Heart in Hand

by mattiebluebird (ScarlettBond)

Summary:

Theseus Minecraft died alone in the heart of the mountain at age thirteen, sobbing and choking on white rose petals and blood.

A few minutes later, he got up and walked back to his room.

No one had noticed he was gone.

(Or: Dsmp, but medieval—Tommy was a spy for Dream the whole time and sbi are family but don't know that Tommy is actually their missing son/brother. Also magic and gods and stuff.)

Notes:

• Inspired by Evermore by rabiddog

Chapter 1: prologue

The castle was old.

Older than the Players. They say that when the Players first arrived on the shores of Esempi, the castle was already there, empty and abandoned. They'd expanded it since then, carved halls deeper and deeper into the mountain, but the foundation was as old as the rock it sat on.

When he was little, his father told him that if he set his ear to the stone and listened he'd hear the heart of the mountain. Theseus did, and he swore that just within range of his hearing was a deep, slow thump-thump. It was one of his first memories, his first lesson, that there was magic in the earth and in the castle and it would protect him. The mountain held onto its own.

Theseus had never been more aware of that fact than now.

Everywhere he went, the walls closed in, and he felt watched. Stalked. Hunted. The heavy weight of the rock and stone and magic pressed down on him until he felt like he'd suffocate under its resentful gaze.

And when Theseus was alone, he swore he felt the mountain reach out to him, trying to trap him in its clutches like frightened prey.

...He was alone a lot, these days 

So of course, that's how he died.

---

Theseus' father explained to him when he was very little, so little he doesn't even remember it. He told him—

"Sometimes, the person you love doesn't love you back. When that happens, you get hanahaki. Roses grow in your lungs—red for romance, yellow for friendship, white for family, pink for the undefined—and you cough them up."

"Does it kill you?"

His father laughed. "Only very rarely," he said. "But there are spells and potions to treat it." Then he'd kissed little Theseus' forehead.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll always love you."

---

(Theseus begged to fucking differ, and he'd done a lot of begging in the past few years.)

---

At first, it was just a cough.

A wet, horrid cough that came and went at seemingly random times—passing his brothers in the hall, just before he went to bed, standing outside of his father's office.

Then came the rasping, the awful feeling of something stuck in his throat. No matter how hard he retched and hacked, he couldn't dislodge it. It grew so bad that Theseus could no longer run or fly at all without doubling over and wheezing. His dove-white wings grew dusty with disuse.

("Maybe it's hanahaki," said the royal physician, a woman named Niki.

"Isn't he a bit young for that?" Fretted Theseus' servant.

"Could be yellow," Niki pointed out, but the servant was already shaking his head.

"His Highness doesn't spend time with any other children his age."

Niki sighed. "Then I don't know. It's probably just a cold.")

The cough and rasping stayed as summer turned to fall, though strangely it lessened with the cold. They'd tried everything from healing potions to intricate rituals that pulled on the mountain's ancient magic, but nothing worked. Niki said it might be asthma or some other lung problem, and they left it at that.

Wilbur started calling him old man. His father and Technoblade, his oldest brother, started leaving him at the castle when they went on trips. Wilbur took on more responsibility and thus had less time to spend with his younger brother.

Winter turned to spring, and the cough worsened so rapidly Theseus was left bedridden for most of the season.

("You're showing all the symptoms of stage one hanahaki," Niki said. "My Lord, are you certain there's no one you have feelings for, who might not return those feelings?"

Theseus coughed and shook his head. He had no friends to speak of; the only people he saw on a semi-regular basis were the castle staff and his tutor, all of whom he thought of fondly and thought of him fondly in turn.

He supposed there were only three people in the world he truly loved.)

Two years passed.

Theseus studied and yearned for the sky, and eventually he learned to live with it.

---

"Wil! I was thinking— "

"Not now, Theo. I'm busy."

"Then maybe later? Or tomorrow?"

"I told you I'm busy."

"Oh. Okay."

Theseus put his hand to his mouth and coughed. It came away red.

---

Few knew it, but deep within the castle, long past the point where smooth stone turned to uneven rock, there was a place they called the heart of the mountain.

It was where the royal family went to pray.

Theseus found himself there more and more often these days, on his hands and knees before the altar.

He asked to be healed and then he pleaded and then he begged, because this wasn't asthma and any other affliction except for one would've killed him by now. The castle staff had started giving him pitying looks like he was already on death's door, and Theseus hadn't spoken to his family in months and he was starting to suspect things no child should ever have to suspect.

He prayed to his mother, the Gray Goddess, and asked her why.

He never got an answer.

---

Theseus Minecraft died alone in the heart of the mountain at age thirteen, sobbing and choking on white rose petals and blood.

A few minutes later, he got up and walked back to his room.

No one had noticed he was gone.

---

(There was something the people of L'Manberg often forgot, after years of quiet peace spent under the Minecraft reign.

The castle was old, and it did not always belong to them.)

Notes:

I know I'm going to lose most of you here but disclaimer: I'm not actually in this fandom. I haven't seen a single episode or stream or whatever of the dsmp, though I know the main plot. I just read fanfic and liked the Vibes. I'm putting it in the fandom tag because the main characters are heavily based off of what I know about the dsmp characters (mostly Dream, Philza, Technoblade, and Tommy), but for all intents and purposes these are OCs, so please don't get offended if your fav is horribly out of character. (Tbh this is mostly a test chapter—if people like this I'll post more. If I DO continue, I'll either scrape by on fandom wiki and interrogating my dsmp-fan friend or just man up and… actually watch the thing I'm writing fic for lmao.)

Chapter 2: i'll pay my weight in blood to make my nerves wake up

Summary:

When the man spoke, his voice was soft. "Nice to meet you, Tommy," he said. "Call me Dream."

(Or: Tommy meets Dream and it goes horribly (well).)

Notes:

Chapter title(s) from Feel Something by Jaymes Young.

I gotta say I was fucking BLOWN AWAY by the positive response to the last chapter, I was expecting it to be mostly ignored. Usually I would've updated earlier but I have this New Policy where I don't update multi-chapter fics until I've written a chapter and a half ahead, and I was nowhere near finished with the next chapter when I published the prologue because again, I wasn't expecting such a positive response. Or a response at all.

