Chapter Text
The sun shines weakly from a gray-cast sky, the sort of light that pierces the eyes and makes one want to hide from everything.
A man stands in the ailing light, wearing a mask like armor. He seeks peace, quiet, an escape. A gentle reprieve from battles that are not his.
Sunlight glints off a well-polished blade; its owner stumbles back, once, twice, then falls. He vanishes with a dull thud into the tall, springy grass without disturbing the sanctuary. A tiny butterfly flits to a new flower, ignorant of the pitfalls of man. He shades his eyes from the sun’s glare and drinks in the silence. Conjured images of past battles play through his mind as he watches a lark circle overhead. Held loosely in his grasp, the weapon more infamous than he sits forgotten for the first time in years.
The meadow is hidden in a forest, far from civilization. Few were brave or foolish enough to venture beyond the mountains, so far from the sea and her cities. Here, between the dewy grass and soft breeze, is the peace of solitude.
Unfortunately, there is a disturbance here today.
The man closes his eyes against the glare, hand draped haphazardly across cool porcelain. Caught up in fluctuating memories, he fails to recognize foreign movement.
Fortunately, it is the shuffling of little feet over grass, tip-toeing around daisy patches with almost reverent care.
The fallen warrior lies silent and hidden, blissfully unaware of the tiny blessings approaching him. A slight rustle and he is instantly upright and ready for battle, falling so easily into the mindset of the blood-stained weeper. Stillness meets his hawk’s gaze and he reminds himself that if he remains this paranoid he will become everything he swore not to. Convinced of his solitude, he deliberately lays himself back down. This place is peaceful. Silent.
Two boys pop up over him, like trampled daisies in easy synchrony.
The man is caught between instincts: attack or run, fight or flight. They slipped past his senses, surely they are dangerous. Wait, are those … children? To this man’s rusty eyes, humans young and old blended together like spilled paint, swirling to form something at once ugly and beautiful. To a well-adjusted person, the differences were readily apparent.
The boy on the left leaned toward his brother and whispered, not at all quietly, “Do you think he’s homeless?”
“Tommy, you know it’s rude to assume. But yeah, probably.”
The warrior, nonplussed and more than a little confused, coughed gently to remind the boys that he could, in fact, hear them. They immediately pulled back as if they hadn’t been furiously whispering about him. The first one to speak puffs out his chest, looking rather like a kitten trying to prove that it is worthy of more respect than gentle cooing.
His brother glances sideways at him, not bothering to hide his amusement. Five months’ superiority gives him enough self-awareness to know better but too little wisdom to bother restraining his brother’s antics.
“Oi!” Tommy squints at the newcomer. “Who are you?”
The stranger makes no move to rise. His blank face stares back, but they are curious in their ignorance, not fearful.
Emboldened by the lack of response, Tommy takes a confident step forward. Even sitting down, this strange man is nearly as tall he is standing up.
“Why are you here?” he demands in that endearingly entitled Tommy way. “This is our field to play in.”
“Yeah! Get your own,” Tubbo contributes, confident that their words will drive the foreigner to retreat.
The stranger sits perfectly still. Really, with his unnatural stillness, he might as well be a rock instead of a man. Tubbo observes idly that his body is dark and shiny like a beetle’s exoskeleton or his dad’s rusted sword.
Tommy sniffs, bored by the lack of response, and turns to bother his brother instead. “Why’d you drag me out here, anyway? There’s nothing to do!” He punctuates his protest by prodding Tubbo in the ribs.
“Stop!” Tubbo smacks his hand away. “And yes, there is. Look!” He gestures grandly in front of them.
Tommy wrinkles his nose. “It’s just a field, Tubbo.”
“No, it isn’t. Come on!”
Tubbo grabs his brother’s arm and yanked him away from the statue that had served as a brief thirty seconds of entertainment.
It stares disconcertedly after them, then decides it is too early for hallucinations and returns to its reminiscence.
Tubbo drags Tommy resolutely toward a cluster of trees at the edge of the forest, ignoring his grumbling. Predictably, they devolve into squabbling before the half-way mark and end up wrestling in the dew-soaked grass.
