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Dream lay on the cold floor of his cell, shivering despite the glowing heat to his left. The lava popped and bubbled, it's warm hands clawing their way towards Dream. But even its heat couldn’t rid his bones of the cold in them. He had no strength left to get up, or raise a hand to defend himself or even turn his head.
Quackity’s silhouette stood framed by the lava, his suit covered in Dream’s blood, that darn netherite axe in his right hand, the sword in his left. His knuckles were bloody today, having used them first; yelling something about revenge and Tommy. Yes, Dream had beaten Tommy to death but he had made sure that it was quick. He had aimed carefully, despite everything between them, despite his desire to understand death itself he hadn’t wanted to hurt the boy more.
Red trickled into his eyes, making them sting and forcing them shut. He was the villain. He deserved this pain. There are some things that no one else on this server should have to bear. This was his struggle, it was his role to be the bad guys.
The sound of pistons made him force his eyes open, Quackity stood beside Sam on the other side of the lake of lava. Black betrayal crept up Dream’s spine as he looked at Sam. He understood Quackity’s anger, but Sam was one of his oldest friends, the creeper hybrid a surrogate father to Dream after Bad. What made it all the worse was that Sam never met Dream’s gaze, he hardly ever looked at Dream. Quackity had been in his cell everyday for the last 3 weeks, he had done nothing to help Dream or even stop Quackity.
Today had been particularly bad. Quackity had smelt of firewood and vanilla when he had entered. Sapnap’s distinct scent, and from the look in Quackity’s eyes the conversation had not been a good one.
Dream’s mask lay on the ground a meter away, a long crack running through it. The pristine white was now splattered with red. His own blood. Dream was no longer scared of Quackity, the fear that had ripped its way out his throat on the first visit was locked deep inside of him now. Only quite anger remained.
Only Dream knew that silent anger was far more dangerous than explosive rage. Quiet anger furled itself around a persons’ heart, crawling up their spin into their brain, whispering words into their ears. Silent anger was manipulative. Unpredictable. Far more dangerous.
Evil is above all things seductive. But what was evil? Was Dream evil? Was Quackity? Was Wilbur? Was Tommy? How was good and evil defined? Who defined who was who?
“You don’t care about your own pain Dream, but believe me I will get that fucking book from you!” Quackity yelled over the lava. His voice rumbled with furious thunder, sending battleship grey bolts into Dream’s ears, “I know your weakness.”
The gentle patter of liquid, was barely hard over the pistons as the lava descended. It took a long time before Dream could even muster the energy to sit up, his back pressed against the wall. His legs wouldn’t support him if he stood up. Part of him was glad that there was no way to see his reflection. He looked positively dead, black eyes, cuts across his torso and legs, aimed at ligaments to ensure he wouldn’t bleed out but would cause him the most amount of pain.
Dream had stopped screaming for Sam after three days of Quackity’s ‘visits’, the man never stepped in, not even after three weeks of constant pain. He no longer felt the pain, his mind was never present anymore when Quackity came. Part of him begged himself to give up, to give Quackity what he wanted. But the stronger side of Dream never allowed him too. His pride, his hubris.
He remembered all those months ago when George had called him Achilles. Dream was driven by his insatiable pride. Tommy had hurt that, so he had gone after the boy out of anger and embarrassment. But he knew his deal with Schlatt. Both of them knew there were darker things than them. Some secrets belonged to him alone, death and darkness were old friends.
Better from him to bear them. Better for people to hate him if it meant keeping them safe. Dream knew he could have gotten away from being imprisoned, but what damage might that have caused? He couldn't give Quackity the knowledge he wanted, Quackity was broken enough as it was, he could let that shadow sit on the young man’s shoulders.
Dream let his eyes close slowly. Achilles had never felt the weight of fate on his shoulders, he had fought for himself and Patroclus, not some greedy king. That was what Dream had done until Wilbur’s death, he had fought for George and Sapnap and his home. Defending his honor and pride from the shadows. But after Wilbur, Dream was trapped under the weight of a great secret.
Dream was Atlas now, locked in chains and beneath the weight of the world. He could never escape. He was feared and hated.
Dream slipped into the dark, bottomless abyss, the feeling of falling now so common he let it happen. “I’ve always liked the villains of the story,” a familiar voice said from beside him. Dream focused on Wilbur who was sitting opposite him, a pen between his lips, his intelligent brown eyes never looking up from his solitaire puzzle. In front of Dream lay a chess board, pieces scattered across it, as if a game was in motion.
“A hero would sacrifice the one he loved to save the world,” Wilbur waved a hand at the chess board towards the white Queen, who was unmistakably Tommy his shaggy hair and music disc's carved into the stone. Behind Tommy sat the white king, who was represented as Tubbo; long hair with a bee in hand.
Now Wilbur met his gaze, he pointed at the black King and Queen, “A villain would set the world on fire if anything hurt the one he loved,” his hand hovered over the black Queen who wore a smiley mask and the black King who had clout goggles on. “Then again, a villain is just a hero whose story hasn’t been told. If you read the villain’s story you may not find the hero was a heroic as they used seem.”
Dream looked at the chess board, his chess board, his game. Every member was here. The black knight who wore a bandanna stood proudly next to the black bishop who held a book that had a swirl on its shirt.
The two white knights stood away from the rest of the white pieces. One wore a crown and a cloak, while the other had magnificent but torn wings.
The second black knight wore an amulet and a hoodie. He faced off against the white castle wearing a creeper mask.