Because I saw some confusion: to be clear, Tommy didn't ACTUALLY die last chapter. The death was symbolic. The death of his innocence, his childhood, his trust in his family and life as a sheltered prince. I was trying to be Deep okay.

ANyways, I hope you enjoy and if you see an inconsistency no you don't <3

(Side note: @smp-boundaries on tumblr is a GODSEND. Go check them out.)

Life continued, as fucked up as it was, and barely a month later they had the Harvest Festival.

Theseus would, for the rest of his life, blame that gods-damned festival for what happened next. Because sure, technically it was his own fault, but he blamed it on the festival because he hated the things. They were the few times a year his family dragged him out of his room and paraded him around and were nice to him.

He used to love them, because it was one of the rare times his entire family was in one place. The fact just made him angrier. Because now when Wilbur snuck him cookies under the table long after their father had cut him off, when his father smiled at him, when Technoblade… okay, Techno ignored him for the most part, but that was normal.

The point was, when they did those things, when they laughed and joked and smiled at each other, at him, Theseus had to live with the fact that they were lying. So maybe he was a bit more snappy than usual, alright? Not like he had an obligation to be civil to people who didn't give a shit about him.

It's about the third time Theseus got snarky with a nobleman that his father pulled him aside and told him to pull his act together. Okay, he didn't use those exact words, but Theseus was a prince and he was well-versed in the art of politely telling someone off.

He bit his tongue and nodded and D—no, Philza stalked off.

And just like that, as he was left standing alone with that one rage-fueled mental edit, it all became clear to him.

He had to leave.

Later, he'd try to justify it. Reason with himself—it's not like I like being a prince, it's fucking awful. I'm an educated, able-bodied young man, so finding a job would be easy. There's no point in staying, really.

But in the moment, his only real thought was—I can't do this for the rest of my life.

So that night, he looked in the mirror—it was a fixation of his, always had been, equal parts a source of anxiety and frustration and a compulsive need to pick himself apart until nothing remained—and traced the hairline cracks. I'll have to change my name, he thought.

Technically speaking, Technoblade named him. Children of the Red God were made, not born—according to them, Philza found Techno wandering a battlefield, no older than nine and already carrying the Red God's blessing, and brought him home. Years later, when Theseus chose a new name, he had Techno's tales of Greek heroes to choose from.

Mouth set in a grim line, he settled on Thomas. Tom. Tommy. It wasn't a hero's name, wasn't even a prince's name. It was just a normal name for a normal boy, the kind of name a mother would give her son in hopes he'd grow up good and strong.

He considered leaving behind a note or something, but… no. His family would be happier without him, probably wouldn't even notice he was gone until a servant told them.

In the end, he allowed himself to take one bag. He couldn't fly , not really, but he could glide for surprisingly long distances, and much faster than any horse could run.

Tommy jumped from his bedroom window and didn't dare look back.

(In the heart of the mountain, he leaves his crown. He won't need it where he's going.)

---

Well. He looked back once.

It was supposed to be just a glance—a quick look to judge how far he'd flown. He twisted in the air and saw that distant speck he'd once called home.

If all went well, he'd never call it home again.

The very second that pang of longing hit him, his lungs seized. He spasmed, gasping for breath, and didn't right himself quite in time.

He didn't crash . It was more of a… bumpy landing.

Tommy hacked, but there was a lump in his throat and warm liquid copper filling his mouth and he couldn't breathe. He panicked as dark spots crowded the edges of his visions, thoughts narrowing and blurring and repeating—it's my fault, what's wrong with me, they hated me, I'm so fucking awful my own body is trying to kill me—

When his vision blacked out, all he could think was finally.

---

He woke up, surprisingly enough.

Even more surprisingly, he woke up in a bed. Like, with blankets and everything. It wasn't exactly comfortable—his throat burned and his wing was folded wrong—but it was more than he expected. He struggled to sit up, wheezing and sweating.

"Don't over-exert yourself."

Tommy jumped so high he nearly hit the ceiling. At the bedside sat a man wearing a lime green cloak and a white mask with a smiley face on it. Tommy was caught between thinking it looked stupid and thinking it looked oddly sinister.

"Wh—" He coughed. "Where the fuck am I?" He winced; he'd started internally cursing a while ago, but never out loud.

The man didn't seem to mind. He just stared down at him (yeah, Th—Tommy was leaning toward oddly sinister). "You're at the Sunset Inn," the man said, very calmly. "I brought you here after finding you on the side of the road, dying of hanahaki."

Tommy's heart dropped into his stomach. No one knew he had hanahaki, let alone white hanahaki, and he much preferred it that way. If nothing else, the sheer humiliation of people knowing the entire royal family hated him would kill him instantly. Hell, the humiliation of just himself knowing had almost killed him instantly.

"I—"

"I won't tell anyone," the man interrupted. "Or pry. But I'm guessing you don't want to go back?"

Tommy shook his head.

"And I'm guessing you don't have anywhere to go?"

"No," he croaked.

"Well, the room's paid for tonight and tomorrow," the man said, standing up. "You have until then to figure it out. For now, rest, Prince Theseus."

"It—" Tommy broke off into a coughing fit and the man paused, one hand on the door. "It's Tommy," he croaked.

When the man spoke, his voice was soft. "Nice to meet you, Tommy," he said. "Call me Dream."

He closed the door behind him.

---

There was a problem. A big problem.

Tommy woke up choking and couldn't go back to sleep for fear he'd suffocate. The coughing racked his frame every time he so much as thought about moving, sending him into wheezing fits that ended with his hands dotted in blood and the occasional petal.

He thought—he hoped—that yesterday was a one-off, but now the undeniable proof was staring him in the face.

He had stage two hanahaki.

That was bad.

Stage two was rarely fatal, rarely being the key word. If things progressed into stage three, or gods forbid, four? Tommy would die, no doubt about it.

It didn't make sense. Hanahaki progressed according to several different factors, including how deep the love went and the unrequited's feelings toward the afflicted. Tommy didn't think his family hated him. If nothing else, they were good people (but didn't good people love their brother, their son?) who'd never mistreat a child.

