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Everything of Dream’s went according to plan; while their heads were down, watching the magnetized needle of the compasses, redstone traps were deployed around them. Even the recruitment of a genius like Sam could not deter someone with destruction on the agenda, and the traps and snares meant to help them were turned on their creators with a snag or two in the mechanism, some converted into enemy spies that alerted Dream to their location. Ant was the first to be swallowed up by the inferno, the unhealthy black smoke it breathed turning the day into night. It ignites in the air, cooking them in their rags.
Blown back, the group was separated and weakened. Dream targeted the sickest of the herd, cornering and then swinging at Sam until a bout of smoke claimed his body. The fumes made firing projectiles at the target not worth considering, disabling George’s main method of attack. Slathering his hands with healing salve for the burns leaves his palms slippery, and he nearly drops his knife twice before he can find a steady grip on the knob.
Dream’s cackling could disturb birds out of trees. It bounces around, a backing track to the coals and embers being prodded by the combat boots crunching the kindle of dry grass. George runs to the side, to the depression in the ground that predicts a river further downstream. The floodplain gives him more cover. He slides down the shallow ravine, disturbing rocks. They rain down behind him like a cape.
A scream rings out: Bad’s. It cuts through the air, not the death rattle that would introduce a much kinder death. It’s the only warning he gets before a second explosion occurs, the work of a Molotov or something equally nefarious carried by Sapnap. George is an unintended casualty, first of the shrapnel and then the swoop of combustive air that picks him up and throws him to the ground.
For a second, all he can taste is the sticky residue of blood in his mouth that seals his lips together. When he becomes aware of the pain in his right leg, it sends an electric current flashing through his body. Crying out, he lands in a mangled heap.
“George! Where are you hiding?”
It swells with glee, unable to be contained. He’s probably shaking uncontrollably as he says it.
George presses himself flat to the soil, hoping the thin spatterings of grass might help him avoid detection. He’s under no false presumptions: if he doesn’t remove himself from the situation, he’s going to die. That means going back to spawn.
Had Dream not called for him directly, he might have been able to fool him into thinking the explosion had cost him his life. That opportunity squandered, he has to resist the urge to pass out so he can plan his escape. Down a leg, that means water travel is his best option. If he can follow the river to its delta and make it to the sea, then he could regroup with the hunters back in the plains biome.
Only, he knows Dream won’t stop until he’s got George’s blood on his hands. This wouldn’t be the first time it happened; he’s had unfortunate run-ins where he would be waiting on a respawn from the group, made to run from Dream during a role-reversal when he was low on ammo, in armour that had a desperate need for repair, and knowing that Dream has forged a compass with a stripe of tape labelling it as George’s, which would be used to follow him to the ends of the world and beyond even that. He learned the limits of how fast he could run then, made to listen to the shouts of a mad man as he trekked through hideously overgrown terrain with an empty quiver strapped to his back.
Always singled out, always him that would be hyperventilating as an ender pearl would whiz beside him, followed by a clean swipe to the abdomen that a suit of light armour couldn’t block. He’s grown accustomed to the scratchy throat he’s left with once Dream is done with him
“Georgie’s got himself an admirer,” Ant would say, as he scooped the night's soup into his wooden bowl using the piece of bone they’ve fashioned into a ladle. Around him, the group would snicker.
They, of course, were joking, but even that had enough truth to it to be a convincing taunt. George was the first to get an axe hacked at him, the one in the group infamous for wearing clothes with patches and bad sew work done to make up for the holes torn into the sleeves and pant legs, courtesy of Dream. It was a cross he bore with calloused, bruised hands.
It damns him to the position he is now: one leg broken and bleeding, the other sprawled out with a sprained ankle. The crunch of bone tells him that the last of the hunters has met their untimely demise, leaving him alone. He tries to get up, but finds standing on the break too severe to bear. He nearly opens new wounds in the meat of his thighs with both hands trying to endure it. What’s left behind are nail scratches painting pinstripe patterns into his gear, some pink made visible by the gashes that have cut thread, exposing skin.
Another attempt to get up ends much of the same. He’s got too great of a distance to cover and no means of doing so except to crawl. His hands and knees can’t tread the path that his feet could. He spits out a fat glob of spit, hot and thickened by his adrenaline. Its ichor taste makes him want to dry heave.
