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In all honesty, Sam should’ve realized something was wrong sooner. He had just been so busy, still refurbishing parts of the prison itself, and Quackity wouldn’t stop talking to him about Las Nevadas and whether or not Sam would side with them. Long story short, he had a lot of shit on his plate. But Dream was locked in layers of crying obsidian and netherite, with a Elder Gaurdian’s Curse to top it off. Dream was not escaping out of prison. He wouldn’t harm anyone else, Sam vowed to make sure of it.
—
Turns out he should’ve been more worried about what Dream would do in the prison itself. Or more specifically, what Dream would do to himself.
For Dream, Quackity leaving (something about a man made of slime and a need to focus on his own country) was a godsend. Finally he would get a break from being fucking tortured, but, in a weird way, he treasured it. It was also his only form of social interaction, trapped in his cell. Dream was an extrovert, he loved being around other people. He talked to everyone, whether or not they wanted to be talked to, but he thrived off of social interaction. Fitting how one of the most outgoing people on the server ended up in a locked obsidian cage for crimes nobody thought he (or anyone) was capable of.
Dream didn’t know why he did it. Any of it. Tommy had just barged into his lands, causing chaos and wrecking every rule they put in place to stop crazy people like him ruining the server. Dream was willing to look past the chaos as long as Tommy didn’t get too out of hand, but then he had to go and start a fucking drug empire with Wilbur. Not only that, but they used Dream’s land and materials to do it. Soon the dispute reached into a full blown war, and the beautiful (if a bit weird in places) server was littered with explosions and burned forests. Then L’Manburg made the wall, a bulky, imposing wall made of obsidian and concrete, designed to keep Dream out of what was originally his own fucking land.
He thought taking the discs would keep Tommy in control, but of course, everything gets turned back on him. Everything is his fault. Tommy’s exile, Tubbo’s betrayal, Doomsday, Revivedbur… Nothing Dream did would fix anything, and he’d probably break more attempting to try. But fuck he wanted to do something to help the people he hurt, and a small, tiny, part of himself argued that he had been hurt too. But that was impossible.
He tries not to give in at first. Monsters don’t cry. They don’t get to feel pain when they’ve caused others so much.
Especially not when the lava is burning across the lines of his palm, singeing his hair, boiling, blistering, burning his skin.
Dream’s body lies in the prison for 3 days before Sam finds it.
While Sam was certainly not expecting Dream’s dead body, he especially wasn’t expecting the spiritual being beside it.
What else could Sam do but reintroduce the new Dream to those he had previously traumatized?
Turned out Ghost Dream was quite the hit. He was kind and loving, and nothing like the evil maniac they had come to know. He apologized profusely for everything he had done, even if he didn’t remember, and vowing to do whatever he could to make it up to each person.
Giving Tommy his discs. Watching the bees with Tubbo. Helping Philza fix the damage to his wings. Gambling with Quackity. Laughing with Sapnap. Visiting Kinonko Kingdom. He would write with Ranboo, watching while Michael played nearby.
Everyone loved Ghost Dream.
Except for one person.
Wilbur fucking despised this new version of Dream. It was like a lime green version of Ghostbur, happy and cheery like nothing was fucking wrong on the SMP, like Tubbo didn’t have nukes ready at any moment or Techno was a minor inconvenience away from killing everyone in sight.
Wilbur wanted the real Dream back.
(or at least what his skewed perception of Dream was, since when was the last time Dream really was himself?)
It took days of travel, exhaustion, annoyed sighs, and nearly ripping his own hair out for Wilbur to make any major progress. Dream had bases far and near, and most of his stuff was locked up tight. Hell, if he asked, Ghost Dream would probably tell him where it was, but Wilbur couldn’t risk anybody knowing what he was trying to do. They wouldn’t understand why Wilbur needs someone else who’s sane, or what passes for it in this fucked up world. Someone who understood what needed to be done and wouldn’t let anything stop him from achieving his goals.
Eventually Wilbur turned to the last place on his (relatively small) list, the prison. Pandora’s Vault had been left to collect dust during the “new era of peace” or whatever the hell the others were calling it. A false hope, was all it really was.
An empty symphony.
And so, Wilbur finds what he’s looking for. The Revival Book, or at least, it’s incantations, are pressed between the yellowing pages of Dream’s journal, between ramblings of delusion and cries of pain. Some of the pages stick together with what seemed to be blood, a dark, sticky, red substance that smelled of iron and death. Wilbur doesn’t want to know who’s it is. (He’s pretty sure he knows anyway, if the words on the page are to be believed.) There are teardrops on some pages, often the pages that simply spell out “help” over and over and over again until the paper tears with the amount of ink it's been covered in.
Wilbur convinces Dream to come over, though really all he has to do is smile and ask, Ghost Dream being more than happy to act as a fucking doormat for anyone walking by. Wilbur says the incantation, tying the strings in the proper places, preparing the altar, and killing the ghost that had been ruining his life for the past few months. He attempts to bring back the man that brought him back. An eye for an eye. A revival for a revival.
Sitting in the silence, Wilbur thinks he doesn’t work.
Then a mask steps from the shadows.
Wilbur brings a cruel, violent, broken Dream back into a world that doesn’t want him. A world that hates him. That prefers a ghost over his living form.
It feels like a stab in the gut, over and over again having to look at once was love on his friend’s faces fall and sour into hatred, fear, disgust.
Dream mourns.
For every Dream he has ever been, whether ghost, tyrant, friend, or lover.
For everyone he’s hurt.
For everyone he’s loved, and for a moment pink hair and ruby eyes flash, making him reconsider, but it's all for nothing.
Dream mourns.
When Dream’s body is found again, nobody brings him back.
Ghost Dream is loved.
The real Dream is dead.
(and maybe he has been for a while, since before obsidian walls and burned hands, since before the smell of tnt and golden crowns)
Everyone celebrates with the ghostly form of a man they broke.
[Dream left the game.]