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plasma-studios · 2 years ago

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oh what is this a new dream & ink fic?

the long for change (the grief that it did)

(ao3)

Assassinated, the rumours went, of a young Prince killed in his very home. Protocol called for the grandest of funerals for a Prince taken so soon, but everyone who knew him knew he would’ve thought such proceedings to be in poor taste. In the wake of the Kingdom’s grief, they chose otherwise. Instead, a quiet funeral was held, and Nepeta was buried under moonlight.

Prince Nepeta died one night. This became common knowledge. What didn't, was that it had been his brother who killed him. But perhaps this was better, for Nepeta had asked to die, for to be the Guardian of Negativity was much like his namesake; a Nightmare. What could Marigold, too known as Dream but only to his brother and the Protector, do but comply?

Dream mourns for Nightmare, but he doesn't have much time to grieve. He has a Kingdom to run.

Later, a Protector returns to make him a proposal.

(for those who haven't read chapt 5 of the main fic, Nepeta = Nightmare Marigold = Dream basically they're the apple twins reincarnated into the body of Princes after they killed each other in the conflict between Corrupted in Nigntmare's body/the Apple Tree Incident. at the time of this fic, they have recalled their past memories. Nightmare asked Dream to kill him so Corrupted would not be able to take over his body again)

also, semi-spoilers? but not much, besides it gets revealed 5 chapters into the main fic anyway

oh, and Error does exist at this point, but he isn't mentioned because he really had nothing to do with this whole debacle. not his type of drama

btw, Ink had the circlets because 1) he met them as the original Apple Twins 2) he visited the Tree after their death 3) he took the circlets for safekeeping

if you're reading this and enjoyed it, please do read the main fic, it would be much appreciated!

It was tomorrow.

Dream pressed a hand against his forehead. A shaky, wavering sigh left his dry mouth; his left leg was already developing pins and needles and his right leg wasn’t doing much better. He stared dully at his still toes, only moving when a slight cramp slid into his feet.

Ow. The thought was— surprising. He blinked. He hadn’t… thought all night. Or morning.

He was tired. He wanted to get out of bed so badly, to shake away the sheets but he couldn’t even wiggle his toes without much effort. He breathed again; hollow, full breaths. He had to get out of bed soon. Appearance took a remarkable effort, after all. First, he’d have to bathe. He probably stunk like high heaven.

He just wanted to sleep. He was so, so tired.

A slight shiver caught his shoulder blade like how a string of spiderweb would hook onto a lit splint. Again, he breathed, breathed again, but the breaths never fell into his dry throat so he had to swallow them down instead. It was almost painful.

A light trickle was spent through the shiver and his eyelights caught it slower than his head did. A tiny bug, no bigger than a freckle. It wandered across his bone, teetering and tiny.

He could just squash it. It’d be easy and simple. Not even that much of a mess.

He let it go instead, and exhaled. A mercy. A kindness. A useless benevolence.

It was tomorrow. Or was it today? Had the sun risen already? Had the sun—

A useless benevolence.

Come morning, it would be official. Perhaps some already heard the rumours. Come morning, the Kingdom would have lost its beloved Prince Nepeta. And Dream would have to face it head-on; Nightmare was gone, and he’d have to keep his face level enough to keep up the charade.

Come the next morning, it too would be official. Prince Marigold would be the sole heir, the Crown Prince. Now that he was the only Prince, he’d have to be Crowned at the very least so as to be able to run the Kingdom. His Parents were in no state to. Everyone needed him to be the Crown Prince. A benevolent Prince. A kind Prince. The sun of the Kingdom.

A sun with no moon. A son with no brother. A Guardian. The Guardian, since he was the only one left.

He almost forgot to breathe.

He couldn’t stay here forever. He had a Kingdom to address, and his parents to comfort. He winced at the idea of how dishevelled he must be. Goodness, he’d never be permitted to address the Kingdom that way.

Still… perhaps with the nature of why, it’d be understandable.

He had to get up.

If he didn’t, someone would come to get him, and he didn’t want to face anyone . Not yet. Maybe forever. No, he had to. Everyone was depending on him. Of course they were, they— no, he couldn’t think like that. He was important, that’s why he had to protect everyone, care for everyone, he—

Wasn’t Nightmare as important?

