Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This afternoon?”

“The scryings are clear.”

“Evening?”

“Slight rain.”

“That’s all it tells you?”

“With all due respect,” George huffs, “If there were monsoons on the horizon, you would be the first to know.” 

“I’m sure,” Dream mutters, and falls into the chair opposite him. Sea salt is crusted under his nails, courtesy of the rising tides last night, and a wave that soaked across the entire deck. The salt always comes after storms; his skin feels cracked and dry. 

George’s face is inscrutable. “You’re worrying.”

“I’m not.” 

“You are,” George says, and he places a hand on Dream’s. His skin is cool; it smells like a rainstorm. “Tell me.”

Dream, although he would never admit it out loud, wonders if George is part siren as well. He drags out answers from Dream with no hesitation, wrapped around his finger, and Dream has never been able to resist him. 

“It’s that map,” he says, and George hums in understanding. “Half the crew wants to keep looking, half of them think it’s a goose chase out into the middle of nowhere.” 

“You want to keep chasing,” George nods. “You’re not one to give up easily.”

“I don’t want to give up,” Dream says, “But…”

He trails off, and gestures with a hand, as if that will explain it. 

To an outsider, it would seem pointless to continue their scavenger hunt, for a rumored pile of gold that may have been just that— a rumor. Their stock of food and weapons is in need of replenishing, and even George is getting tired of eating nothing but brined fish and roots for each meal. The ship itself is doing fine— she’s a beauty of her own, and needs no refurbishments, but the latest storm had weakened some of the railings, and Dream would do good by sailing back to a port town to get her fixed. Even the crew is getting exhausted searching island after island, trapped in one of the easternmost archipelagos, where the weather never changes. Dream is a good captain, and he’s heard the muttered complaints. He’s seen the feuds brew and dissolve within minutes between his crewmates. Just the other day, Bad and Skeppy had gotten into a fight— and they were two of the crew who had never fought before. 

The map, retrieved by George himself, remains in Dream’s first drawer. They had been led to it by a soothsayer in El Rapids, who had advised them of a treasure yet uncovered by man. Her directions had helped them find the map, and Sam had spent hours decoding it until he was fairly certain that the treasure was located in the largest archipelago in the Eastern Empire. 

Three months, four boarded and conquered ships, and one full season later, their search has come to nothing. George, Dream knows, is fairly certain that if they don't give up the search soon, the crew will be at each other’s teeth. 

Any sane captain would direct his crew to the nearest harbor or civilized town and let them run amok to dissolve the tensions. Dream, however, is no sane captain.

Anyone who joined the Nightmare knew what they were getting into. They knew of Dream’s reputation, and they knew of the people he held at his side. That was why Dream refused to give up, although even he could tell when a chase was becoming fruitless. 

“We can always return,” George offers. 

Dream shakes his head. “It won’t be the same.”

“You and your motivation,” George says. “Too fickle for your own good.” 

“I can’t help it,” Dream says. “It’s what I’m known for.” 

“The treasure will still be here,” George reassures. 

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“No one will find it before you,” George hums. “I know it.”

Dream narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better. It won’t work. I know all your tricks.”

George only laughs, clear and bright as a bell. “To tell you the truth, I think it would be worth leaving and then returning. We can start the hunt anew, you see? It’ll be better for everyone. Besides, right now our coffers are still full. We aren’t far from many colonies, right?” 

“There’s not many,” Dream says grudgingly. 

“It would be what, a week-long journey? The crew can handle that.” 

“I’m afraid they’re already at each other’s teeth,” Dream mutters, but considers it regardless. They’re far from civilization right now, out in the middle of the wild blue sea, but it wouldn’t take a considerably long time to reach a town or harbor. After all, they haven’t had a good raid in a long time— the last one was easy, for them, a win that was almost pitiful. Sapnap hadn’t even gotten the glory of swordfighting with a talented person. He had complained to Dream later that night, examining the glow of his blade in the moonlight. 

It’s just not fair, Sapnap said, while Dream laughed at him, Our first good raid in a week, and the one person I get to fight doesn’t even have the right stance! It’s a shame, I tell you, a terrible shame. 

“Maybe we’ll run into another naval ship on the way,” George coaxes. “We can fly the red flag. Go looking for a fight.”

“You know me so well,” Dream says. “That’s exactly what I want.” 

“You can have a chance to show off all your fancy, swashbuckling pirate skills.”

“You,” Dream accuses, and points a finger at him, “Are a menace.”

“You like it.”

“I think I hate it.”

“Come here,” George mutters, and before Dream reacts, George tugs Dream over the desk by the loop around his neck. Dream lets himself fall forward, barely catching himself before George kisses him. Against his lips, George mumbles, “You’re too stressed.” 

Dream hums. “Am I?”

George doesn’t bother responding. “It clouds your judgement. I can tell.”

“It doesn’t,” Dream murmurs, in between kisses.

George’s hand comes up and taps his temple. He presses their foreheads together and breathes, “There will be more treasures to hunt.”

“I want this one,” Dream says, well aware he sounds like a petulant, whining child. 

“Like I said,” George says, a smile on his lips, “Too fickle for your own good.” 

Dream pulls back. He sighs. George knows him too well. 

“I’ll rally the crew,” he says. “We’ll leave tonight.” 

“Slight rain on the horizon,” George reminds him, as Dream turns to leave. “No monsoons.”

“Best time to sail is right before dawn,” Dream says. “I know.” 

Dawn arrives, and with it brings a full crew at his command. Dream wakes up to see the ship in gorgeous motion, chopping through the waves with ease. The brig is a beauty of her own, sleeker than a dozen of the admiral’s finest ships and quicker than the navy’s own scouting vessels. She cuts a majestic figure sailing through the water, unstoppable and unconquerable. She’s manned by a handful of the finest pirates known to mankind, and each of them are talented in their own way.

For now, Karl perches in the bird’s nest, surely half asleep but always on guard. Dream picked Karl up in Rutabagville, a sleepy, honeycomb town just west of the main trading cities. While on a routine maintenance check, Karl had snuck onto their ship, somehow managing to remain unnoticed until they sailed away. Dream had threatened to make the stowaway walk the plank— until he realized how much better it was to have Karl join their small crew. Eagerly, Karl agreed. 

Sapnap, Dream’s quartermaster and second hand, examines a compass by the helm of the ship. He's the smartest person Dream knows and then some; as children, fighting in mock-naval battles together, they had been practically inseparable. When Dream decided to leave and commandeer his own ship for a change, Sapnap had followed him. 

Beside Sapnap are Skeppy and Bad, two sailors who agreed to give up their life as henchmen for His Majesty’s fleet and work with Dream, in exchange for limitless gold and jewels (which Dream had certainly supplied). Bad was a soothsayer, second only in talent to George's scrying, and while Dream understood next to none of what he preached about, he wasn’t one to go against superstitions and magicks. Skeppy was Bad’s best friend and, Dream suspected, a close partner, but he wasn’t one to guess.

Underneath everyone, deep in the hold, was likely where Sam and Ant were. Dream had assigned them to check on their stocks of gunpowder and cannons; it had been too long since the Nightmare had a decent raid, and their supplies were growing rusty. Besides, Sam was his first mate, and Ant his second; Dream had complete faith that the two of them would prepare everything adequately in case they ran across any naval ships on their way back to civilization. 

Alyssa was likely with them, as Dream couldn’t see her anywhere above deck. Dream had recruited her to their motley crew when he had stopped in the Badlands for supplies. Nervous, thin, and scared, she had mugged Dream at knifepoint in an alleyway. It took two seconds for Dream to disarm her, but only one second to realize that with a bit of training and practice, Alyssa could be a truly deadly weapon. He had welcomed her to the crew that night; neither of them had looked back since. 

Ponk was standing by Sapnap by the helm, map unfurled in front of him. He and Sapnap were talking, exaggerated gestures, and Dream recalled that the two of them had been close friends as soon as Ponk had stepped foot onto the ship. Dream and Ponk had been close friends, back when they were in His Majesty’s navy, and Ponk had always been a troublemaker. He had no qualms about leaving his life behind to become a pirate.

Together, the ten of them rule the seas. People whisper about them, and rumors run rampant. I hear they can magick the winds to their commands, one might whisper. Another might say, they have a kraken on their side, that can sink any ship. I hear a leviathan follows them. A third might quiet the two of them and look around fearfully. You never know when their masked captain is listening. They say he can hear his name said, even from the other side of the earth.

Dream hums. He runs another glance over his ship. The slight rain George predicted had done nothing; only leave the deck damp and the air fresh.  They mop it nearly every day, almost obsessively— Sam is a stickler for cleanliness, and Dream doesn’t object. 

Halfway through the day’s journey, there’s a shout from the starboard side.

“Dream!” Sam shouts, hair flying in the wind, “Get George, there’s an issue.”

The issue, as it turns out, is another one of His Majesty’s nets. Wide, spanning yards, and knitted together with deep-rooted magic, they capture magical creatures. Today’s catch is a pack of mermaids, and Dream’s heart twists to see them bunched together. They’re young, too— scales are still reddish-blue instead of green, and their fins haven’t come in entirely yet. The oldest is trying desperately to pull themselves free with webbed, clawed hands. 

“I’m on it,” George mutters. His hand brushes across the small of Dream’s back, and a ladder unfurls to the sea. The sails shift, to still the wind, and George’s legs dip into the water.

“Is everything alright?”

Dream keeps his gaze firmly on the water, ignoring Alyssa’s curious gaze. “It seems the king is up to his tricks again.”

“Bastard,” Ponk adds. His brows are knitted in concentration.

The Nightmare bobs in place, sails holding it steady. Bad emerges from the hold, frowning as well; he’s a soothsayer and a medic, and he always has a second sense for when things are in trouble.

“Is George already down there?” He asks, without preamble, and Dream nods.

“I’m not sure how well they’re doing,” Dream says, “I’m sure he’d appreciate the help.”

Things like this happen far too frequently. Ever since His Majesty began deciding that it was his objective to rule both the magical creatures and the non-magic ones, they had been running into trapped creatures. It was painful to witness; those who lived in the sea were often disconnected from the politics of the real world. They never knew what was happening, and hardly any of them spoke the language of the humans as well. George had stopped the ship in a panic, one time, hearing the fearful shouts of a selkie trapped, and hadn’t given Dream a chance to object. He and Bad had freed the selkie, who was trapped with nets and curses, and that night, George curled up and sobbed. Dream sat next to him, unsure of how to appease him, but feeling the same pain. 

Ever since then, they had made it their objective to actively go against whatever His Majesty wanted. Dream had never been one to follow the rules regardless. He hated people who flexed their power and might over others. Dream never intended to become like that, and he never would. Whatever His Majesty wanted, Dream would do the opposite. One day he would topple the throne and rid the world of a demon who was hunting magical creatures, once and for all. 

Now, he glances down the ladder at the side of the ship. Bad clambers down as well, leaving his jacket and boots behind. He sits on the lowest rung while George bobs in the water, holding his breath for an unnaturally long amount of time, swimming faster than any human should be able to. 

It takes ages, eons, it feels like, but the first mermaid, with the darkest scales, wriggles free, and the rest of them soon follow. The youngest one is so small— in human days, it would be thought of as a toddler— and it still had the first hints of red scales, which mermaids were born with. The toddler wriggles through a hole in the curse, and vanishes into the dark. 

One of them turns around, eyes keen and oddly human, before they truly leave. Rippling underneath the water, it opens its mouth and sings something. The language is strange and unnatural to the human ear. George ducks underneath the water as well, hair floating, and sings something back.  

George surfaces after a moment. The pack of mermaids disappears. Bad clambers back up the ladder, and George follows soon after. He wrings out his clothes over the edge, and vanishes into Dream’s cabin to retrieve dry ones. He’s silent and upset. Dream doesn’t press.

“Alright,” he says, and collects himself, “Back to traveling. Ant, drop the sails.”

Ant gives him a quick nod, and unravels the rope. It swings the sail forward, catching the wind, and the Nightmare points her nose towards the west, angling towards growing civilization. A few more weeks, and they will arrive.

