Chapter Text
George’s legs ached.
Build a boat, sail down the river, survive.
His lungs felt tight and too small.
Build a boat, sail down the river, survive.
His breath was loud in his ears.
Build a boat, sail down the river, survive.
His pack bounced uncomfortably on his shoulders.
Build a boat, sail down the river, survive.
He didn’t dare look back, he could hear the thundering footsteps behind him, he could almost feel hot breath down the back of his neck, and the-
“George,” his pursuer sang, entirely too close for comfort. George yelped, and in spite of his total body misery ran faster, sprinting over the savannah towards the river.
For the last two months, this had been his life. Everywhere he went he had a shadow in the shape of a shaggy-haired masked man, with a stupid sword and a stupid bright yellow coat and a stupid lust for blood. He doesn’t know how this fucking nightmare of a person found him, or knew his name, or what he wanted-
Well. He knew what he wanted.
He’d seen the raised brand of the Mad King on Dream’s arm.
George ran harder, sweat pouring down his flushed and clammy face.
His shadow had appeared a couple of months back. George, homeless and adrift, had thought little of the man running towards him at the time, and it was only after he saw the glinting of his diamond sword that he began to be concerned. He remembers thinking his life was over then and there. But it hadn’t been. And that’s because Dream…
George looked over his shoulder, and saw that he wasn’t being chased. His hand instinctively went to where his sword hung and he drew it. This did little to calm him down.
He kept running. He had a plan.
He made it to the edge of the water, leather shoes sinking slightly in the sand, before slowing down. He put his hands on his knees and bent double, breathing heavily. Build a boat, sail down the river, survive. He repeated it in his mind like a mantra. Build a boat, sail down the river, survive. Build a boat, s-
He found himself knocked sideways suddenly, pressed down into the sand of the riverbank, two rough and calloused hands holding his wrists in place. His stone sword fell from his grip. He started screaming, thrashing around as best as he could, trying to throw off the body on top of him. But Dream was bigger, stronger. He didn’t stand a chance.
“I’ve got you!” Dream crowed, laughing at the top of his lungs, “Oh George, it’s all over now, I’ve got you right where I want you!”
“Shut up! Let me go, Dream!” George yelled, redoubling his efforts to escape.
“Stop squirming, Georgie,” Dream sang, “You’ll only make it harder for yourself! Oh my god, the look on your face when I grabbed you! Priceless!”
He kicked his legs out wildly, trying to dislodge Dream from his position, but Dream was undeterred. From where he was lying, he could see Dream’s sweaty face and feel his hot stinking breath waft over him. The mask, which covered about 3/4 of his face, remained firmly in place, taunting him with the childish smily face. His wrists were pressed strongly into the coarse sand above his head.
He was trapped. He was done for. Dream was talking about how hopeless it all was, laughing like the victor he knew he was.
In spite of the boasting, George noticed the grip on his left wrist loosen. Just a bit.
It was all he needed.
George’s hand clenched around a fistful of sand. He threw it directly into Dream’s laughing mouth.
Dream sputtered, leaning back a little. George squirmed out of his grip and made a dash for the river, jumping in feet first and swimming like a thing possessed across the wide and rushing current. He pulled himself, sopping wet and gasping for breath onto the opposite bank. He could hear Dream, still laughing, in the distance. He propped himself up on his elbows, and saw Dream right where he left him a couple of hundred yards away.
He was sitting in the sand and wheezing with laughter. George flopped back on his back and groaned. His hands began to shake as the adrenaline waned.
He’d left his sword there. Damn it. He’d given his fucking sword to Dream.
George had no idea how he knew Dream’s name. He couldn’t remember when he had first heard it, or under what context, or who from. All he knew was that Dream was called Dream, and George hated every inch of him. From his dumb swoosh of sandy hair, to his stupid smiling mask, to his obvious and stupid bright yellow coat, to his stupid propensity to let him go.
George had figured by now that the Mad King, or someone working with the Mad King, or someone working for the Mad King had ordered him dead. He couldn’t say he was surprised. What he hadn’t figured out is why every time Dream, fearsome ensign of the Mad King’s mercenaries, He Who Bathed In Battlefield Blood, The Manhunter Above All, kept letting him go. He must’ve been caught dozens of times by now. Each time it would have only taken minor effort to slit his throat and leave him dead.
