Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the villagers raided his village, he was scared. (they called him pathetic, his fragile mental state was being beaten and beaten and he was so sick of it)

When he heard the screams of friends and neighbors, who he considered family, he knew he couldn't run with the state of his bloody twelve-year-old body. (they said he was too precious to die, so they gave him healing potions, ignoring the bleeding bodies mere feet away.)

When they heartlessly stabbed his parents, he was too injured to help. (they called him weak, at the start, he knows that he isn't. Now... He isn't so sure)

When he saw his long-time mentor try to fight them off, hopeless in the end, he cried. (She called out to him to have hope, he still holds the sentiment that she might come back.)

When he saw his sister pearl away, tears at the rim of her eyes, silent promises that she will save him. Like when they played knight and princess. (He knew it wasn't too long after they started chasing after her as well.)

When the villagers dragged him through the mansion, the carpet burned his bare feet. It didn't remind him of the soft rugs in the library. (Where he used to go to relax. Nothing about this godforsaken mansion does he want to connect to his flower-scented, dimly lit, dust-covered safe spot.)

When he heard the screams of people being experimented on, he knew that he was next. (Why are they screaming so loudly in the first place?)

When he saw the daggers resting near their upper thigh, he contemplated grabbing it and stabbing the nearest person. After a few moments of that contemplation, he knew he couldn't run far enough for safety anyways. (He gave that possibility to Drista, hopefully, they didn't find her. She was much better at hide and seek anyways.)

The maps on the passing hallways reminded him of his teacher since he was ten, but the thought was struck down when he realized that the red crosses weren't buried treasure that held priceless loot. It was the villages that the damn pillagers had raided beforehand, the crosses are too much to look at. (How much blood is on their hands? Is he the only 'special one', or are the people being tortured the same case as well?)

When he is locked inside that dark cobblestone cell, he might've found familiarity with the surrounding forest at first, given the circumstances, it might've been the only thing that had given him some sort of hope. (Hope that one day he can walk into the forest and magically find his home once again, he knows it won't happen. The cleric was wise with their potions and secretive to their magical components.)

Watching the moss grow on the wall was not something Dream expected to do for his 12th birthday. It was certainly better than being strapped down to the experimentation table. The table that they didn't even bother wiping down and disinfecting. (In the future, he can feel phantom pain on his wrists, the leather straps were tightened to the point of were dark purple bruises bloomed on his tan skin)

The cell didn't have a light source, after a few days, he lost track of time. Days seeped into nights, sleepless sleep felt like hours. When it through, it was only a few minutes. The sharp edges of cobblestone felt rough on his back, even tearing holes into his green hoodie. The hoodie wasn't even green anymore, when he saw himself as they dragged him past the mirror, there were large reddish-brown stains. He presumes that it's his blood, what else could it be?

The beginning of the stay was decent enough. He would sing for hours, about the song he had made about a minecart by a coast. A ride he used to take in-between adventures and home. Drista used to say how well he sang, they spent hours using various objects around the house for different pitches, notes, etc.

But once he ran out of water for his throat, he thought it was better to save it (was it even water, to begin with?), so he stopped singing. He played various games, anything that can keep his mind away from this inescapable cell. Whether it would be how fast he can count to 100, or find the longest crack in the stone. Fun fact, it was in the far left corner.

He spent long days and nights daydreaming, easier to imagine what your own dream would be like rather than the chance of nightmares. He'd snap out of his trance by guards who'd grab his hat and pulled him out of iron doors. The click of the stone button scared him more than he would think.

The cell becomes more and more bloody, he doesn't remember why at times. (Maybe because the cuts and bruises fogged his brain. Maybe it's the horrific screams and loud pleas for help that make him bury his trauma unknowingly, only to resurface in vivid nightmares.)

