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He was out.
He was out, he was free, he was finally safe, and Sir would never hurt him again… his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
A voice was screeching in the back of his mind, clawing down the walls he had built up so, so, so so so carefully, after they’d been torn down in the prison. It hurt, worse than the lashes on his back or his left leg, which was so twisted and bent he couldn’t walk on it anymore without falling back down. The voice was so loud , taking over every other coherent thought he had and ripping it to shreds.
GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK-
It was dark, wherever he was. He vaguely remembered the warden’s voice, something splashing down onto him, forcing potion after potion down his throat. Then he was lifted into the air and carried somewhere else. Somewhere cold, wind whipping at his hair and drying the blood soaked through his clothes. But he was out of the prison; he knew that much.
GO BACK-
Why did everything hurt so much?
His arms, his fingers, his neck and back and legs, screaming in pain. His head, thoughts crashing into each other like a flash flood into a canyon wall. He could taste the copper on his tongue, sharp and sour. It tasted good, he mused vaguely. Much better than potatoes, rotten from ages of sitting in a dispenser, and that was if he got any taste at all. Blood tastes much better than potatoes, even if it was his own.
Blood. It was everywhere. He could feel it, in his hair, on his face, covering his body like a blanket. It was one of those things he knew would never change. It was set, for eternity and forever, staying the same like the seasons, or the sun rising each day, right at dawn.
He hasn’t seen the sun in awhile. Not since… huh. He can’t remember. It’s probably not important, anyway.
Blood is an always. Like the way his collar feels around his neck. Like the way he can’t feel the left side of his face anymore. Like the way he keeps his head down, not allowed to look anyone in the eye.
GO BACK-
Maybe the voice was right.
He was cold, he was hungry (well, he was always hungry) and he just wanted to go home. Back to his cell, with the warm blanket of lava and obsidian tears. It was safe there, like blood. A constant. Not this , where he didn’t know where he was or what to do. Sir had told him never to leave his cell, his home - why was he out here, in this cold, weird, out? He wanted to be in his cell, not here, not here, not here not here not here
The voice was getting quieter. Everything was. The darkness that surrounded him suddenly seemed much more comforting, like home. It was dark at home… no. He couldn’t fall asleep, or faint, or die… no darkness, then. But it was hard, keeping his brain awake as the quiet got louder, harder to ignore.
He was tired. He needed to go to sleep, it was beckoning him home, he had to go…
He accepted it, and let himself drift away into the waves of sleep.
—
“NO- please, sir-”
There were tears, streaming down his face. They were warm, carving away at the blood staining his cheeks. The chains didn’t let him wipe them away.
He wasn’t allowed to cry. He was going to get punished.
Suddenly, rough hands grabbed at his hair and forced him upwards, pinning him against the obsidian wall. He was forced to look up, into a pair of dark, deadly blue eyes, one with a ragged scar running through it. He felt the tears come faster, blurring his vision.
“What was that, prisoner?”
He was back on the ground, head against the jagged floor. A sharp pain bloomed in his stomach, followed by another and another and another; blood was suddenly in his throat, and then on the floor, coating it with more. A whimper passed through his lips, a million times worse than the blood.
“Please…”
He felt the kicks slowly subside, and then the chains along his collar jolted and he was dragged somewhere else. It was hard to care, at that point.
“Alright, Dreamie,” The voice was sickly sweet, it made him want to throw up, but his stomach was empty and all he managed to get out was more blood. When was the last time he had eaten? “Are you going to give me the book?”
The book? What was that- oh. He vaguely remembered the feeling of paper beneath his fingers, the heat crackling as… something. He could recall a face, deceptively young, suddenly alert as if it hadn’t been lifeless moments before.
Whatever the book was, Sir wanted it, so he should… no. He couldn’t give Sir the book. He had drilled that into his brain, repeating it over and over, writing it down with the last of his ink before throwing the book into the lava, so Sir could never read it.
He shook his head, bracing himself for a hit that was sure to come.
After agonizing moments of waiting, it did, and then he was back on the ground, the side of his face stinging. It felt like he was on fire, burning.
“Fine, then. We’ll see if you’re more obedient after I’m finished.”
And then his side was screaming, and he couldn’t breath and it all hurt his entire body was on fire it hurt it hurt it HURT-
Dream woke up.
His breath was ragged and heavy, and for a moment it was the only thing he could hear besides the blood rushing in his ears. He forced himself to take a deep breath, slowly breathing in and counting before he exhaled. After a moment, his breath subsided, and he forced himself to calm down.