Not that George was complaining.
The adrenaline was leaving his system, and he felt exhausted. He couldn’t sleep just yet. The sun had just passed its zenith, and even though he’d been let go once again, he wasn’t in the mind to test Dream’s generosity. He pulled himself to his feet and started chopping down a nearby tree, planing thick planks from the trunk and lashing them together to make a raft. It wasn’t impressive, but it didn’t need to be. It would float. He pulled a branch off, grunting with the effort, and shaped it into something that resembled an oar. Sweating in the heat, he pushed the raft into the river and clambered on, rowing away downstream.
After a while, he peaked over his shoulder. Walking along the bank in the distance, casual as you like, was a masked man in a bright yellow coat.
“Leave me alone!” George yelled. His voice echoed around the empty fields.
“No!” Came the response, dampened by the distance. George scowled and rowed with just a little more force. At least Dream didn’t have a bow. Once he was out of melee range, he was safe. Safer, at least.
-
By the time the sun hung low in the sky, George had found himself in a swamp. It smelled strongly of damp clay and wet mud, and there were lakes of stagnate water everywhere, and it was humid and hot. He wasn’t too fussed. He knew he’d be out of the swamp sooner or later.
He steered himself towards a nearby tree with flat enough boughs that he’d be able to set up some kind of shelter. It killed two birds with one stone: he’d be out of the mud and high off the ground. The height was mandatory. It meant he’d be able to hear Dream coming as he climbed his way up. He balanced his pack on a branch between his legs, and started searching around in it for something to eat. No meat. Campfires were dead give-aways for where he was, and it wasn’t just Dream he had to worry about. Out here, in the wilds of the Mad King’s territory, it was lawless. Kill who you like, steal what you want, nobody would stop you. If you were strong enough, nobody could. Things were generally less chaotic in the towns and villages, but he didn’t think he could go back to living in one. His chest hurt when he thought about the village he grew up in.
He avoided thinking about the village he grew up in.
He managed to find a loaf of stale bread somewhere in the bottom of his pack, which he broke in half and started chewing on. It wasn’t good, but by that point he was hungry enough that he’d eat nearly anything.
He was no stranger to hunger. These days, nobody was.
King Ryan had ruled for as long as anyone could remember. He’d abused his power for as long as anyone could remember too. Tax rates so high that no reasonable person could afford them, and then debtors jail for the ones who tried and failed to pay. Restrictions on things like fish, then meat, then wheat and carrots. Requests for presences in the capital, which nobody returned from. It was hell, and that wasn’t even addressing the other horrors that lurked in the night. Or the hunters he hired.
The sun set, and the moon rose in the distance. It was cooler at night. He pulled out a bottle of water, and noticed with annoyance it was the last one he had. He’d need to find somewhere to light a fire soon, so he could cook and purify water and whatever else. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pinprick of light, and smoke rising in the distance. A darkened figure sat next to it, and even though George couldn’t make out the details, he didn’t think he needed to.
He rolled himself up in the bedroll and tried to ignore the noises of the night, staying awake with his axe in a tight grip until he physically couldn’t anymore, and sleep took him.
-
The sun rose, and the damp heat of the day settled over George like a blanket. He roused himself from sleep, scrubbing his eyes and looking around. No sign of Dream. That wasn’t in of itself unusual, but it was disquieting. Especially since he’d been able to see him last night.
He looked back towards where the campfire had been, but Dream had clearly struck camp and moved on already. Anxiety settled like a stone in his stomach.
George climbed down from the tree and settled himself on his raft again. It was time for a new plan. The swamp stretched out as far as he could see, but he could just barely make out the shape of some mountains in the distance. That would work. He just had to get out of this swamp.
He paddled himself along the shallow waters for the whole morning, and there was still no sign of Dream. It was starting to get concerning. George remembered the last time it had been this quiet for this long. He was definitely planning something. Some kind of trap or some other nonsense. George rubbed his arm, the memory of the last trap embedded in his mind.
(To Dream’s credit, George had to admit the trap was impressive. He still had no idea where he’d gotten the dispensers from, or how he had managed to source so, so many eggs.)