The memories become overwhelming when he does remember. He is so used to waking up screaming bloody murder that he doesn't know what a normal voice feels like anymore. He doesn't know what it is like not having puffy, sore eyes all the damn time. He is so used to waking up by Drista, he almost always expects the naggy voice to tell him, 'get your ass outta bed, I'm making your favorite and it'll get cold if you keep on sleeping.'

He doesn't recognize her when she comes. Drista. Her hair is short and her voice always had this tense tone to it. Dream doesn't recognize the carefree, outspoken, and confident older sister. All he sees is someone who is constantly on their guard, ready to pull weapons when they hear an unexpected noise. Someone who is hunched over at times, face twisted into a grimace when they walk by villages. (Because she knows that if she was better, faster, stronger, she could've saved every one. She was the only known survivor.)

What Dream does recognize, is the gentle hands that cradle him next to her chest. The dirty blonde hair falls right above the shoulder, hastily cut. The twin netherite daggers that glowed with enchantment, messy runes carved unto the blade. The smell of blood had never, ever, been comforting. But maybe, the blood of the people who tortured him for months on the right person, in the right moment can bring him a small sense of satisfaction. (His sister did get away, his sister did come back for him. His sister was with him, and Dream can close his eyes a tiny bit more easily.)

The situation feels all too similar for Dream. 

He is stuck in Pandora's Vault, inside the very prison he had commissioned. 

The sweltering heat of the lava transfers over to the obsidian, it hurts to lay down. He can't complain, he doesn't have the privilege. Yes, the obsidian is hot and uncomfortable, but it is better than the cold of the cobblestone cell. (Why are you comparing two inhumane conditions to another?)

He gets food every day, even if he has to starve a few days it's fine. Sam says he deserves it anyway. (Food and healthcare isn't a fucking privilege, it's a basic human right. It's not something you can take away when you want to.)

He has books and quills, his clock, and a cauldron. The mansion didn't even let him shower after experiments. (You know no one deserves the inhumane treatment you went through back then and now. Why can't you open your mouth and speak? (You know it is because everyone sees you as a monster, a monster only.))

Sam takes his time to clean up your wounds, and stitch up any deep gashes and cuts. The pillagers never did, often leaving you in your cell bleeding, but never enough to lose a life. (You know that it is only because Sam doesn't want you to potentially lose a canon life. As a warden, he needs to keep you alive. Sometimes, you wish that he left you bleeding out on the floor, like when the blood started to pool and stain the cobblestone floor.)

The prison allows you, visitors. (What is the point of visitation if no one wants to visit anyways. Other than to insult and taunt you. Threats to kill you if you ever escape leaves your former best friend's mouth. Things can change quickly, right Sapnap?)

So why can't you survive a few weeks before giving up if this better than the woodland mansion?

(It's because it isn't better. Worse in some aspects. It's easier to accept imprisonment from actual strangers instead of your friends that left you in the dust, disregarding any relationship they had with you beforehand. 

You expect better from them, you gave silent pleas for help but they don't offer you any. 

They expect more from you because you say you are an adult, an admin. They don't know the childlike freckles that cover your face behind the mask. You aren't 21, you are 16. Slightly older than Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo.)

It's been 6 years since you've met Ms. JJ, the mentor that you looked up to since that meeting g in the library. 

It's been 4 years since your village had been slaughtered, forcing you to leave behind the childhood and future you had.

It has been 3 years since you've met Sapnap and George, the two friends that fit into your life like puzzle pieces. 

2 years since you last saw your sister, crying in an empty cottage, refusing to leave for weeks. You still hope that she is well and Drista forgot to leave a note. 

It has been 1 year since you've founded the Dream SMP, inviting more once you've felt confident that you won't disappoint.

It's been 3 months since you were imprisoned. You have no doubt they are celebrating.

Chapter Text

It was scary, stealing for the first time. She saw the gold, beckoning her to swipe it away from the stall. Drista was searching for jobs, having spent all the money to feed herself and Dream. 

Back then, there was a choice. Steal the gold, know that both of you will be eating more than carrots and stale bread, or leave it and pray that you might find some source of income. It didn't feel like a choice though. Dusk was settling in, and her pockets are empty. 