Dream's eyes slid over to two pieces that sat to the side of the board, as if they had been taken by one of the players. A white bishop wearing a beanie and a cardigan and a black pawn holding a bottle dressed in a torn suit.
“When a pawn reaches the other side of the board they may bring a piece back.” Wilbur bemused as he looked at a white pawn one step from the last line of the black’s side. The white pawn wore a smaller crown and sunglasses.
“Isn’t it interesting that despite the Queen being the most dangerous player on the board, the game ends when a king is put in checkmate? I suppose that a Queen is far too powerful to be defeated on their own and thus their weakness must be exploited.” Wilbur smiled, his fingers brushing over Tubbo and George’s stone heads.
His hand then hovered over the other white castle, this one too wore a crown and held a book, but it's right half was coloured slightly grey. This figure stood alone on the board away from all the other mini conflicts. It sat perfectly in the middle of the board, exactly in the middle of the two Queens.
Wilbur smiled at Dream, who couldn’t say a word. He and Wilbur had been at this from the first moment L’manberg had been founded. The issue was that each was playing a different game, neither could beat the other at his own game. Each refused to play the other's game, neither wanted to fight on the others turf, not after so long mastering their skill at their own game.
Distant yells dragged at the back of Dream’s mind, sending the chess board and Wilbur’s dark expression spinning into darkness. His eyes refocusing on the lava in front of him. He used the wall to push himself to his feet. He knew hours must have passed, his wounds had scabbed over but a few ripped open again as he moved his bruised, broken joints. Horrible cracking noises filling his ears as they vibrated inside him.
Sam and Quackity both knew his face, there was no need to scramble for his blood splattered mask. Dream would not beg. No part of him would allow himself to. That hubris and stubbornness would stay with him, even until his death.
He was the master of death. Not Quackity.
To deal with the dead, you must give up a part of yourself. You must give up your humanity. Death is never the hero in any story. Death is always classed as the villain, even when death’s kind embrace gives relief to a person’s suffering. Death is cursed and feared. So was Dream.
Dream didn’t look up at Quackity as he heard the piston’s approach. He took those few precious seconds to craft his face into neutrality, he would not show pain, only quiet, turbulent anger. Quackity’s laughter filled his ears, so close but a second pair of footsteps accompanied him, Dream froze as he remembered Quackity’s words the day before.
His weakness.
Dream snapped his head up, to his horror looking into a pair of clout goggles. Dream didn’t hesitate. He would never hesitate when it came to George. He didn’t care that Quackity held a sword and axe and was in armor. He threw himself at the man.
Hurt me! Hurt me, not George his mind screamed.
It was the first time he had fought back in weeks, after his last desperate, foolish attempt had left him in such a state that Sam had to drop strength potions to keep him alive.
Dream caught sight of Quackity's triumphant smile before his bloody fist connected with Quackity’s face, Dream’s already shattered bones in his hand, sending bolts up his nerves as he collapsed to the ground panting heavily.
“Dream!” Came the horrified gasp, Dream was on his knees before Quackity, too broken and in pain to move. He looked pathetic. But when he looked to George he didn’t see the horrified look that was painted on his pale face being directed at his own injuries. Instead it focused on Quackity’s freshly broken nose that now had a droplet of blood sliding over his lip and past his bruised jaw.
“I thought you had changed. I thought I could bring you back...” George said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked at his fallen friend. Dream opened his mouth to explain but only fresh blood poured out, making George take a step back in disgust.
Disgust.
George had never looked at him that way before. “People grieved Tommy you know. For two days they grieved him. People asked how I felt. You know what I said, Dream?” He took a breath, before tearing off his goggles so green eyes met brown.
“I told them that they were lucky! How do you grieve someone who isn't dead? MY Dream… MY Dream died months ago. A different person now moved the body...” George gasped for breath as if he was under water. His voice cracked as he continued, “The man in this prison is not the man I met all those years ago. He is not the man I loved!”
Dream’s fractured, beaten heart shattered into a million pieces. And so too did Dream himself break. He couldn’t even speak as George walked back towards the lava; not looking at him, murmuring to Quackity he wanted to go now.
The one-eyed man smiled, tipping Dream’s head up as he silently drew the axe from his belt, letting it hover behind George’s neck, the colourblind boy unaware as he started at the lava, typing into his communicator. His lips brushed Dream’s ear. “He means nothing to me, Dream. Not anymore. He is expendable.” Hot breath rushed into Dream’s ear, “But he is everything to you. Such a pity if I don't get what I want.... you will not be there to protect him outside of here. We come here often, you know. George likes me to come with him when we come here, back to the lovely cottage he made.” A quiet, harsh laugh hit Dream.
“It's a long way back to Kinoko Kingdom. Long enough for a tragic accident to happen...”
Dream pushed himself up, raising his fist but a voice made him freeze, “Please Dream! Please!” George begged, tears carving scars into his face, “If I ever meant anything to you. If a tiny part of you is still in there. Please don’t hurt my friend”.
Dream lowered his fist. Wilbur was right, a hero like Tommy had to put Tubbo second. But a villain like Dream would watch the world burn around him for George, to make George smile.
The two of them left hurriedly, Sam as usual not looking at Dream. As the lava fell leaving Dream to collapse to the floor, yet again lying in a crusty puddle of his dried blood. He closed his eyes against George's harsh words, how his heart ached to scream that everything he had done, he had done for him.
“I was once your friend too, Georgie.”