So the question was: just how much did Tommy love his family?

He didn't know. Something broke in him the day he realized they didn't truly love him. Now all thoughts of them were angry and hurt and sad. He didn't want them dead, but he couldn't honestly say he was invested in their well-being.

Was that love?

It didn't feel like love, but apparently it was.

... Tommy loved them.

The admission tore his ribcage apart and brought tears to his eyes. God, how pathetic—to have a family that didn't love you, to love a family that didn't love you. He'd laugh, but that would send him into another coughing fit, so he settled for curling up into a ball and regretting his existence.

Eventually, the growling of his stomach forced him to move. Tommy folded his wings as tightly as he could and wrapped a heavy cloak around himself. It wasn't a perfect disguise, but it was the best he could do without cutting his wings off.

He stumbled downstairs. Immediately, he spotted Dream at the bar; the man's lime green cloak stood out like a sore thumb. The booths and the other patrons didn't exactly look inviting, so Tommy sat beside the man.

"Good morning," he rasped.

Dream did not reply, but ordered him breakfast.

"I can pay for myself," Tommy muttered. "I—"

"Don't have a steady income?" Tommy's ears went red. Dream scoffed. "Yeah, I figured."

They were both quiet for a while, then—

"You have stage two hanahaki."

Tommy froze. "What happened to not prying?" He asked weakly.

"You know, in the north," Dream continued as if he hadn't said anything, "There are certain surgeries that alleviate hanahaki symptoms."

"Really?" Tommy couldn't keep the desperate hope from his voice.

"Not permanently," Dream stressed. "But yes. And they're very expensive."

"Oh." Tommy mulled over that. He had enough money to buy a house, so surely it would cover the surgery? But then he might not have any money at all, and as Dream pointed out, he didn't exactly have a reliable income.

"You know, Tommy," Dream said. Something about his tone made the name sound like a warning. "There are people who would pay high prices for the sorts of magic only demigods are capable of. Especially Death's child."

Tommy knew that, of course. Everyone could wield magic regardless of blood, but few could wield it well, and demigods were capable of feats no mortal could ever accomplish. Tommy could talk to ghosts and guide them on their Journey to the afterlife. He could see why people would pay huge sums for that.

"Then again," Dream added. "There aren't many of Death's children running about, and only two with wings, which I'm guessing you'll want to keep hidden. Most people won't take you at your word. Not without someone to vouch for you."

Tommy caught on immediately, eyes narrowing. "You're saying you could be that voucher?"

"I'm saying I've been in this game longer than you've been alive," he said, "And I have clients who trust me; clients who will believe me if I say you're really Death's child. I'm saying we could easily grow rich together."

Tommy bit the inside of his cheek and stayed silent.

"You still have tonight." Dream stood. "Sleep on it."

Tommy did.

He woke up just in time to catch Dream before he left.

"Here." The man shoved a square of fabric into his hands. "Wear this."

Tommy unfolded it and saw it was a white face mask with a—you'll never guess—smile-y face on it. "Oh my gods," he breathed. "This is amazing. What next? Are we gonna get matching cloaks? Can we color coordinate our outfits? I'm sorry, man, but the green has got to go—"

The rolling of his eyes was nearly audible.

(Trotting down the street on horseback—not clinging to Dream because he was a Big Man and Big Men didn't do that, thank you very much—he was surprised to see actual missing posters for Prince Theseus. The sketches looked like they were based off a family portrait from three years ago, but still. Posters.

"I'm surprised they even noticed I was gone," Tommy muttered, drawing his hood low over his face.

"Only took them two days," Dream said.)

Notes:

if you're wondering "why isn't c!tommy more suspicious of this random man who picked him up off the side of the road and offered him a job" the answer is—and I say this with all the love in my heart—that he's stupid <3

Chapter 3: love me now or let me go, let me feel those highs and lows

Summary:

Getting the soul ripped out of your body sucked ass, no way around it. But getting the soul shoved back into your body—resurrecting, basically—was so much worse.

(Or: Dream and Tommy take their first job.)

Notes:

This stuff is in the tags, but this chapter is especially brutal so I thought I'd reiterate: general blanket trigger warning throughout the whole fic for TommyInnit Fucking Dying in multiple ways, including (but not limited to): hanahaki, murder, and uhhh literally having the soul ripped out of him, as well as child abuse, war, all the stuff that comes with war, and c!Tommy being a traumatized, self-loathing teen (it doesn't get TOO bad, don't worry... well, i'll warn you when it does).

...starting to wonder if I should use that Graphic Violence tag or bump the rating up to Mature or something.

anyways, enjoy <3

Tommy had exactly one black feather.

It was a huge, extremely noticeable primary on his left wing, and even when plucked or molted it just grew back. He knew because he'd tried. Multiple times.

Angels of Death were human spirits sworn to the Gray Goddess's service, but unlike most angels, their service was not eternal—with each soul taken, their dove-white wings blackened, and when every feather went dark they were allowed to retire.

Usually, the Angels' children did not have their parent's wings, but Tommy and Wilbur were anything but usual. Their mother was a goddess and their father was her angel—this made them very… unique cases.

All this to say, Tommy had passed through the Veil before. He'd been in the room when a ghost moved on and got unwittingly pulled into her Journey.

(He was nine years old. Philza held him as he sobbed for hours afterward.)

A year ago he would've called it the worst experience of his life. Now he knew better, but it was still pretty far up there.

He didn't want to do it again.

The coughing fit that assailed him a moment later reminded him he didn't have much of a choice.

Still, that didn't mean he had to like it.

It was kind of surreal, really. Just yesterday—technically two days ago, but he'd been unconscious for one of them so did it really count?—Tommy had been a prince. He'd been neglected and forgotten, sure, but he'd lived in a castle. He could snap his fingers and have almost anything he wanted.

Now, he knelt before the grave of a man he'd never met but whose death he could describe in detail (it was a restless, lonely death, he thought—painful and slow and unfinished, somehow) and prepared to summon his ghost.

Surreal.

"Are you just going to sit there all day?" Dream interrupted his extremely interesting monologue.