Drista sold all of her armor, her shoulders felt (uncomfortably) bare and light, but she felt a different weight once they passed her the bag of emeralds. She couldn't bear to lose her netherite daggers, a gift from her parents when she turned 13.

Now the choices were:

Steal the gold or pray that you have enough money to feed Dream, say goodbye to your netherite daggers, the only reminder of the life you lost.

Easy enough.

What she remembers from that day afterward, was dodging swords and arrows, the feeling of content when she bought a big piece of steak.

A few months afterward, Dream joined in. Well, more like forced and annoyed his sister to the point of accepting.

Drista remembers being very against the idea of Dream running from roof to roof, dodging angry shopkeepers and sharp weapons of paid mercenaries. She, being 16, had the pleasure of having hunters train her from a very young age.

But Dream persists, using his (very persuasive) puppy eyes to coax Drista.

After a week of asking, begging, and doing laundry, she finally crumbles and gives in. Her little brother not so little anymore.

So she prepares him. (She can't handle losing another loved one.)

Treetops turned into sky-high buildings, sparring turned into bloody fights. (That scare her, no matter how many times Dream comes back home bloody and bruised, she can't get used to it. How long until he doesn't come back home, leaving her sitting on a table with an empty chair across hers.)

Soon enough, they are well known in the land. At the time, they didn't have their signature masks.

"Watch out for the siblings with green eyes, dirty blonde hair, and ugly scars all over their faces. They might steal your jewelry and valuables."

It makes Drista clutch her cloak a little bit tighter, pulled over face hair a tiny bit more. 

"Are my scars ugly? My friends keep pointing them out."

It catches her attention.

"Friends?" She asked, ignoring the initial question.

"You're ignoring my question. And yes, friends." He doesn't break away from her gaze. "Sapnap and George met them a few days ago. I haven't told them about you, didn't want to give them too much info."

Its silent between them for a few minutes, air has a slightly tense feeling to it. The sunset they were staring at doesn't seem so interesting anymore.

"Scars aren't ugly Dre, they show you the hardships you went through. How much you've persevered and healed. People think scars are ugly because it is different, different from the patch of skin you were originally born with. In truth, its beautiful. The difference makes it unique, gives it a story."

Dream purses his legs, contemplating. He simply reaches out to her hand, Drista accepts, understanding sparks between the two.

"Whether or not you want to tell that story, is up to you." She ends, resting her forehead on top of Dreams head, resting on her shoulders.

"Maybe one day..." He trails off. The sunset was nowhere to be found, and the stars scattered the dark sky.

Drista is sitting on her rocking chair, the rickety old wood scraping against the logs are the only sounds aside from their breathing. Dream is on her lap, legs throw carelessly over the arms, swaying to the rocking. A habit he had for years.

She wishes she could stop time that very moment. Just her and Dream, together like when they are children. Except it isn't, they couldn't hear their parents from outside the house, the quiet is louder than it should be, they've grown up.

...

A few weeks later, Dream wakes up, the sun is shining bright. The light filters through the windows landing on his face. He gets up and comes out of his room. He doesn't hear the jukebox playing pig step (a song that is way too intense in the mornings, he would say).

He rounds the corners, eyes flickered down at the enchanted porcelain, a smiley face painted on. A letter, bound by loose rope hastily tied, is next to the mask. He hesitates to reach his hands out, acting as if the letter will be TNT and explode at any trigger. (It doesn't, it feels like smooth paper, the rope is stringy and rough.)

Dream,

Hey, it's Drista. It's probably really sudden, but I'm leaving. You're really fond of Snapnap and Gogy huh? You couldn't stop talking about them, even staying at their place sometimes. They seem like really nice people, they can probably take care of you better. You don't have to risk your life for food every day, something your older sister couldn't even do.