Once Dream is certain that his ship was in working order, and there will likely be no stops for the remainder of the way (for they are in deep waters, and deep waters are dangerous to those unskilled with the sea), he crosses the deck to his cabin. George is still inside, and Dream knocks once. 

“Come in,” George calls, and Dream does. 

George has changed into one of Dream’s shirts, though at this point, their wardrobes are so entangled that the two of them might as well have no individual items. Everything that is Dream’s is George’s, and everything that is George’s is Dream’s.

George is sitting in their hammock, legs dangling. His toes nearly touch the floor. Dream comes and sits against the wall a few feet away.

“I’m fine,” George says, before Dream even has the chance to ask him. 

“Are you?”

“I am,” George repeats, though he sounds uncertain. “I just hate when things like this happen.”

Dream nods. His mind is half on the mermaids and the terrible injustice of it all, while the other half is on the song that they had been singing to soothe each other, and the tune of the song sung to thank Bad and George once they were free. He thinks he can recognize certain words of it; like the ones that George whispers to him, in the dead of night. 

“At least they’re free,” Dream says. “That’s what matters.”

“Them,” George says, and spreads his hands hopelessly, “But how many others?”

Dream glances towards his lover. His eyes are dark, shadowed with the exhaustion of curse breaking. In Dream’s shirt, he looks small, miserable.

“We saved them,” Dream says, though he knows it might not help much. “They’re alive and free, and they know how to avoid those traps from now on. If they meet more people, they can spread the word. It’s a chain reaction, isn’t it?”

George still looks unhappy. “It is. I wish it didn’t have to be.”

“One day,” Dream says firmly, “One day we’ll topple his throne. It won’t be like this forever.”

“I know,” George sighs, and repeats it, like he’s trying to convince himself of its truth. “I know, I know.”

Dream pushes up from the wall and George obligingly shuffles over in the hammock to make room for them. When they first began sleeping together it had taken some trial and error to figure out the exact height for the hammock to swing so they don’t brush the floor. Their combined body weight makes it sink low, enough so that Dream can reach out with an arm and still its swaying if needed.

George leans his head against Dream’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his lips together, as though he’s trying not to let a sop slip out. Dream rubs small circles into his shoulder and the back of his hand, trying his best to sooth his lover down. He does his best. He hopes George knows.

Night dims and falls, and with it come the stars. In the middle of the sea, where Mother Nature never intended man to be, they are brighter than anything Dream has ever seen before. The only light is of their oil lanterns, and when those are blown out, all Dream can see is the wide expanse of stars. He has kissed George, more than a few times, underneath heaven’s eye. They often clamber up to the bird’s nest just to see them better.

Dream glances down at George, who hasn’t moved in a few minutes. With a start, he realizes that George has fallen asleep. 

Carefully, and slowly, Dream edges out from underneath him. Sleepily, George fumbles for him, and Dream lies him down. He presses a kiss to his forehead, and imagines that with it, he can take away all of the stress, all of the fear. 

Exiting his cabin into the darkness, he can see where people are. Up in the bird’s nest is Alyssa, with a spyglass and no lamp (for improving vision in the night). Sam is still at the helm, and Sapnap will be trading spaces with him once it reaches midnight in a few hour’s time. Everyone else is likely in the hold— they have game nights, every so often, and today seems to be one of those nights. 

For a minute Dream thinks about joining them. He just as quickly dismisses the idea. He can hear their laughs, filtered through the doors to the gallery, and wonders how different his life would be if he had stayed, working as a shipwright and a sailor for His Majesty’s navy. Where would he be? Would he have dragged those mermaids aboard, stolen their magic, killed them? Instead of setting them free? If George was the one in the net instead of those mermaids— would Dream have done the same?

He likes to think that he wouldn’t. 

He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that he is more than the visage of his mind. 

In a week's time, they arrive at civilization.

The newly budding L’Manburg is a district that sprung up from under the king’s rule. The Nightmare switches the black and white skull flag of a pirate’s ship to a neat yellow flag, signaling welcome friendship. Dream calls to drop their anchor a decent few yards away from the harbor; half of them sail to land, while the other half remains to guard the ship. In a few hours time they’ll switch, to ensure that there’s always someone on board. 

Their crew totters onto the docks with wobbly sea-legs, but Dream knows the feeling will fade within the hour. George clings onto his arm, both supporting each other. The harbor market is broad and bustling and they both have satchels full of gold coins by their sides. Beside him, Sapnap, Alyssa, and Ponk step out, looking equally unsteady on land. The marketplace by the harbor town is small, but there are a dozen ships docked that day, and so the sun beats oppressively down onto the backs of their neck. All of them are tanned and freckled from the sun; still, he feels the prickle of a sunburn begin to spread. 

“Well?” Dream grins, and smiles flicker on the faces of his crewmates. “Go wild.”

Alyssa’s grin is positively devilish, enough so that Dream calls out in concern, “Within reason!” 

“Of course, Captain!” Alyssa calls, before Sapnap and Ponk drag her into the throng. 

Dream watches them go and faintly hopes that they get into no trouble while they’re gone. He has low hopes, though; they’re all known for trouble. It’s why they work together, don’t they? No one who works on a pirate ship is one for following the rules.

He and George make a slow round of the marketplace. George detours down an alleyway to spend a few precious coins on new supplies for his magicking; he spends a decent amount on shells, for which Dream looks scornful at, but George smacks his arm and mutters something about magic and contained power, and Dream looks away. He can’t talk, either— he splurges on a new hat, since his old one is getting worn down to threads, a silver-tipped quill for writing, and the finest India ink L’Manburg can offer. Pitch black and excellent for writing. 

It’s nearing midday when the other three members find them again. Sapnap sidles close to him and whispers, “Don’t look now, but I heard that you’re a wanted man.”

“What?”

“You have a wanted poster,” Alyssa confirms. “It’s rather dashing, if I do say so myself.” 

Dream whips his head around. “Really?”

George flicks Sapnap’s side. “I wasn’t going to point it out.”

“Where?” Dream says, feeling giddy. “Am I worth a good amount?”

“A hefty sum,” George mutters, “They’re on every railing, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed. Sapnap, this is exactly why I didn’t tell him, it’s going to go to his head.” 

“It’s not going to my head.”

“Your eyes have gone all starry,” George says, and frowns when a shopgoer comes too close to his shoulder, brushing past him, “I can tell you’re thinking something.”

“I want to see one,” Dream demands. “Sapnap, show me.”

“Sapnap—”

“Come along,” Sapnap grins, and the five of them duck behind a stall. The fresh smell of roasting meat wafts through the air as Sapnap leads the two of them on a winding road. He comes to a rest in front of the main square, and gestures proudly. 

“There you are,” he says, “Your very own wanted poster.” 

Dream strides forward to examine it. He can hear George’s muttered swear from behind him and intentionally ignores it. It’s tacked up by four corners, with a stamped picture of his face, covered with the infamous mask. Dream ignores his own cold gaze and instead reads: WANTED: for crimes against His Majesty and Naval Services. The reward is even brighter: a thousand gold pieces. Against his will, Dream’s heart leaps to life. A spark blooms behind his eyes.

“Look what you’ve done,” George grouses, “He’s thinking.”

“A thousand gold pieces,” Dream says, hushed. “By god, that’s wonderful.” 

Ponk looks alarmed. “You’re not suggesting—”

“Alyssa,” Dream interrupts, “How good are you at fake crying?” 

Alyssa grins. “I can do my best.” 

Dream’s smile is sharp. He looks over the wanted poster again. They don’t know his name— they call him the Masked Killer. How fitting.

“Here’s the plan,” Dream says, and he lays it out for them.

In a better world, the plan would have gone off without a hitch.

Fortunately, though, Dream is a pirate, and he’s always been lucky. He’s seized, captured, taken from the harbor. He’s grateful that he has the foresight to give the key around his neck to Sapnap, because he’s patted down and searched, and every last one of his knives is taken from him. They even find the small one, made of carved ivory, in the heel of his boot. Dream doesn’t bother fighting back; he shrugs, a smile on his lips, and allows himself to be led into a cell. The gates clank shut around him ominously. 

Alyssa, who plays the part of a fearful maiden impossibly well, returns to the ship with gold aplenty, and hides the lot of it in the hold. Skeppy nearly goes incoherent at the sight of it. Sunset begins to appear on the horizon, painting the sky pink, and Alyssa carries the trunk of gold into the hold. The sun dips low over the sea, and she fixes her gaze on the harbor of L’Manburg. For all their quick planning, Dream doesn’t appear again for a long, long time. 

While Alyssa’s side of the story goes well, the rest of the plan does not. 

What it should have gone like is this: Dream is arrested. Before he’s locked in the cell, Sapnap and Ponk should have incapacitated the guards and stolen Dream away. By that point, Alyssa would have made it back to the Nightmare and alerted them to raise the sails, preparing to leave. 

Instead, Dream is locked inside the cell. The guard, dressed in the rich blues and reds of L’Manburg’s flag, hangs the rusty key from a loop around his waist. Dream’s eyes fixate on it as he walks away, down the hall, and he tilts his head back. 

He’s unsure how many hours pass, but there’s nothing to do when his friends aren’t there to help him. There’s no point in fighting and attempting to break out with no supplies. Instead, he just waits. His cell is small, lined with cinder bricks, and he feels his mind begin to give into sleep.

In the moments before he drifts off, there’s a harsh whisper, at the window to his cell.

“Dream,” Ponk says, “Dream, wake up.”

He blinks awake. In the time between his eyes closing and opening, the sun has begun to set. Navy blue emerges over the sea, blurring the lines between the land and the air. Fog creeps in. L’Manburg glows with yellow, as lanterns are lit. 

In between his fingers, Ponk wiggles three fine pieces of metal— from Dream’s own lockpicking kit. 

“Wonderful,” Dream sighs, and stretches up for them. The metal clamped around his wrists and ankles hinders his movement, but with enough wiggling, Dream inserts one of the picks into the lock. The tumblers are basic, elementary level, and his handcuffs unlock before long. Ponk watches as night falls; when Dream gives him a thumbs up, beginning to work on his ankles, he vanishes. 

Good. Dream rubs the raw skin around his wrist as he works; there’s a shout from down the hall, and it takes all his willpower not to look to see what caused it. He hears the clank of metal armor, slowly getting louder, and grits his teeth. 

The cuffs fall open. Finally. He rushes up and to the door of the cell. The lock here is deeper and better made, and it clicks slightly. The sound of clanking grows louder. Dream’s hand cramps up and he forces himself to count to five, tamping down on his frustration. The padlock taunts him. 

With a click, it falls open. 

Relief surges through Dream’s chest. He wrenches the door open, feeling a little thrill at how easy it was to escape— just how new was L’Manburg to the Empire?— and looks down the hall. There is a door at one end and a turn at the other. Before he can choose, two guards turn the corner. 

They are in iron armor, slightly dull, one with a sword, the other with an axe. Dream stares with wide eyes. He could turn and run to the door, but he has a sinking suspicion that it's locked.

Fine, then. He has won fights with worse odds.

The first swing of his hits the guard under his jaw. His head snaps back, and the second draws his axe. He swings it viciously, and Dream ducks under it. the blade ruffles his hair as it passes, and there’s a sick spike of adrenaline. Dream wrenches a knife from the first guard’s waist, and slashes blindly. It cuts through fabric but not skin, and he dodges the next punch to his sternum.

He throws himself to the side, right as the sword hits the brick where he was standing. It leaves the guard open, though, and Dream’s next punch snaps his head to the side. He crumples to the floor. The remaining one clutches his axe, takes a swing, but Dream is ready for it— he catches the axe midswing, twists, and slams it into the wall. It sticks into one of the support beams, and he hits the guard’s chin— he, too, falls to the ground. 

Dream stands up, breathing heavily. His mind spins wildly, and faintly he registers the sting of a wound in his side. He doesn’t glance down at it, but instead limps out into the corridor. He doesn’t see Sapnap, George, or Ponk, but he can hear muffled sounds of a fight to the right. 