He—

Nightmare—

He—

Enough. He clenched his fist and let a shell fall over everything in him so he felt nothing. He had practised. Nightmare had made sure of it. Don’t fall apart, he’d told him again and again. I won’t, he’d said, sounding more sure than he was.

Then Nightmare would sigh and say still, let’s practice more. Breathe in, breathe out…

…let go, then swallow everything; I know, he’d finish. We’re running out of time.

Time. Right, of course. Let go. He froze his heart into glass and stone and… a bath. He desperately needed a bath. His legs stung as he propped himself gingerly, then got up ignoring how his heart thrummed, so nearly overripe.

-----

It was a new day, but did not feel like such. It felt so oddly reminiscent of the previous day, then the day before that, and so on. It was like an overripe melon, the sticky juice dripping across sweating fingers on a summer’s day.

Though perhaps it was but a hope; to return to the day just before where a quiet and kind Prince was still among the living. A beloved Prince, who no longer was.

Throughout the Kingdom, something was thrumming like a heartstring, like soul music. It was usually a festive affair when it came to Coronations, even if it was but to the rank of Crown Prince, but there was none of the vividity of banners nor the excited grins among the people today. Most noticeable of all, the Royal Family donned not their crowns, nor their jewels, nor any lace or silk.

The crowd, already quiet out of respect with a reason they knew not but knew instinctively, went silent when they stepped out. The King without his Crown, nor with any furs. The Queen, without her Queen, face puffy. Then the Prince, looking remarkably the best out of them all, if it was not for the numb hollow eyes of his, the gold eyelights such a pride of their Kingdom now nothing but ungilded gold. Raised on the platform, watching not the crowd but something else in the distance (perhaps the sun who too had drifted them all in shadow, perhaps out of respect). Something intangible, something that smelt of love yet was an acquired taste.

Then the Prince spoke, and his voice was firm though the words faltered. Today, he would be crowned. But, and this thing this voice was as tough as rock, it would be no cause for celebration. There would be no parade, no festival. There would be a simple Coronation, and that would be it, and it would be now.

The crown found itself into his hold, then it slipped onto his skull, and there was no joy in it.

“My brother, Prince Nepeta, passed away last night. His funeral—” His voice broke. He stayed there, mouth slightly open, for just a moment before he forced the next words out. “There will be no funeral parade.”

The people stared, then broke into whispers.

“Protocol calls for the grandest of funerals,” The King murmured. “For… a Prince, taken so soon.”

The Queen shifted. “But Nepeta would not have wanted that. He would’ve called it a waste of resources. ” A slight croak, meant as a laugh. There was a silence that would’ve been rude to fill.

“In the typical Coronation, you are to give a speech,” He said stiffly, yet not looking back to them.

“Yes, I— I suppose we are.” But neither moved from their spot, and the Crown Prince never looked back.

-----

There were several stages of grief thereafter. Along with them came rumours, spiteful, delicious rumours, but still just the saddest of lies in the end. For Nepeta, they grieved. For Marigold, they pitied.

They say the Crown Prince launched himself into the Palace affairs the afternoon of his Coronation. They say the Crown Prince slept everywhere but his bed. They say he didn’t sleep at all.

They say Marigold did not seem as if he was covering work for two.

They say Marigold seemed as if he was covering work for four.

They say Marigold, not long after his brother’s death, ruled the Kingdom in all but name.

They say the King and Queen, not long after Nepeta’s death, were only so in name.

They say Marigold became a ghost of himself.

In their quarters, the Queen wept.

“I know I have no right to mourn the living, but it’s like both our sons died that night.”

The King’s weary voice carried over, despondent.

“We must remember he’s suffering the most out of all of us. He lost his brother. ”

-----

The Protector leaned against the wall, looking as if he was the King here, no, as if he was greater than the King, but nonetheless that he belonged here, and that was where Dream found him.

“Why?” He spoke quietly. “Why have you come?”

He stayed quiet, perhaps waiting for Dream to continue, but he did not. So the Protector stepped away from the wall, straightening in an instant.

“You came at a bad time. You should’ve come earlier.”

He was curt. “Right after your brother’s death? While you were still so distraught?”

“I wasn’t distraught. ” The look of sharp disbelief wasn’t rejected. “And if I was, I’d still be distraught even now, Protector .”

“Which you are. But you don’t have time to mourn, do you?”