Where was he? He could remember the Warden, dragging him to his feet… right.
The Warden had come into his cell, after months of Dream not seeing him. He had splashed a potion over him, healing, based on how Dream felt better than he had in months and led him to the entrance. He had told Dream to run- so he did, forcing himself away from the prison that had held him captive for ages and running into a forest not that far away. His legs had collapsed from beneath him and he had been sent sprawling into the dirt, shaking. Dream assumed he had fallen unconscious, passed out from blood loss or something.
The thought sent a whole new batch of worries his way, and Dream immediately felt his breath hitch, and he repeated his method, breathing in and out, as slowly as physically possible. He was fine. If he hadn’t been found yet, then he was ok. He was probably still in the forest, based on the feeling of grass beneath him and the light gust of wind in the air.
With another deep breath, Dream opened his eyes.
Immediately, he was met with an array of colors, surrounding the spot where he was curled on the ground. Large trees stretched up into the sky, with tufts of green towards the top. Dream was lying in what seemed to be a small bed of flowers, if the sweet smell and rainbow of colors were anything to go by. He tilted his head to look up, and let out a quiet, ragged gasp as he saw distant mountains on the horizon, with a sliver of sun just peeking out from above the peaks. The sky was stained a bright orange, mixing with pinks and purples and the sun rose higher.
It was the first sunset Dream had seen in over a year.
Vaguely, Dream wondered if this was what Wilbur had felt like. Seeing the sun and sky, feeling the wind on his face, smelling the fresh air, after 13 and a half years of solitude. Dream could still remember the moment he had revived the man, killing Ghostbur right in front of Tommy as the kid had screamed bloody murder at Dream, after that infernal counting he had used to calm the ghost down.
The true irony of it was that Dream used that exact same trick, even though he despised the counting, to calm himself down and stay still when Q- when Sir was hurting him.
Dream felt the tears start to come- slowly, at first, but soon enough he was sobbing hard into the dirt. How had he become so weak that he cried after just barely seeing the sky ? He had seen this view a million times before; why was this time any different?
He knew why. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew exactly why.
An image of a man with an ax and a pair of wings flickered through his mind, and Dream immediately pushed that thought away. Still, the memories came flooding back in, and no walls that Dream had built up in his mind could stop them.
Chains, holding him to the ground. Sir, with a knife, carving a horrid scar on his face, painting his vision red. Pain.
The sound of a whip, hitting him over and over and over, until all he wanted was for it to stop. Pain.
His breath escaped in a flurry of bubbles as he was held underwater. Slowly, his mind began to dim and he fell silent. Pain.
The hurt never ended, did it?
Dream could feel his breath speeding up once more. The worries were creeping into his mind, burrowing in until they were all he could think about. Sir didn’t like it when he panicked. He clenched his jaw and desperately tried to calm down.
If he passed out, he would be found. If he passed out, he wouldn’t be able to fight back. If he passed out, he would be dragged out to that box, which had come straight out of the depths of the nether.
He couldn’t pass out.
As Dream took another deep breath, and another and another, he felt himself slowly begin to calm down. His crying seemed to last for hours, but before long Dream felt his eyes run dry and forced himself up from the ground. The sky had grown a tad bit brighter, turning the beautiful blue that he had missed so much. The blue that reminded him of George.
Alright. That was one task accomplished. Dream was up on two feet, even though his left leg was practically screaming in pain. He limped over to a tree, feeling the tough oak bark against his hand and leaning against the tree. The feeling nearly made him want to cry again, but he ignored it.
Next step. Where even was he? Dream could see he was in an oak forest, with a few birch trees scattered throughout the grove. He could hear the chirping of birds and the whistling of wind through the trees, but that was it. No people talking, the thundering of hooves, or clanking of armor. Just… silence.
It was strangely melodic. For the past year, stuck in his… cell, it had never been silent. The lava had always been present, and even if it was down and not flowing around the cell, someone had always been yelling, screaming at Dream. Now, there was only peace.
Suddenly, there was a snap in the forest somewhere behind him, and Dream flinched. After a moment, he heard it again, the sound of a twig being split in two.
Was- was someone there? Were they going to hurt him? Bring him back? N- no. Please. He didn’t want to go back.
Dream was shaking. He could hear his breath getting louder in his ears. Someone was here. They were going to find him, and then he would never be free, ever again.
Prime, Sir was really going to be mad about this.
