Aurora Borealis | Dreamnoblade

【𝔻𝕖𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖】

Warnings: Suicide, mentions of vomit, character death.

Edits made: 23/12/21

✧Prologue ✧

| Part One |

【Desolate】

Days passed undisclosed; days passed in a haze of confused disorientation; days passed where he slowly suffocated on the stifling heat of the torturous room; days spent cooking alive bit by bit.

Dream wonders how it had gotten to this—he had believed things had been getting better, that everyone had been getting along. There had been peace. He was almost ready to let Tommy return to L'Manburg now that he had sorted out the whole debacle without his irksome butting in when they even made a smudged of progress.

Dream had been reluctant to acknowledge L'Manburg—it had all started as a joke after all. Albeit one between Wilbur and himself. So he shouldn't have been so surprised when the humans didn't catch the memo, didn't click that everything between Dream and Wilbur was for shits and giggles.

They were humans after all.

Even George and Sapnap hadn't realized, despite how Dream had made it no secret he would occasionally meet up with Wil late at night to bounce ideas off each other. He supposed they just never twigged that Dream had never taken it seriously because admittedly, Dream and Wilbur were good actors—they played their roles easily. One, the rebellion leader fighting against tyranny and the other, the tyrant himself.

Oh, but how wrong Dream had been.

When he had first woken in this furnace, he had stared numbly at the note with signatures of half of the citizens of the SMP Region.

Dream...for penance for your actions...as members of the SMP Region we have decided...to dangerous to continue to be free...as punishment for your crimes...you have been placed in a secure prison...until a time we deem you have suitably served for your crimes.

He had been whacked around the head and dumped in this obsidian cell surrounded by lava with nothing more than a note.

...All alone.

His eyes had scanned the room, the...cell to see just what he had been deemed worthy of. A bare-thin cot, a lectern with a book and ink...

...that was it.

Now, an undefinable amount of time later, for Dream didn't even have a clock and so his days had long since blended together, the only semblance of a routine was the once-a-day deposit of potatoes, but soon, what had been once a day, Dream quickly caught onto the fact each deposit time grew longer and longer apart.

He began to ration the food, but humans aren't made to survive simply on potatoes, raw ones at that.

Hunger ate away at his stomach until it was crying out in pain, until he was physically sick, throwing up the only thing he could: stomach acid.

It burnt his throat and only made it all that more agonising.

He longed for simpler days when he had been a child, when he and Ranboo had lived with Puffy and Uncle Schlatt and the Minecraft family, had played in the fields with Technoblade and Wilbur.

When it had only been them without a care in the world.

As more time passed, Dream could feel himself waste away; could feel himself deteriorating; could feel the way his body was shutting down.

He had long given up trying to fill the silence that haunted the cell.

(The pop, pop, pop of lava was the only sound there was. At first, there had occasionally been the squabbling of a quill on paper but that was no longer a viable option. Dream saw no reason to fill that quiet stillness with his own voice, what was the point? It was only him, the sole inhabitant of this cell.)

Dream had long learnt to ignore the heat that radiated off the lava and obsidian floor; had learnt to ignore the burns on his skin from the overexposure.

He could feel his sanity slipping through his hands like water through fingers.

The problem with the prison was that it was not yet finished. It was secure, yes, but it wasn't made with the intention to actually house anyone.

Thus, it wasn't built with complete isolation in mind.

Early on, Dream had tried to keep himself occupied with the book and ink but soon, he filled up all of the pages and the ink ran dry.

Soon, Dream didn't see the point of crawling out of the hard cot if it only meant burns on his skin from the heat of the floor.

Soon, Dream saw no point in wearing his mask, not when there was no one to witness his face, his heritage, his well-guarded secret.

Soon, Dream began begging for something. For release. For freedom from this hell; from the abyss he had been thrown and forgotten in.

Soon, Dream realised the only escape he had was by his own hand.

So Dream, hesitant at first, picked off less of his foods (not that that was hard, his food practically ran dry), drank less even when the pounding in his head begged for it, even when his stomach began to eat itself.

He felt himself waste away. Slowly but surely.

He simply learnt to ignore the feelings of pain until he could no longer.

The next morning, Dream didn't wake up.