He arrives to find a squadron of prison guards on the floor. George’s knuckles are bruised, nearly bloody, but both Sapnap and Ponk are unharmed. All three of them have their bandanas pulled high over their noses, blocking their faces. George pulls Dream’s bandana from his pocket— deep emerald green, with a crudely drawn smile on it. It’s the bandanas they wear when they’re preparing to wreak havoc on the world. 

“Dream,” George says, with alarmed eyes, “Your side—”

“It’s fine!” Dream exclaims. He’s high on adrenaline, mask on, ready to conquer the world. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

The four of them burst out into the crowded streets of L’Manburg. No one seems to realize what’s happening; they dissolve into the milling crowd surrounding the marketplace before the second squadron even makes it to the front of the prison. Dream ducks under the swinging laundry of a woman and vaults over a cooking rack of fish. Sapnap’s laugh is wild and giddy.

“Go!” he shouts. “Dream, you’re a maniac.”

Dream doesn’t spare the breath for an answer. Their lifeboat bobs in the docks, and already, Sam is waiting there, ready to row away. Water splashes over the five of them, but with strong, swift strides, they’re already out of reach of anyone

“Anchor’s up?” Dream checks.

Sam nods. Just a few more strides and they’ll be in reach of the hanging ladder. “We’re in luck. Winds are strong tonight.”

“And heavy fog,” George adds. His smile is a brilliant flash of white in the nighttime. 

Dream reaches up with one hand and grabs onto the rope ladder; he heaves himself up it, rung by rung, even though his side is truly starting to burn now. He doesn’t look down, and Alyssa reaches over to hoist him over the railing. The rest of his crew are waiting by the sails, and the anchor is piled in thick chains on the deck. Without a glance towards L’Manburg, Ant releases the sails, and the wind seems to pick up with them. 

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Ponk whoops, jubilant and bright, and the crew dissolves into cheers. Alyssa earns more than one slap on the back; none of this would have been possible with her. 

Dream grins. “Are we millions of gold richer?”

“You’re mad,” Sam gasps, out of breath from rowing them all back, “A mad genius, still, but absolutely mad.”

He feels high off the thrill of the win. In his mind’s eye flashes the image of the eastern archipelago, which they just left. Only three weeks and they’ll be able to regain the hunt. He hasn’t forgotten. They’re filthy rich and his luck has never been better. It’s time to become richer.

“Sapnap,” Dream says, “Direct us back to the eastern archipelago.”

Dream’s quartermaster and prime navigator grins. He tips his hat as Dream passes. “I’ll get us there within the week.”

“That’s impossible,” Karl says dubiously, but Sapnap merely waves a hand, wholly unbothered. 

“Are you all okay?” Ant says. He’s still standing by the ropes, in case the wind changes— it’s finicky tonight. “None of you are hurt?”

Sapnap and Ponk shake their heads. George examines his knuckles with an expression of wry distaste; he’s never been a fighter, but he knows how to win. He, too, shakes his head.

Dream’s side pulses with pain. For a minute the thrill of adrenaline fades, and a wave of nausea ricochets through his body. He presses a palm to his side and heaves a deep breath. 

“Bad,” he says, “I may need your help.”

Bad’s gaze is troubled and concerned. The second Dream passes the doorway to the medic’s hall, he stumbles. He tries to speak through numb lips, but all that comes out is, “Ow.”

“How bad is it?” Bad says, voice tinged with panic. 

“Not that bad,” Dream breathes, “Maybe a slight stab wound.”

“You were stabbed ?”

“Slightly,” Dream allows. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise.” 

“Why don’t I believe you,” Bad sighs, and begins peeling off Dream’s shirt. Beneath a deep green overcoat, his white shirt is soaked through with red, and Bad blanches. 

“George,” he says, without glancing up to see if the other man is there, “Go fetch a healing potion.”

George moves swiftly and silently. Out of curiosity, Dream presses a hand to his side and feels something wet; his hand comes back stained dark. 

“Huh,” he says. His heart is still racing. The pain builds, hot and burning, and his mind is swamped with a thick fog. Something clenches in his chest. “That’s interesting.”

“Dream?” George says, voice alarmed, “Dream, stay awake.”

“Tired,” Dream mumbles.

“I know.” George sounds panicked. “I know you’re tired, stay awake for me please, stay awake.”

His hand clutches onto Dream’s. It’s cool to the touch. Dream wants to reach out, but he does so in a strange, lopsided way.

He reaches out. But not in real life.

Something inside him reaches out towards the magic that rests inside George, a creature made of magic. Whatever reaches out tries to touch the magic. George’s magic reacts, a soul of water, and pulses brightly. It, too, is alarmed.

It whispers to him. Stay awake, the soul says, blue and shining, stay awake. 

“Your magic,” Dream breathes, in the fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness. “It’s beautiful.” 

The world goes black.

Dream wakes up in a dark room. He sways gently; he’s in his hammock, in the captain’s cabin. It’s dark and quiet. He can hear muted conversation coming from outside, but none of the words register. What does register is this: a hand, in his. Smoothing over his hair. The gentle touch of skin against his.

“You,” George says, “Are the damn luckiest person alive.”

Dream pushes himself up. He can feel the thick padding of bandages through his clothes. “I always make it out alive, don’t I?”

“That was too close for comfort.”

“They don’t want me dead,” Dream says. “Everything worked out.”

The strike of a match. An oil lantern lights up, and the cabin is illuminated. George hangs it from a hook and shifts closer. His eyes are dark as pitch. 

“I’ll never understand why you always lie to yourself,” George says. 

“The poster said wanted alive. ”

George presses two fingers to Dream’s side, and he winces. The bandages are padded well, but a dull heat pulses from the wound. “When I agreed to the plan, I thought it was an implicit agreement that you wouldn’t get hurt.”

“I’m not,” Dream says, and shifts so George is laying on him more firmly. “Kiss me?” 

George still looks upset, but he leans in regardless. As always, he tastes of freshwater. Dream wants to drink him in like he’s lifeblood. 

George’s hand presses against his chest, hot fingers tracing obsessive lines downward. Dream arches backward, and then just as abruptly as it begins, it stops.

George looks puzzled. He presses two fingers to the hollow of Dream’s throat. 

“Where’s your key?”

A flash of panic. Dream lifts a hand up and finds his throat empty.

“I gave it to Sapnap,” he recalls. “Before.”

He takes note of George’s face. Drawn and upset. 

“I can go get it back,” he says. 

“Would you?” George asks, even though both of them are flushed red from the kiss. Dream’s shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and George looks no better. 

“Of course,” Dream says. His throat feels empty without the key around it. “I’ll be right back.”

He takes a few moments to collect himself, buttons up his shirt, and runs fingers through rumpled hair. It hurts faintly to walk, but whatever potion George and Bad gave him has taken the edge off the pain.

Sapnap, upon seeing the shape he’s in, bursts out laughing, and then hands the key back. Dream slips it over his head and relaxes, feeling the weight of it rest against his chest. He returns to his cabin to find George still there. But one look tells Dream that his lover is no longer in the mood. 

“It’s here,” Dream says, and gestures. 

“Okay.”

He’s displeased. Dream isn’t surprised. 

That night, George’s mood eases somewhat. He climbs into Dream’s hammock, same as every night, and twines them together. One hand, one leg, curved over the other, chin resting on shoulder, chests rising and falling together. When it’s only them and the moonlight, George allows Dream’s hands to run over every inch of him. Even after all this time, Dream can’t believe that George has stayed.

The cot of a selkie, George had said. The weight of it was smooth and warm in his hands, and the pelt was pliant in Dream’s fingertips. I want to give mine to you. 

He had never been so serious in his life. The sea entwined around their legs, tangled the two of them together. 

Are you sure? Dream said uncertainly. Even he, as out of touch with magic and the spirits as he was, could sense the power of the item he held. 

Doubtless, George breathed. I’ve never been more certain. 

George’s pelt, now, lies in a gilded oak chest, locked inside the lower drawer of Dream’s dresser. The key to the chest rests around Dream’s neck; the key to the drawer lies around George’s. It was an arrangement they both agreed upon. But Dream would be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t seen the hungry looks George gives the keys. He wonders, sometimes, if his lover regrets it. If the sea still calls his name, or if he’s relinquished his days beneath the water to be with humans. 

If George thinks about retrieving his pelt, he never says a word. Only stares, too long, at the glimmer of gold tucked beneath Dream’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Dream murmurs, in the middle of the night. George stirs, caught in the valley between sleep and awakeness. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t mind,” George says.

“I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t lie to each other any longer.” 

“I’m not lying.”

“You were upset,” Dream says. “You can be honest about it.”

The hammock sways as George shifts. He pushes himself up. “I think you are too reckless sometimes.”

Sourness surfaces in Dream’s throat. He’s heard this lecture one too many times. 

“I trust Sapnap,” he says, “And the plan worked.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” George says. “It’s not about Sapnap at all.”

“I know,” Dream says. “I’m sorry.”

“I gave my pelt to you,” George says, and his hand skitters up to feel for Dream’s pulse against his neck, “Not to anyone else. To you.”

Because I love you. The words go unspoken, although they’ve been said before. 

“I know,” Dream repeats, as always astounded by the level of trust George gives him, so much that it takes his breath away. “I don’t take that lightly.” 

“I know you don’t,” George echoes. He tugs lightly on the key, once, twice, and the third, Dream manages to free his hand. He brings it up to George’s, laces their fingers together. “I wish— I don’t know what I wish. I know the plan worked, but I hate it regardless.” 

Dream murmurs, “You need to stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help it,” George says. “It’s in my blood.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Dream says. “You know this. I’ve fared worse.”

“That’s not entirely what I’m worried about."

Dream glances at him. 

“You said something,” George says, and he sits back. His tone is serious. 

Dream tilts his head. “What?”

“Before you passed out,” George continues. “You said something about me.”

“I say a lot of things about you,” Dream says. “Clarify for me?”

George looks almost embarrassed. He presses two fingers to his chest. “You talked about my magic. You said it was beautiful.”

“You are beautiful.”

George’s embarrassment deepens. “You say that a lot.”

Dream likes when George is flustered. “It’s true.”

“Shut up,” George mutters, and Dream’s heart beats with light. “I was going to ask, though— can you see my magic?”

Dream frowns. “How would I be able to see your magic?”

George’s gaze is scrutinizing. “Do you not remember?”

Dream shakes his head. “I remember seeing you . I don’t remember seeing magic.” 

George considers that. He tries to think of the right words to put it in, and eventually he says, “It’s like my soul, I suppose. Where I draw my magic from. That’s where Bad gets his from, too. I’ve never heard of someone who’s… non-magic being able to sense that. Or see it, in any way.”

Dream is nonplussed. “Are you sure it’s not just a closeness thing? I’d say we’re closer than typical people on this ship.”

“No,” George says. “It’s not.”

Neither of them speak. The ship hits the crest of a wave, and crashes back down in a swell. The hammock sways, always keeping them steady. 

“Dream,” George says carefully, “Do you think…”

Nervousness rises like the crest of a wave. “What?”

George stares at him for a long, long time. Deciding whether to speak or not.

He says nothing. He leans in and kisses Dream, soft and slow, and twines fingers into Dream’s hair. Dream allows him, falling into it. 

George breathes, “It’s nothing important.”

Dream, for all his love, chooses to believe him. 

They are both silent for a long, long moment. Dream curls into George, sleepy but satisfied, and on the verge of sleep, he says, “Tell me a story?”

The end of his voice ticks up. George hums.

“What kind?”

“Any.”

“A good one?”

“If you’re willing to tell it.”

George’s hand skitters up to rest over Dream’s heart. He presses there for a moment, feels it beating steadily.

“There’s an ancient legend about an eternal flame,” George says. His voice is low, with that odd accent that no one else has, and it soothes Dream like nothing can. “Many legends talk about it, but no one is sure where it came from. The idea is that it’s a flame that can never go out, no matter what. It burns forever, regardless of where it is.”

“Ah,” murmurs Dream. “Interesting.”

George smiles against his cheek. “You’re lying to me.”

“No,” Dream says, “Keep talking.”

George hums, clears his throat, and continues. “The interesting thing about the eternal flame is that it’s been hidden for a long time. There are many myths about its use. Some say that whoever possesses the eternal flame can control who passes from life or death. Some other people say that the eternal flame controls the magic that’s in people. It can pass powers onto others and take them away.