There was another snap, and Dream snapped his eyes closed, resolved to his fate. He just hoped that it wasn’t Sapnap, that he would be able to explain himself before someone shot him in the heart.
He dropped to his knees, before falling backwards and throwing his head in his hands. The trembling had gotten worse. The tears were back, staining his cheeks wet. Dream shifted sideways, trying to look smaller, and he felt a wound on his shoulder blade start to burn.
Then, there was a faint meow, and Dream slowly opened his eyes. In front of him, burying her head in his lap, was a small cat.
She was easily the cutest thing Dream had ever seen, with brown stripes running up and down her back. Her eyes were a bright, glowing green, and Dream couldn’t help but smile. Her eyes were just like his. Her right ear was missing the tip, and her face was a deep, chocolate brown color, except for white patch over her right eye.
“Oh- hi,” Dream slowly brought his hand away from his face, and scarred, broken fingers ran their way down the cat's fur. His voice was so quiet, so broken, and Dream winced as his throat burned. “Hi, Darling.”
The cat let out a faint meow in reply, leaning into Dream’s faint touch. She slowly wiggled her way onto the blonde’s lap, and he let out a small, disbelieving laugh. She was adorable.
He didn’t deserve this. She should get as far away from him as possible. He was a monster.
Quickly, Dream looked left and right. There wasn’t anyone else around. It was just him and the cat. “...Where did you come from?” Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t say anything, instead staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Her fur was a mess of mud and thorns, and it was clear she hadn’t had any human contact in some time.
Faintly, Dream searched through the memories crowding his mind. Cats usually lived near villages, right? Ever since his time in… prison, he had been forgetting small, unimportant things. A pair of white goggles. A headband. But he could remember cats hanging around the villagers whenever he came into a town. So… he wasn’t far from civilization.
The thought sent shivers down his spine, but Dream pushed the thought away.
“Wh- What's your name?” Dream asked, bringing the cat up to his chest. She purred in response, setting her head on his shoulder. He looked her up and down, a smile on his face. “H- how about I call you Patches?” He tapped the white patch on her face.
The cat meowed again, and Dream’s small smile grew insurmountably larger. “Ok, then.”
Still clutching Patches to his chest, Dream leaned heavily against the tree and slowly stood up. He glanced around the small clearing he’d woken up in, before looking towards the trees.
He- Dream couldn’t stay here. He needed to get as far away from this area as possible. Despite how tired he felt from running as far away as he could from the prison, Dream knew he couldn’t have made it that far from his own, personal hell. Which meant that he couldn’t be that far from Snowchester, or the greater SMP, or even the ruins of Manberg. That… wasn’t good.
A large, resounding explosion as Manberg was blown to smithereens. Block after block of TNT falling from the sky, an obsidian grid built miles above the destroyed ground. His own, manic laughter, ringing in his ears.
Dream flinched as the memories continued to slam into his brain, and grit his teeth as he banished them from his mind. He glanced in the direction of the trees and, still holding Patches in his arms, started to walk.
He was leaving. He was getting out of this horrid place, meant for so many better things than this. And he was never coming back.
Dream stood up, and made his way into the dense forest.
…The sound of his own footsteps became a never ending song, and Dream started to hum as he made his way through the forest.
The blonde had been walking for hours. Dream could feel his feet aching, the wound on his left leg practically screaming in pain. Sweat plastered his forehead, and his arms were exhausted. He had put Patches down to walk beside him long ago, but it still seemed as if he was carrying an impossibly heavy weight.
Dream had never felt more alive.
Everything he saw sent a jolt of excitement through him, resonating through his bones and giving him that tiny bit of strength to keep going. Every flower made him smile. The sound of rushing water was a dose of adrenaline. The first time Dream saw a bird, darting through the sky, he thought he was going to break down in tears.
He had only been in prison for a few months, not even a year of his life, but Dream felt like a newborn deer, walking on wobbly legs as it saw everything for the first time. The forest was so beautiful, everything so alive.
Eventually, Dream felt his leg begin to give out, and he opted for sitting down on a fallen tree, overlooking a small creek that ran through the woods. Patches immediately curled up next to him, purring. Up above, the sky had faded into a pale gray, getting darker by the minute.
After glancing up, Dream slid down into the grass. He closed his eyes, and slowly fell asleep.
That night, no nightmares plagued him. It was the first night in months that he got a decent amount of sleep.
The next few days passed just like that, with Dream walking through the luscious forests, each step taking him further and further from the SMP. He would play with Patches, who refused to leave his side except to hut for mice and other rodents. He would eat the wild plants he found and occasionally steal eggs from bird nests.