Before I left, I made you this mask. Y'know the talk we had a few weeks ago? I started making it afterward, in case you don't want people to see your scars. The smiley face is beautiful, you can't tell me otherwise. It might remind you of Ms. JJ, how that smile never left your face. Actually, looking at it for more than a minute makes it look a bit menacing. I was thinking about making the eyes red instead. I engraved my name on the inside, so you won't forget your dear sister.

Don't worry about sight, I made it so the person (hopefully only you) wearing it can see through it, a few enchantments that I read a few years ago. Really handy. 

Anyways, I don't know when I'm coming back. Don't bother trying to find me, but you'll see me again! Maybe in a month or so, introduce myself to your friends. Don't tell them about me, I want it to be a surprise. You should plan a surprise party, they won't know what's coming!

Love from the best your sister,

Drista

PS. The server you were talking about making sounds pretty cool.

PPS. If you actually make it, make sure to whitelist me first!

Dream reads. And reads. And reads. He kept reading until his tears soaked the paper, leaving it unintelligible. 

Dream still has the mask. Despite being lost, shattered, and damaged countless times, he still has the original. The black paint is worn off once in a while, but he makes sure to maintain it.

He takes it off every once in a while, in lonely the obsidian room. It didn't make him feel open, vulnerable. His scars imprinted on his childlike face, gave too much, too much power over his head.

Though the mask had a sense of familiarity, it suffocated him as well. It used to symbolize childish games, the mask the people of Dream SMP would look unto with a smile. Now, it was a symbol of tyranny and sadistic manipulation over discs.

Seeing the name crudely engraved on the inside rim, gave him hope. Hope that one day, Drista will somehow find her way to Dream through the mask. So he kept it, but the nagging thoughts inside his head (that says it's too far of a stretch) have his doubt.

Seeing the multitude of cracks that never disappeared showed how long time passed. Even if two years might pass by someone like a train, it went slow and as painful as the duel with Technoblade.

The damage also gave him a memory, a small talk he had with Drista. Months prior she disappeared, she told him an analogy when someone had broke their promise to him.

"Trust is like a vase. You can shatter it, but you can also glue it back together. Although you may want to give up during the process, or the shards seem too sharp for you to hold, in the end, if you work hard enough, the broken pieces can be back together. 

But the vase will never look the same. It might need a small topple for it to break once again, weaker than before. You can break someone's trust, and put it back together. Although they might never give you the same trust, and it is easier for it breaks once more."

Ironic. The person who gave him the talk about trust is the one who broke his.

He can't really say anything, he broke other's trust as well. (But did they break your's first?) 

He held the mask, it became heavier than it used to feel. (Is it because of his weakened arms, or the realization of his sister's analogy. Maybe both.)

He wants to throw it against the wall, watch it shatter into infinite prices, glide unto the floor. Toss it into the lava, melting into the molten rock, never to be fixed or seen again. He wants to get rid of it, but he can't find it in himself to do so. Each time he is so close to, he is reminded of petty arguments and silly antics. Spars that he would almost always lose, rooftops that he jumped to and from, dark eye bags that seemed to get lighter around him.

He just can't.

Dream loved his sister then, and he still loves her now. This goddamn mask might be the only connection to her he'll see for a while.

Chapter Text

Part 1
They met a few months before Dream had founded the SMP.

Dream, being the little shit he is, jumped on Technoblade. They fought for hours. When Dream had started bleeding, Technoblade felt a little guilty, so he carried him to Philza's house. No-one was home, so Techno was glad he wouldn't get in trouble, and wouldn't have to deal with his other siblings. He interrogated Dream about why, just why, he decided to attack the blood god.

He had this smug look on his face that screamed cocky and arrogance, "Because I'm better than you."

They fought consequently. Not because of his proclamation, but because of their immediate responses, "the name 'blood god sounds cringe," and "your mask looks stupid," was said at the same time.

He snorts at the memory, although the pleasant feeling was quickly diminished as soon as it came by the realization, he still hasn't seen or heard from his friend for months.