“Most people believe that the flame is a false myth,” George continues. “That whatever flame the ancient people were stoking went out a long time ago, and it vanished. That’s why death continues to take its toll, no matter what, and why only certain people are born with magic or without. Whoever had the flame lost it to time.

“But others think that the flame is out there, hidden, and is waiting to be found. They think that the world is waiting for the right person to come and possess it again. Some people keep flames burning on their own, in the hope that it’ll turn out to be their flame that never goes out. But for all we know, the eternal flame is lost forever.”

“Huh,” Dream mumble. He tilts his head against George’s, and his hair brushes against his cheek. Sleep begins to pull her veil over his mind. “You have a pretty voice.”

George’s smile, quiet and soft. “You need your rest, Dream.”

George’s hand laces with his own. He presses against Dream’s heart again. It beats in time with George’s— one, two, one, two. 

Dream makes it to forty-five pulses of his heart before he has fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

Three weeks pass.

Traveling with the crew is wonderful, now that they’ve had a break. They’re high on the thrill of success. A second success comes when they run across a scouting ship belonging to His Majesty. With the giddiness of pirates who know they will win, all ten of them pull their masks over their faces. Ponk, their master-of-arms, readies the cannons. At Dream’s command, they blow the navy ship right out of the water. Sapnap boards with his sword drawn and laughing; they loot the ship and leave them in the lifeboats for dead.

“Remember us,” Dream calls, as the Nightmare vanishes into the morning mist, “Tell the king we’ll topple his throne!”

Their pile of gold in the ship grows larger. Their cannonballs are brushed off of dust, shining and ready to be fired. Dream’s smile is sharp and brilliant. All their tense mood from the earlier weeks— back when they were hunting for a treasure they weren’t sure existed (even if they’re heading back to the same archipelago, following the same map)— has faded away. Now, they feel as though they’re a family again. Dream is the captain, leading but always listening for suggestions, and the rest follow him easily. They’ve never had any suggestions to make, regardless. Dream likes to think that he’s the kind of person that people like. He’s charismatic, he knows that much. His crew trusts him, and he trusts them in response. They know each other like the back of their hand. Where he says, they go. 

Dream counts the gold. He thinks about all the places they can go with this much money. Being a free soul has never felt so brilliant. 

George watches, eyes sharp and surveying, and says nothing.

Before long, they arrive right back where they were. The eastern archipelago welcomes them with open, sandy arms. Sam lowers the anchor in deep, turquoise water, and one of the lifeboats goes to shore. It carries Ant, Skeppy, Bad, and Alyssa, while the remaining six stay on board. Besides, Dream doesn’t think they’ll find anything. This island is empty; the only thing it might have to offer is some food, of which some variety would be nice. Dream is growing a little tired of endless dinners of potatoes and fish. 

Fortunately, he has forgotten how nourishing and plentiful the eastern archipelagos are. Located right on the equator, they grow the most exotic fruits, things that one can never find in the northwest. The four explorers return with empty hands of treasure, but full hands of coconuts— the thick seeds that grow from palm trees, with water and flesh inside. Dream and George hack one open with a knife and share the juice inside; when they kiss, it tastes like summertime. 

The next island they come to has nothing.

There’s a colony there, but it takes a brief moment before the settlers dismiss them.

If there was treasure on this land, they say firmly, we would have found it already.

Dream doesn’t bother arguing. He believes them. He summons his crew to depart. 

The second island, Skeppy and Karl row out to the sandbank. They retrieve more than a few goods for the ship; from L’Manburg, they bought barrels of salted fish and cured meat, which they're planning to save for special events, but the wild boars from the island are taken down easily. The ten of them roast it on the shore. They find a date palm, which is teeming with wild fruit, and Alyssa braves the height to climb up and cut it down. She tosses down branches that are ripe with dates, and they’re shared among the crew. 

George takes refuge a dozen feet away from everyone. Night is beginning to fall, with a clear sky above, and he and Dream start their fire with ease. Similar fires bloom up and down the shore; they all tend to split into pairs at nighttime, especially when it comes to quiet nights like these. Dream and George find themselves so near and yet so oddly isolated. 

“Here,” George says, and peels the seed from the flesh of the date. He passes the fruit to Dream, who accepts it eagerly. 

“Thank you,” Dream says. 

George hums, leans back into the sand, and says nothing. 

Dream glances over at him. 

He’s thinking. Dream knows that he’s thinking— he’s known him for far too long not to suspect when George has something on his mind. He doesn’t seem up for sharing, though, and instead Dream pushes himself to his feet.

“I’m getting more firewood,” he explains, at George’s quizzical glance. “I’ll be back in a few moments.” 

George nods, and Dream turns away into the darkness. 

Even though he thinks it’s about winter, there’s no chill. It never snows, not unless you’re far north or south, and Dream has never had any intentions to sail that far. The Antarctic Empire has a strong hold over those areas, and Dream is smart enough to know that his motley crew of ten cannot take on one of the technological empires of their world. For now, they rule the seas around the equator.

He finds dried wood before long. Arms full of it, he heads back to the beach. George is silent as Dream builds their small fire higher; it casts warm, flickering shadows over the two of them.

Finally, George’s silence gets to him. 

“What are you thinking about?”

George stops looking at him, and instead looks up to the sky. It’s studded with stars. Mars is especially bright, reddened against the blue.

“Nothing interesting,” he lies. “You?”

Dream thinks about a parchment map, holding a treasure not discovered by eons of pirates. He swears that he’ll be the first.

“Excited for the next few islands,” he says. “Won’t it be nice when we find it?”

“Of course,” George says. He does not sound particularly enthused.

Dream looks curiously at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” George says. “Why?”

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“You haven’t laughed once today.”

“There hasn’t been much to laugh at.”

“That’s not the point.”

George sits up. Sand spills from the creases of his clothes. “I’m thinking about something. It doesn’t involve you yet.”

Yet. 

“Okay,” Dream says. The rejection still stings. 

George’s gaze softens. “I don’t mean to exclude.”

“You’re not,” Dream says. He allows himself to be vulnerable enough to say, “I’m just used to sharing everything with you. I thought we agreed on no more secrets.”

George nods, gaze understanding. “We did. And I hope you know that I wouldn’t keep a secret from you without good reason.”

“I know.” It still bothers him though, for reasons he has tried and failed to put into words. The closest thing he can think of is that George has always felt like his second half; someone who completes him, and who Dream wouldn’t be the same without. Their agreement of no more promises was because George had felt the same way. They had nothing to hide from each other, and thus knew when the other was keeping secrets. 

“I’ll tell you,” George says. “Eventually.”

“I know,” Dream says. He trusts George that much. 

George waves a hand, as if looking for words. Slowly: “I just need some time. To figure everything out.”

Dream’s mouth is sweet with the taste of dates. George fiddles with another one of the fruits in his hands, and peels that one apart as well. The seed goes into the flames. He passes half of it to Dream and keeps the other half for himself.

Something stirs in Dream’s chest. He breathes, “I love you, you know.”

George’s gaze softens. Even the coolness of the nighttime can’t hide how his cheeks go red.

“I know,” he says. “And I love you too.”

The third, fourth, and fifth islands are empty.

The sixth island boasts a coral reef filled with tidepools. Dream dismisses his crew for the day; the rest of the archipelago is easily within reach by lifeboat, and there’s no point in beaching the brig for the rest of the islands, when it would be far easier to stay in deep water. 

He meanders the length of the coast. This island feels strange to him; it’s nothing more than a sandpit, with a few trees and vines, but something about this island is different.

Dream’s suspicions are confirmed when he finds George staring mulishly into one of the tidepools. He sits next to him, slips his shoes off, pokes his feet into the warm water. A silver fish flits around both their ankles, darting in between them. 

“Do you really think the treasure is here?”

George’s question leaves Dream nonplussed.

“I think we’ve spent too long searching to give up now,” Dream says. 

“It’s been months,” George says, and Dream wonders absentmindedly if this is the thing that George has been devoting all his brainpower to thinking about. Is that why he was so reluctant to share with Dream?

“All the best hunts take months,” Dream says. “Remember when we were searching for that herd of hippocampi? That one took years. We made it before long.”

“That was different,” George says, “You know that.”

Dream nods. He does. The issue with that sort of treasure hunt is that the hippocampi had only come because of George; the presence of a magical person on the pirate ship had let the animals know that they could trust the Nightmare. Otherwise, as George had whispered to Dream, in the dead of night, they would have chosen to remain hidden forever. His Majesty was hunting down magical creatures, and surfacing from the depths of the sea was dangerous. They had only emerged because of George. 

“So?” Dream says, and braces himself for the sting of George’s words. “You think this is a goose chase?”

George stares down at the lapping waves of the tidepool. “I don’t.”

“Then what?” Dream bursts, exhausted and confused, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

George pulls his knees to his chest. He leans over the water and dips one hand in; the movement makes the key on his chest sway. A sea anemone brushes against his fingers, and closes in on itself. George takes his hand out of the water and opens his mouth, but the sound that comes out is nothing like any human words at all. 

It’s a melody that sounds like a song, but like it’s spoken. It sounds like the call a dolphin makes to its young and also like the chant of mermaids, spoken to each other in the deep. It’s a sound that is reserved for the magic, and Dream will only ever have the privilege of hearing it spoken so close to him. 

A wave laps over both their feet. Dream hesitates: “What did you say?”

George looks over at him. “Could you understand any of that?”

Dream thinks for a moment.

“I recognize some of it,” he says. He hears George speak melodies to him, when George thinks that Dream is asleep. He never comments on it. “It sounds familiar, at least.”

George nods. His eyes look far away.

“What did you say?” Dream repeats. 

“I said hello,” George says. “In case anything was listening.” 

“Is anything?”

“Maybe,” George says. He allows, “There’s something magic about this place. You can feel it, can't you?”

That would explain the nervous thrumming that Dream has. He’s not a person of magic, born with nothing more than his two hands, but he’s spent a lifetime over with George, and is more attuned to the magical world than usual people. Sometimes he swears he can see the magic on the wind— creatures that affect the world in invisible ways, in between blinks. 

Then he looks at George again, and the illusion disappears. 

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a humming, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” George says. “It’s more than that, though.”

“What do you mean?”

George opens his mouth again, closes it. This time, he doesn’t speak in any magical words. He merely remains silent, looking for all the world like he’s fighting for things to say. 

“This world is strange,” is what he decides on. “You know about magical hotspots, don’t you?”

Dream nods. “We’ve talked about them before.”

There are natural places in the world that teem with magic, in the same way that there are natural places in the world that are better for growing  crops or better for building civilizations. Non-magic folk call the areas of magical hotspots gateways to the “Second World,” for the second world is where all magic comes from. Selkies, sirens, mermaids, hippocampi. Fae and their like. Even the invisible creatures that cause the non-magical world to function come from those gateways.

Dream isn’t sure how much of that is the truth or how much of it is superstition. Still, he can feel the humming in the air. He assumes that the island they’re on is one of those places. 

“This is one of them,” George says. “That humming is a sign.”

“A gateway,” Dream says.

“In a sense,” George says, “Yes.”

Neither of them speak for a moment. Another wave rolls over the tidepools, coming to a bubbling stop at both of their feet. Dream reaches a hand into the sea foam; it fades away in a matter of seconds. 

“Dream,” George says, nervousness painted over his face, “You trust me.”

It’s less of a statement than a question, but it’s a ridiculous question. Dream trusts George with everything; he would give up half his heart in a second if George asked, he would abandon the world to save him. Anywhere George goes, Dream will follow. To the end of time, to the end of earth. To death and back. 

“Yes,” he says. “Always.”

“Here,” George breathes, “Let me show you something.”

He offers Dream a hand, and Dream takes it without hesitancy. George closes his eyes, and Dream does too. The humming increases in pitch and volume. 

“Don’t be scared,” George murmurs, “Just allow it to happen.”

Alarm raises its faint head in Dream’s chest. “Allow what to happen?”

“Shh,” George breathes, “Open your eyes when you’re ready.”