"Shut up, you'll break my concentration!" He snapped. He had not, in fact, been concentrating, but it was the principle of the matter.

Tommy turned back to the headstone. This was the part that made him nervous. The Veil was thinnest at crossroads and graveyards, and it was much easier to summon a ghost when their body was nearby, so it made sense to summon the ghost here.

The only problem? For the average person, summoning a ghost required a ritual. You needed a full moon and a personal artifact and some serious mojo.

For a child of the Gray Goddess, however, it only required a name.

(If you were an average person, you only said a god's true name if you wanted to get smited or at the very least cursed.

If you were a demigod, you only said a god's true name if you were in dire need of help.)

Tommy took a deep breath and whispered his mother's name.

K̵̺̥͍̂̎r̴̨̳͍̻̓͗̏į̵̨̨̧̬̞̽̂̅̂̒s̸̲̝̈́̅̑̕ẗ̶̜͇̦͖̘i̴͎̳̳͓̾́̈́̑͠ṅ̴̗͕̫̰͊̓̀̚͘

The sky split open.

A static-y numbness spread across his body. Tommy breathed a ragged breath and looked up.

David Hillsborough had probably seen better days.

Whatever parts of him that weren't transparent were as grey as the overcast sky. The only part of him with color was the red smeared across his lips and splattered over his shirt. He was young, no older than fifteen, but he stared down at Tommy with a blank sort of expression.

That surprised him. He'd expected an old man, or at least an adult from the looks of the woman he'd assumed was the man's wife.

No , Tommy realized, that must have been his mother.

...The unfinished feeling suddenly made a lot more sense.

"Um." He cleared his throat—his mouth was suddenly as dry as desert sand. "Hi."

David scowled. "What the 'ell do you want?"

"I—" Tommy stood and nearly fell over; he felt dizzy and light-headed. "Your mother paid me to help you cross over."

David blanched, which for a ghost meant he went from slate gray to snow white before beginning to fade even further from view. "No," he said. "I can't—I can't do it again. I can't."

He floated back a few feet and Tommy instinctively stepped forward, hand outstretched (to do what? comfort him? you couldn't touch a ghost).

"It's okay," he said. The words felt empty and false. He'd never been the best with people. "I—I'm going to help you. I'm a child of the Gray Goddess."

David stopped fading. "I… I don't—" He took a deep breath that looked nearly painful. Judging from the blood, it might've been. "I can't," he said. "The Angel, she tried to help me, but I couldn't do it."

"Yes, you can. Journeys can be… they can be really shit," he admitted. That, at least, he believed. "But they're made for each person. They're made to be won. And you can't stay a ghost forever."

(Everyone knew what happened to ghosts who stayed in the world of the living for too long. It wasn't a fate anyone envied.)

David still looked uncertain, almost entirely transparent and fidgeting.

"Look, David," Tommy said in his best no-nonsense, matter-of-fact voice. "You won't get a better chance than this. You won't get another chance period. You're already Fading. It's kinda hard to let go of all your earthly attachments when you're losing your mind, innit?"

"I don't want to Fade," David admitted, voice impossibly small.

Tommy held out his hand.

"Then let me help you."

David stared for a moment.

Then he reached out.

---

Getting the soul brutally ripped out of you—dying, basically—was… difficult to describe.

Imagine having a battle axe plunged into your back. The sensation of your ribcage collapsing, blood flooding your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to even scream as your life ends in a single moment that goes on and on and on.

It was like that, but much, much worse.

Tommy landed (formed? arose?) with a sensation not unlike smacking into the ground and surfacing for breath at the same time, gasping and sputtering and light-headed and in pain, somehow, somewhere.

A hand—solid, real—clamped down on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

For a second, Tommy thought David still looked ghost-y, but then his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he realized it was just shadows. David was now in full color, though the blood stains were gone, thank the gods. His expression was pinched and worried instead of that awful blankness. It all made him seem more real, somehow.

Tommy nodded and straightened, waving him off. The first thing he noticed was the sky, dark and grey-blue like the few minutes after a sunset. The second thing he noticed was the field of waist-high grass and flower bushes stretching as far as the eye could see. The temperature was just on the edge of cold, like the air on an autumn day.

The whole thing had an odd feel to it. It was too… still, or something. Too big. Too lonely, even with David there.

Tommy squinted at the flowers. Journeys usually had bullshit symbolism to them, so he was assuming the flowers had some sort of significance. At first glance they looked blue, but a closer inspection proved they were actually—

…White.

White roses, to be exact.

White roses had a very limited number of meanings.

"How much do you know about… about how I died?" David asked, staring out over the field.

(pain like his heart was imploding, turning to ashes in his chest)

(this wasn't supposed to happen. not to him. not to him.)

(he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't BREATHE HE CAN'T—)

"You had hanahaki," Tommy said. His chest hurt and his blood ran cold, but strangely, he felt like laughing. Of course. Of course he'd died of hanahaki. Life was funny like that.

"I—" David turned in a circle like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he whispered.

(no, it wasn't.)

(training with wooden swords he could barely hold—Dad ruffling his hair after he perfected a parry—

(not that he paid attention any other time. fall and it's "get up, again, again" and he knows, he knows this is what he's supposed to do but—

Dad turns away and blood dots his hands.)

(—the first time he held a real sword in his hands, the first time he won a duel—

( the first time he choked, blood and petals filling his throat)

(—his first battle, barely fourteen, scared out of his mind. this is what he's supposed to do but they never said it would feel like this and…

...and he doesn't want to die.)

(he was supposed to win.)

(it's not even the battle that kills him.)

"You were a soldier," Tommy said. "In the Uprising."

The Uprising happened before Tommy was even born. The way he understood it, before Philza Minecraft came, L'Manberg was ruled by a tyrant. His father overthrew said tyrant and took the crown for himself.

He'd known, of course, that before his father things had been… bad, but he supposed he hadn't fully understood how bad. Experiencing the memories of a child soldier—a boy his age who had already been in battles, holy shit—certainly drove in the message, though.

David said nothing.