“Just let me show you what I found!” Tubbo shouts, elbowing him in the side.
“Nope!” Tommy breaks out of his hold and stumbles away. “You gotta catch me first.” He turns and runs back across the meadow, Tubbo chasing after.
Delighted at having managed to rile up his usually docile brother, Tommy shouts loving insults behind him as he runs. He dodges and weaves through the tall grass, unconsciously heading back the way they came, back toward the stone-silent man.
So far away from civilization, Tommy and Tubbo’s father had never seen the point in teaching his sons the dangers of unknown strangers. Even if he had, Tommy wouldn’t have listened.
Behind him, Tubbo increases the pace, dashing forward to clutch at the back of Tommy’s shirt. He yelps and ducks sideways, dodging back around the still figure. Tubbo digs his heels in to slow down and chase after him. The figure watches them weave circles around him, darting back and forth, sparring verbally as much as physically. Suddenly Tubbo takes his shot, dashing to the right in a gamble to catch Tommy, who promptly decides that circles are too mainstream for his taste. Instead he takes a running leap and plants his hands on the stranger’s back, vaulting over him with what would be impressive ease if he didn’t trip immediately after. Tubbo snickers loudly as he flounces over and taps his forehead.
“Got you!” He announces gleefully. Tommy pouts and lets himself be dragged away, bemoaning the horror of having to watch the bees with Tubbo again.
Neither noticed the way the foreigner reached for his blade.
Tense as a bowstring, Dream watches the children wander off again, hand still clenched tightly around the handle of the axe at rest beside him. He grits his teeth and forces himself to relax, unwinding his fingers and fragile instincts one at a time. He had flinched horribly when the louder of the two thoughtlessly vaulted over him, once again triggering that time-worn, awful impulse to fight.
Dream keeps a closer eye on them this time, determined not to be startled again. Matching sunshine-yellow heads bob and weave just about the tall grasses, gentle bickering fading to barely audible murmurs as the reach the forest’s edge. He has done his best for so long, but these tiny, fearless children have nearly brought this powerful warrior to his knees by their enjoyment alone. Memories that had been violently repressed for so long—whether out of respect or fear—come crashing down upon him.
Dream balances lightly on his toes, watching his opponent bring his heavy blade to bear. His breath crystallizes in the frosty air, blinding white earth bringing sharp clarity to his vision. The moment he moves, the sword slashes horizontally, fast as lightning and filled with power. Instead of dodging or rolling underneath, Dream leaps up and braces his feet on its flat edge, and for a split second, the world freezes as he balances. Then the blade twists, but Dream takes a second leap, bracing his hand on a broad shoulder and tucks his body into a roll. He somersaults easily over his opponent and, for a little extra flair, lets out his signature grating laughter.
His sparring partner whips around with a snarl, eyes burning red beneath his bone mask, just as riled up as Dream planned. Anything to ruffle the pig’s aristocratic feathers.
The real world returns slowly. Snow melting into soft grass, clouds filling up clear blue sky. He thinks he can still hear the exchange of barbed words that served as their conversation for minutes after, until he remembers the brothers in the distance. Getting to his feet, Dream briefly mourns his quiet afternoon before moving to follow the troublemakers. Familiarity breeds affection just as easily as fear.
He finds them at the edge of the forest, just in time to witness Tommy dramatically aim a slingshot that he had not been carrying earlier at a golden-spiraled beehive hanging from a tree branch. Tubbo shrieks and dives at him, but he’s too late. The leather band launches a smooth stone through the air. All three of their heads turn to track its arc, watching it sail far too low to hit its target and ricochet off the trunk. Right at Dream.
After all these years, he really can’t help it. His survival depends on instinct, his body’s ability to respond to threats faster than his brain can comprehend them. Still, he might have saved himself a lot of trouble if he had just let the rock glance off his mask. Instead, he catches it. The clearing goes silent.
“That was so cool!”
Tommy would never let himself be called a fan boy, but who can blame him if his heart thuds just a little faster when the stranger busts out some impressive reflexes. And maybe he’s trying to distract Tubbo from his attempted bee-murder, but really, it’s the thought that counts.