He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head sharply. Dream was rowing towards him in an honest-to-god boat, not just a shitty raft like George had made. He didn’t know where he’d gotten it. And he was rowing towards him fast, and with purpose, and had at some point lost his dumb yellow coat, and mask, and-
Oh shit.
George abandoned the raft and started splashing towards a bit of land a little distance away. There was no way he’d be able to out-row this person, hunter or not. His legs started to burn again, the memory of the chase from yesterday still in his bones. He waded awkwardly through the mud, stumbling now and then, and eventually scrambled up onto marshy land. He looked around for his next move, and took off running towards a crop of trees. Tree cover was good. Tree cover meant that it was harder to fight hand to hand, and it would slow his new shadow down. It meant-
Suddenly, George felt a prick in his shoulder, and he stumbled and fell with the force of it. He turned around to see an arrow embedded in his leather armour. He went to pull it out, starting to scramble to his feet, but his attacker was on him, pressing him into the ground and pulling his hands behind his back.. George caught sight of that branded insignia on his arm and felt his blood run cold. He started squirming, but the person on his back pressed his face harder into the mud. It was getting hard to breathe.
“Gotta say, you’ve certainly got chutzpah,” said the breathless voice from above him, “I can see why Dream took a liking to you. But King Ryan is getting bored of the chase.”
George tried to scream and got a mouthful of dirt for his trouble. He felt the arrow push closer, into his skin. He felt it draw blood.
There was no getting out of this one.
Well, he thought, well.
As sudden as it arrived, the weight on his back disappeared, and George lay there for a few seconds in shock before scrambling away, wiping the mud off his face as he went. His stomach gave a little warning lurch as he pulled the arrow out. Looking at it closer, it had clearly been dipped in poison. Fortunately for him, it didn’t get into his skin far enough to give him the full dose. Just enough to make him lose his appetite.
He turned around to see what had happened. He saw Dream in all his impractical yellow glory standing about a meter away from George. About a meter in front of George. Between George and the attacker. George had no idea who this new person was, but Dream had drawn his sword. George knew, intellectually, that he should run. He felt frozen to the spot.
“Dream,” the attacker said. He had an arrow clutched tightly in his hand
“Xilo,” Dream responded.
“Stand aside.” Dream looked between Xilo and George, seeming to weigh up his options.
“No.”
“Come on, be reasonable” Xilo said, taking a step forward. Dream raised his sword higher. Xilo paused.
“Leave it,” Dream said, his voice even and cold, “I’ve got him marked. This one’s my quarry.”
“You’ve been dicking around for too long, Dream,” Xilo said, his tone taking a harsher edge, “The King’s getting impatient. He can’t be left alive.” Xilo smirked a little, showing off his crooked teeth, “And besides, there’s a pretty price on his pretty head. I don’t believe this bag of bones was giving you that much trouble.”
“Fuck off, Xilo. This one’s mine. That was your last warning,” Dream said, getting into a more combative stance.
“Alright,” said Xilo, taking one, two, three steps back. “Warning heard.”
There were three breaths of silence.
In the same instant that Xilo drew his bow, Dream swung his sword at him, causing Xilo to stumble back a couple of feet. Xilo fired an arrow but Dream strafed right, ducking his shoulder out of the way. George scrambled away, staying out of the radius of the fight. An arrow wizzed past his face, just grazing his cheek and he stumbled back into a tree. Dream was on Xilo, hacking away mercilessly, but Xilo was undeterred, using the proximity to stab an arrow into a gap in Dream’s leather armour, right into the meat of his thigh.
George winced sympathetically.
Dream was undeterred, cutting out wildly and gashing Xilo on the cheek. Blood started to weep from the cut, staining his cheek and dripping onto the dark ground. Xilo reached behind him, eyes widening in panic when he noticed his empty quiver. He managed to get the bow up in time to block another deadly blow from Dream, and the wood snapped under the weight of the sword. He managed to get his own sword up just in time to divert another blow. George started trying to crawl away towards Xilo’s boat, but Xilo noticed and aimed a kick at George’s nose. He fell back, covering his face with his hands. His nose was bleeding, but it didn’t seem broken. He looked up just in time to see Dream get another good slash in, cutting through the leather armour and drawing blood from Xilo’s arm. He cried out in pain. Dream lifted his leg to kick Xilo squarely in the chest, and just as Xilo got another good (deep, that one went deep, that was bad news for Dream) slash in at Dream’s thigh, his foot collided with his chest and knocked Xilo prone on his back. Dream stood over him and in one fluid motion, drove the sword deep into Xilo’s chest.