George’s hand tightens on his. For a moment, Dream reaches out— not physically, but in the same sense that he had when he was delirious and fainting from blood loss. He reaches out to the glowing sphere of magic, deep inside of George, blue and tumultuous, rising and falling in time with the waves around their feet. The humming shifts in pitch. A wave tumbles to them, dragging the hems of Dream’s conscious mind away, and he opens his eyes.

The world comes alive before him. 

What previously was a darkened nighttime sky bursts to life with vibrant colors. Magical currents flow on the wind, drifting in and out of the real world. Creatures with hands made of light move around them, effervescent. Dream reaches a hand up, breathless, and the world transforms around his fingertips. Fantastical shapes and colors bloom before him; George holds his hand and guides him through it.

In the next blink, everything disappears. 

The stars seem duller, somehow, when Dream knows what the magical world looks like. He glances around, heart racing, as if expecting to see those beings again. The beach is dim and the waves are quiet, but the images are imprinted onto his mind. Everything blurs into one shift of color.

He realizes that he hasn’t breathed in ages. His chest burns, and he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath.

“What,” he gasps, “What was that?”

“Magic,” George says. 

“I know that,” Dream says, and for a hysterical moment, he wonders if he’s going to cry. “What did you just show me?” His hand tightens on George’s, panicked. “What the hell was that?”

George turns slightly. His knee bumps against Dream. “All this time, and you never suspected?”

“Suspected what?”

“You see,” George breathes into the silence, “You can’t see those things unless you have magic, too.”

The humming reappears in his ears, vibrant and brilliant. 

George’s words are too quiet for what they’ve just told Dream. He swallows, throat clicking.

“What does that mean?”

“You already know,” George says. “Have you never wondered why this crew follows you so blindly, even into the worst danger? Why everything comes so easily for you, why the scar on your side is already healed, why you look so…”

He trails off.

Dream’s throat is strangled. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re magic, Dream,” George says patiently. 

The second world, full of color and light and brightness, flashes behind Dream’s closed eyelids. He grapples with himself; all the words he wants to say rise and fall like the tide. None of them are shaped into sound. 

Voiceless, he manages, “What?”

“You’re magic,” George says, stronger this time. “It all matches up. I suspected, a while ago, but you said you saw my magic and my soul, and then you can hear the humming, and see those sights, and I knew it couldn’t just be a fluke… it had to be more, didn’t it?”

Convulsively, Dream lets go of George's hand. He glances down at his own palm like he expects it to hold any answers. “You think I’m magic?”

“It’s a guess,” George says. “But it’s the only explanation.”

“But…” Dream fumbles for words. “I’m not. I can’t be. Neither of my parents are magic, and I grew up with them, I would know, wouldn’t I?”

George’s gaze is keen. “Who were your parents again?”

“My father and mother,” Dream says, “They grew up in the Western Empire. My father was a traveling merchant. My mother ran a shop at home.” 

“And your grandparents?”

“Fishers, on my mother’s side,” Dream says. “They were wandering traders on my father’s.” 

“And did your parents ever tell you anything more?” George presses. “Anything about your ancestry, or your grandparents?”

“No,” Dream shakes his head, “Nothing.”

There’s a sickening feeling, rising in his stomach like the inexorable pull of the tide. He tries to think but his mind shifts into weightless scraps. Nothing makes sense.

“Why?” Dream manages, when George doesn’t speak for another few moments, “Do you think… do you think my parents were magic? Or creatures?” 

“With how attuned you are to everything?” George gives him a considering look. “One of your grandparents must have been a full-blooded siren, at the very least. Magic decreases through generations, so it’s not surprising that it’s this latent. You’re what, twenty-five?” 

He pauses. “Dream?”

Dream barely hears.

“Dream?” George repeats, with the softest touch, “Are you okay?” 

Dream jerks his hand away. “You think I’m part siren?”

“It seems the most likely,” George says, defensive. 

“But—” He swallows, tries to shape the wild, intangible feelings in his chest into words. “I’m not a siren. I’m just a human.” 

“I think you’re not,” George says, and a fraying thread inside Dream threatens to snap.

He turns to George. “And you’ve known for how long?”

George faces him head on. “I suspected. Maybe for the last two years. But these last few weeks confirmed it.”

“Years,” Dream says, lightheaded, “You’ve known me for years, and you never thought to— you never—”

“Being magic doesn’t change anything!”

“It changes everything!” Dream says, fear flooding over him, “It changes everything, can’t you see? Is everything I worked for just a lie, now?”

“It wasn’t ,” George says, “You’re delusional if you think that.”

Dream points. “Are they following me just because of it?”

George glances over, and they both see the same thing. A crew brought together, becoming family, even after all the trials and hardships they’ve faced together. A crew who sees each other as the only people that matter in this wide, wide world. They’ve sailed around the world together and—

Dream’s head spins.

Was it all false? 

Far away in the distance, there’s a call. Alyssa’s voice, high pitched, fighting over the best place to sleep on the beach. Karl shouts back, but there’s a giddiness to it. A fire sparks to life, and the smell of roasting fish wafts over to the two of them. The tidepool has long since gone cold. 

“You can talk with them,” Dream says, half-delirious, “I need to be alone right now.”

George’s hand clamps over his wrist. “You’re not rowing back to the ship in this state.”

“I’m fine,” Dream says, and yanks his arm away, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Let me come with you, at least,” George tries, “Really, Dream—”

“I want to be alone,” Dream snaps. “I don’t want you around.”

George is startled into silence. His hand withdraws.

Dream doesn’t stop to see how George reacts. He takes the lifeboat and shoves it into the high tide, leaving George behind. 

The key is heavy against his neck. Dream traces the shape of it into his palm, over and over, until his fingers grow numb. An oil lantern sways from a hook on the wall, long since burnt out. 

The infighting and laughing has long since dissolved away, and the nighttime air blankets everything in quiet. Dream stares at the ceiling, eyes long since adjusted to the dark, and tries to think his way through everything.

Any time he blinks, he sees the apparition of the magical world in the dark of his eyelids. He sees the colors surge to life, like a doorway has been unlocked in his mind, and in the next instant they fade away. There’s an odd thrumming beneath his skin, matching the humming in his ears. He thinks about what George said, about the island being a magical hotspot, and wonders if that’s the only reason he feels like this.

One of his grandparents, a full blooded siren. His parents never mentioned anything about this, but then again, Dream hasn’t spoken to his parents in nearly a decade. The world they live in doesn’t keep records besides word of mouth, unless you live in one of the centralized cities, and Dream was born on the outskirts of the Western Empire. His family knowledge extends only as far as what his parents have told him and his siblings. 

Sirens are rumored to be the most dangerous creatures of the magical world. Ruthless and bloodthirsty with their desire for humans, they sing at high moon and call sailors to their deaths. They are said to be exceptionally beautiful, and anyone who has survived an encounter with them says that their beauty isn’t all what draws you in. They speak with charmspeak, a magical allure in their voices, impossible to resist. Sirens have gutted even the strongest fleets of sailors, even the admiral’s own navy. In all his years of sailing, Dream and his crew have never come across a pack of sirens. He’s glad that he hasn’t. 

He wonders, now, if the sirens would have recognized him as one of their own, or if he’s just another faceless sailor to them. Would they have taken pity, or would they have dragged him down as well? 

No answers come to mind. He closes his eyes again, just to see that second world flare to life. Magic shifts and swirls around him, unmetered and untampered with by the real world. Dream vaguely registers reaching a hand up to touch them, but his fingers meet nothing but air. 

Below that fear of meeting sirens, though, and of being recognized, is George. George sits at the crux of everything Dream knows to be real and everything he knows to be false.

He and George met when Dream was a cabin boy, running errands on His Majesty’s naval ships. Even before the hunting of magical creatures had become rampant, selkies were a rarity to find— hunted for both their magical abilities and for their pelts, both by pirates and His Majesty’s sailors. It was said, the sailors whispered to Dream, if you managed to keep a selkie to yourself for four full seasons, it would do your bidding. Would grant you any wish you wanted. Having a selkie underneath your fingertips was a key to the magical world, wasn’t it?

George quickly disillusioned him of that. He laughed in Dream’s face, scornfully.

You really think a selkie would do anything a human wants? He said, dripping with distaste. You humans are the worst kind. Out of touch with everything, aren’t you?

He moved to leap back into the sea. Dream stopped him.

Will you come back?

Even then, George’s smile was imprinted into his mind’s eye. Dream would see it every night when he closed his eyes.

Only if you’re here, George said, and disappeared into the waters. 

Dream remained on His Majesty’s naval ship for the next two years, until he finally grew talented enough with his sword fighting skills to commandeer a naval scouting ship, demand the full obedience of its crew, and gather together a local crew of pirates, people who were eager to leave their old life behind. 

George found him again, a few months after. Dream, fully grown into his new skin and new life, merely smiled at the sight of his selkie friend on the shore. 

I was wondering when you would return, Dream said. I’ve been waiting. 

I was thinking your crew is out of touch, George said. 

Dream grinned. Is that an offer?

George hummed. Are you looking for another member?

Dream leaned in. He thumbed at George’s lower lip, who only stepped closer. There’s always a space for you.

Years of meeting at high tide and under full moons led up to that moment. George joined their crew, not as a selkie, but as a scryer. He had been practicing his scrying, he said, and who was Dream to judge? All pirate crews have their connections to the magical, don’t they? A soothsaying medic, a fire-loving quartermaster, a strategic first mate, and now George, their second connection to the otherworldly.  

It took years before he and George finally turned towards love, but like all love stories, it happened eventually. 

It’s been years since George joined, but insecurity traces icy fingers down the back of Dream’s spine regardless. What sort of selkie, tied to the water and to the tides, willingly seeks a life outside of the sea? What kind of person goes against their instincts like that, when life would be so much easier to remain under the surface?

The key against his neck is heavy and warm. A nearly identical copy to the golden one around George’s, except for the grooves worn into the metal. The two keys were made by a blacksmith in El Rapids, one of the port towns they visited, and the blacksmith never questioned what they were for. He merely handed them, on a loop of twine, to the two of them. The key has rarely left Dream’s neck since. 

He’s distracted out of his thoughts by a faint knock from the doorway. He glances over, and George stands there. 

“Dream,” he whispers, “Can I be with you tonight?” 

He needs space, Dream thinks. He needs to breathe. He needs to think. He needs anything and everything except another person in his bed tonight, particularly another person who’s magical too. 

“Of course,” Dream says. His wishes go unspoken. 

George, already dressed in sleepwear, finagles himself into Dream’s hammock. The door swings shut, and the oil lantern is blown out. Tonight is a full moon, and enough light seeps in from the porthole that Dream can see all the contours of George’s face. 

“How are you?” George says. His tone is stilted. 

“Fine.”

George hums. “Kiss me?”

Dream obliges. Moonlight spills over the two of them. George presses closer until their hearts beat in tandem. Dream sinks into him. 

“You know,” he murmurs, when they separate, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re magic.”

The word magic does something funny to Dream’s fingertips. They go numb.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Dream says. George nods.

“Alright,” he says. “What do you want to talk about?”

Their conversation fades away, because Dream is lying to himself. He wants to talk about magic until his voice grows hoarse, until his voice fades away entirely. George does too; Dream knows him too well. They’re both lying to each other. 

“Are there any storms on the horizon?” 

“I set spells for clear weather,” George says, “There shouldn’t be.”

“Hm.”

The other day, Dream checked the calendar for the first time in months. It’s nearing the winter solstice, even though as close to the equator as they are, they won’t get as much as a dusting of snow. Dream hardly recognizes that the weather has changed at all.

Winter brings changes in the weather, and changes in the weather bring storms. He’s not ready for those. He never likes sailing when Mother Nature decides that she wants to wreck them and bring them to the seafloor. 

“Alyssa mentioned wanting to visit family,” George says offhandedly. He’s trying to find something to talk about. Dream recognizes his tactics well. “I was talking with the crew after you left.”

“Ah,” Dream says. “Are they still in the Badlands?”

“That’s what their most recent letters have said,” George says. “It might be worth a stop, once we’ve found this treasure.”

