Chapter Text
“The words with which a child’s heart is poisoned, whether through malice or through ignorance, remain branded in his memory, and sooner or later they burn his soul.”
- Carlos Ruiz Zafón
***
When Dream had escaped prison, he had expected everything to be the same as it used to be. Sure, the whole world was against him now, but when hadn’t they been? It was nothing new, nothing that he couldn’t handle. An easy bargain, a price that he was more than willing to pay for his freedom.
And he really should have been fine, all things considered.
Because he was finally out. He had finally escaped. He had gotten to see the sky for the first time in over a year and once he had stumbled out of the arctic, where Technoblade had stranded him, all he could do was spin in circles, desperately taking it all in. There were so many colors, shades of blue and yellow, of green. He didn’t realize how much he had missed the greens; missed the way that the grass felt on his feet, how the trees swayed in the wind. The simplicities of life. Mundane little things that he used to take for granted.
He had spent his first hours of freedom lying in a field, simply admiring the beauty that surrounded him. It was only once the adrenaline had worn off that he was reminded of the sharp pain in his side, the blood that had been spilling out from his body onto the grass around him, staining his precious green.
Pain was one of the things that the prison had taken from him.
It had taken all of his energy to pull himself to his feet, shivering despite the heat. One stumbling step after another, he had made his way across the land, gritting his teeth when it became too much, even for him. His thoughts had long ago blurred together, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Dream remembered that Punz was safe. Remembered that he needed to get to him.
Dream didn’t know how much time had passed, maybe minutes, maybe days, when he saw the tower, a dark line silhouetted against the blue backdrop of sky. It drew him in with its promise of safety, and he lurched towards it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it seemed familiar, but he was well beyond the point of rational thought. As he neared the edge of the clearing, he tripped over a root, his hands too slow to properly catch him as he tumbled towards the ground. He heard a snap, and then pain erupted from his wrist, white hot and burning. This time, he couldn’t stop the tears that formed in the corners of his eyes
Pulling himself back up, Dream cradled his newly broken wrist against his chest. It was nothing compared to Sirs’ punishments. Nothing compared to the agony that he had been forced to endure, and so turning his sights to the closest building, its perimeter a simple oak square, he stumbled on. Again, Dream couldn’t say how much time had passed, but eventually his feet hit the wooden floor and he lowered himself to the ground. He bit down on his cheek as he accidentally put his weight on the broken arm, the metallic taste of blood rushing into his mouth.
Looking around, Dream realized that he was in some sort of storage shed. There were chests pushed against the walls, and a crafting table next to the door. It was perhaps the first good thing that had happened to him in months, and he brought up his ragged edge of his sleeve to wipe the moisture that was forming his eyes.
With a shaking hand, he managed to open one of the chests, uncovering a stack of bandages and a bottle of water. He had to sit against the wall to catch his breath again, before carefully pressing the bandages around his side. There were other injuries, of course, but none of them were life threatening. Only painful, and so he would live.
As the blood from his wound slowed, Dream’s head began to clear. It was then he realized his mistake. Because he was in Logsteadshire. He had run to perhaps the only place that Tommy would think to look for him. He remembered that Tecnhoblade had let him keep the sword, but at some point during his half-delirious journey, he had lost it. He had managed to lose his once chance at survival, his one shot at life.
Unless…
Dream vaguely remembered something that Sir had mentioned in passing. How the Ax of Peace had been hidden away, after it had been used to defeat him. Buried in the very same place that he now lay dying. It was his last shot. His final chance at survival. Because Tommy was coming, that much was clear, and he of all people wouldn't show mercy. Wouldn’t give Dream a fair chance, not that he would deserve one
His functional hand shook even worse as he pushed himself back to his feet, but Dream was determined to live. He just had to figure out where Tommy had put it, where he would have thought it would be safe.
Once upon a time, it would have been easy. Dream tried his best to ignore that though.
Still, it only took him a few minutes to find the uneven patch of dirt, a few more to break through the surface. Relief surged through his veins as he saw the chest underneath, the top creaking opening to reveal a worn netherite ax. But even a swift glance at the shimmering blade caused the nausea to rise in his throat, and he could barely keep it down. There was nothing to be scared of. He was free, he had escaped from Quackity's torture. Dream still flinched back as he reached for the handle of the ax, expecting the punishment that would inevitably come.
As the seconds turnend into minutes, nothing happened, and shakily he reached towards it a second time, grabbing the handle before he could bring himself to regret it, and bringing the blade up to his chest. It was heavy, much heavier than he remembered, and after a few seconds, his arms gave out, sending it crashing down onto the grass.
The all too familiar panic came back again , accompanied this time by a more unfamiliar tightness in his chest and twin drops of moisture on his cheeks. They stung as they ran into gashes across his face. He blinked away the pain, and dragging the ax behind him, retreated back to the chest room, where he collapsed on the floor.
Dream was unbelievably tired and just trying to keep his eyes open was a struggle. Tommy was still coming, but surely he would have enough time to take a nap, just a quick one. A few minutes, even. It only took a few seconds for him to be whisked away into a dreamless sleep, the world around him dissolving into nothingness
***
The sound of grass crunching outside of his hiding spot jolted Dream awake, his head slamming into the wall behind him as he suddenly woke. But he didn’t dare move from his position because Tommy was already there. Already outside, already waiting for him.