Xilo didn’t move.
Dream pulled the arrow out of his leg and tossed it aside, and slowly turned to face George. George rushed to his feet and started running again, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing in his face. He heard a heavy thud and slowed to a jog, checking over his shoulder.
Dream had fallen to his knees, one hand pressed into the mud and the other gripping the handle of his sword. The blade was lodged in the dirt. Blood was seeping out of his leg and into the ground. George paused.
“Dream?” George called out. He heard Dream’s painful dry retching.
Definitely poison tipped arrows.
George weighed up his options. Dream was incapacitated. His leg was severely injured, and he’d received a good dose of pretty strong poison, and he was clearly exhausted on top of that. He might be able to get away, like really away.
If he left, Dream would die here.
He’d slowly bleed out, weakened by the poison and the heat and the fight. He would die in the mud and muck of the swamp. Alone.
Dream collapsed properly, face down in the dirt.
He’s trying to kill you, George told himself. But.
Well. Was he?
He would have died at the hands of this Xilo guy if Dream hadn’t stepped in.
He jogged slowly back over to Dream, standing just out of melee range just in case this was some kind of ruse.
“Dream?” he said softly. Dream groaned, trying to push himself up. His arms wobbled, gave out, and slipped. His grip on his sword loosened. George sighed. He knew what he had to do.
He slowly worked Dream’s hand off the sword, gently lowering it to the ground. He swung out, limply, but George easily dodged back. He never thought, in a million years, he’d ever be man-handling Dream like this. It felt odd. Weirdly wrong.
He pulled the sword out of the ground with a little grunt of effort, and put it to one side. He managed to get Dream’s pack off his shoulders as well, and left it by the sword. Like this, Dream seemed small.
He rolled Dream so that he was lying on his side, and reached for the mask. Dream was gasping for breath a little, his skin sweaty and pale. His fingers had just hooked under the edge when Dream’s hand reached up and limply grabbed his wrist. It was enough to make George pause.
“The mask stays on,” he said, his voice rough.
“I have to check your eyes,” George said, trying to sound authoritative. He wanted to see how blown his pupils were, how they reacted to the light, he was pretty sure he knew what he was dealing with but he wanted to be certain-
“No…no… it’s gotta stay on…” Dream said. His voice sounded weak.
“Dream…” George tried to cajole, “come on, I’m trying to-“
He was interrupted by Dream retching again, this time a little more forcefully. George managed to tilt his head down just in time for Dream to puke up whatever was in his stomach. The smell was enough to make him feel worse. He turned his head away, trying not to breathe in too much, but kept his grip on Dream firm.
“Okay,” he said when it seemed like Dream was done, absently rubbing Dream’s arm, “the mask can stay on.” Dream groaned in response.
George looked towards Xilo’s boat. It’s not like he has any use for it, he thought. He hooked his arms under Dream’s shoulders and lifted him up a little. Dream’s head lolled back. He was heavy.
“God, Dream,” George huffed, starting to drag him (gently, gently), “you’re so fat.” Dream just groaned in response, limp and useless.
What the fuck am I doing, George thought to himself.
But he’d made his decision. Nobody deserved to die alone.
With no small amount of trouble, and lots of swearing from George, he managed to manoeuvre Dream into the boat. He pulled the ruined bits of armour off his leg to asses the damage. The puncture where the arrow had been stuck in looked worse than it was, the edges going slightly yellow as the poison spread through his body. The cut on his thigh was the real concern, still bleeding freely. George reached into his pack for the strips of cloth he kept for emergencies and started wrapping the leg. It would have to do until he could stitch him up properly.
He made sure Dream wasn’t at risk of falling out of the boat, or of suffocating himself, or of hitting his head, and then went back for Dream’s stuff. He threw it haphazardly into the boat, and turned to look at Xilo’s body. He grimaced, and started going through his pack. There wasn’t much in there that would be of much use, but he did find a little glass vial with a bit of powdered milk. That would certainly come in handy.
