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The clock rested on the wall, the hands slowly moving as the seconds ticked by. The thick curtain of lava flowing from the ceiling bubbled as it shielded the outside from his small, dark purple box. It painted him in a vibrant, sickly sweet red-orange. Heat filled the room, seeping into dream’s bones, suffocating him in the sweltering air. His hair was wet from splashing water on himself, but he knew it wouldn’t work for long. The only cold he was allowed in the cell was the crying obsidian dotting the room, which was deathly cold to the touch.
Dream's stained and rolled up tangerine sleeves were ripped from being burnt in lava, every time he wandered too close to the exit. His breaths were steady as he inhaled in and out, with his eyes shut against his wet cheeks. His hair was partially damp, sweat and water mixed together. Maybe tears, too. Dried blood trailed between his knuckles and beneath his nostrils, rusted crimson against pale skin.
He laid upon the chill ground, his back resting against his chest, stuffed and crammed with books and pens for him to write in and with. Almost all had been filled, and some had been given to him the last time sam replaced his clock. Just the thought of writing again made him want to throw the mechanical object into the fiery abyss, and await for the lava to descend, with the warden behind it.
Then his hands were shaking. Not for any reason in particular. It was just a pattern they had- sometimes they were fine, still and normal. But other times they became erratic and shaking, as if he held on for dear life. His heart would pump faster, and his vision would cloud with black. A fog would form over his mind, numbing him to the core, and he’d become a spectator at his own show.
Times where he didn’t control anything.
Where he’d watch his body from afar in horror as he destroyed everything around him. Kingdoms, nations, relationships, allies. They’d all come crumbling down, not because of him, but because of what resided within him. What evil.
He watched the last time as Sapnap left the prison, with a piece of his heart. He had no control the entire time, watching as his hands wrote down words that didn’t belong to him. And just when he thought he could get control again, over whatever choked his words out, all he could say was a broken ‘yes.’
And just as the tanned man jumped into the water to get transported back, his hands had stopped shaking. And he had then jumped onto sapnap with every fiber of his being, holding on. His nails dug into the younger’s shirt, clinging on for dear life, sobs of desperation escaping him. He buried his face into the shorter’s neck, shivering in the heat, inhaling, trying to memorize the scent of him in the last moments.
He’d lost what little he had left.
Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, he thought, as he felt the man finally disappear in his arms.
And then he sat there, alone again. with those words haunting his mind.
“Dream, if you try to escape this prison, it won’t be Tommy, it won’t be Techno that’ll take your last canon life. If you try, it’ll be me.”
Dream was forced to stare at him, his blood running like ice through his veins, sickness pooling in his gut as the words came out. It stirred, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek, canines digging into the soft flesh.
He remembered when Sam put him in the prison at first. Dream screamed for the first few moments, until his throat was raw and hoarse, begging him to please please please let him out it wasn’t him he wasn’t doing anything. Alas, the pleas fell upon deaf ears. Eventually, the will to thrash and shriek was ripped from him, and he walked silently beside Sam to his cell. A hollow expression fell over him, and his bones turned to fragile ice.
The man had looked at him with an unreadable expression, but Dream could tell his face was crazed with deliriousness and hysteria. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not him. It all started one day, when his soul was invaded by someone who wasn’t him. Something. A foul being, vile, sinking its teeth into him. Ripped the memories of his loved ones piece by piece, using them against him. He dethroned George once he realized the tactics, but he wouldn’t have won anyways.
Just tell me you hate me.
His hands shook again, once the lava descended for the first time. His own prison, which wasn’t even his own. The axe of power he had held was only temporary. It was like a wooden axe, dyed to the color of netherite. Weak, unreliable. Deceitful.
For it weren’t even his hands that held it.
Chanting hummed in the depths of his mind, incomprehensible, yet dangerous. It made him curl up within himself, wanting to be held and seen again. He couldn’t even escape what rested within him, only forced to submit to its will. There were times he’d scream his lungs out at the wall, nearly vomiting at the force. Yet afterwards, the force would always be in his mind. Taunting, unwavering, choking. Words that spilled from the lips of the creature that pooled in his head like blood, falling from his ears, and dripping from his eyes and nose.
Only the small times he could sleep could he escape any sort of connection to what resided within him, dreams whisking him away. Only for minutes, though, until the black arms crawled out from the ground, and dragged him back into the familiar black box he now called home.
Dream sat there, on the obsidian ground. The lava poured, slipping from the heavens above. Outside the prison were the remains of his land, ash and bones of what was before. And somewhere over the grey hills, was a beloved dethroned king with two other men who lived beneath a mushroom. And with every airy breath the brunet took, the blond exhaled soot.