As the smoke settles, so does his cover. Ash and soot land around him. A hacking cough gives him away, the consequence of breathing it in as he tries to move. The back of his throat tickles, unable to be cleared. Stifling it by slapping a hand over his mouth is not effective.
The only other living person has found him, as evidenced by their chuckle. In defiance, George casts his eyes down. The tightness in his chest squeezes harder, pronouncing every heart palpitation.
The communicator on his belt is wrestled out from him before he realizes it’s Dream’s target. One stomp reduces it to a mess of electronic parts, his location snuffed out with it. For good measure, Dream scatters them with a kick.
“Well, aren’t you a bird with a broken wing.” Dream braces his arms on his knees, kneeling down to get a closer look. George can’t ignore him any longer. “Can’t fly on this, can you?” One hand jabs at the injured leg, which has a seam torn up the side by desperate hands trying to look at the area of impact.
George lies his head down on the unforgiving rock crop. “Just kill me,” he says, eyes already closed. It’s not a surrender so much as it is a calculated move to cut to the chase. At least, it’s easier to tell himself that.
“You’re not in a position to tell me anything.”
Dream is going to try his patience today, he can tell.
“Just me respawn,” he says, lips barely moving. Behind the shade of his eyelids, the dying sun adds a red hue to the shadows cut by trees and outcrops.
“No,” Dream answers plainly, followed by, “then you’ll be back with them; can’t have that, now can we?”
Dream’s legs hit earth, the jostle of the instruments on his belt being the indicator that raises the blinds in front of his eyes. In lieu of something human, the mask stares back at him with unblinking dots. Unlike most smiles, this one is not contagious. It spells out more bad luck than a broken mirror when it turns to you.
“Say your piece and get on with it.”
“What makes you think I’m going to kill you?”
The remains of lunch flop around in George’s stomach. “Torture isn’t a good look on you, Dream.”
“No, not going to torture you either. I‘d argue I do enough of that as is.”
It’s said like a joke with a clever punchline. George can’t discern if that’s the intent, however. Many thoughts about Dream end with a question mark.
“What, we going to talk like old buddies?” The sneer makes his voice ugly, which is made worse by the mean grin he flashes. “Sorry to tell you this, but you don’t have any friends here.”
“Is that supposed to make me upset?” Under his mask, Dream’s fingers pull on his face. It must be an exaggerated frown he’s making. Or maybe he’s tracing an invisible tear track.
“No, just thought you needed a reality check, seeing as how you’re drawing this out.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want.”
George claws up dirt trying to pull himself away. He doesn’t make it far, fingernails encrusted with a deep layer of dirt by the time Dream steps on the knobs of his spine. While he’s shrieking bloody murder, Dream has begun to straddle his waist, using his weight to anchor George to the ground. A leg and a boot attached to it on either side cinch George’s body in. Any more pressure and it might make him throw up.
“You try that again, and I’ll break your other leg,” Dream threatens. He grinds George’s face into the dirt, plugging his nose with wet earth. “Understand?”
When he gets no response, he pushes George’s head down again, harder this time. George’s teeth cut the inside of his mouth, jaw aching as the force makes him almost choke on his own tongue.
Feebly, he nods. It’s barely noticeable but since Dream is looking, it reaches its intended audience. He’s let go, the hand combing through the curls of hair until it reaches its nape, where it holds on like a mother cat would the scruff of her kitten.
“Now, I wonder what’s in that bag of yours.”
George hears rustling, of canvas being prodded at and the objects inside of it pushing into each other. The zipper is thrown open, squealing the whole way as it is nearly ripped off of the teeth.
“Hope you don’t mind if I take some of these.” The clink of beakers and vials gives away what he’s doing. “Not that you’re going to need much of it.” Hours of brewing time are taken with him.
George is about to damn him, before deciding it’s not worth a mouth of dirt.
Dream must’ve been expecting him to say something, leaving a wide gap where George could have insulted him. When it becomes uncomfortable, Dream searches for something else to hold over his head.
“Oh look, the infamous glasses.” The hinges squeak as the temples are moved. George just barely resists telling him not to touch them.
The centre of Dream’s balance changes as he slides forward, both arms braced beside George’s head as he throws his chin over George’s shoulder.