Dream let out a long exhale, shards of glass dragging across his stretched heartskin.

“My name is Ink.” There, an olive branch.

“I don’t trust you.” Dream was blunt. “I never will.”

In return, Ink never faltered. “Perhaps. But it’s not up to you. You may be an immortal, but you’re still a child. You cannot run an entire Kingdom on your own.”

“Watch me.” Ink’s eyelights remained as white dots, but something shifted in them, like the light hitting differently, the difference between snow and ice. “You think like a child, but you do not act like one. How long will you hold the Kingdom’s grief upon your shoulders? How long do you expect to remain unbroken? Do you think yourself a statue of stone, indestructible?”

Dream faltered for exactly one second. “It would be a fitting curse.”

“You blame me for Nightmare’s death.” Again, blunt; it was as if Ink was mirroring Dream. Intentionally, perhaps not.

Dream let out a sharp exhale. “Do you want me to say I am?”

“Would that change how you think of me?” The gaze was snow now, soft, but still cold.

“Yes,” Dream was quiet, again. “But not how I feel.”

“Feel,” Ink repeated. “Yes, you feel.”

A breath, stiff, left the other.

“Do not act as if you want to. But you have no choice in it.” Oh, was it pity that lined his gaze now? No, Dream did not think so, but nonetheless it lined the crease of his mouth and the tension lack in his torso and Dream found a songbird of hate in his chest singing a song he was sure Ink was studying every note of.

The songbird pecked at his topmost pair of ribs, not too far from his silent soul.

“Let me help. That is all I ask of you.”

He did not ask Dream to trust him.

Help.

So Dream—

Dream—

“Could I have anything? Could you have done anything? The spirit, he— could anything have been done to stop him?” Dream was desperate, but his eyes refused to tear, a riverbed dry of tears but abundant in grief.

Still that snow gaze. “No. The imbalance of control between the spirit and him was much too strong. The spirit still remembered, memories are what make spirits, after all, but Nightmare would’ve needed a lifetime of training to regain it. Time would not have permitted his success.”

A cold rush of air breached his heartskin, slack yet bursting at the seams. He did not know if it was relief or something crueller. “So, there was really nothing? He was fated to live and die young?”

“Yes.” Again, blunt, but it made it a mercy.

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

Ink felt something very similar to incredulity. “What would I even lie about?”

“You’re an immortal. Surely you could’ve had some way to help him.”

Ink surveyed him. “So are you.”

Dream took a step back but didn’t withdraw. “You said it yourself, I’m not like you.”

“But you’re kinder. You’re good , aren’t you? Clever, too.” His gaze, not snow, but not ice either. “You’re good. That’s why you keep hoping. But you cannot afford to hope for something already lost.”

“I am not hoping. I am blaming .”

Steadfast,

“Me?”

Then it happened. It all melted into a haze of muted colours. “I’m sorry for it, but sorry changes nothing.”

“For me.” A pause. “Though perhaps not for you.”

Dream withdrew. “I don’t understand why we are so different. We met before, long before I was Marigold and Nightmare Nepeta, right? So then why are we still so different , if age is not a factor?”

“You are a Guardian, first and foremost. I am a God,” Ink said simply. “There’s all there is to it.”

Dream went one step further and shrunk into himself. “Then what am I to do? I do not know if I hate you, or me, more, and I would hate to have one I hate help the other.”

“Then don’t accept my help for yourself. Accept it for your mother, your father; the Kingdom. Accept it for Nightmare .”

Dream was teetering.

Ink exhaled and turned away.

“At the very least, accept a gift.”

Dream tentatively took another step forward before he could stop himself. “Is this supposed to be a bribe?” “You mean you’d be susceptible to bribes? Tsk. What a terrible Prince you are.”

It took a moment for him to realise Ink had been joking.

It took another to register it.

It took yet another to recognise what Ink was offering to him, waiting for him to take it. Two golden circlets.

“Hardly counts as a gift, I suppose. It does belong to you, after all.”

Dream took, not his, but his brother’s.

“Not just me,” He murmured. Then he took his own, but paid it no heed.

The circlets, of Guardians.

“Train me.” Dream, once again, proved how headstrong he could really be. “Train me to fight. Train me to protect. Teach me.”

“I’m not a teacher,” Ink replied, quiet but not gentle. “But I can try.”