Work Text:
He opens his eyes (and notes the sharp pain in his left eye) in the untimely hours of the morning.
It is around that time, when dew still clings to each blade of grass and even the earliest birds have yet to begin their song. In every sense of the word, he is alone in the world.
This wasn’t on purpose, no– Dream has certainly lost any concept of time in that cramped cells. It makes no difference to him. And yet the sun is still hidden behind the horizon, and he is alone.
Where does he go?
Where? L’Manberg was blown to smithereens (just barely) two months ago. The Badlands are gone, and the eggpire– stupid name for a stupid thing– has taken their place. Technoblade will not welcome him in the Arctic, and Jack Manifold will not welcome him in his own hotel. Being around Tubbo will not be the same. And so that leaves one final place where he is both welcome and safe.
Eret’s castle.
Yes, the castle. Eret welcomes anyone there regardless of their actions– because they’ve been acutely aware for a very long time that judging others upon their past would render them a huge hypocrite. So the castle remains open (empty, but open) to anyone who seeks safety there. It is the one place in the world that is entirely judgment free.
So he closes the door to his home, his beloved little home in the hillside, rebuilt over and over a thousand times. He looks at the still, sleeping world and he thinks about how he is alone.
That truth does not feel nice, but it makes plenty of sense: he lived alone, he died alone, so his ghost shall exist alone.
His steps feel lighter on the Prime Path. The thin oak planks creak less than they should. In fact, they barely creak at all, as if no one is walking upon them and breathing their air at all.
It is true that he never truly regained the weight he lost in exile, but this is different. All those forty-nine kilograms that add up to him are not walking along this beloved, holy Path, but instead lie still inside a cell.
The wind blows lightly; he can feel it against his arms through the holes in the sleeves of his tattered cardigan, but not against his face.
It is just early enough in the morning that he cannot see the stars as he ambles aimlessly along the Path. The sky is a plain dark blue, with no moon yet no sun. That’s fitting, if nothing else. That is what he thinks as he wanders up to the doors of Eret’s castle, that were once so tall but now appear rather small.
He does not know what else to do, so he knocks. The sound is quiet, but it stands alone against a silent world, so it garners the attention of the knights that keep watch of the front entrance.
One of the knights shuffles away, leaning in and whispering something to the other on his way out. And then one remains, likely furrowing his eyebrows and wondering how the kid stuck in prison is somehow at the castle.
After a moment of silence– a tranquil moment of gray dull in contrast to the colorful state of his mind nowadays– the doors loudly creak open. Eret appears, rubbing their eyes under their glasses.
There is something to be said about how the monarch greets every one of their guests personally. He does not have the words to articulate it exactly– something about being a humble ruler that lives up to their reputation of gentle kindness, about how perhaps that reputation serves as a desperate attempt to compensate for how they gained that status in the first place. Perhaps they don’t have much farther to fall, so they’ll turn the claw marks into art.
After a moment (in which he imagines the monarch blinks a few times behind their glasses) Eret looks at the boy before them with a look of confusion– head slightly tilted, slips slightly parted, shoulders slightly rolled back.
(Eret’s body language has always been transparent. Perhaps it works to their detriment in certain situations. But that has always been the reality, as least as long as he’s known them. They’re expressive– as much as once can be while hiding their eyes.)
“Tommy? Is that you?”
Well… how does he answer such a question? The answer is not yes, but it certainly isn’t no. He’s only the shell of him, somehow moreso than when he was alive.
Thankfully, Eret is closely acquainted with the feeling of speechlessness, so– “Come in, Tommy. It’s early.”
So he wanders into Eret’s castle. The layout is unfamiliar; how many times has he ever been in here? Once or twice, if ever. But even that is unlikely. All he can hear is the tap of one set of shoes– heeled boots, that walk with a learned certainty and fit into a rather regal rhythm.
In some corners, there are knights. It’s a surprisingly honorable job to have, considering their monarch’s history. Puffy started as one, and Puffy is one of the greatest people he knows. He sees her face behind all the enchanted iron helmets.
Eret leads him up two flights of stairs, behind two locked doors, to their own room. It has a small balcony, and a little table with just two chairs on either side. Briefly, he wonders how Eret keeps both there while the other remains empty. Isn’t it agonizing?
“Sit with me,” Eret says softly, not a command but a gentle request. They sit at one chair and neatly fold their hands, even if this isn’t a professional meeting in any sense. Force of habit, likely. “I won’t press you, I’m just… curious. What are you doing here, in the castle of all places?”
He sits. For a moment he pauses, before admitting: “Only safe place.”
Eret is still behind their glasses. “Sorry, say that again?”
He repeats himself. “The only safe place.”
Then it is clear that Eret understands, because they hang their head just slightly. It’s a decent way to show that your gaze falls. They purse their lips– considering what to say, fearing that every option is the wrong one.
Finally, they say, “Thank you. That’s what it’s here for.”
The monarch’s crownless head does not move, but he knows the burn of a gaze focused on you. So he questions, more aggressively than intended, “Why are you staring at me?”
“Oh, well…” Eret stumbles a little bit, likely embarrassed that they got caught staring despite wearing complete blackout glasses. “I’m just surprised you’d come to me. Sam didn’t notify anyone that you were let out of the prison.”
He shrugs, without the heart he had when he was alive. “‘Cause I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t? How?”
He shakes his head. “No. Dream killed me in there.”
Now, Eret lifts their head. “Dream killed you?”
He nods, and it takes a moment for him to realize that there is a layer to Eret’s words beyond simple shock. Is it… anger? Is Eret angry? Is that why there is a newfound tap of shoes on the stone floor of the balcony, why they’ve pursed their lips tighter than tighter than last time, why their breaths have suddenly gone silent?