Dream tried to bury himself into the wall behind him but it was too late. In a few minutes, Tommy would notice a missing ax and he would know that he was there. Dream’s breathing had never seemed as loud as it did in that moment, almost deafening to his ears. It would have to be impossible for Tommy to miss. He would die. This was how Dream would die. Alone and injured, at the hands of Tommy, of his enemy. All of it would have been for nothing. All of the days that he had fought to stay alive. All of the torture, both mental and physical. It was all for nothing, because he would be gone.
Because another thing that the prison had taught him was fear. True fear, the kind that left you shaking and weak. The type of fear that made you wish that you were dead, because at least then it would be easy. And that wasn’t something that could be forgotten.
The only thing that shook him out of his spiral was Tommy’s own panicked mumbling. Because even heavily injured, even dying, Dream still had power. He still had the chance to go down fighting
It was a quick decision really, one driven by emotions instead of logic, one without a plan. It was so unlike Dream to be so reckless, at least in ways that other people got to see, but he was desperate, and scared. There was no time to do careful calculations or to make preparations. Only enough time to choose whether he wanted to die fighting or hiding.
If they thought of him as a monster, he might as well play the part
Dream took a breath, tried to even out the shaking in his hands. The lie had to be believable to work. He had to appear powerful, had to appear like this wasn’t a last ditch attempt to save his life. And that was the thing, really. It was what they expected from him, what Tommy expected from him. And perhaps that made it easier to sell.
It took all of his strength not to drop the ax, to put one foot in front of the other without wincing. His wrist burned, and he could already feel the blood soaking into the bandages on his side, but he could put aside the pain. He was used to it.
And then he was standing in front of Tommy, vulnerable and weak. Nothing to separate them, nothing to keep him safe. His life depended on his ability to sell this bluff, to pretend that he was the one in control. But luckily that was something Dream was good at, something that Tommy would believe all too easily.
His hands shook ever so slightly as he took a step forward, and then another. It was easy to slip back into the role of a monster, familiar in a way. The words spilled from his lips as he backed Tommy against a wall, hiding the way that he stumbled across the uneven ground.
In some corner of his mind, he felt guilty. He had never truly meant for things with Tommy to go as far as they had. Dream wasn’t sure which parts of his memory were real, and which were Quackity’s version, twisted far beyond reality. Twisted into the actions of a monster, of a psychopath, but Dream knew that he had been wrong. Knew that he deserved it.
But it was a lot easier to feel guilty for someone when they weren’t trying to kill you, when they hadn’t been one of the people that had turned Dream’s world against him. When they had let him rot without a second thought. When they had put him in there.
You needed to be able to feel, to be sorry. And Dream was far too numb, far too cold.
And so when Dream threatened to kill Tommy, to bring him back to life again and again, he felt nothing. Because it was impossible to revive someone infinitely. There was a cost to everything. A cost that they would never know.
At the end of the day, that’s why he had never given in, never told them the secrets that had kept him alive. Because these things were dangerous in the wrong hands. Giving in to the torture, to the pain would have destroyed them all.
Maybe they deserved it. Maybe not.
The bluff was easier than expected, and pretty soon Tommy was running. Dream chased behind, each step jolting through his very being, the pain threatening to black out his vision. But he was close; he was so close and he wouldn’t give up now.
Dream’s laughter seemed to rip apart his chest, and a quick glance down at his uniform showed that the orange was once again soaked with blood. But he had to be evil, had to play the part. And so he kept laughing, despite the agony, chasing Tommy until the edge of the arctic before collapsing where he stood.
His laughs turned to coughs, and when he brought his hand up, it was covered in blood, the red liquid dribbling between his lips as he heaved for air. Pretty soon his coughing turned into tears, his eyes watering as he lay there, on the ground. He was alone, truly alone.
He really was a monster, an abuser, a manipulator. Everything that they had ever said about him was true, and he deserved to die for it. Because they were always right, and he was always wrong. Another couple of tears fell down his face, sinking into the ground below him.
But all it took was a small thing, a trigger, and suddenly he was back. Because he hadn’t truly cried since then. Since prison
Quackity was asking why he was crying, wiping the tears from his face, as he tried to flinch back, tried to escape. And then he was pushing himself against the wall, trying to make himself small, but Sir was still coming closer, and then he was trapped against the wall, hands pinning him to damp obsidian. He had closed his eyes, and then there had been the pain. It had been quick that time, a sharp slash across his face, barely missing the eyes that had betrayed
He had never cried again; not after that.
Shaking himself out of his head, Dream tried to sit up. He was able to drag himself over to a tree, leaning against it and watching as the sun slowly set behind the hills. As the night fell, Dream knew that he had to move. There would be mobs, in a few minutes, and somehow he mustered the strength to get up once more. To take a step back into the night.
Somehow Dream managed to make it back to Logsteadshire, back to the chest room he had first found. Luckily there was food in the chests, apples. Something that he could still stomach after months of rotten potatoes. He only managed to eat half before his stomach protested, but it was still progress. It was something different, something new, and he savored the unfamiliar sweetness of the apple on his tongue.
Dream tried to curl up on the wooden floor, but it was too soft and he found himself longing for the sharp rock he was used to. The slight pain that helped keep him grounded, and the familiar drip of water into the puddles on the ground. As much as he tried, he couldn’t get used to the oak floorboards below him, and instead he pushed himself up, limping out into the night before dragging himself onto the roof.
The stars were bittersweet that night, and he dreamt of better times. Of warm bodies lying next to him. Of the hope he had lost so long ago.
Because it had never really been his choice to play the role he did, to play the villain. Under the veil of moonlight, Dream was truly free, if only for a moment.