“Show us how you did that!” he demands. Tubbo nods in agreement.
“Yeah, how did you move so fast?” He squints, suddenly suspicious. “Did you steal a bottle from the rack that Dad says we’re not allowed to touch?”
The strange man shakes his head and, with a gentle overhanded throw, tosses the rock back to Tommy. He seems to hesitate for a moment, but Tubbo gestures for him to move along, Tommy adding, “Show us! Show us!” and reloading his slingshot. The stranger shakes his head quickly, hands hovering protectively in front of his face. The boys watch, enraptured, as he breaks a young branch off of a half-grown sapling. He hesitates for a second time, but they are quick to encourage him; now that he’s actually caught their interest, they won’t let him back out.
Dream grips his impromptu prop with both hands and considers his life choices. He really shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t think of any other way to communicate what they want to hear. At least this option is educational and certainly less dangerous than the truth. He pivots on his left foot, falling into a fighting stance, raising his “sword”, and talking a few experimental swipes at an invisible enemy.
His audience ooos appreciatively.
It’s not hard to slip into a rhythm, to practice his art like a dance instead of a slaughter. To imagine a partner matching him step for step, slash for slash.
Which is why he understandably flinches when Tommy is suddenly right there.
“You have to show us how you do that.” It’s very clearly a command, not a request.
At this point their total lack of self-preservation is just impressive. Something about this tiny child standing in front of a hardened combatant, hands on his hips and demanding lessons—his childish confidence appeals to something warm in Dream’s chest, a feeling of camaraderie buried under the years of bloody battles.
This is not what Dream intended, not at all, but somehow, the children coerce him into showing them proper grip and form and all the things he was taught when he was no older than they are now. It makes him feel an uncomfortable sort of nostalgia, an itch spreading under his skin. He crosses sticks with Tommy, and the kid’s stronger than he expected. Given a few years of training under a good teacher, he’ll make a warrior not to be trifled with. But then he turns and yells something derogatory at his brother, and then they are fighting each other. Dream marvels at his trust, his willingness to turn his back to a stranger, an enemy.
These are children, he realizes. These are children, young enough not to care if the sun doesn’t shine like it should.
Tubbo keeps locking his knees and elbows, and Dream is so frustrated his aborted signs and gestures turn into him metaphorically washing his hands of their training. He leans against a tree and watches Tommy and Tubbo playfully spar instead.
Eventually the brothers join him, pleasantly exhausted by their romp. They lean against each other, perched on smooth, moss-covered rock. Dream searches the skies for the lark and listens to them breathe, deep and easy.
Tubbo hops off the rock and bounces over to a patch of white flowers, presumably admiring the black and yellow insects buzzing around them. Dream hovers uncertainly, not quite sure what to do with himself now that the impromptu lesson is over. Tommy pats the space on the rock next to him, and, when the stranger fails to notice, tugs impatiently on his cloak. Dream catches the implication and sits down. Keeping his eyes on Tubbo, he taps his fingers on his leg, the rock, anything he can reach.
“They never sting him, you know. Don’t know why. Must be cause he’s got that whole blond hair, blue eyes thing. They’ll definitely sting me.” Dream nods absently, watches as Tubbo plucks a few flowers and lays them out in order, fidgeting with the stems.
“—and if I could control the bees, well, the world would have to watch out for Tommy Innit, now wouldn’t it?”
Dream chokes.
“I would be so powerful, and create the biggest empire yet!” Tommy continues monologuing, oblivious to his audience’s newly acquired lung problems. Dream can’t help it. It’s been so long since he laughed, a true laugh, not a facade to frighten his enemies or a tool to lead on his allies. His true laughter is neither mysterious nor terrifying; instead of dancing above the mortals, he doubles over and shakes apart, years of rust crumbling under the weight of a child’s honesty.
A very long time ago, long enough for the coast to shift its line and the great forests to become deserts—centuries before these children were born, Dream’s friends described his laugh in myriad of ways; a rusty harmonica, they would cry, or a kettle giving off steam. The children don’t break into raucous laughter; no, their response reminds him of someone else. No friend of his, but perhaps an ally, once.
