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During all of his experiments with the revival process, Dream had never seen anything like this. With Vikkstar and Lazarbeam, it had been completely different. They had exhibited clear signs of exhaustion, even anger, and told him and Punz the strange and horrific experiences they had in limbo—but it had been nowhere close to what he was witnessing now, as he was finally able to get a good look at the subjects he had been most excited about.
He watches, from a careful distance, spyglass in hand, as Wilbur and Tommy stand in front of what used to be their nation, the nation they had always been willing to die for—and had.
There’s a sense of poeticism to it all, which brings a wry smile to Dream’s face.
There they are. Two rebel soldiers who had been unwaveringly dedicated to the foolish goal of subverting Dream’s control, two brothers who had died and then returned, by his hand, standing over the wreckage of a country they had once loved and died for… A country that had, like them, become overgrown.
It’s peculiar, that particular detail. Dream had noticed it when he made his way throughout the server shortly after his escape, seeing what had changed in his absence.
L’manburg was covered in overgrown vines and plants, reclaimed by the Earth. And now, as he finally is able to get a good look at them, he sees that Wilbur and Tommy are, too. It’s fascinating.
Revival had done that to them—he had done that to them—there is no other explanation for the plants that crawl up their bodies, sprout from their arms and their hair, and rest on their shoulders.
He wonders why these two are different.
Tommy had never been able to grow plants on his body before. Dream knows this for certain. In all of his time watching him, tormenting him, toying with him, he had never once seen anything like this. He would have noticed it before.
Almost wistfully, Dream imagines the ways he could have used this to his advantage during Tommy’s exile—flowers were attachments, surely—but he shakes his head. There’s no use thinking about that now. It will have to wait for later, when Tommy comes home for good.
For now, though, all Dream can do is observe. The temptation to engage nags at him, an ugly, itching thing, but he isn’t prepared for a confrontation right now. He hasn’t figured out how to deal with Wilbur yet, how to approach him. And he wants Tommy to be kept in suspense, for a little while, wondering when Dream will be back. So, as perfect as this moment could be for him to make an appearance, Dream holds himself back. All in good time.
‘Know thy enemy’ is the phrase, is it not? And his enemy has experienced some changes while he was away. There is more to learn. More to know. And so he observes.
Both Tommy and Wilbur, Dream notes with interest, have an abundance of hemlock flowers—umbrella-shaped bundles of small, white flowers, with long, vibrant, branch-like stems and bright leaves—which are quite visible. Dream knows that, despite the innocent appearance of the weed and its resemblance to carrots, hemlocks are poisonous. Deadly, even.
Wilbur has a cluster on his shoulder, sprouting from the bloodied bandage which haphazardly covers his wound, as well as a few littered throughout his hair.
Tommy has a few in his hair, like Wilbur does, but, interestingly, there are a few on his hands. Dream adjusts his spyglass and takes a closer look. There are a few on the backs of his hands, trailing down his arms.
Their placement triggers a memory.
Dream thinks back to their time together in the prison, remembers how Tommy had raised his arms in front of his head in self defense as Dream had hit him repeatedly.
He continues his observation.
Tommy has a few hawthorn blooms nestled in his hair, Dream notices first. They’re pretty little white and pink flowers, which will likely produce berries soon enough. They seem much too soft and delicate for a guy like Tommy, but, as Dream continues his observations, this seems to be the theme.
Dream takes note of a few daisies—one on his arm, a couple in his hair—as well as some bright yellow buttercups buried in his hair and even, ironically, resting under his chin.
He nearly laughs. What a cruel joke nature has played, he thinks with a grin.
There had been a day, once, during his exile, when Tommy had spotted a buttercup flower. Immediately, he plucked it and showed it to Dream, before holding the flower under his chin and asking Dream repeatedly, “Do I like butter, Dream? Do I?”
“What?” Dream had spluttered in confusion.
“Is under my chin all yellow?” Tommy unhelpfully supplied without explanation.
“Uh, yeah…” Dream had replied in a kind of cautious confusion. Whatever game this was, he supposed he would play along. But he would be careful about it.
Tommy grinned. “That means I do like butter, then!” he exclaimed before rushing forward to hold it under Dream’s chin as well.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dream said in a threatening tone, backing up and raising his sword in defense, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Tommy visibly held back a flinch. Dream suppressed a smile.