“How do I look?”
George refuses to humour him, clamping down on his tongue with both sets of teeth. Only after a moment of hard staring, does Dream relent.
“What, lost for words?” A crooked finger comes around and pokes George in the cheek. All George can see when he looks at it is the hand he’s crushed under his boot. Seems Dream has set all of the broken fingers since the last time they met.
“Not gonna waste my breath,” replies George.
“Aw, you think you’re so clever.”
He goes for the bold approach. “You like it, don’t you? That’s the only reason I’m here right now.”
Dream’s hot breath mists the air beside him. “Yeah. You actually play my games. You can be rather stupid at times, but I know it’s just the panic.” The finger curls inward, winding a lock of George’s bangs around it. “I’d love to take you on, one-on-one.”
“I’m not an idiot, Dream.”
Dream laughs under his breath, pulling the strand until George’s head moves back with it.
“One of these days, I’m going to track down where you made your spawn, and I’m going to break every last one of your beds,” Dream threatens.
It’s entirely clear, with no mask to filter his words through to make them impersonal. Those are Dream’s lips at the side of his head, belonging to a face that few have seen, not even the wanted posters.
George tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, but finds it unperturbed. If anything, it’s bigger. He continues staring straight ahead.
“I’d let you run.” Dream shifts. George can swear he feels Dream's forehead press against his shoulder muscles. “I’d chase you to the ends of the Earth. You’d be left for last. I’d make you fight me; make you prove how good you actually are.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Why? Why play with your food?”
The expression gets Dream to blow air out of his nose.
“Well, if you want to look at it that way.”
“You got what you wanted: I’m here. If you’re not going to kill me, I’ll do it myself.”
“See, that’s why I can’t take you with me.”
George bucks up at the thought, prompting Dream to grapple each wrist and hold him down.
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Dream grunts as they struggle, “I would let those hunters grovel to get you back. I’d see how much they think you’re worth.”
“They wouldn’t fall for it.”
“Fall for it?” Dream laughs at him. “It’s not a trick. It’s a test.”
George wants to spit out the warm saliva pooling his mouth. The motion of Dream’s mouth moving against him makes him want to gag.
“Between you and me, they’d always fail,” Dream says. “I’d kill them for it.”
“You’d kill them anyway, and it wouldn’t do a damn thing.” He twists his head to the side. “The crown would send more people after you.”
Dream’s hand releases him for a second, toying with the strap behind his head. The mask is back on. It leers at him, a thin coat of dirt and grime staining the colour off-white. Its appearance pulls George’s eye toward it.
“What’s my crime?”
“What?” George gasps.
“Why do I deserve to die, George? Why are you here?”
He must have missed the wanted poster when he was in George’s bag. He’s got a laundry list of offences to his name, racking up concurrent life sentences that soon were worth more than keeping him alive. Penance won’t come in a cell, it will be in the unmarked grave they throw him in once the coroner has confirmed his death.
“You’re a murderer. An assassin.” George tries to spit at him but falls short. It wouldn’t have made a difference if it landed; shame and humiliation aren’t weapons he can use on Dream. They won’t cut as deep as a sword can.
“And you’re an attempted murderer,” Dream replies. He presses the air out of George’s lungs as he leans forward. “You’re a mercenary, just like me. They just dress it in nicer words. There’s no place in heaven for either of us.”
His windpipe is crushed. George gasps for air, trying to lift himself up but unable to support both of them. The flush on his cheeks graduates from red to purple, a chokehold that doesn’t need his neck to strangle him is working too well.
It’s a slow death, and as much as Dream is one for theatrics, it’s not his style. His murders are statement pieces. It won’t have bruises worn around the necks of corpses.
Unsurprisingly, Dream lets up when George is nearing unconsciousness. George makes the mistake of sucking down air, prolonging his torture.
“You know, I’m a forgiving guy; I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you give this up.”
George grunts. “Why would I do that?”
“We’re a few miles from the independent communes up north. You and me, we could pose as artisans, travel up to another principality and wash our hands of this.” George, in place of words, begins to kick out to protest. Dream quickly apprehends him. “Shut up for a second. You’re just as trapped as I am. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, and you can’t buy out your contract. You return empty-handed and they will make an example of you for the next group of hunters they send out.”