The treasure. In all of Dream’s thinking, he’s somehow forgotten the very thing they’re searching for. 

“You know,” George says, “They’re worried about you.”

“Are they?”

“Ponk wanted to come back to the ship,” George says, “So did Bad. Neither of them want you to be alone.”

“They don’t seem to be here.”

“No,” George allows. “I’m here instead.” 

“Hm.”

“I know you, Dream,” George says, and brings a curved finger underneath Dream’s chin, tilting his chin upwards. “I calm you down. I don’t mind.” 

George knows him too well, he thinks. 

“I know you enough,” George corrects, and Dream realizes he spoke out loud. “If you want me gone, I can go.”

George’s body heat seeps throughout all of Dream and warms him. They’re already entwined so close. Separating would just be more work. 

“You’re fine,” Dream says. “I don’t need your help.”

“When will you admit that it’s okay to be helped?”

Against his better judgement, Dream laughs. “Not for a long time.”

“At least I’m here,” George whispers. “Right?”

The question burns on Dream’s lips. He thinks about the magic, still blinking in the air. The pelt locked inside a drawer, inside an oaken chest. Something hums in his chest, ominous and fearful. 

Carefully, Dream says, “You said I was part siren.”

George shifts. His eyes are dark in the moonlight. “That’s just my belief, yes.”

“Why?”

George considers this. “People follow you.”

“I’m just charismatic.”

“A notable feature of most sirens.”

“Many humans are charismatic, too.”

“You’re good at fighting,” George says, switching tacks. “You can beat anyone in a fight, could beat anyone by the time you were fourteen.”

“That’s all practice,” Dream says. “Talent.”

“You have a good singing voice.”

“Singing is just talent, again.” 

“You heal quickly,” George says, “Too quickly to be human.” 

Dream pauses. He doesn’t have a good answer for that one. 

“Water and food and rest,” he says. That’s all there is, isn’t there?

George’s fingers come up to prod lightly at the stab wound at his side. The scar has already faded into a pale crescent. It barely aches anymore, only in his dreams. “And this?”

“Bad is a good medic,” Dream says. “You’re good at healing.” 

“Explain your dashing good looks, then,” George hums.

“I can’t help those,” Dream breathes. “That’s just me.”

“Gorgeous,” George mumbles, and leans in to kiss him again. 

The kiss tastes sour. Dream tries to breathe through it and finds that the entire situation feels tainted, terribly so. 

“You really think I’m a siren,” Dream says, when they separate. 

George nods simply. He doesn’t spare any more words.

“And if I am,” Dream says, throat thick, “Is that why you chose me?”

George’s expression is inscrutable. “I’ve met sirens before. They don’t do much to me.” 

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Clarify it, then.”

The question is brewing inside Dream’s stomach, too big and terrible to put into words. Something is thriving in the air, quiet and humming. 

Finally, Dream says, “Do you want to go back?”

It seems a non sequitur to George, Dream can tell. 

“What?”

The keys, the looks to the sea, the casual hesitancy for the treasure hunting. The calling out to the sea, waiting to see if there’s a response. Dream worries that it all culminates in the conclusion: George does not want to be here any longer.

But George says, “I want to be here.”

“But you don’t,” Dream says. “Do you?”

George doesn’t speak for a long moment. 

Waves lap against the side of the ship. The air smells of saltwater and brine. Winter mist settles over the night like a veil. The hammock creaks as it swings with the ceiling, always keeping them steady.

George’s voice is small. “I miss it, don’t I?” 

“Ah,” Dream says. 

It’s what he expected, after all.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving,” George placates. “I’m here because I trust you, and if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have given you my pelt in the first place. I trust that if I want to go, you’ll let me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Dream nods. The key feels heavy around his neck. 

“Sometimes,” George pauses, breathes, “Sometimes I feel like the sea is calling to me.”

Dream shifts slightly. A wave swells, carries the ship with it, quiets again.

“I don’t think I’m meant to be out of sea for so long,” George says. “I think it’s warning me. That’s why I’ve been so restless lately. I can’t sleep. There’s something out there, and it wants me back.” He pauses. “I don’t think whatever is talking is very happy with you.”

“What?”

“Creatures and humans don’t usually interact,” George says, and it’s the same words he explained to Dream eons ago, but they hold more weight now. “It’s dangerous, I suppose, and people advise against it. You and I are… I don’t think they like that you took such a hold over me.”

“Is it bad?” Dream says. Something twists in his gut. “Is this bad?”

“No,” George reassures, and he presses a kiss to Dream’s cheek, by a suntanned freckle. “It’s not bad, it’s just… unnatural.” 

“That seems like a synonym for bad .” 

“It’s unnatural because there’s some truth to it,” George says plainly. “You’re a mix of human and siren. You’re what the world warns against.”

Dream’s mouth is dry. “Thanks.” 

“You can’t help it,” George says. “The most you can do is live with it.”

His voice is small. “What if I don’t want to live with it?”

George’s gaze grows troubled and concerned. “I don’t think you can go without it.” 

“Really?”

George spreads his hand over Dream’s chest, fingers light. Electricity stems from the places his fingertips touch, over bare skin. 

“Magic is a part of you,” he explains, “Ignoring it is like ignoring a part of yourself. Even if you can’t actively use it, you still need to exercise it and nourish it. In the same way you need to nourish your physical body. Second nature still needs to be treated with care.”

“So you think I should do what?” Dream almost wants to laugh. “You want me to become— a soothsayer, like Bad? Or a scryer, like you?”

“No,” George says patiently. His tone is so calm that Dream feels somewhat bad for being so harsh about it. “Sirens don’t work like that. Their magic lies in different ways. Bad is a mage, and his style of magic won’t work for you. Selkies are less dangerous than sirens, and my magic will work differently from yours. It’ll be a matter of practice.”

“Practice,” Dream says, and there’s a spark of— of what? Of fear? Of desire? 

Of temptation? 

Dream has always been the best at everything, honed every piece of himself to a fine-edged blade. Even when he was a kid, he won every game he played, whether it was against Sapnap or against the other children in the neighborhood. He practiced with a wooden sword until he could defeat his own teacher, bringing him to his knees. And when he surpassed the skills of the sailors around him, he decided that he wasn’t done. He commandeered his own ship, scaled to the highest heights. He sailed to the deepest trenches of the oceans and conquered entire navies. He was a weapon, wasn’t he?

He raises a hand and presses it over George’s. Their fingers link together.

His magic is just another talent, isn’t it? Another thing to be honed, another thing to be practiced. Another thing to be conquered until he, too, is better for it. 

“We would teach you,” George says. “I’ve been talking with Bad. It would be strange, considering that your talent is so latent, but both of us would be ready for it.”

“Training me,” Dream says. 

“You’re a perfectionist,” George says amicably. “You should know that magic isn’t like that.”

“Like what?”

“A thing to be perfected,” George says. “Because magic can’t be perfected.”

Dream blinks at him. He doesn’t know the first thing about magic— the only thing he knows is from what George and Bad have told him, and as the only two magical people on board, they tend to stick to themselves. There’s almost a level of secrecy to magic, that Dream can hardly begin to understand.

Does he want to learn? 

He doesn’t know.

“Okay,” Dream breathes. “I’ll remember that.”

George’s hand tangles with his. He squeezes. “We can start tomorrow. While everyone is looking for treasure.”

“Tomorrow?”

George’s smile is beautiful. “The sooner the better, right?”

Dream nods. His throat feels strange. George is eager and open and Dream can tell that he is so scared, so worried that Dream will push him away. Dream thinks about the words shared with him earlier: unnatural. I can’t sleep. I miss it, don’t I?

Dream wonders if the unnatural thing isn’t George being out of water so long, or the selkie coat, kept inside an oak chest. They had talked long about the pelt. George explained that the magic of it— what bound him to Dream— was the reason why Dream had to have the key to the chest itself. There were unspoken rules of magic, things that George didn’t understand, and one of those things was trust. What linked them was trust, honesty, communication.

The keys clink together as Dream leans up for another kiss. George allows it, soft, warm. His lips and hands paint glorious colors over his body, dipping lower and lower. 

“I love you,” Dream mumbles, into George’s teeth. He hums, body lit alight with touch. 

“I love you too,” George says, “I love you so much.” 

A hand in his hair, a back arching. George swallows the sounds Dream makes, thick and sweet and slow, and kisses him into oblivion. Dream forgets about everything he was thinking of; he forgets the fear of magic, the fear of the unnatural, the worry about their eventual treasure seeking, and the blooming high tide. He forgets everything except for the heat of George’s skin against his. He allows George to carry him away until nothing exists except for the two of them. 

“Wow,” Sapnap comments amusedly, seeing how Dream and George emerge from their cabin the next morning, “Had a fun night, you two?”

“Shut up,” George mumbles, and tucks on his high-necked collar. It can’t quite hide the marks on his neck, even darker now that they’ve had time to fade. He’s always had more shame than Dream does, who barely manages to care. Privacy is hell to find on a pirate ship, much less one like the Nightmare. They take their moments where they can get them. 

“I’m not saying anything,” Sapnap defends, even though a slick grin is on his face, like oil. “I’m just glad you two worked through whatever lover’s tiff you had yesterday.”

“We weren’t having a lover’s tiff, ” Dream says.

“Everything is fine,” George adds. 

From this, Dream gathers that no one knows what their conversation was about. Bad likely does, just because of how long it took for George to come to the ship to find Dream, but none of the other crew does. Idly, Dream wonders how he’s going to break the news to them.

The thing that sticks in his mind is that George suspects he’s part siren. 

There are magical genealogy tests, apparently, but they’re expensive and require a very talented person to administer them. Dream isn’t sure whether he wants to abandon this treasure hunt just to pursue something for his own knowledge. As complicated as everything might be right now, he still owes an obligation to his crew and to his people. He can’t abandon them now, not after they’ve been hunting for this treasure for months. 

Dream firmly pushes everything away and out of mind. He beckons Sam over, and the two of them unfurl the map again. Sam has always been better with cartography; his eyes are scrutinizing. 

“I think it would be best to just circle around,” he says. “This island doesn’t seem to hold anything.”

“Have we tried underwater?” 

“George?”

George shakes his head. “There’s nothing that I can find.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” George says. “There’s nothing.”

His tone is snappish. Dream chalks it up to the exhaustion of the last few weeks. Meandering from island to island, some larger than life, with mountains towering high into the clouds, and others with nothing more than a few yards of sand and a spindly palm tree. 

“Besides,” George adds, “Dream isn’t treasure hunting today. We have something to do.” 

“Oh?” Sapnap raises an eyebrow, having overheard. “Like what?”

“Private things,” George says evasively, and Dream’s ears flush red. “Secret captain things that no one can know about.”

Sapnap sighs. He brushes past Dream’s shoulder as he walks past them. “Have fun, I suppose.”

“I’ll try,” Dream mutters. He tries to focus his gaze on the map once more. They’re in the correct archipelago. The only issue is figuring which island holds the treasure. It’s been weeks, surely they would have found it by now.

A few more days, Dream convinces himself. They’ll find it soon. 

“Come,” George beckons imperiously, “We’ll find some quiet.”

Dream leaves Sam to stare at the map, and follows George. He leads them to the island they were on the night before; now, Dream can easily tell when they reach the “gateway” to the Second World. He knows because the humming returns, not intrusive, but gentle and vibrant. It feels like shimmering, surrounding the two of them. 

Dream drags the boat onto the shore, beaching it, and turns to face George. 

“Okay,” he says, feeling nervous and scared and already overwhelmed, even though they haven’t started. “What happens now?”

George reaches out and takes Dream’s hand. 

“This,” he says, and takes a step. “You follow me.”

Without a second thought, Dream does.

Chapter Text

The scouring of the archipelago continues, although they find nothing that remotely constitutes a treasure. When they’re not searching, George tries to teach Dream what it means to be a part of the magical world, to be in touch with magic itself. He does his best to try and explain connecting yourself to the earth.

Dream, for all his trying, can’t accomplish it at all.

The first lesson ends sourly. George takes Dream’s hand and leads him into the thick of the jungle, before stumbling across a freshwater pond. There, George sits with crossed legs and gestures for Dream to do the same. 

