in an alternate reality - dreamnotfound

Chapter Seven

***

"They'd rather die," Wilbur muttered, "than be a part of your SMP."

***

"That's ridiculous," Dream's jaw clenched, "You couldn't have possibly brainwashed them all that quickly."

Dream's eyes darted from Wilbur's eyes to an approaching figure behind him, and then back to Wilbur. He jutted an accusing finger into Wilbur's chest, causing the latter to be shoved backwards a step or two.

"You lied to them, you know." His words were tasteless and they felt wrong. Dream recited them anyway, "Y-You're a liar. You- you're wrong. That's all."

Wilbur didn't retaliate, instead keeping his distance. He still looked at Dream, though. With his menacing eyes, he bore into Dream, and seemed to rip him apart. His gaze threatened to shatter Dream to pieces.

Dream became concerned that he was cracking, that the truth was spilling out, that Wilbur knew he was scared. Dream was fighting a losing battle.

There was no getting out of this alive.

Dream drew his sword, thrust it in Wilbur's direction before either of them had time to think. The point made contact with skin. There was blood, it dripped from the tip of the sword. Wilbur was-

Standing completely still, staring at Dream with the most emotionless gaze Dream had ever seen someone produce.

Dream stepped back, but his back only made contact with a jagged rock. It poked out of a black stone brick wall. The wall separated him from peace. The stupid goddamn wall, the stupid goddamn nation.

He felt himself slipping, his brain was fogged, his mind was chaos. Part of him wanted to run, get as far away from Wilbur, from L'manburg, as possible; go back to his jail cell and rot away until his inevitable sad and lonely death.

But his legs wouldn't move, his feet stuck to the grass, still wet from the rain.

There was a soft thud: the noise of his blade hitting the ground. He watched it paint the grass a crimson color, as if it was a paintbrush and he were the artist. He only wished he could've painted something prettier.

For instance, a life without whatever this was.

Deception? Fear? Misery?

Wilbur was saying something. His lips were moving.

Dream furrowed his eyebrows. He watched carefully as Wilbur's lips moved faster, his emotions shifting. Dream watched him grow angrier, watched as Wilbur came closer to him, pointed a finger in his face, pushed him into the wall.

The whole time, Dream heard absolutely nothing but gibberish and the sound of calmly approaching footsteps.

***

Dream woke up to the sound of birds singing and wind blowing. Leaves rustled in the wind, threatening to rattle all of their leaves straight off of the branches.

He opened his eyes slowly, not anticipating quite so much light to be pouring through his window. He had always had a habit of keeping his curtains drawn, so it was a surprise to wake up to beams of sun splaying themselves on his comforter.