Yes, that might be it.
“Does it look like it?” He asks, suddenly aware of how he slurs his words. “Is that why you’ve been staring at me?”
Eret sighs; they must figure that being dishonest is pointless, because they finally admit: “One side of your face is droopy, your cardigan is ripped up, the blue in your eyes is gone, and your skin is… nearly grey. So… yeah, I guess it does look like it.”
He appreciates the honesty of course, but… go fucking figure. To think that he would stay the same, in any way at all, is stupid. It’s foolish, and naïve.
But it makes him think.
“Like Ghostbur?”
“…A little bit.”
Only vaguely does he remember Ghostbur. He feels a million miles away, like the memory of the last time Dream killed him. Arrow to the head, and he fell into water below, lifeless, still. He woke up days later, coughing up water and missing his discs. That time, Eret had been on the opposing side. Now things are different, and Eret is at his aid. It’s strange, if nothing else.
One thing he can remember is the way people look at Ghostbur. In the center of their gazes is a fixed point of condolence and resentment that tints their vision of him. He could never hope to be even a quarter of who Wilbur was, and they say so wordlessly.
Will people look at him like that? Will they do a double take at the droopy half of his face and his hollow, slurred words and stare at him with pity-glazed eyes? They’ll look at him like he’s crazy and nervously laugh and shoo him away, won’t they? They’ll say the same thing to him through the awkward shuffle of distant feet.
Well, he doesn’t want that. If Eret’s initial dishonesty is a preview of how others will treat him, he doesn’t wish to mingle like Ghostbur does. This opinion is voiced through the screech of his chair rather than his words.
“Why don’t you stay for just a bit longer? At least until the sunrise is over?” Eret requests, and he looks at them for a second with his eyebrows (or rather, just his right) furrowed in something in between confusion and anger.
Regardless of which is more prevalent, they elaborate: “Sunrises are calming. But they’re also awfully short-lived.”
Without a word, he turns on his heel and leaves the castle.
Above him the sun has already begun rising; in the east a tangerine hue, and the west a starless night. He doesn’t want pity, he thinks as he tramps up the stairs of the Path up to his home.
Perhaps he should see Tubbo. Perhaps it’ll be too late by the time he arrives, and Sam will have already broken the news to him.
(Sam is awake at these early hours, of course. Dream would say he kept himself awake until he passed out from exhaustion, then do it all again. He can’t muster up the excuse to call it a lie.)
Or maybe… it’s better that Tubbo receives the news from Sam instead of him. In any case, it won’t hurt to slink around and get a feel for what’s reached him and what hasn’t.
Snowchester’s cold climate is not his favorite. It’s one of the many great questions of life: why did Tubbo settle in a snowy area? Nevermind what the answer is (he doesn’t know it anyway), he makes no sound on the snow, and he leaves no footprint. He realizes it when he hops down from the top of the speedy-water-transport-tube thing that has been installed (he doesn’t like the touch of the water all that much) and finds no footprint below him, despite the force which he landed with. He does not know what to make of that fact, so he ignores it and moves on.
When he arrives, the first thing he finds is the grave for Squeeks– Tubbo had been devastated upon his beloved fox surviving Doomsday yet being blown up by a creeper, that he remembers vividly– but the grave stands alone.
And surely, if Tubbo knew he was dead, he’d get a grave, right?
The thought only clings to his mind for less than a minute before he hears a door swing open and the hushed exchange of two voices. Frantically he runs and sits behind a tree, bringing his knees to his chest. He remains unknown as a figure passes by, one that is light on their feet.
“Tell Michael I’ll be back before he knows it,” the figure says, and he looks over to confirm that yes, that’s Ranboo. And in his hand, a bouquet of alliums.
Why is he carrying around so many flowers?
And who is Michael? The name sounds familiar, but he cannot match a face to the name.
Now he has to investigate. For some awful reason, he gets the feeling it will be easier to talk to Ranboo than to Tubbo. So he gets up, and he rushes to follow Ranboo, hooking his foot onto any loose stone brick he can locate and once again climbing up to the top of the speedy-water-transport-tube.
And he is about to start running when he hears a very distinct “Huh?” come from behind him. He whips his head around and– it’s blurry, but Tubbo is looking straight at him, perplexed.
Then he runs.
He can’t speak to Tubbo, not now, not like this. Overcome with a new sense of fear, he turns and scurries away like the raccoon boy he once was. It’s as fast as his admittedly weak legs can muster. As he approaches the other side, he can see a moving figure in the distance. It has to be Ranboo, given the speed and the direction he’s walking.
So he follows Ranboo, but not too closely, until Ranboo stops in front of his home in the hillside. Ranboo places the alliums, scatters them amongst the little lawn, and he talks.
He listens to Ranboo say many things. He hears the enderman’s voice crack and practically feels the burn of the tears that certainly run down his cheeks. A few things Ranboo says go past him, but most do not. He listens, and he wishes he could do anything to change this outcome, but reality is like a slap to the side of his face that he can feel. For the briefest of moments he does not feel so alone, until Ranboo stops talking.
Yes, Ranboo goes silent, unaware of who sits on the other side of the hill. He cannot help but feel disappointed that Ranboo has run out of words to say. Any respects Ranboo has yet to give shall not be verbal.
As he is left alone with his own thoughts once more, though this time sitting amongst a bundle of alliums that feel like a field, he comes to a conclusion concerning his best friend:
It will be easier that Tubbo never sees him again.
Tubbo must feel what Ranboo feels, but a thousand times over. So it will be better, in the long run, that he and Tubbo never meet again. If the cost of Tubbo’s well-being is an eternity alone, it is worth it.
And so, he resigns himself to that. He accepts an existence alone, but he only manages to get through three days.