(Dream had tried to hunt once. After failing to even get close to various animals, he had taken out a small wild pig with a rock, sleeping under a tree. The blood had gotten on his hands and stained his face, and then all of a sudden, he was back, with his hands tied down and tear tracks stained onto his face. Dream had scrambled back, and sobbed his eyes out for the next hour, scrubbing his hands clear of blood in a pond. The pig had been buried under the tree, with an arrangement of flowers placed upon the makeshift grave.
…He hadn’t tried to kill since.)
As Dream walked, he could feel himself getting further away from society. When he stopped to eat or clean his wounds with water, he would take a deep breath, and feel astonished by just how clear it was. No smell of smoke and destruction, of so much manipulation and pain. It smelled like a fresh start, and that was what Dream decided he was going to do.
Start fresh. Be better.
Sir had beat it into his head so many times that he needed to change. He wanted to try.
Still, sometimes, when the trees cast the forest floor in shadows or a howl rang out through the wood, it was enough to bring Dream right back to the land he had left behind. He could be walking through the forest, smiling and humming, and be back in his cell the next moment. On more than one occasion, Dream had found himself on the forest floor, after he had panicked and his body had forgotten how to properly breathe.
It didn’t happen often. But it was enough. And it scared Dream more than anything else, even if he didn’t want to admit to himself.
Finally, after days, weeks of walking, Dream found himself in a wide clearing. It was late afternoon, and the sun was just beginning to dip beneath the mountain peaks in the distance. The clearing was covered in thick grasses, a pond nestled between a rough cliff face that led into the mountains and a forest. Birds were chirping, the wind was whistling through the grove. When Dream took a few steps forward, a rabbit shot forward, weaving its way through the brush. Patches immediately took off after it, before turning around and purring at Dream’s feet when the rabbit disappeared.
It was… perfect. The land was untouched by humans, completely wild. Dream looked on in wonder at the area, and as he stared, an idea slowly started to form.
Dream could stay here, couldn’t he?
No one would find him- he could live in solitude, with nothing but Patches and the birds and rabbits for company. He could build a house, a garden, plant flowers. He could be happy.
The blonde slowly made his way over to the pond and sat against the rock face, Patches in his lap. When he closed his eyes, he could still see his cell, and chains, and so much blood. But there was also hope.
“What do you think, Patches?” Dream asked, stroking the cat’s fur as he stared out at the field. “Do you- do you want to stay here? You and me?”
The cat, obviously, didn’t say a word, but looked up at Dream with those beautiful green eyes. Dream would like to think that she was smiling.
“Alright. We’ll stay.”
—
At first, everything seemed difficult.
It took over a month for Dream to finally build a small, sheltered cottage, safe from the elements. He had spent hours building a bed and table and bookshelf, and had even gathered a few sheep in a large pen so he could make a nice carpet, so the floor wouldn’t remind him of his cell. But Dream found that he could barely stomach going inside. Once he stepped inside those walls, with the door closed behind him, he was back. The oak turned to obsidian, the pale light of the setting sun the light from the swirling lava. Dream would scramble out the door and spend the next few hours crying in the forest.
The cottage was even worse at night. On the very first night Dream tried to sleep inside, he had woken up on the floor, curled in a ball in the corner, trembling as Sir brought his foot down on him, again and again and again. He would sob, and only when he felt Patches slide into his lap would he be brought back to the present.
Even the easiest of tasks seemed incredibly hard. On one particular occasion, Dream had crafted a pair of shears in order to get some much needed wool from the sheep. The moment he had felt the hard metal in his hands, he had thrown the tool as far away as possible, his arms trembling. Mining was a whole other ordeal, and eventually Dream found he couldn’t even go in the caves, and gathered coal and iron from shallow crevices in the mountains. Caves were just like his cell, and dangerous at every turn. He couldn’t have a panic attack when there were zombies and skeletons lurking about.
That didn’t even include the pickaxe, or any of Dream’s other tools. He refused to craft anything made of a material stronger than stone. He wore no armor, either. Any weapon, any tool , sent him spiraling back to the prison, where he was trapped and afraid, with no way out.
Why was he so broken?
Every little thing, every movement, every sound set him off. Dream could be having a perfectly normal day, and then he would hear the creak of the floor or feel a rope in his hands and he was instantly afraid. Numerous times, he would just curl up beside a tree and cry, wishing that he could take it all back.