Turning George’s threat on him gives old fears a new wardrobe to try on. There are days when he fears a royal summons will call them back home with an armed escort in tow. It’s only a matter of time before they become impatient.
“No way, I don’t want any part of your schemes. You’re not serious anyway,” George says, putting on a brave front despite the reference to his insecurities.
“Hm, maybe.” Dream puts a lot of thought into sounding convincing, even though the long pause he takes gives away that he’s anything but contemplative. “Maybe my actual plan is to return home and take out the man who put a bounty on my head. That’s a much more productive use of my time.”
Now that’s funny. George can’t keep from cracking a laugh at the absurdity. “You wouldn’t make it two steps in the door.”
Dream joins in on the laughter, rendering the situation humourless. “Who do you think put the hit out on the court? Who hired me? Do you think village folk have the money for that? What would they get out of political instabilities and economic collapse?” He sits back, just above George’s thighs. “Be smarter than that, George. You and your friends won’t live to see the day the king is succeeded if you aren’t careful. When I say we should leave this place, I’m letting you know it’s a better alternative to what I have planned. You could save so many lives just by using that brain of yours.”
George tries to clamp down on the rising panic, firming his lips together until they turn blue. “Thought you said you didn’t have attachments.”
“I don’t, I have advancements. I’m planning for life after the hunt is over. Are you?”
Fighting through the pain of his leg, George throws his upper body to the side so he can roll over. Dream counters it, grabbing the injured knee and angling it to the side.
“I have ideas of my own.” The words churn and foam at Dream’s mouth. “If I can’t leave, then I’m going home. And if you’re not coming, I’m dragging you down with me.” He adjusts his hands, holding George tighter. He’s going to cut the blood flow to George’s fingers if he’s not careful. “You’re not getting out that easily. You’re going to answer for your friends.”
“They--” George gives up on pulling his hands back. “They can answer for themselves.”
“Not if they’re dead, they won’t. You, though, I’ll keep you alive as an enemy of the court. Let’s see how you like it when the world turns on you.”
“I don’t want special treatment.” As if it could even be called that.
He can’t believe he’s entertaining this. There’s no way a wanted criminal like Dream could weasel his way back into the system. Every other block in the capital city’s pavilion has a poster of him with a reward twice one’s yearly income at the bottom. They would empty all of his ammunition into him when he knocked at the gates for entry.
“Do you think I’d let you die?” Dream’s voice sheathes its claws. “You think that’s what I want for you? Half the fun of having you around is the chase.”
“You can’t chase me when I’m in a prison cell.”
“Who says I’m going to lock you away? Not that it would make a difference. I bet less than a month in my shoes and you’d be begging for me to spare you.”
Dream’s mouth comes near again. The mask is knocked back with a dull thump. He’s going to wear the strap thin if he keeps jostling it around like that.
“Now, you can avoid all of that; we can work together, and I’ll make sure you reap the benefits of my return instead of being on the receiving end of them.”
“Fuck off.” He’s not one for swearing, but few other phrases are suitable for the circumstances.
“What’s that?”
“Fuck. Off,” he enunciates. “I don’t care about what you think you’re doing. You’re delusional. You’re sick. You need help.”
Dream is beyond help. For the sake of not worsening the situation, he leaves that detail out.
“Don’t be like that, George.”
He tries to pull his head up so that it doesn’t drag in the dirt. “Why would I ever join you?
“Because,” Dream smacks his lips together, “you need me. You have nothing going for you except the hunt. You’re a nobody who’s going to die young on a hero’s crusade. The people you’re sworn to be loyal to? They’d turn their backs on you in a second. That’s why they need to go.”
“And you think I should be loyal to you? Someone who takes sadistic pleasure in hurting me?”
His hair is pulled again. The lines of George’s arteries bulge out of his neck, fat with blood. “There’s many times I could have sent you back to spawn. I didn’t.”
George scoffs. It takes a lot of effort to make such a simple noise. “That’s supposed to redeem you?”
“Consider it a compliment.”
An unwanted one at that. It makes his mind wander to the instances of having invisible eyes on him, watching his shirt ride up or his fingers pulling back on the drawstring of the bow. He’s always had Dream’s appreciation, and it’s likely what’s fogging his perception right now.