Tommy cleared his throat. Right, he could work with this. Just ignore the fucking memories that were and weren't his, choking and pain and cold and adrenaline and tears crowding into his consciousness and he'd be fine. Just ignore the nagging realization that this could be him, in a few years it will be him and he'd be fine. Easy. Nothing he hadn't done before.

"Well…" Great start, Tommy, fantastic start, Mom should hire you stat— "What did you on your last Journey?"

"I…" David frowned as if trying to remember something. "I bled."

David's hand brushed over a rose and he winced, snatching it back. Red beaded and a single drop fell to the ground.

The bushes started to rustle.

And then they started to shake.

Tommy grabbed David by the wrist and yanked him back. The bush grew, reaching toward him, but stopped after a few centimetres.

"Okay," Tommy breathed. "Don't touch the roses. Got it."

"What do we do now?"

Tommy shrugged. "I guess we walk."

So they walked.

They walked for a really long time. Tommy didn't expect the afterlife to be such a workout. Well, it wasn't technically the afterlife—more of an in-between space—but it was close enough.

"So," Tommy said awkwardly, edging between two bushes, "Hanahaki, huh?"

"Yep."

"Um… how old were you, when—"

"Ten," David said. "The day I was enlisted in the army."

"Oh. But you were still able to fight?"

"I took anti-love potions here and there," he admitted. "The shitty ones they make in basements. They always wore off."

"And you never, uh—" Tommy panted; was it just him or was the ground getting steeper? "You never considered taking a permanent one?"

"Would you want to take a permanent anti-love potion?"

Tommy winced. Anti-love potions didn't just take away your love for one person. They took away a type of love and dulled all memories associated with it—all the good ones, anyway. Take one for familial hanahaki and not only would you never love someone in a familial way again, but every happy memory you had of your family would blur or disappear entirely.

So… fair enough.

After a moment, David sighed. "I don't know. I guess I just kept hoping… if I won and came home, it would go away on its own." He laughed bitterly. "Stupid me, right?"

"No, it's not stupid," Tommy said. "No one wants to accept that their family doesn't love them. I… I kept hoping the same thing. Took me two years to even admit I had hanahaki."

David looked at him, eyes wide. " You have hanahaki?" His eyes drifted to Tommy's wings.

Tommy laughed and spread them. "I know, I know. Despite contrary belief I am not, in fact, an Angel."

"Thought you looked too young," he admitted. "But I didn't want to say anything. Why do you have wings, then?"

"It's a long, long story. It's actually why I'm here with Dream. I… I ran away."

"I thought about running away, but… well, you know what they did to deserters."

"Yeah." Tommy stopped, unable to find a way around this particular swathe of bushes. "I do."

Their conversation was brought to a sudden end.

When Death Angels retired, their memories of the afterlife became blurry and indistinct and eventually faded like dreams—but Tommy remembered hearing, maybe from a book or his tutor or even Philza himself, that there came a point in every Journey where the Death Angel and spirit parted ways.

It seemed this was that point.

The last Tommy saw of David, he was being dragged to the ground.

---

Getting the soul ripped out of your body sucked ass, no way around it. But getting the soul shoved back into your body—resurrecting, basically—was so much worse.

If dying was like having an axe plunged into your chest, then resurrecting was having that axe yanked out. That moment when you realized oh gods what the fuck and the blinding, burning agony kicked in as you struggled to breathe through lungs torn to ribbons.

Tommy became aware somewhere around the time he was on his hands and knees, vomiting onto the grass. Horrible sensation, that. 0/10, would not recommend.

Eventually, the vomiting subsided and he was able to sit back, wiping his mouth off with a trembling hand.

For a long, long moment, there was silence but for the sound of his ragged breathing.

"...Did you know?"

It came out as a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat.

"Know what?" Dream's voice came from behind him. Tommy couldn't find the strength to turn.

"Did you know?" He repeated.

"That David here died of hanahaki?" Dream stepped into view just to his left. "Yes, I did."

"What the—" He coughed. "What the fuck? You—I'm literally dying, and you—you thought that was a good idea? You saw someone my age, who had died of the same thing I AM DYING OF, and you thought—yes! Perfect! Perfect first job for Tommy!"

" Exactly ," Dream said, sounding exasperated of all things. He stepped in front of him, gesturing wildly with his hands. "The—Tommy, you're dying because you can't let go of people who couldn't care less about you! I know you can't exactly control who you love, but—"

"Fuck you!" Tommy screamed. "I—it's not exactly easy—" His voice broke and if it were any other time, if he hadn't just died and been brought back to life and failed his first job and wasn't being yelled at by a man he met two days ago, he'd probably be mortified.

As it was, he was bowled over by another coughing fit.

This one hurt. It went on and on and on and fucking on. He was dimly aware of Dream pounding him on the back, of tears streaming down his face, of chunks hitting his hands, but he was too busy panicking to pay attention.

Just as spots began to crowd his vision, the coughing slowed enough for him to gasp for air between spasms.

"...happens to people who can't let go?" Dream—had he been talking the whole time? it was difficult to hear over the ringing in his ears—said, voice soft and pitying. "Who cling to useless attachments?"

Hands gently grabbed his own and began wiping them off with a handkerchief. Tommy was too exhausted to protest.

"Kid, I've seen dozens of people die because of hanahaki. Dozens." Dream grabbed his chin and wiped off his mouth. "I don't want you to be one of them."

It occurred to him, in a distant, abstract sort of way, that this was probably the first time he'd talked to someone—truly talked as an equal with no sense of professionalism and all cards on the table—in… in how many years?

Tommy was suddenly more aware than ever just how alone he was—truly, utterly alone with no one to help him, no one to care for him, except for this random man who'd seen an opportunity for cash and decided to take a chance.

It was pathetic and lonely and he was suddenly very, very aware of every fucking blade of grass beneath him, of every feather on his wings, of his clothes and hair and the burning in his chest and especially the hand on his shoulder and the other gripping his chin.

It felt like he was dying. Was he dying?

No, idiot, he realized as he collapsed forward. You're just crying.

He could describe to you in excruciating detail what happened next, but he'd rather not. He cried, and Dream held him, and at some point he was urged onto a horse and he clung to Dream the whole ride to wherever the fuck they went.