He pocketed the powdered milk, and tried to arrange Xilo’s limbs into a slightly more dignified pose. He felt sick to his stomach, looking at him lying there. But he had more pressing matters to think about.
“George?” Dream’s voice sounded thin, and straining with effort.
“Here,” he said, taking one last look at Xilo. Sorry, he thought, you really shouldn’t have tried to kill me. Thanks for the boat. Sorry.
George pushed the boat out of the shallows and started to row away. They needed to find somewhere high up and away from the water so that he could stitch Dream’s leg shut. He needed to find somewhere dry so that he could light a fire, as risky as it was. He needed a cauldron of fresh water to mix with the milk powder. He swallowed nervously. He needed a witch’s hut.
—
By some stroke of luck, he found one. He secured the boat to one of the stilts that kept it out of the water, and nervously climbed up. It had been a couple of hours, and Dream had already bled through the bandages. He’d also passed out, or George thought he had, lying quietly at the front of the boat and breathing heavily.
George waded through the water to the ladder that lead up to the trapdoor, put his hand on a rung, but hesitated. This was way more dangerous than anything he’d even dream of usually attempting. He thought of Dream, dying in the boat. He steeled his nerves and climbed up, listening for the sounds of feet or cackling. He heard none. Slowly opening the trap door, he peaked his head up. Empty. What’s more, empty and dusty. George smiled for the first time that day. Abandoned.
He climbed back down and went back for his things, grabbed the packs and dream’s sword, and climbed back up and left them in a corner of the room. He had no idea how he’d get Dream up here. Dream was bigger, and stronger, and heavier than George. He’d need Dream to do at least some of the work.
He dusted the place down a little, and set up a campfire on the little balcony outside (no door, just an archway, he should make a door, that would be more secure), under the full cauldron that sat out there. It was probably fine to drink, being rainwater, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. He still felt a little nauseous from the little bits of poison that had entered his system. He couldn’t imagine that Dream would be able to keep it down.
Dream. Right.
He climbed back down and dragged the boat over to the ladder. Dream hadn’t moved, but he was still breathing.
“Dream,” George said, cajoling. No response. He felt himself panic a little. He reached out and put his hand on Dream’s shoulder.
“Dream, come on. Get up. I can’t carry you up. You have to help me,” he said, a little more urgently. Dream groaned and moved a little, turning to look up at George.
“Dizzy,” he mumbled.
“I know. Get up,” George said, pulling on his arm. Dream went, limply, over his shoulder. George managed to drape him over the ladder, and started urging him up. Dream managed one rung and then stopped, pressing his forehead to the rung.
“I can’t….can’t…” he breathed. George watched his hands slip a little.
“Dream, please, it’s just a little ways,” George begged, putting a hand on Dream’s back to keep him on the ladder. Dream pitched forwards and started retching again, but there wasn’t anything in his stomach to bring up. He groaned, his hands slipping a little more.
“Dream!” George yelled. He was exhausted and aching and panicked and dirty and hot and scared. His patience had run out.
“If you don’t climb, we will both die. Do you understand?” He felt bad as soon as he said it. There were a couple of moments of silence. Dream nodded. And he started to climb.
It was an agonisingly slow process. But inch by inch, Dream pulled himself up. George was behind him the whole time, just in case he started to slip. But he didn’t.
After a good half an hour, Dream flopped onto the floor of the witch’s hut. George hurried up after him, shut the trap door, and pushed the nearby crafting table over it. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Dream lay on the ground gasping for breath.
Right.
He tried to move Dream (gently, as gently as he possibly could) to a corner of the hut, and turned him on his side. He was dry heaving again, and had one arm thrown over his face. George went out to the balcony to fill the bottle with water. It was bubbling by now, and good enough for what he needed to do next.
He pulled the milk powder out of his pocket and dumped the whole thing in, sloshing it around to make sure it got fully mixed. He put the other two bottles of water into the boiling water, filling them up and sterilising them. Two birds, one stone.
He headed back over to Dream, who hadn’t moved.
It wasn’t surprising. Poison like this made it awful to do anything. Moving made you nauseous, lying still gave you a headache. You felt weak and shaky and tired and dizzy. Talking was a chore not worth doing. It was a difficult potion to make, and an even more difficult potion to master. Especially now that the clerics…
His chest hurt when he thought about the clerics.
