, and while Dream still isn’t sure if it could be a product of internal bleeding, it’s a good sign. “Does it hurt to breathe?” He asks.
Thomas takes a breath in, and another fit of coughing breaks out, as if to prove his point. “Yeah,” the boy mutters,
“Ok. Ok. Um, I, I’m gonna put more salve on it. And wrap it.” Dream gestures helplessly to the bandages half unrolled at his feet. “Your ribs are broken, so I won’t make it tight or anything. It’ll just, uh, just help them out.”
For a moment, Thomas does nothing but stare. Then he nods, the movement so small that Dream almost thinks he’s missed it. Dream offers a small smile, pulling at the scars on his face, leaning down to get the salve.
He smears it across the bruising, slow enough that Thomas knows what’s coming. Dream doesn’t stitch the wound. He’s hoping that it will heal on its own, and if it doesn’t, it’ll be a topic he’ll have to pursue at a later date. When Thomas, hopefully, doesn’t hate him quite as much.
It’s a long shot, sure. But Dream will allow himself to be positive, just this once.
The tent is quiet as Dream has Thomas lean forward so he can wrap his ribs, save for Thomas’s breathing. Dream is just tying off the end as Thomas sighs, a painful noise, and his eyes turn towards Dream.
The prince's eyes widen, then narrow as his brows furrow. He looks deep in thought, which is why Dream is surprised when his voice comes out soft. “Are you- are you a prisoner?”
His heart freezes in his chest for a moment, and then Dream lets out a breath. Slowly, calm. He knows Thomas doesn’t know. It hurts to hear, but Dream will deal with it. The kid will figure it out eventually.
“I guess you could say that,” Dream says after a moment. He makes a point to not look away from the wound.
And even then, the words sting. The worst part is that it’s the truth, and Dream knows Thomas believes it. And-whatever. Dream will be fine. He’s not planning on telling him.
“So you heal the soldiers?” Thomas prompts.
“Yeah,” Dream nods. It’s another half lie.
“...Oh,” Comes the response, and the conversation lulls back into silence.
Dream turns away, setting down the salve and bandages. Thomas’s side is thoroughly bandaged, one spot tinged a faint pink but otherwise well off. His next issue is probably getting the kid some food and water, which Dream hasn’t exactly figured out yet. His own rations are sparse and often unsafe to eat, so splitting those with Thomas doesn’t sound like the best idea.
Thomas lets out another breath, less shaky than before. “You’re from The Empire?”
And still, it hurts. “Yeah.”
“Were you a soldier?”
“Mhm.” Dream digs out his own water bottle and takes a swig, before offering it to Thomas. The boy nods, and Dream hesitantly holds it to his lips.
After a moment, Thomas leans back, and Dream recorks the bottle. Some of the tension has leaked out of the other boy’s soldiers, but it’s still there, taut as a wire.
“Why?” Thomas says, and his voice is a tone Dream can’t understand.
“What- what do you mean, why?” Dream turns away, hiding the bottle away in the stash under his cot. “I don’t exactly have a choice.”
Thomas shrugs. It clearly aggravates his shoulder, his face screwing up in pain before he physically forces it to smooth over into something calmer. Dream can still recognize the hurt, the pressure in his eyes.
“You could fight back,” The kid says it like it’s simple. “Or- I dunno. Try and leave.”
“I can’t just leave.” Dream knows his voice has taken on a hint of fury, hot red anger, and he doesn’t push it down. Each emotion in him is wild and alive. It’s easier to let it out here, where he can’t get hurt. “You don’t- you don’t understand the, the situation .”
“Sure I don’t,” Thomas says. For a moment, Dream wants to punch him.“If I was you, though, I know what I’d fuckin’ do.”
“Okay,” Dream says.
And it isn’t like- it isn’t like Dream hasn’t considered it. Fighting back. Doing whatever he can to get away from these people. He’s run before, hid and prayed before. It never works.
He isn’t sure, exactly, when he stopped trying. It’s been what feels like years. But the point is, Dream tried . How dare this kid assume he’s done nothing, accept his fate without a second thought.
“I’m going to escape,” Thomas continues, either oblivious to the turmoil in Dream’s head or knowing and continuing on anyway. “In case you were wondering.”