George describes his magic as this: a well inside of him, that he can dip into at will. He instructs Dream to try and do the same. Visualize his magic as something he can touch, feel, use. 

The water flickers, a school of shallow fish swarms around their legs. Dream closes his eyes and tries. He tries to send— how has George put it? His essence? — into the earth, to feel the vibrations of the world turning beneath him. The sun tracks high overhead and Dream grows more and more frustrated.

Finally, he stands up. The fish dart away, disturbed by the change in water.

“This doesn’t work,” he snaps. “I can’t sit quietly and do nothing. This isn’t working.”

“You’ve only been at it for a few hours,” George says calmly. “That really isn’t much time at all—”

“This is pointless, ” Dream snaps. 

“Just because you’re not instantly good at something doesn’t mean that it’s worthless,” George retorts, matching Dream for fierceness and irritation. “Great swordfighters aren’t born, they’re made. Same with magicians.”

“Swordfighting is different.”

“How?”

“It’s something I can learn ,” Dream says, frustrated and unable to put it into words, “Not like this. This doesn’t make any sense, George, I can’t stay still, I just can’t.”

The pond burbles quietly in the background. If Dream listens hard enough, he can hear the waves lapping at the shore. George’s feet are noiseless against the soft, damp earth of the jungle. 

“Maybe we should try something different,” George suggests.

“Like what?”

“It’s only been a few hours,” George says bracingly. “It’s a little quick to jump to conclusions that this method isn’t working.”

Every inch of Dream’s body is bursting with the need to do something. There’s no adrenaline rush from doing nothing. Move, move, move, his body begs him, jittering with the frustration of sitting still.  

“I need to go for a walk,” Dream mutters. “I’m not going to sit and meditate if it does nothing.”

He turns away. George watches with keen, sharp eyes, and says nothing. 

The thing they discover after Dream’s outburst is this: Dream is not one for meditating and not one for sitting quietly, pretending he’s in touch with the world. He can’t fade away into the sea like George can. He doesn’t like isolation. George spends a quiet few moments contemplating this before concluding that Dream’s magic is drawn from other people, not from himself. 

It’s a strange conclusion to draw, although Dream supposes that it makes sense. From the little he knows about sirens, he knows that they’re social creatures, much like humans are. They travel in packs, luring sailors to their deaths, always working together. The more Dream thinks about it, the more he understands it. If George’s assumption is right— and he’s never truly been wrong before— it’s not worth it to try and teach Dream about magic in the same way George learned. 

It’s a learning process, even if he doesn’t like it. 

At sunhigh the next day, Dream searches through the trees on one of the archipelago’s islands and eventually finds a tree hanging ripe with mangos. He finds one thats fresh and plump, a cross between green and orange, and slices it from the tree.

“Here,” Dream says, and fishes his knife out from his back pocket. It’s the same one he ripped from the guard’s waist, back in L’Manburg, what seems like eons ago. They had taken all of his, and now he keeps one of theirs. The mango is fresh and plump in his hand, and Dream slices it evenly. He passes half of it, sticky and sweet, over to George.

“Thank you,” George murmurs. “I haven’t had mango in so long, this is wonderful.”

“It’s nice to be here,” Dream says. “Though I’m sure we’ll hit cabin fever in a few weeks if nothing interesting happens.”

Both of them are stubbornly ignoring the topic of learning magic, looming overhead. 

“I can’t wait for the family arguments,” George says. “Bets on how dramatic it will be?”

Dream shakes his head. “I’m praying for good talks right now. I have faith in the crew.”

“You have more faith in them than I do,” George says. “We seem to get into a lot of arguments over the littlest things. Were you there when Skeppy and Ponk got into that shouting match over the last pickled herring?”

Dream was there. He remembers laughing so hard that he thought his insides would burst. The largest fight over something that was simply so small. 

“I hope that doesn’t happen again.” Cleaning up pickled herring from smooth, wooden floorboards is a travesty, and the smell never quite leaves. 

The two of them devour the remainder of the mango together. Dream takes note of how much George seems to enjoy it and he vows to go collect more the next day, just to see the note of surprise and excitement on George’s face. He’s sure that they can dry the fruit and save it for long. 

They keep some fruit on board, but it’s their precious citruses and nothing else; a miniature barrel with lemons and limes, to protect from scurvy. Dream is sure that they can figure out a way to keep fresh fruit so it lasts for longer. Once they leave the archipelago (after they find whatever treasure is waiting for them), they’ll be in the middle of the deep sea without easy access to fresh food. It’ll be back to hunting ships in the deep sea for another fight. 

George hums. He stretches out his legs, and the tide laps at his toes, barely able to reach. “Should we try practicing again?”

Dream, for all his desire to be the best at everything, does not want to get back to practicing magic.

The issue is that Dream can already tell it will go like this: George will try his best, and Dream won’t understand, because he’s lived twenty five years without this connection, and learning it now is like trying to figure out how to operate a fifth limb. It doesn’t belong to him, and it feels strange to try and connect to it. He doesn’t have the muscles to flex it and doesn’t understand why he needs a fifth limb when the four he has work perfectly on their own. 

Dream swallows. 

He finds his voice again, sticky with mango juice and sweet with the rind, “Sure.”

George pushes himself up. Sand pours from the creases of his clothes and he offers a hand to Dream, who takes it.

“It’ll get easier with time,” George promises. Dream gathers that George is painfully aware of how little he believes in this statement.

“I know,” Dream says, even though he doesn’t know. He’s never been less sure. 

“Come, then.” George beckons. He crooks a finger. 

Dream, unable to resist, follows him. He dooms himself to an afternoon of struggle.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the crew searches the island, inch after square inch, looking for a treasure that they’re not even sure exists anymore. 

“The winter solstice is in a week,” George comments quietly. 

Dream glances over at him. He pulls his shirt back on and begins to button it up swiftly. It hides the marks that George has made on him, though George watches them disappear with a longing look. 

“What about it?”

“The twenty first of December,” George says, by way of explanation. “I think it might be worth another lesson before then.”

Logically, Dream knows that he should. Bad has been tagging along, more and more often, and he and George are the only two people on board the Nightmare who know about it. Both of them It’s frustrating and painful. More than once, Dream thinks about giving up.

He blinks, in those moments, and in the flashes of darkness, recalls the way the world had lit up. He recalls seeing George’s soul, swishing and watery, flashing with light in the way sunlight strikes deep water. He remembers seeing that beautiful second world, if only for an instant, with colors impossible to describe and impossible to relive again. He remembers, and dreams, and takes a breath to think, I can do this. 

“I’ll try,” Dream says. “It’s just so—”

He cuts himself off sharply. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say. 

George seems to understand, though, because his gaze softens. He pulls Dream back, until Dream sits back down into the hammock again. With both his hands he takes Dream’s face and kisses him, and Dream loops his arms around George again until they’re flush against each other. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” George admits, half-embarrassed from saying so. 

“Huh.”

“Just figuring things out as I go,” George continues. “It’s frustrating for me too. I understand.”

Dream doesn’t respond, and the cabin falls silent. George’s hand presses flat against his chest, cool to the touch. Dream closes his eyes and reaches out tentatively, almost like he and George are one creature.

Against his mouth, George whispers, “I know you’re doing it.”

Dream hums, sated. “Doing what?”

A breath. “Doing… that.”

“Words,” Dream says, and George frowns. He draws back, rests his cheek against Dream’s. 

“Seeing my magic,” George whispers. His eyes are still closed. “I can feel when you do it.” 

“Hm,” Dream says. He reaches out, into that shared soul-space between them, and sees the way George’s magic curls in response to his. They both have water souls, fluid and blue, twisting and coiling in with each other. “What can you feel?”

George shivers. His hands skim down from Dream’s face to his shoulders, pressing there. “It feels like…”

“ Words. ”

“It feels like you’re calling my name,” George says. “Like you’re saying hello.”

George’s magic turns a bright shade of blue when he says that. It splashes, giddily, against Dream’s. Hello, it says, gleefully recognizing another, hello, hello, hello.

He imagines pressing closer to George, entwining the two of them. Holding so close that they have become one person instead of two. His own magic responds in kind. It flourishes, grows. 

Wondrously: “It’s like seeing you. In a way. Seeing a completely different part of you.”

Dream opens his eyes. He pulls away— not in real life, but underneath their skin, so his magic is swallowed again. For a moment, he thought he had felt something there— something so unlike what George was trying to teach him earlier. 

George seems to sense it too. He leans against Dream, tilts his head against Dream’s neck. His breath is warm against Dream’s skin and he shivers. 

“It’s easier that way,” Dream says. 

“I can tell.”

“It’s easier with you .” 

“You’re stroking my ego. There’s no need for that.” 

Dream grins as well. “Am I?”

“You are one of a kind,” George says, “You really are.”

“I know,” Dream says, feeling oddly smug and pleased with himself.

George smiles. Dream can feel the bite of it against him. “I take it back. You’re arrogant and a know it all.”

“You like it,” Dream says, with certainty.

George’s smile only grows. “I hate it.” 

“Liar,” Dream accuses, and laughs when George kisses him until he can barely breathe. 

At night, the entire crew reconvenes again. Sapnap gives Dream an odd look, likely wondering where he’s been all day if not scouring the sands with them, but says nothing. They’re tired and sandy and feeling discouraged from the lack of treasure. Dream, however, isn’t. 

“Four more islands,” Sam says bracingly. “I’m sure it’s on one of those.”

“It will be,” Dream cuts in. “We’ve come so far. It’s bad luck to have searched so many and found nothing, but I’m sure it’ll be there.”

“If it’s not,” Skeppy warns, though his tone is light and teasing, “I’ll be very upset with you.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Dream says. “But it will be there. There’s no way we’re wrong.” 

For the barest moment, his confidence fades. He’s never allowed to consider the possibility that he’s led nine other people on an entire goose chase for nearly half a year, but the fear is always there. Ever since they discovered the map, Dream’s mind has fixated on it— it barely leaves, even when they were forced to take a month-long break to visit L’Manburg.

But the final days of exploring the archipelago are arriving. The winter solstice is in a few days, as well, and George hasn’t been sleeping well preparing for it. Dream finds him, more than once, with his key in the drawer, staring at the chest inside. Dream wonders if he wants to return to the sea. Is it painful, being away from his soul for this long? Or is he happier with the humans? What’s going on inside his head?

“We’ll find it,” Dream says out loud, though no one is around to hear it anymore. It’s more a reassurance to himself than to anyone else. 

The sky yawns overhead and doesn’t deign to respond. 

The morning of the last island dawns bright and early. Dream sleeps on the shore instead of in the cabin that night, and he wakes up to the winter solstice. It’s strange to know that it’s the middle of the winter season in some places, even though none of them will see even a flicker of snow. He can hardly imagine how cold it must be in the Antarctic Empire, where the nights are longer than the days. 

“Winter solstice,” George says, when Dream fixes himself up and slices open a mango and retrieves some cured strips of meat for breakfast. “Today will be a good day.”

“You seem very sure of it.”

“It’s an important day,” George says. “Bad can tell you more about it.”

“I know about the importance of the winter solstice,” Dream says. It’s the shortest day of the year, when the night is longest, and George mentions, more than once, that it creates the strongest connections between the magic and non-magic worlds. This is the day, George says, when creatures are the strongest. Curses do the most damage. Spells work their best nature. 

As it turns out, the twenty first of December brings not only magic. It brings this to them:

“Captain!” Ponk shouts joyously, only a few hours into their search for the day. Dream’s heart leaps, “Dream, I think we’ve found something!”

Sand flies. Most of the crew is already there, by the entrance to a cave. It has sigils written over the entrance, swirling signs that are clearly magical. George arrives barely a minute after Dream does, chest heaving, and he raises a hand wondrously to run over them. They’re carved into the stone, looking older than time itself.

“Protection,” George whispers. “This must be it.” 

“They’re protective?” Ant says. 

George nods. “Bad is better with them than I am, though.”

“I’m here!” Bad exclaims. Skeppy arrives barely a moment behind him, and that completes the ten of them, standing in an odd circle around the entrance to a cave that holds magic deeper than all of them combined. 