He avoided thinking about the clerics.
No matter how good the potion was, it would eventually make its way through your system and you’d be right as rain within two days. You could speed up this process with milk. Milk was hard to transport long distances without it going bad, so people would travel with powdered milk, when they could get their hands on it.
He approached Dream loudly, just in case his eyes were shut, and pressed the bottle into his hands.
“Sit up. You should drink this.” Dream shook his head a little. George huffed. Dream was a very annoying patient.
“Please sit up and drink it? It’ll make you feel better,” he tried. No response. George rolled his eyes.
“Come on. Up,” he said, and managed to get Dream up into a sitting position. Dream complained wordlessly, but George managed to position them both such that Dream was sitting up, leaning against George’s chest. George’s legs were stretched out either side of Dream, bracketing him in. Dream held the bottle loosely in his grip. Slowly, he lifted it to his lips and took a sip.
He drank slowly, and methodically, but he drank it and that was all George could ask for. His hand fell to the floor and the bottle rolled away. George eased him back down so he was lying on his side again. He seemed to be breathing a little easier.
“Thanks,” he said, standing. Dream grunted in response. George figured it was better than a groan. He went over to his pack and dug out his surgical needle and some more bandages, ripped from a blanket. He headed back out to the balcony, dumped everything in his arms into the boiling water and sat down, watching the sun start to set. From up here, the sun glinting off the murky water, it all looked very nice. Scenic. Dramatic.
He hung his head and caught his breath. Watching Dream fight with such ruthlessness and intensity had been disturbing. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Dream was a skilled and terrifying hunter. The only reason he didn’t kill George was because he chose not to.
Why the fuck had Dream chosen not to?
He’d done enough thinking. Wrapping his hands in his shirt, he grabbed the edge of the cauldron and pulled it off the fire. Scalding his hands a little, he fished the bandages and suture kit out of the hot water, and went back inside.
He knelt down by Dream’s leg. He’d moved a little since George had left him, and rolled onto his back. He’d also managed to wriggle out of his coat, and it was bunched up under his head as a make-shift pillow, leaving Dream in just a vest. That was good news. He gently pulled the blood-soaked bandages off Dream’s leg and assessed it. The puncture wound was looking better, and the yellowish tinge to his skin was already starting to fade. That put George at ease. The poison was leaving his system. The gash across his thigh was still bleeding, and looked terrible with all the dried blood around it. It would need to be stitched shut.
“I don’t know if you’re awake, but this is going to sting a bit,” George told Dream’s leg. He lifted a wet bit of fabric to the wound and started to clean it. Dream sucked in a breath through his teeth, but didn’t otherwise complain. After cleaning the wound, it looked better. It was a pretty clean cut, which would make the next process easier. He looked around, and saw a stick lying on the ground. It wasn’t the most sanitary thing, but beggars can’t be choosers.
George held the stick out in front of Dream’s mouth.
“It’s going to hurt. Bite down on it.” Dream seemed to hesitate, but eventually complied. It was then that George started the process of stitching Dream’s leg shut. Dream’s cries of pain were muffled by the stick, which was good. They didn’t need to draw more attention to themselves than they already had. It also allowed George to concentrate on the surgery he was performing. It took the better part of an hour, with Dream yelling himself hoarse and breathing heavily. George snipped the surgical thread and tied it off, noting the lengthening shadows in the room. He wrapped it in a clean white strip of cloth, and wiped his bloody hands on his shirt. Dream spat the branch out of his mouth and went lax in every limb.
“Give it to me straight doc,” he said, his voice hoarse and breathless, “how long do I have to live?”
George snorted, despite the situation. “You’ll be fine. Don’t be such a baby. Get some sleep.”
Dream nodded once, and then fell into a kind of restful stillness. George sighed, and headed back out. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the cauldron and left it by Dream, so that he’d be able to drink it as soon as he woke up. George pulled a bottle out for himself and started to drink, the exhaustion of the day starting to creep into his bones in earnest.
It had been a long, strange day. And it wasn’t over yet. He had to choke something down (in spite of the lingering nauseous feeling in his stomach), and clean the dried blood off his face, and clean his clothes, and put out the fire, and keep vigil, and…
His hands began to tremble again, and he leaned back against the wall.