Yes, friend. One of the only people who doesn't look at him with fear in their eyes, or look at him as 'The Blade'. Technoblade can find solace in Dream, and he knows Dream finds the same comfort in him. (He doesn't know when was the last time he can talk so freely, without looking into their eyes without feeling the intention of betrayal or use.)

-

"Dream." Techno starts, studying the figure on his doorstep. "You're shivering. Do you remember what I told you about the tundra during a snowstorm? That it snows a lot."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock," the shaky voice has Technoblade leaning closer to hear it. "Let me in."

Technoblade lets out a spent sigh, pulling Dream through the doors. As Technoblade shuts the door, the sound of porcelain toppling to the floor has him frozen.

"Oh shit," Dream mutters, bending down to pick up his mask. He turns around to face Technoblade, only to see the other is tentative to turn. "It's fine. You've seen my face before."

Techno lets out a relieved breath he didn't know he was holding, revolving around to meet Dream. He is surprised to see tears fogging the green eyes of his friend.

"I' m just... Really tired m'k?"  Dream's small voice breaks the tension (he didn't know) that was in the air.

Technoblade looks at him, understanding sparks. 

"There's a spare change of clothes in the guest room," he points to the end of the cabin hallway. "Once you're done, go sit on the couch, I'll make hot cocoa."

Techno watches as he takes his time to drag himself down the carpet, once he confirms that Dream will survive the walk, he goes to the kitchen. With swift and nimble fingers, he prepares the steaming drink, grabbing the softest blanket he could find along the way.

When he walks back to the living room, he notices Dreams shivering body sitting on the couch.

Once again, he is surprised. He observes the tears with widening eyes, as Dream wipes his eyes, rendered useless from the never-ending onslaught. Technoblade throws the blanket over his shoulders without warning, effectively shaking Dream out of his stupor. He passes the mug, resistance when he saw the unstable hands.

"Don't worry"

Techno responds with a grunt, "Obviously I should."

Dream chuckles, a victory to him. For a minute, all they can hear is the crackling and popping of burning kindling and an occasional sniffle. Techno is standing behind him, his forearms resting on the pillows.

" You wanna talk about it?"

"No, not really. You aren't the type of guy who'd 'talk' anyways."

Techno hits the back of his head, causing Dream to jostle and spill a small amount of hot cocoa on the carpet. Techno grumbles about 'losing property value' and Dream laughs, converting into wheezes that have him doubled over in pain. Techno takes away the drink, placing it by a nearby table, smiling to himself during the wheezing. He walks around the house, and onto the floor in front of Dream, placing his head on the knees.

"B raid my hair once you're done dying over there nerd." He calls out.

Dream sniffles, his mood much better than the one when he arrived. He takes the pink hair into his hands, combined and sifting through them, untangling any knots he found. He thinks of a time where it took weeks and months for Techno to put his trust in him, letting him braid his hair for the first time.

With speed and care that only months of practice could create, he braids Techno's hair.

...

He wakes up on the familiar guest bed, reaching over to his mask on the bedside table. (Techno never fails to return, he can put his faith into Techno that his precious mask is safe in the hybrid's hands.)

He clasps and adjusts the mask to his head, an action that's been performed so much it became second nature.

He walks down the hallway, more upbeat for the sleep he usually didn't get. It became a jog to the kitchen once he heard the sound of sizzling. 

"' bout time you woke up," the familiar monotone voice has him smiling. "Once we're done eating, we can spar. You looked like you needed it."

-

Techno made up his mind, he needed to go to the mainland.

He is tired of waiting for too long, he is too tired of waiting for his friend that disappeared a few weeks after crying in his house. Chat isn't helping.

Technoworried???
E
F in the chat for the green teletubby
LMAO does he still have the picture
Just go find him big guy
uwu techie has friends??? lol uwu 

Certainly wasn't helping.

But as he was gearing up, just in case of any resistance, he hears a ding from his communicator. He thought, 'Who would be in the chat in the dead of the night?'