“They’re protective,” Bad confirms, a few minutes later. “Nothing in there will hurt us. I think— what I think they’re protecting is someone who will use the treasure for evil. Only those with good souls can enter.” 

“Excellent,” Skeppy proclaims. “That would mean— all of us can enter, right?”

Bad glances to George, whose eyes are wide with both knowledge and alarm. Cautiously, he says, “I don’t think all of us can.”

“Why?”

“That’s ominous,” Ponk comments dryly. 

“The sigils are made for a creature,” George says, and points to a rune that none of them can decipher, so they'll just have to take his word for it. “It’s meant for someone who comes from the sea. Those who are purely human cannot enter.”

“It’s for you, then,” Sapnap says, and gestures to George. According to the rest of the crew, after all, George is the only creature who comes from the sea. Bad is a mage, and all mages draw their power from the earth. 

Dream’s heart rises into his throat. George makes eye contact with him, and Dream knows what he’s demanding. He’s not a fool. He can tell what this has led up to.

Dream hasn’t told them about George’s suspicions, and practical confirmation. Bad hasn’t either. There’s no easy way to bring it up and no comfortable way to say it.

The thing is that Dream’s terrified— terrified — that if he tells them that he may have unintentionally seduced them all to follow him, that they’ll leave. That’s the curse of magic, particularly the magic of temptation. It requires quiet and it requires secrecy. A target who knows they are being tempted is a target who has already defeated their temptator.

He thinks about all the discoveries made. The weeks of practice, with George, which have led nowhere. The calling to the sea, the selkie pelt kept between the two of them. Rescuing mermaids from magical nets, trapped by a cruel king. The full moon, which is set to rise this night. The winter solstice.

Dream breathes in, out, and says, “Not just George.” 

Sapnap cottons on, too quickly. He turns to Dream and gapes. “You’re kidding.”

Karl frowns. “What?” He glances between everyone, trying to understand. “What’s going on?”

George opens his mouth. “Dream is—”

“I’m part siren,” Dream bursts.

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It tastes like truth; it feels like damnation. 

He tenses up, without meaning to do so. He doesn’t know what he expects from his crew, whether he expects them to turn their backs for unintentionally leading them on, for tricking them, or whether he expects anger, or disbelief, but the last thing he expects is this:

Alyssa takes a cautious step closer. She says, “Really?”

Dream nods, tight and anxious. His fear crests in him, rising like a wave. Tormenting him with the threat of a tsunami.

She nods. A note of satisfaction spreads across her face. “Good on you for discovering that.”

The wave lands. It does not drag him out to sea.

“What?” he manages.

He glances around. They look confused, like their hearts have skipped a beat the same Dream’s has, but none of their faces read of anger.

Absurdly, Dream wonders if they knew all along. 

“You have to tell me more,” Sapnap says, though his eyes are light. “But you’ve always been better than us, Dream, in every way— you’re telling me you never thought you were more than human before?”

Dream is nearly stunned into silence. Around Sapnap, people are nodding, agreeing with his sentiment. It’s the strangest thing. 

“Well?” Ponk says, and waves a hand, eyes alight with excitement, “What are you waiting for? This cave practically has your name written all over it.” 

“George should go,” Dream tries, but the instant he speaks, Alyssa shushes him.

“This is for you,” she says. “The rest of us know. Don’t you?”

It's the strangest moment. As much as Dream wants to deny it, it does feel like everything has suddenly been leading up to this, all at once. Everything combines to form a tumultuous event, the idea that this cave has been waiting for Dream to enter it this entire time. Almost like it was made for him. 

Dream opens his mouth, about to insist that George should be the one to go— he’s the one who has helped Dream the most, who has always been at his side, practically his second half— but his own voice fails him. Even it knows that the cave is meant for him.  

“Go,” Bad says quietly. “We’ll wait for you.”

The cave entrance yawns, ominous and black. Dream, for all his good eyesight, can only see a few feet in. It seems to swallow up light, like nothing can escape past it. 

Dream takes a step forward. George barely glances at him; he runs a hand over the sigils on the entrance, and looks towards Dream in the moments before Dream enters.

The key hanging around Dream’s neck feels heavy, weightier. 

Dream doesn’t look back. He steps into the cave. 

He supposes that it’s the final test, of whether he is what George and Bad have been saying he is. He feels the shudder of magic around him, like it’s deciding whether to allow him or not, and he breaks through the magical barrier, feeling like he’s pushing through rubber. It lets him through with a nudge. More of a sign of awareness than anything else.

Welcome, the cave seems to say, in the same way Dream prodded at George’s magic earlier, swirling and blue. Hello, hello, hello.

Hi, Dream whispers back, and the further in he goes, the darker it gets.

He loses track of his steps after a while. There’s an odd certainty in his footsteps. He goes onward, deeper, until the weight of the island over his head begins to feel oppressive. The cave walls close in around him, and Dream’s lungs close as well. He’s never been good with enclosed spaces, not when he’s so deep into the earth he cannot see the light of the tunnel behind him. 

In the instant when the light from outside fades, his feet hit water.

Dream retreats a few steps with a shudder. The lake underneath the earth is colder than ice. Dream strains his eyes, trying to see if there’s anything that will give him a hint of where to go, but he finds nothing. 

At once, he’s thrust back into that first lesson with George, where the two of them sat at a similar pond, only above ground. 

My magic feels like a well, George had said. I can pull from it whenever I need to.

Dream takes a step forward. The water is icy, and it seems to pull at his legs, ankles, tugging him forwards. He takes another step, unsure of where he’s going, but he walks until he’s waist deep, chest deep, neck deep, up until the moment when his feet cannot touch the ground anymore.

Dream takes a deep breath and dives. 

He closes his eyes as he does, and the world comes to life.

The magical world, the one that lives in the moments he blinks, guides him. It’s like the seas of bioluminescence, glowing blue and green in the night, but in colors Dream cannot put a name to. Dream swims through an underground lake of light, mesmerizing, and he follows the trail that someone like him has walked ages ago. Their footsteps are imprinted with the magic of time; he swims, and swims, and swims, never once needing to gasp for air. 

It takes seconds, minutes, hours, until he reaches the other side of the lake. He barely stumbles in finding his footing on land. 

When he surfaces from the water, the magical world fades away. The light doesn’t, though. He’s surely in the deepest parts of the earth, but the light still burns, the brightest flame Dream has ever seen in his life. 

He steps closer to it and emerges into a vast cavern, so enormous that Dream cannot see the walls nor the ceiling, even though there’s a fire in the center.

Tentatively, Dream reaches out. He thinks about his water soul, vibrant and leaping, and pushes into the magic of the cavern. Calling out to whoever might be listening, in his own half-formed language. 

Hello, he says, I’m here.

Hello, the cavern whispers back, a thousand voices talking at once, welcome, welcome, welcome. You arrived.

Dream steps closer to the fire. The humming in his ears increases in volume, and for a moment he understands completely what George is saying about magic. 

Unnatural, he had whispered, about humans interacting with it. Strange. 

“The eternal flame,” Dream murmured, and his voice seemed to fill the cavern with noise. 

The flame itself is small. If Dream were to reach out, it seems like he could cup it with both his hands. It could fit inside an oil lantern, miniscule and vibrant. Barely larger than the wick of a candle. 

It’s not gold. It’s not riches. It’s not anything of the sort that one would have expected a treasure map to be hiding. But what he discovers is a thing out of legend. Something that drowns him with sorrow and simultaneously raises him higher. 

He remembers George’s lilting lullaby, the words that soothed him to sleep. He looks at this fire, in the middle of a land teeming with magic, and thinks that the entire world has culminated in this moment, waiting for him to take the fire in his hand. 

Dream inhales, exhales. He asks, is this for me?

The cavern does not answer. 

All it hints is would I have let you in otherwise?

The branch that the fire is on burns, but it never chars, never blackens. All it does is provide an endless source for the eternal flame to live on, a place to thrive. 

It tingles, but it doesn’t burn his skin, either. It merely lives, vibrant and reddish, in the palm of his hand. 

The fire flourishes, illuminating the way out. 

Dream turns and follows his way back to the light.

“I wish you had told us,” Sapnap confides in him, when the day has transformed into nighttime. 

Half the crew is still wonderstruck, gaping at the branch of fire that never consumes, never dies. Bad in particular watches it closely, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. He reaches out a hand to touch it, but shies away just in time. 

Dream, when he returned, went up to the bird's nest almost immediately. It’s quiet up there. Calming. George, knowing innately that he needs space, did not follow. Sapnap, who has never known when to shut up, does. He clambers his way to the top and refuses to leave until Dream begins talking.

And Dream does. He spills everything, all the words that have been bottled up, the intimacy of magic, the fear of using it, the colors he sees when his eyes are closed. The wondrousness at realizing that a gateway to a world he never knew about has been opened up, accessible whenever he wishes. The terrible worry that him being a siren has manipulated the entire crew without realizing. This, Sapnap protests vehemently against. 

“You’ve been my friend since I was a kid,” Sapnap says. “I would follow you anywhere. If I didn’t want to be here, I would leave— but you’ll never see me do that. Not while the Nightmare is still sailing.”

Dream smiles, but he doesn’t laugh. He looks down at the sea below, frothing and pale. 

They’re planning to set sail at dawn. Where they’re going after this, none of them know. 

“I was going to tell you,” he says. The words catch in his throat. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re mad if you think any of us were going to leave because you’re magic.”

“I was worried.”

“We have a literal selkie on board,” Sapnap says. “None of us care whether you’re a siren.”

Dream huffs. “I suppose.”

“And now we have the coolest fucking magical item in the world,” Sapnap grins, and he nudges Dream’s shoulder. “You don’t need to worry. We’ll always be on your side.” 

“You’re sure of that?”

Underneath the stars, Dream can see Sapnap’s smile as clear as day. “Ask any person on this ship. They’ll tell you the same. I promise.”

As much as Dream’s worries tell him otherwise, something in Sapnap’s voice convinces him. 

One might call it love. One might even call it family. 

He clambers down from the ladder after what feels like an eon. His cabin door is closed, and Dream slips inside. George is in their hammock, gaze fixed on the porthole. The full moon is out, casting silver light over the world.

“Well?” George says, without preamble. “Tell me.”

Dream does.

This time he tells the details that he knows George will understand. The bioluminescence of the magical world, vivid and glowing. How he followed in footsteps of so many people before him, people who were attempting to take the same treasure as him. The feel of swimming, deep and endless, and never needing to surface for breath. How for a moment he wasn’t sure whether he was dead, alive, or still existing at all. 

George drinks his words in like they’re the only water he’s had to drink all day. 

“You deserved that,” George says, when Dream’s voice finally tapers out.

Exhausted from speaking, Dream tilts his head quizzically. 

George elaborates, “That discovery. That was all you.”

“You helped,” Dream says, voice hoarse.

George shushes him. He slips out from the hammock to sit next to Dream on the floor, where both of them can rock with the swaying of the ship. 

“I helped,” George acknowledges, “But at the end of the day, you recovered the myth. You carried the flame.”

Dream feels compelled to say, “I carried it for you.”

George’s look tears down everything Dream tries to build, in one fell swoop. “You are too good for me.”

“You shouldn’t be real,” Dream says. “I don’t believe you are.”

George reaches up. He thumbs at the key around Dream’s neck, which stayed there the entire time in the cave, grounding and warm. Crafted from the same gold as the one that is on George’s neck. 

“I’m here,” George says. “And I’m with you wherever you go next.”

Dream closes his eyes. He tilts his head back. George’s thumb rubs in slow, smooth circles around the back of his hand.

“To the end of the earth,” Dream says eventually.

He can hear George’s smile in his voice. “Is that where we’re going next?”

There’s a thousand places they might go, across horizons and worlds and oceans. Dream doesn’t know where that might be, but he does know that he’ll have his crew at his side, no matter what happens, and he’ll have George. And when he closes his eyes, he can still see the glowing of the eternal flame, burning brighter than anything has burned before. 

“Anywhere we want,” Dream says, into the wide expanse of the night. “We’ll go wherever the sea takes us.”