“You don’t want my skills, you just want me.”
Dream comes impossibly close. The fidget in his hands is the only thing keeping him from grabbing onto George. It betrays a nervousness that isn’t apparent elsewhere.
“Who wouldn’t?” he whispers, a confession meant only for George.
The confirmation makes his sensory network of information flood with readings about how Dream is right there, sharing body heat with him, holding George in a compromised position. His admitted weakness is only revealed to take advantage of George’s, to have him in a way he couldn’t before.
“Get away from me,” he almost shouts. “Leave me alone.”
He almost regrets saying it, not because the words aren’t true but because the silence that stretches long after is more uncomfortable than reading an obituary. Few people take rejection well, and most of them aren’t assassins or mercenaries. This might be what pushes Dream over the edge. Bracing the edge of steel or diamond, the muscles in his neck stiffen up.
Instead, his hair is released. The strands pulled loose are shaken away.
“Have it your way then.”
Hands travel down his body, following the shape of his waist under the tattered clothes. It’s there they find weaponry, confiscating an axe, sword, and a bow.
They’re used for fuel in a fire started by the mushy soil near the marshes, to ensure it doesn’t spread beyond where the creator wants it to go. Their charred remains render George defenceless, with nothing to turn on his opponents or himself.
With the added weight gone, he’s able to sit up on his elbows and clear his face, wiping the loose debris and smears of mud that stripe his right cheek. He’s unsuccessful at maneuvering his lower half, no doubt because Dream has caused further injury to him by playing with his broken toy. It turns him into a captive audience.
“Dream?”
The clasps on Dream’s straps titter. He’s strapping up. The potions he robbed from George are tied to his belt, corks in to prevent any of the fluid from escaping. His arsenal has grown twice in size from the encounter. In trying to ambush them, they’ve only succeeded at making the threat more formidable.
Once he’s sure George is looking, he turns his whole body to him.
“How long do you think it will take your friends to find you? After all, the compass is for me, not for you.”
As he’s contemplating Dream’s words, he comes back. Walking over, his boots sink into the ground. It bows to him, seeping watery tears as he nears.
With two fingers, he lifts George’s head by the chin. “You want to know what it’s like for me to leave you alone? Let’s turn this into a teaching moment; let’s see if you truly know what you want.”
“Where are you going?” George can’t help but ask.
The head cocks to the side, greasy blond hair slipping out from the hood’s protection. “I’m leaving, George. Isn’t that what you wanted? You can find your own way back.”
On a broken leg? Fat chance. He’d sooner become victim to the creatures of the wood, who couldn’t promise a death quick enough when the word mercy kill is not in their vocabulary. It’s then he understands what Dream is trying to do.
Dream drops his head, George’s chin screwdriving into the ground. The impact releases a sharp pain up through his jaw. The worst of it is just above his incisors, which slammed into his bottom teeth with enough force to fracture them at their roots.
“Dream!” he cries out, as the other man walks away. “Kill me first!”
While continuing to move, Dream partially turns his head back to him. What’s seen of the mask glowers back at him, a solid shield to hide behind.
“What did I tell you? I don’t murder without reason. But if I were you, I’d think about my offer. Maybe you need me more than you think.”
“I don’t need you!”
“And I don’t have to help you, George!” he caws. Arms held out, wide open, he walks backwards with a swagger to his step. “But I can make you wish I did, so don’t come crying to me when you need a friend.”
His axe noisily clattering by his hip, Dream turns around and disappears into the coverage of the forest, swallowed up by the absence of light within the depths of the growth. Once he’s gone, George tries again to take to his feet, only to buckle under the force gravity exerts on his body. It hurts too much to make his feet move him. The only option is to crawl.
With the night approaching, danger is imminent. He’s at the mercy of whatever else is in these fields, many of whom hiss and spit to announce their presence. If he’s lucky, he’ll be dead before morning; hopefully, what finds him will be a creeper, not a zombie or skeleton. They would bring a slow, messy death that would infect his open wounds pulled on by dull teeth. But it’s not like he can change the outcome. Whatever cards fate deals him a hand of are going to be the one he plays with.
If it’s part of Dream’s plan to draw this out, then he’s about to accomplish that too. The only thing George won’t give him the satisfaction of is taking the easy way out.