Tubbo, having reappeared next to the rock in the time Dream spent with his head between his knees, hums, “Are you gonna die?” in that matter of fact way children have.
“If he does, dibs on the axe!”
Tommy makes to dive for the weapon, glinting ominously in the afternoon light, but Dream catches him around the waist in a gentle hold more startling to himself than the boy. Still, Tommy is nothing if not persistent, and he manages to wrap his little fingers around the hilt anyway. It’s clear that he could barely lift the axe, never mind wield it, but Dream softly pries his fingers away and flicks his forehead in reprimand.
Tubbo is untroubled by the ruckus, seemingly used to adults wrestling Tommy away from sharp objects. He taps Dream’s arm until the mask turns toward him, Tommy still in the midst of the requisite struggling one must perform before acknowledging defeat. Satisfied that the funny man’s attention is on him, Tubbo produces a tangled bundle of what probably used to be flowers, now looking more like a bird’s nest than anything else.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Tommy huffs, and Dream lets him go, deeming him sufficiently distracted.
“I wanted to make a flower crown, like Dad does sometimes.” He dangles the knotted plant stems in front of them. As an aside to Dream, “He likes puts them on the statue of the lady behind our house. He talks to her sometimes too, mostly about us.”
“I don’t think he knows that statues can’t hear,” comments Tommy.
“I dunno. He’s never sad, but he does get this look in his eye sometimes, like, like—“ Tubbo struggles for a moment, but eventually gives up. “At least he doesn’t expect her to talk back.”
High above, the clouds finally break open, sunbeams stained pink and marigold as their source dips toward the western horizon. Dream has seen many a fantastic sunset, but he finds he prefers watching the colors shift and meld with a little company. The boys prattle on, occasionally prodding Dream for affirmation, content with his gentle hums in lieu of speech. Just as the evening stars begin to twinkle, Tubbo tugs on Tommy’s wrist and announces that they need to go home.
“You will come back here, right?” Tommy stares up at him. Dream finds he can’t shy away from that innocent, expectant gaze. He would balk if rough hands forced his eyes anywhere, never one to tread the beaten path, always forging his own, but if soft, little hands had touched his face and entreated him to look as he does now, all the fight would leave him. Dream knows his own behavior is carved so deep in stone that he could not change even if he tried. As always, instinct is his guide, and his instinct tells him to agree. He nods.
Tommy grins, exhaustion sanding off the sharp edges and leaving him sleepily content. Tubbo pulls him away, and Dream stands to watch them go. They only make it a few yards before Tubbo is rushing back to him.
“Sorry,” he looks at the ground, ears turning pink. Dream can’t imagine what he could be apologizing for. “Dad tried to teach us manners, but we never had anyone to practice on, and Tommy’s really bad at it, and anyway we thought we already knew everyone important—“
Dream places a hand on his shoulder, and he cuts himself off before taking a deep breath and looking Dream in the eye as well as he can through the mask.
“What’s your name?”
Abruptly, Dream’s legs decide he should be sitting down for this.
Nobody has asked him that in so long. Infamy has rendered him unable to give his own account, always preceded by his own reputation. Even his dearest called him by many an epithet before he offered them his true name. By habit, his hands flow to shape the familiar symbol, but he knows the boy can’t understand him. It never occurred to him not to tell; no, that question is long settled. Only one method will do, and, consequences forgotten, his mouth is moving before his mind can protest, unpracticed lips stumbling over what should be so familiar.
“Dre—Dream.”
Tubbo smiles and gives him a sort of half bow. “It’s nice to meet you, Dream.” Etiquette mollified, he skips back to his brother, blissfully unaware of the monumental thing he has just witnessed: a voice not heard for centuries, finally freed to ripple in the twilight air. The brothers twine their arms together and leave him to listen to its echo.
Safely hidden behind his mask, Dream shakes his head in wonder and watches them dance more than run back to their cozy little home.
The brave and foolish indeed.