He’d just shut his eyes. For a little while. Then he’d get back to his plan. He just needed to rest his eyes for a little while.
He woke up to the early morning light and a blade a few inches from his face. He blinked up at the face on the other end of the sword, and slowly raised his hands. His eyes flicked down to her exposed wrist.
No brand. No insignia.
This was just some random person who saw smoke and thought she had found a free meal ticket.
The irony was not lost on him.
“What do you want?” he asked. He figured that if he hadn’t been killed yet there was a reason.
“Gimmie your stuff,” she responded. George swallowed.
“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” George said, his voice still rough from sleep. It was depressing how true the statement was. She scoffed and pushed the blade closer. George tried to back up, rotating so his back was to the cauldron and his shoulder was pressed against the wood. He didn’t want anyone else sneaking up on him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the hastily constructed ladder leaning against the balcony.
“Please. You have a boat. I’m willing to bet you have some iron stashed away. Maybe some steak. Gold, emeralds, stuff like that. I wasn’t born yesterday.” A single strand of black hair slipped in front of her face.
“I’m telling you, I don’t have anything,” he tried again, his voice raising with barely contained hysteria.
“This is getting real old real fast,” she said, taking a menacing step forward so that she was at the same level as the archway. If she turned her head, she’d see their shoddy packs and Dream’s sleeping body. “I’m going to count to three, and by the time I get to three, you’re either going to hand over your valuables or be fish food. One-“
She didn’t get much farther than that. An arrow, fired from inside the hut, went straight through her neck. George flinched. She fell sideways off the balcony and landed with a splash in the water. He didn't bother looking down. He knew she was dead.
George peered around into the darkened hut to see Dream, hair sticking up all over the place, sitting up, a bow in his hand. They stared at each other in silence for several long moments.
“Good morning,” George said. The silence was only disrupted by the sounds of early morning birdsong.
“Morning,” Dream responded. His bow was still clutched in his hand.
Silence.
“How did you sleep?” George asked politely.
Silence.
“Pretty good.”
Silence.
“Good.”
Silence.
“I guess you’re responsible for the…” Dream gestured to his bandaged thigh. George nodded slowly.
“The bandaging, yeah. Not the…” he trailed off, making vague cutting motions with his hands.
“Why?” he asked cautiously. George thought for a while. Why had he helped?
“It seemed like an awful way to die,” he answered honestly, “face down in a swamp, sick and bleeding.” Dream seemed to mull that over for a long time.
“Well, thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” George replied.
There were several moments of tense silence.
They both exploded into movement at the same time, Dream lunging forward and George jumping to his feet. He was already planning, realising he’d need to jump into the shallows and trust it would break his fall sufficiently and abandon all his things and give Dream an even bigger leg up than he already had-
A thud and a pained groan stopped his planning. He turned around, startled, to see Dream face down on the floor, groaning. George stood there awkwardly.
“Are you… okay?” he asked cautiously.
What am I doing, go, go, go go go go...
Dream nodded, rolling himself slowly into a sitting position. He stretched his bad leg out in front of him.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, rubbing his thigh.
“The stitches didn’t reopen, did they?” George asked, dreading the thought of another hour spent stitching Dream up as he screamed in pain.
Why do I care? Go!
Dream shook his head.
“No, no.” He settled back, leaning against the wall, his head leaned back so he was looking at the ceiling. He turned to face George, who was still stood like he was ready to bolt. Dream seemed to think about something, before eventually raising his bow and tossing it aside, way out of his reach.
George stood there, still trying to work out the trap.
“You can sit, if you want,” he said, gesturing to the floor. George knew he shouldn’t, but…
His hands started to shake.
He entered the hut and sat down, his back against the wall opposite from Dream. He put his head in his hands, already too full of adrenaline from nearly being killed again.
“Are you cold?” Dream asked. George peeked up at him, and shook his head.
“Just…tired,” he responded, putting his head back in his hands, “it’s just too early for me to have nearly died. Again.”
“Yeah,” Dream replied tiredly, “it looked like she really had you cornered. So did Xilo.” There was a long silence, as George waited for his hands to stop shaking.
“You gotta take better care of yourself, dude,” Dream said eventually, “It’s not just me out there hunting you.”
“Well,” George said, feeling brave enough to lift his face out of his hands, “I’m not the one who got poisoned and stabbed at.”