He ended up in a bed, curled up under a thick, heavy blanket while Dream ran his fingers through his hair. He'd usually bat the hands away, but he figured his dignity was a bit of a lost cause at this point.

"Tomorrow, we'll ride north," Dream promised.

Tommy fell asleep and didn't wake up until morning.

Notes:

WOOH what a chapter. Don't worry about David he's fine he stopped struggling and had a The Power Was Inside Me All Along moment and now he's having tea w/ Kristin as they talk abt her son. I know Tommy seemed kinda useless to him but… that's how the dice roll sometimes! He'll get better at the whole Death Angel-ing.

Worldbuilding bc I couldn't fit everything in this chapter but I dont want yall to be confused: children of Death can see and talk to ghosts, but can only cross the Veil the old-fashioned way (by dying). The most powerful ones can kill people with a touch. (Most) Children of Death Angels don't have wings, but can sense death (like, in general—if a lot of death is about to happen, if someone has died recently, etc.), see and talk to ghosts, and guide spirits on their Journeys, though that last bit fizzles out by the second generation. Journeys are different for everyone—sometimes they're these long epic-like sagas of trials, sometimes they're just a few hours of quiet contemplation. You only get an Angel the first time, though. After that you're on your own.

Side note: nothing pathetic or shameful about having a little mental breakdown with the homies as long as they are actually your homies and not men you met two days ago who are most definitely using you for nefarious purposes.

Chapter 4: i'm too young to feel so numb, you could be the one to make me feel something

Summary:

"Of course," Dream said. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Tommy froze. "Are we… friends?" He asked hesitantly.

"Yeah. Aren't we?"

Tommy thought for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Yeah," he said. "We are."

(Or: Tommy gets that surgery and Dream is suspicious. In other news, water is wet.)

Notes:

501 kudos… 97 bookmarks… 4800 hits… yet only 4 comments on the last chapter. I see how it is.

A note on tagging: I've decided to use (Dream SMP) and their character names/gamer tags when referring to the characters they rp on the dsmp and (Video Blogging RPF) and real names/gamer tags when referring to their Real Actual Persons. I hope this doesn't irreparably fuck up the tagging system.

For this chapter, I'd like to formally apologize to Mr. GeorgeNotFound as well as the dsmp fandom at large. I read his character wiki so I'm basing literally All of his characterization off of that and a post I saw on Tumblr a few months ago. He's a rich chemist and he has ducks and wears goggles and puts up with Dream's shit that's it that's the character.

...I hope y'all enjoy this chapter.

Tommy opened his eyes and saw light.

He blinked, and the light resolved into an image: Dream's hand, wisps of yellow smoke dancing between his fingers.

Tommy shifted and the smoke disappeared as Dream looked down at him.

"What kind of magic was that?" Tommy winced. His voice was hoarse, probably from all the crying. Ugh, he was never going to live that down.

"Just an illusion," Dream said. "I do it when I'm bored. Black or blonde?"

"Blonde," Tommy said automatically. "Wait. What?"

"You'll have to touch up your roots every other day," Dream warned. "And we're dying your hair. The entire kingdom is looking for you."

Tommy sat up—and froze.

On his right wing was a single black primary, a perfect mirror to the one on his left.

He stared at it for a moment before looking away. He wondered if, after a few years of working with Dream, they would be completely dark. Like his father's.

He didn't know how the thought made him feel.

Dream pulled a vial of bleach out of his pocket—because apparently he just carried that stuff around—and they bleached his hair. After rinsing it in a bucket, Dream handed him a mirror.

His hair was wet and scraggly, hanging past his ears—Tommy winced, he'd need to cut it soon—and lighter than it'd been since he was a toddler. The whole thing made him look like a completely different person.

He handed the mirror back to Dream and raised an eyebrow. "Uh, Big Man?" He lifted his wings. "I think we might have bigger problems than my hair."

"Yeah, I was thinking about that." Dream started rifling through his bag. "There are dyes that work on wings—if we dye them black we can pass you off as part Nature spirit. Until then, though, do you think we could tie them down?"

Tommy made a face. "I don't see why not, but it would be uncomfortable as hell."

It was, in fact, uncomfortable as hell. It took forever to find an arrangement that didn't cut off his circulation, and another forever to bind them in a way that flattened them as much as possible. By the end they had something that would still look highly suspicious in a shirt or even a jacket but would be hidden by a cloak.

"It'll have to do," Dream said. "Put the mask on and let's go."

("Seriously, though, the matching masks are adorable. Did you just… have this on you? For emergencies? Or did you buy this specifically for me—"

"Shut up about the mask!")

---

"That one."

Tommy pointed at the horse in the farthest stall—the smallest, gangliest one, brown with white spots that reminded him of a cow.

"Are you sure?"

Tommy glared. "That one."

Dream sighed and turned to the owner. "Can we have that horse, please?"

Tommy beamed and patted the horse on the head. "I think I'll name him Henry."

---

Tommy had a lot of time to think on the way to the northern border.

A part of him was realizing what a huge decision he'd made on a whim. A part of him warned against following this stranger into another kingdom for promises of a surgery he'd never heard of. A part of him hoped desperately that his family missed him now that he was gone, that they'd realized their mistakes and wanted him back.

A part of him knew that was pathetic, and idiotic besides. His persistent coughing was proof enough of that.

(And still an even smaller, quieter part of him wondered why . Did they never love him? With Philza and Technoblade, that wasn't difficult to believe. Philza was an Angel that had probably seen entire civilizations rise and fall. Techno was a child of the Red God—not that they couldn't love, but once they had the blessing their first priority was always the fight.

But Wilbur… Wilbur didn't have an excuse. They were close—at least, Tommy thought they were. Maybe that just went to show how wrong he was.

If he couldn't trust Wilbur, could he trust anyone?)

But another part of him—maybe not a larger part, but a louder, more optimistic one—was… determined, and kind of excited. If he went back, what waited for him? Cold, oppressive castle walls, closed doors and distant servants and eventually, unless he wanted to die, anti-love potions and the shame of everyone knowing he was an outcast among his own family.

Besides, that part of him argued, you've already come this far, haven't you? What's a little further?