“I kinda guessed,” Dream says, glancing at the tent doorway. The soldier is still gone.
“Good.” Thomas closes his eyes, leaning back on the tent pole. He still has a look, plaintively calm, hiding the exhaustion and anger and terror somewhere below.
Dream watches him for a moment, and he thinks of his own past words, of the lies hidden beneath each and every syllable. He thinks, and he wonders what Thomas would say if he knew. But then, Dream has a suspicion he already knows.
Then the prince goes quiet, and Dream frowns, scowls, he’s such a turmoil of emotion he doesn’t know what to do anymore. “Don’t sleep lying down,” He whispers, and then Dream slips out of the tent, opening the canvas with shaky hands.
If only Thomas knew. Dream hopes he never finds out.
He drops the fold, and sunlight hits his face in streams of light as he steps outside. Dream blinks, eyes adjusting to the sight of the camp well into the morning. Green and beige colored tents dot the open field. Few soldiers mill about, but Dream is willing to bet that most are still far from waking up, the previous night's adrenaline catching up to them and the hangover keeping them in bed.
Weaving through the sea of canvas, careful to avoid anyone who looks awake enough to follow him, Dream makes his way to the forest. Even in the warmth, frost from the night before dots the pine needles, turning the green a frigid shade of white. These trees are the main sign of how close they are to the Empire’s borders. They stretch tall into the sky, droplets of water falling through the branches and coating Dream’s jacket with a fine dusting of mist. Further south, deep within Essempi, the trees change with the seasons, leaves accompanied by the blossoming of flowers and turning deep shades of red and orange when autumn arrives. It’s a spectacle Dream’s only been able to experience a few times in the past years, being called to the heart of the kingdom only when dire matters arose.
Instead, Dream grew up surrounded by the deep greens and blues of pine trees. It was easy to picture- the winters long and grueling and lasting long into the summer months. He can still smell the tea his mother would make, when the nights were long and endless. Being here, in this camp, he’s hit with wave after wave of nostalgia.
Essempi is pushing further into the Empire’s territory, the armies moving north and bringing Dream closer and closer to home.
He should hate it, but there is a part of him that longs for woods like these. To see the mountains again, jagged and reaching into the sky, towards Lady Death’s domain. And there is a part of him that hates that too, that hates Dream for even thinking of such things.
With a silence that can only come from months of practice, Dream ducks under a tree and leaves the eyesight of the camp. This is a relatively new development, being able to leave the camp. It allows Dream to clear his head, away from prying eyes.
He arrives at a creek. It’s small, difficult to notice among the thick grass that grows around it. Dream bends down and splashes freezing water onto his face, a product of the snow melt coming straight from the mountains. The substance stings his face. Dream blinks away the droplets that get in his eyes, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the slow moving pool he’s leaning towards.
Blonde hair and bruises stare back, and suddenly Dream isn’t looking at himself anymore. He’s looking at Thomas, with the fire in his eyes hot enough to burn a man. He has a black eye and bruises turning green and a face so young Dream can’t think of him as anything except a child.
And now Prince Thomas is here, trapped in a camp full of men who want to stab a knife into his gut, and Dream is the only one standing between them, and he has nothing, nothing but the general’s flimsy order-
Dream winces and tries to steady himself, and a rock from the shore falls into the water, shattering the illusion. He’s looking at no one but himself now, with hollow cheeks and hollow eyes. His hair is falling in his face unkempt.
The weight on his shoulders is there, staring back. Dream blinks, tries to breathe. He can’t do this.
He leans back into the grass. Like this, Dream is looking up at the pale blue sky, the tree canopy twisting his vision so the clouds above are only seen in fits and starts. He can see the mountains, and they aren’t too different from the mountains Dream grew up seeing.
A droplet of water lands on his face, and Dream closes his eyes. He should be getting back to camp soon, or a soldier will inevitably come looking for him and drag him back regardless- but for now, Dream can feel some false semblance of peace. With the wind in his hair and the smell of pine and the wildflowers that grow out here, he can pretend that everything is alright.
Dream has to do this, he knows, has to keep the prince alive. For the people who can make his life a living hell here, and for his long lost country back home, who depend on this boy and the power he holds.
He just isn’t sure he can.