“I’m only in this situation because I was defending you!” Dream cried, and George thought he might be going insane because he definitely heard the bubbles of laughter at the edges of his voice.
“Yeah,” George said, “why did you do that?”
“You’re my quarry,” Dream said immediately, “my responsibility. I get to kill you.”
“Dream, you had like a thousand opportunities. You have a bow!” George pointed out, feeling the panic rise in him again.
“Yeah, well, maybe I'm just like a jealous boyfriend and want to be the only one who gets you," Dream said, a shit-eating grin on his face, "Maybe I'm sightseeing and want to see where you lead us next. Maybe I'm just hunting you for sport. Did you ever think about that, George?”
“Ugh, I hate you so much,” he said, rolling his eyes. Dream laughed.
“Sure. You hate me so much, which is why you lugged me all the way here, and stitched me up, and fed me, and gave me milk,” Dream said, holding up four fingers for emphasis, “four things! That’s a lot of effort for someone you hate.” George looked away. When Dream phrased it like that, it sounded stupid. There was silence.
“I appreciate it, though,” Dream said, his voice a little softer, “even if it was only delaying the inevitable.” George looked back at him.
“What do you mean, delaying the inevitable?”
“We both know I can’t get anywhere on this leg,” Dream said, gesturing to the bandages, “especially not when you grab your stuff and row away with boat. Wading through this muck is hard, and that’s without one bum leg." Dream shrugged, and George couldn't tell if it was affected apathy in his voice or not. "I’m a sitting duck. I’ll either starve, or someone will find me and figure that I have stuff worth killing for.”
The thought of someone showing up and stabbing Dream did weird things to George’s heart.
“When you phrase it like that,” George said, trailing off, “it doesn’t sound like either of us are going to make it out of the swamp.”
They both sat in silence for a little while. It was oddly comfortable. Dream started giggling under his breath, and George would be lying if the sound wasn’t weirdly nice.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Dream giggled, shaking his head, “just a dumb thought.”
“Tell me,” George said, feeling a small smile creep onto his face.
“It’s just, you need someone watching your back, and I need someone to help me walk, so it’s like…I just pictured us teaming up or something and getting out of the swamp together,” he said, waving his hand indistinctly. George started laughing as well.
The image of George side by side with his hunter, amicably travelling and working together was pretty funny. It was also weirdly wholesome, and he had been alone for a long time. The conversation with another person was…nice. Even if that person was the ruthless force of nature that was Dream.
He’s not so bad, he thought, and then quashed that thought as quickly as it appeared.
“What, like us working together? Sailing out of the swamp together and then going back to the chase once we get out?” George asked, laughing a little.
“Yeah! You know, singing songs around a campfire or whatever,” Dream added. George laughed.
“Sleeping in shifts, hunting for food, just sharing everything like real friends,” he was laughing in earnest now, and Dream was still giggling.
“Yeah! Exactly! And you’re all like ‘wow Dream, you’re so great, thanks for fishing up dinner, you’re the best…’” he laughed.
“Oh sure, and you’re all like ‘Oh George, you’re so amazing, you’re the best ever, thanks so much for all your help old friend!'”
They both descended into fits of laughter, Dream wheezing a little and George crying slightly. It wasn’t even that funny. It just felt good to joke with someone again, after so long.
“Yeah,” George said, wiping his eyes, “that sounds nice.” He looked down at his hands, which were still covered in mud and blood. He looked up and Dream was looking at him, head tilted slightly.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “it does, doesn’t it.”
They both sat there and thought about what they’d said.
Dream held out his hand.
“George, I promise not to kill you until we get out of the swamp.”
George looked at Dream’s outstretched hand and thought about his options.
This was clearly stupid. It was risky and dumb and there was no way that Dream was just going to stick to it.
On the other hand, it did sound nice. And Dream wasn’t exactly in the position to be chasing after him at the moment. And it had been months since he'd had a conversation with someone who wasn't trying to kill him, and even longer since he'd had someone he considered a real friend...
(His chest hurt when he thought about Sapnap. He avoided thinking about Sapnap.)
He shook his hand.
“I promise not to kill you until we get out of the swamp either,” said George.
A wide grin stretched itself over Dream’s face.
“It’s a deal.”