Chapter Text
Dream fussed over the covers on Mister Mare’s bed, previously his bed. The man lying beneath the worn blanket was still, his unobscured eye closed.
Dream didn’t mean to leave the tree unattended for too long. It was an accident! He never meant to leave for long, but everyone in the village always needed so much help from him and so much to say. And so he had no idea how long Mister Mare (hazily grunted from a slack face) had been injured under the tree—encoiled in its roots.
Dream had never seen Mother do such a thing to someone. She never really took to anyone, save for Nightmare and himself. Even then, she was always asleep—she never wrapped him or his brother in her roots.
Dream was afraid of how mad the man may be that he took so long. He decided to apologize very much when the man awoke.
The man, who he had never seen in the village, also hazily said his name. Dream knew everyone in the village—there wasn’t many people, anyway. He certainly didn’t look related to anyone except maybe the new school teacher, but Mister Neil had told him once that he didn’t have any brothers. Dream had so many questions, but the man was fast asleep.
He was also extremely dirty. And covered in mud.
Dream tried (and failed) to wipe off a lot of the goo, seeing peeks of bright white bone under the sludge. He even used their best towel, thinking that the man took a swim in the river, but more sludge would just show up.
The towel, decorated with messy flowers, sadly sat on his bedside table. It was forever stained.
Dream looked out at the tree one more time, searching for a hint of purple or a glint of gold. He did not find any.
Dream shouted for Nightmare probably seven times, (which is usually enough times for Nightmare to show up,) but he did not. Not even when Dream stood right under their Mother and screamed at his most loudest, which was pretty loud.
He was a little worried about Nightmare, but he was probably off reading in the forest or something. Or playing games with the other kids. Or climbing big rocky hills.
He hoped that Nightmare came back soon, from wherever he disappears sometimes. Dream was lucky to have so much time alone right now, but he wished Nightmare were here with him. Nightmare always had a plan, always knew what to do.
And right now, Dream was all alone with a strange injured man. A sleeping man not from the village. A man who was also a little too big for his bed.
Dream crossed his arms and thought very hard. He pretended his brother was talking to him, very quietly, because the stranger was asleep. It also made him feel less lonely and nervous.
“I really don’t know why you brung this man into our house,” Imaginary Brother scolded. “If anything, you should have rolled him down a hill.”
That would be mean, but fun. But more mean, because it would hurt the man—who had holes in his chest from sharp arrows.
“It would be funny though.” Imaginary Brother noted. “And where are those arrows, anyway? They weren’t around the tree.”
Dream looked at the man to make sure he was asleep, and then carefully lifted the blanket to check his chest. Dream had tried to feed Mister Mare a few spoons of soup, but the holes did not close. Usually after some soup, Dream or Nightmare feel much better.
“It’s because he’s an adult. He can’t heal with soup cuz he’s too big. He needs even more soup. Like, maybe three bowls.”
Dream nodded to his smart and imaginary brother.
“I’m going to make you more soup.” He told the man in the bed. “And then you won’t look like cheese.”
Melted cheese.
He giggled very quietly at the mental image, and scurried off to the kitchen to where he left the pot of soup near the fire. Oops!
He fussed around for a towel, and eventually just grabbed the bright yellow sewing project Nightmare left on the dining table to use as a handwarmer. He felt very bad, but he had already grabbed it, and would say very sorry to Nightmare later—if Nightmare knew he did it.
He walked very fast with his arms far out from him holding the pot, and set the pot of soup on the table. It was very warm, he could feel it through the thick fabric of the blanket Nightmare was sewing. A bit of brown broth sloshed chaotically, but it did not fleck onto the yellow material. Probably.
Dream chanted under his breath, mainly to occupy himself while he got the biggest bowl they had and put soup in it.
“Soup. Soup. Soup. Soup.”
Dream anticipated his brother opening the door and wondering why he was chanting, but no such question came.
He felt disappointed.
Dream stopped chanting when the bowl was full.