He pulls out his communicator, a see-through grey holographic screen, he scrolls down to the bottom. His eyebrow perks up in curiosity, the yellow luminescent text is different than the normal white. The white signified other players' text, while yellow announced someone new.

Drista joined the game

A new player?

"Mate, did you see the chat?" Philza's voice snapped him back into reality. "You recognize them? Has Dream mentioned the name 'Drista'"

Technoblade opens his mouth to respond but was instantly shut when they heard the knocks from the door.

He approaches the door, netherite sword drawn out. Philza isn't too far behind.

No matter how badly Quackity can get, Dream is glad he can keep the mask. Though it scares him, the scarred (not like his sister's) hands that would pull his hair. If they had pulled at a different angle, his secret would be revealed.

Dream looks at the surrounding walls, what used to be black, was now stained with dark red. His eyes dart to the click of the dropper, another potato fell. Watching it swim around the muddled water felt sickening, he didn't feel like eating anyway.

He struggled to stand upright, his legs threatened to buckle at any moment, he had to keep his eyes open, or he might fall into a sleep lasting an eternity. (He knows that he wouldn't, he would just respawn in this damned cell. Left to go through the same torturous cycle for a long time.)

Dream limps to his chest, falling more than he is comfortable with. Slowly, but surely, he gets to the latch that held the box together. He throws it open, the cracking of wood was more satisfying than he thought it would. 

Taking out an empty book and quill, he scrubs his hand inside the cauldron. The blood transferring to the water, fogging his reflection. He moves his head to another corner, in hopes of finding the cracked mask gazing back at him. His mouth curves into a slight frown once all of the water is hazed with red.

He stares at the water, the mask was now upon red. The longer he stared, Dream felt more helpless. He reached through the water, looking for something that wasn't there. For what? He doesn't know. (He's trying to reach for the childlike innocence that lets him daydream all of his worries away, the mindset that helped him survive the mansion. He is trying to reach for the confidence and pride

The underlying truth of all the horrible, nasty, and disgusting acts he had committed over a long time of the SMP hits him like a bullet train. It isn't a pleasant feeling. 

"You disgusting tyrant" was preached from Wilbur's mouth, why did people believe him?

"You're a monster Dream, that's all you are." A common phrase that was said to him. He didn't react back then, but he felt like he was now. Simultaneously, all in one moment. The pain had him on the floor, gasping for air, clutching his heart as if a knife was in its place.

"You aren't my duckling." The person he entrusted as a mother, left him. It pained him knowing that she left him over someone else, refusing to believe that he is worthy of help.

"Just say you hate me!" Was from his best friend's mouth, the people who he could've called 'brothers' didn't understand his motivation, choosing to believe other's words. One believed that he wanted to dethrone him, while the other threatened his life if he ever experienced the fresh air once again.

Aren't these the ways other people had hurt you?

The blood-splattered walls remind him too much of old homes. The maniacal laughter ringing in his ears, which despite was only etched into his head a few hours ago, feels dreadfully similar to the ones that held axes. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"I swear to god, scream one more time, we'll send you to the cage with Johnny" the prison guard had said. He felt as his blood run cold, passing hallways with 'cages' that always seemed to have blood caked into the fences.

"Strap him down." Dream tried fighting against the arms that restricted him, useless from his starvation causing his arms to be much skinnier than they should be.

"Beg, unless you want to die of the starvation little boy." He didn't hesitate to lower his head to the floor, gritting his teeth once the guard uses their foot to step and grate on his head.

He pushed himself away from the cold Iron, crashing to the floor. Dream felt his head continuously pound against his skull, his whole body reeked of sweat, and the purple and blue bruises that decorated his skin were more painful than they used to be.

Dontworryyourfinenoyouarentobviouslyyouareyoumonstertyrantworthlesspieceofshi-

"Just... Stop." He pulled on his hair like a lifeline, "That's not true!"

(You know it is.)