A little further turned into a lot further until they were at the northern border. Tommy's last chance to back out passed in a blur of anxiety and toll booths.

And then it was gone.

They rode on.

...And on, and on.

Where L'Manberg was mostly plains, the north was hundreds of square miles of forest and mountain. The path they were on was far from any towns, so Tommy didn't hesitate to untie his wings.

It was well past nightfall when they finally stopped. They ate jerky so tough it took an hour to chew and slept on bedrolls that softened the ground about as effectively as solid rock. Dream woke him at dawn and they rode on , and on , and on .

"Are we there yet?" Tommy whined for the third time in an hour.

"No, we are not there yet," Dream snapped for the third time in an hour. "And if you ask again I swear by all the gods I will leave you on the side of the road!"

Tommy grumbled, but fell silent since he wasn't entirely sure that Dream was joking.

The next time Dream spoke, it was as they turned onto a thin, winding road that led up a mountain. "We'll be staying with a friend of mine," he said. "His name's George. Be nice ."

"I'm always nice!" Tommy protested.

Dream didn't even dignify that with a glare.

"Okay, I'm nice, like, eighty percent of the time. Maybe seventy-five…"

Tommy prattled on as they rode, but even he was left speechless at what waited for them. At the top of the mountain was a mansion nearly the size of L'Manberg's castle, except where the castle was hewn from stone and made for defense, this mansion was wooden and extravagant. There was a duck pond in the front yard. Who had a duck pond in their front yard?

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Who lives here? The King?"

"My friend," Dream said easily, swinging off his horse. "Put them in the stable for me?" He gestured to a stable by the side of the mansion.

"Your friend lives here —"

But Dream was already gone. Tommy grumbled and hurried to put the horses (Dream hadn't even named his, he just called her "girl", how inhumane was that?) in the stall.

He ran to the front door—holy shit everything was so far apart—where Dream stood on the doorstep speaking to a man wearing dark goggles.

The man—George?—took one look at Tommy and gasped. "Oh my gods," he breathed. "Dream, tell me you didn't."

"Wh—"

"Tommy," Dream snapped. "Go play with the ducks or something."

Tommy glared and they had a silent stand-off for a moment before he huffed and stomped off. Not because Dream intimidated him or anything, but because the ducks did look interesting and he had better things to do than gaze at Dream's mask all day.

He slowly, cautiously edged toward one duck. It waddled away from him surprisingly quickly. He frowned and chased after it.

("Are you crazy? " George hissed.

"I know, I know, but listen—there are two of them in the entire world, and I have one of them. One day he might be more powerful than his own father."

"Do you even hear yourself? You kidnapped a child for—")

Tommy laughed and flap-jumped in front of the pack of ducks, causing them to panic and trip all over themselves.

("I didn't kidnap him. He came to me willingly."

"Dream…" George looked up at him in unabashed horror. "What did you do?"

"Nothing I didn't have to," Dream promised. "And nothing that won't be worth it. When I'm King and you rule beside me—")

"Ow!" Tommy shrieked. "It bit me!"

He held his hand and glared daggers at the duck as it quacked and retreated to the water. Coward.

("We'll talk later.")

George chuckled. "Yeah, that's Lore'd. He's territorial."

Tommy grumbled some more and the two adults finally let him into the house, which was just as extravagant on the inside as the outside. Most of the rooms were unused—which made sense if just George and Dream lived there—so Tommy got to pick from an entire hall.

"Really? Whichever one I want?" Tommy asked, opening doors and peering inside. Hm. They all had the same layout. Disappointing.

"Yeah. It's not like anyone's using them."

Tommy grinned—

And froze.

(could he trust anyone?)

Dream isn't your friend, he reminded himself. He's just using you for cash. He said so himself. Don't get too attached.

Don't get too attached.

"Tommy?" Dream asked. "Are you okay?"

Tommy coughed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. "I think I'll take this room."

---

The first thing he did was set up an altar.

Usually, a person or family worshipped one or two Prime Gods—gods powerful and/or malicious enough to warrant a color name—though it never hurt to pay tribute to the others. Gods were jealous, or so the superstition went; worship the whole pantheon and none would answer your prayers. This went double for the Prime Gods, who were said to be the most uncaring of humans.

Tommy worshipped the Gray Goddess of Death, obviously, as well as the Golden Goddess of Luck and Fortune and the God of Wayward Travelers. His altar only had a few things; a pentacle, a bowl of water, a candle, some parchment and a quill.

The pentacle was for focusing magical energy; the water and candles was for offerings; the parchment and quill was for prayers. Tommy preferred writing his prayers down. That way they felt more like letters and he didn't have to face the terrifying idea that his mother might be able to hear his thoughts.

Hey Mom,

(He was always this informal with the Gray Goddess and hadn't been smited yet, so he continued to do it. Perks of being a demigod.)

So you probably already know this, but I helped another spirit on their Journey. His name was David Hillsborough. I hope he made it to you safely. Tell him I'm sorry I wasn't much help.

I

(He paused. How to phrase this? She already knew he had hanahaki—he was praying to her as it happened—but what did she think of it? Was she mad at his family? Was she sad? Did she not care at all?)

I ran away from home. I couldn't stay there anymore. I kind of miss them, but I'm glad I left.

I met a man called Dream and he told me about this surgery in the north, but it was expensive, so he offered me a job. That's why I was helping that spirit. I'm sorry I said your Name, but I didn't have any other supplies on me and it was sort of an emergency.

Sending you my blessings,

The Thomas (it's Thomas now! or Tommy!)

P.S: not sure if you care, but please don't be mad at my family. I don't want them smited or cursed or anything.

Tommy sunk the note in water and scribbled out a quick but personalized thank you to his other two gods—a gold coin tucked into the note for each. Before he could burn it, however, there was a knock on the door.

"Tommy?" George poked his head in. "Oh, sorry to interrupt your prayer. I can come back later."

"No, no, it's fine." Tommy set the notes to the candle and watched them go up in flame, coin and all. Offerings always burned. "What did you want?"

"Dream told me you wanted to dye your feathers, so…" George held up a glass bottle filled with dark liquid.

"Where did you even get this?" Tommy asked, taking the bottle and turning it around in the light.