If he could do it all again, things would’ve been different. He would’ve left L’Manberg alone, no matter if they were on his territory. He wouldn’t have blamed Tommy for all the server's problems and sent him to exile, he wouldn’t have pushed his friends away. Dream regretted it all, and that hurt so much worse than any of his wounds.
And yet…
Dream could feel himself healing. It was slow- prime, it was so incredibly slow and tiresome and annoying- but it was happening. There were setbacks, because of course there were. But Dream was getting better.
Slowly, Dream found things that helped. Gardening would quiet the worries in his head, allowing Dream to focus on the dirt and grain beneath him. When he felt scared, or alone, or nervous, he would slip on a dull green hoodie he’d sewn. It was oversized and covered with odd seams, but he found that it helped him stay present. He was at his home, not back in the Vault.
And, of course, there was Patches.
Dream didn’t know if she was just lucky or could somehow sense whenever he was having a bad day, but whenever Dream felt himself slipping, Patches was there to ground him. She made him smile, made him laugh, helped him finally feel comfortable. She was a miracle cat, as Dream often called her.
He was healing. He was getting better.
Dream was finally happy again. Even if he was alone, and weak, and impossibly tired, he was happy.
And that was all that mattered.
—
One night, five months after he had escaped from Pandora’s Vault, Dream climbed onto his roof to watch the sunrise.
He had on his hoodie and his thickest pair of socks, a patchwork quilt he’d sewn draped over his shoulders. Patches was nestled in his arms, meowing loudly every time he shifted from side to side. The cat seemed to despise mornings even more than he did, choosing to wake up well after the sun had hit its peak in the sky. But Dream needed her here, to be with him as he celebrated.
The cold had already settled deep in his bones, and Dream pulled Patches closer to him, watching the distant forest for any sign of light. The sky was already a dim purple, and Dream could see the ground below him easily- the sheep pen, the large garden, the pond and the small barn. Flowers dotted every open inch of the area, a rainbow of colors against the ground. Dream could easily recall the feeling of his hands in the dirt, placing a small seed in a hole he’d dug between the grasses. Over time, the seeds had gotten larger, growing into a beautiful array of colors.
Patches meowed again, protesting as Dream carefully balanced to stand up. Far beyond the trees, he could just barely make out the sky, bright with colors. As he watched, the sun slowly rose, bringing pinks and oranges and ambers with it. They swirled in the dull gray sky, turning the dim light into a glorious painting.
Five months before, Dream had been curled in his cell, wishing that the pain would end, wishing he could do it all over again. Five months ago, he had watched the sunrise with tears blurring his vision. Five months ago, he had run from the world, and arrived in a place where no one would ever find him.
And now he was here.
He really was out, wasn’t he?
Dream stayed like that, gazing out at the sun, until the sky turned blue and the day began. Birds drifted from their nests and into the sky, singing and chirping cheerfully. Below him, the sheep began to graze. Patches meowed again, obviously eager to be set down.
Eventually, he sighed, and made his way back down to the ground. Patches went scampering off into the forest to hunt for something or other, and Dream (with only a bit of hesitation) grabbed the shears and headed to the sheep pen.
The day continued with an air of monotony. Dream harvested the crops and then replanted, creating a bit of bone meal to regrow the grass in the sheep pen. He made some bread, mined a bit of cobblestone, and relaxed under the trees for a few hours.
As he stared up at the blue abyss, Dream felt his mind wander. Maybe he should build a staircase, to make it easier to get into the mountains. It was always such a hassle, having to travel around the large cliff face when he really could be going straight up. It wouldn’t be difficult, really- he would just need to gather a bit of wood and he would be able to have it done in a few days.
Satisfied, Dream stood up and made his way into the cottage. After rummaging through a chest and finding an ax (wooden, barely stronger than his own two hands) he smiled, and prepared to go find a nearby forest.
He grabbed the handle of the door, swung it open, took a step forward and-
Dream smashed right into a heavy force, before falling backwards and smashing into the floor. What was that? He scrambled for his ax, before realizing it was nowhere to be found.
With his heart pounding, he glanced up.
Oh, no. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t good, he was going to die, and then- oh gods, no, no, NO-
A person, covered from head to toe with netherite armor, stared back at him, their eyes wide with shock. They reached for their sword, strapped to their belt, and Dream flinched, scrambling backwards.
This wasn’t going to go well.
“ DREAM?”
Dream flinched again, and forced himself to take a breath as his shoulders slammed into the wall behind him. This was fine. He could do this. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to die .
“H-Hey… Tommy.”