“Jus’ wanted to see if you liked butter, too,” Tommy had mumbled, dejected and frightened.
Sometimes he forgot the reality of their relationship, that earlier in the day, Dream had made him empty his hard-earned items into a pit only to blow them up in front of him without waiting for Tommy to back up. Sometimes he almost believed Dream wasn’t lying when he said they were friends.
“I already know that I like butter, Tommy,” Dream said, slowly, as if he was reprimanding a child. In his eyes he was.
Tommy sighed. “It’s this thing people do,” he explained, wishing he hadn’t done any of this in the first place, “where you stick it under your chin, and if your chin gets all yellow, it means you like butter.”
Dream shook his head dismissively and said, with a scoff, “That’s stupid.”
He dug a hole and Tommy placed the flower inside without a word.
Tommy also has a variety of mushrooms on his body—some in his hair, some on his shoulders, a few behind his ears, even. Those seem a bit more fitting. Curiously, Dream spots some lavender among the foliage, their purple hue sticking out amongst the other plants. He wonders how those found their way in there.
There are a few plants that he is unable to identify, Dream realizes, his eye twitching at the thought. It’s okay, though, he tells himself. He’ll just have to do some research. He has plenty of time.
His eyes drift from Tommy to his brother.
Wilbur’s plants are different. Vines wrap themselves around the man’s body, as if making a display of his anachronistic nature, like the remains of the nation below. He has a few forget-me-nots in his hair, little purple blue and white flowers that put his desire to be remembered on display for all to see.
There is a mass of brambles and thorns nestled in his hair, wrapped around the other plants that have taken residence there. Dream wonders the logistics of how that works, having thorns on your head. It must hurt a lot, he muses.
Wilbur has some mushrooms, too, but they aren’t the vibrant red and yellow and even purple ones like Tommy’s.
There are some oyster mushrooms—white, gray, and brown mushrooms that grow in wide, flat, fan or oyster-shaped clusters—as well as long, ghastly looking enokis, and even morel mushrooms, which are all shriveled and dark brown (and likely to trigger trypophobia). They cover his arms and seem to nestle in the oddest of places: his hands, his neck, behind his ears—like Tommy, Dream notes.
These dull and, honestly, horrid sights make the flowers Wilbur does have all the more striking. There are a few humble clusters of little yellow rue flowers amidst the brambles and thorns, small glimmers of hope—indicators of vulnerability.
There are a few red star-shaped flowers as well—cypress, his brain supplies—and a single red and yellow marigold. How remarkable.
But why are they different?
The revival process had never resulted in anything like this before, and Dream had tested it on Vikk and Lazar enough times to be completely sure of that. What makes them so special?
Tommy always loved nature. That was obvious about him. Even during exile, he would sit and talk to bugs and watch the flowers grow, and he would coo at any animal that came by, no matter what it was. Dream had noticed this early on, had taken note of it so he could exploit it.
Maybe nature had attached itself to him, Dream thinks, a sour taste in his mouth as he thinks of the word. It didn’t make sense, not entirely, but, then again, neither did the fact that Tommy has plants growing from his body in the first place.
But Wilbur… Wilbur was different. He respected nature, most likely, but it had never been one of his attachments. No, no. His attachments were to L’manburg and to Tommy. They always had been.
Maybe it was a sort of irony, he thinks, maybe it was a sort of curse, a reminder that Wilbur destroys things, that he died, decayed.
Dream isn’t sure.
They really are a sight to behold, these undead boys and their plants. And he did that. It was because of him that they existed at all! It’s amazing.
He wants nothing more than to descend from his hiding place and gloat, asking them both for their thanks, some gratitude for the beautiful things he has given them. For the fact that they are alive right now at all. They owe him.
But now is not the time. There is much more planning to do. Dream knows this. The urge is still there, though, and it’s unshakeable.
Eventually I’ll do it, he tells himself, I just have to be more prepared. First he’ll do some research, identify the plants he wasn’t able to, discover their meanings and purposes and weaknesses, and then he will create a plan. Dream will get Tommy to come back home somehow, and, maybe, this new development can be used to his advantage.
Dream thinks back to the promise he made Tommy, to kill him and then revive him again in a never-ending circle, and he grins wildly, wondering what other kinds of side effects would occur.
He can’t wait to find out.