"I made it."

Tommy blinked at him. "You made it?"

"Yeah. It's made with all-natural ingredients, so it shouldn't harm your feathers. Just put it on, wait twenty minutes, then rinse it out with hot water."

"I… thank you."

George nodded and left.

Tommy didn't hesitate to uncap the bottle—he gagged, gods that stunk—and began smearing over his wings. It was difficult to reach some parts, but not impossible, and within ten minutes the entirety of his wings—and his hands, yeah, that was never coming out—were covered in dye.

With the limp blond hair and dark wings… he looked a lot like his father.

Tommy shook his head and started heating up the water. Whatever. It wasn't like Philza Minecraft owned the concept of black wings. Tommy only saw similarities because he was looking for them.

Thankfully, the smell disappeared when he rinsed the dye out. He spent a while drying his wings, which always took forever , before finally daring to venture downstairs.

He found George in his "lab", which looked more like a very, very messy workshop. Various plants and materials were scattered over every surface; the cauldron was bubbling as George busied himself with the mortar and pestle.

"What are you doing?" Tommy asked.

George jumped. "Jeez, kid, ever heard of knocking?" He flexed his hands as he turned to Tommy. "I'm making a hallucinogenic."

"Why?"

" Why? Why do you think?"

"Uh… to sell?"

"Bingo! Look, since you're here—" George shoved the mortar and pestle toward him. " You do this. My hands hurt."

A few hours and many, many hand cramps later, the lab door opened and Dream came in. "Good news," he announced.

Tommy looked up from the table where he was cutting up mushrooms for George. In the hours Dream was gone, he'd learned which mushrooms tasted good, which killed you instantly, and which made you see the gods for a week. George had attempted to teach him the scientific and common names for them, but learned quickly that it was a lost cause. He now reluctantly put up with Tommy referring to them as "the red-and-white ones" or "the puffy cloud-looking fuckers".

"I talked to Punz—the Healer—and he agreed to perform the surgery tomorrow."

Tommy stiffened. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Is that okay?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, it's fine."

Tommy bit his lip as Dream closed the door behind him. It was not fine. He'd expected more time before his entire world got turned upside down.

That night, he sent a prayer and an offering to the Red Goddess.

---

Tommy sat on the table, swinging his legs back and forth as Dream and Punz discussed how best to cut him open.

"The anesthesia will put him under for at least seven hours," Punz said, sounding mildly irritated. "It's only stage two, so that should be more than enough time. My magic will speed the healing process up, but he'll still need a week or two to heal completely."

"And when should we come back?" Dream asked.

Punz shrugged. "Whenever it gets bad," he said. "But it's probably dangerous to do it more than once every three months. If it worsens faster than that…"

Dream nodded.

"Great," Punz said, back to irritated. "Now give me the money and get out. Your kid will be fine."

Tommy felt himself go red to the tips of his ears, but Dream said nothing, just set the bag of coin on the counter and left. Then there was silence as Punz filled a syringe with clear liquid. Tommy hated silence.

"Uh—" He stuttered. "I met your half-sister."

"Uh-huh." Punz brought the syringe to Tommy's neck.

"Niki Nihachu," he added. "She's a royal physician."

"You don't say." Tommy winced as Punz seemed to take forever to pull the syringe out.

"Yeah. She… she

He didn't remember much after that.

---

The next few days were spent mostly sleeping. His entire body ached like he'd been hit by a mine cart, and it hurt to even breathe. 

Through it all, Dream was by his side, forcing him to eat, drink, take regen after regen potion. He brought books for him to read, and when he got bored with those—which happened pretty quickly, he'd never been much of a reader—he brought puzzles and card games.

Within two weeks, the pain lessened and his energy returned to him. He was able to walk, then run, then fly without tasting blood in his mouth or feeling petals tickle the back of his throat or fearing that a sudden coughing fit would bowl him over. He could actually wear a binder without endangering his health.

For the first time in years, Tommy could breathe.

---

There's a question that's been hanging over him for a few days now.

What next?

Dream hadn't brought up the possibility of Tommy leaving… but he also hadn't explicitly invited him to live there forever. Technically, Tommy could leave—he could buy his own house and he and Dream could remain coworkers, or he could strike out on his own.

But… he kind of liked it there.

Tommy got attached easily. Animals, people, even inanimate objects—it didn't matter. If it existed around him, he imprinted on it like a duckling, and then he couldn't let it go. He knew it was stupid, dangerous; with the scars etched into his ribs, it was kind of hard to forget.

But it was so easy to get attached to them. George was nice and the longer he hung around Dream the less intimidating he became—the man had a subtle, dry sense of humor that reminded Tommy of Technoblade in a way. They were nice, nicer than anyone had been to him in a long, long time.

He knew the longer he put off the discussion the worse the fall-out would be, so after anxiously flying in loops for five minutes he landed in front of Dream with a thump (the man, to his credit, didn't flinch—he'd gotten used to this) and blurted, "So do you want me to leave?"

Dream tilted his head. "Why would I want you to leave?"

"Well, it's not like I can stay here." Tommy fidgeted with his wings, studiously avoiding eye contact—mask contact?

"If you wanted to, then I don't see why not," Dream said.

Tommy dropped the wing and looked up. "Really?" To his horror, he sounded hopeful.

"Of course," Dream said. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Tommy froze. "Are we… friends?" He asked hesitantly.

"Yeah. Aren't we?"

Tommy thought for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Yeah," he said. "We are."

---

("What if he leaves?"

"He won't."

"What if he—"

"George, trust me." Strings of yellow smoke danced around his fingers. "He can't.")

Notes:

fun fact: I didn't plan for George to have a mansion but he grabbed me by the throat and DEMANDED to be rich, so I guess he's rich! He also has ducks now.

I have another confession to make… the last time I played Minecraft was on Xbox 360. I Don't Know What I'm Doing.

Idk exactly how old they are irl/in canon, but in this fic Dream is currently (as of this chapter) 20 and so is George, Wilbur is 18, and no one knows Techno's exact age but he's about a year or two older than Wilbur, and Philza looks about early 40's but he's hundreds of years old.

...Any thoughts on Dream?