#the cream here is CONSENUAL i swear

[plasma-studios]

On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1: a deal is struck

The tides would shift soon, they told themselves. Each day’s fresh defeats were a necessary evil, soon the tides would shift and they would have their victories. This war would be theirs to win. 

That was the belief of the dreamers among them. Those who held onto their hopes even as they buried their comrades day after day.

Then there were the defeated, the broken. Those who had given up their hopes for a better life and fought to survive. Sometimes they just gave up and let the ocean take them, or the earth. It would be a kinder fate than joining his army of the dead.

Even with all the Kingdoms of the World allied together, his Empire overshadowed them all. Even in their Council, even with Kings and Queens and Dukes and Countesses they all seemed to have some grasp on the truth. Some awareness of their position, of defeat after defeat.

Cross watched them debate, then argue, then lament. They were losing, they all knew it. He knew it too. Even as a lowly soldier (it was what he was best at) he knew it, saw it in the numbers they were losing and the grim lines in their faces. He didn’t say anything, however, and lowered his head as they discussed troops and strategy. 

As if he’d heard nary a word of the King of Nightmares.

There were rumours about him. He went by other names, too. The Cruel Prince, once. The Boy of the Night. There were rumours that he was a God, some that he was an immortal. (The Moon Immortal, they called him.) Some that he was just a regular mortal drunk on power. But what mortal lived for centuries?

The Council, at least in part, suspected his immortality. Perhaps even Godhood. But they did not want to, because their hopes of success were already dismal. 

But there were stories that brought them impossible hopes. Stories about his twin, the Light to his Darkness. Stories, not rumours, for the twin was so little known about him and far less about his twin. At one point the numbers had climbed too high and someone bravely made the suggestion. Could we reach out to his twin for help? First, it had been a casual remark. But slowly it made its way into the official discussion, its feasibility and possibility debated alongside strategy and supply. Not happily debated, of course, for the implication was that they had no other choice. But Cross, again, remained silent as they worked out the finer details. First, they worked out how they’d contact him in the first place; a letter, perhaps, but it would need to be published everywhere to get his attention. That meant that it couldn’t contain anything sensitive, but they could work around that.

A few sessions later (and a couple lost battles) the letter was drafted. Soon after, published world wide. Hours later, they got their response. Though they would not discover it till the morning after. His reply had been burned into the walls of their Council Chambers.

To the Council:I hear you. I agree that my brother has been excessive in his terror; I also agree that you cannot win this war without me. It is not a matter of your weakness, but rather his strength. It’s time my brother is stopped. 

However, I will not do it for free. On the Summer Solstice I shall attend your Council to discuss our terms. I sincerely hope we’ll find an agreeable compromise then.- The Sun Immortal.

At this the Council was entirely silent. There was only the sound of breathing, then gasping, and slowly they erupted. Insolence and arrogance bounced across the room: “What hubris!” “Is it hubris if he’s an Immortal?” And, of course, the confirmation of immortality. Though that was somehow the least shocking tidbit. 

The writing was oddly neat for having been burned in, Cross noted. Then how long till the Summer Solstice? and what can we offer him?; of course they hadn’t been so optimistic to assume he would help them free of charge, but faced with the confirmation they suddenly found it difficult to discern what an Immortal would want in exchange. Gold and jewellery seemed like rewards for the living, for the mortal; would such material rewards be accepted? 

What if he wanted land, instead? A crown, a Kingdom? What, then? They spent more time debating their terms than drafting the letter. But they had to come to a conclusion soon, as Asgore reminded them: the Summer Solstice was a mere three days away.

Finally they voted, and it was decided. They would ask him what he wanted in return first, and work from there. Surely if he was taking the time to discuss with them, he did want the deal to go through, and if he wanted it to succeed, he would not ask for something impossible. Surely?

However, they still prepared for all the options thought up in their hours of discussion. Rubies, sapphires and emeralds polished and stored away in trunks with gold and silver coins beneath them; carefully stored crowns with freshly gilded gold and polished jewels; cloaks and clothing made out of silk or laced with furs, etc. 

Even obscure recipes were brought out, like boiled gold soup and silver ingot bites. The food once regarded as the highest cuisine, only for the wealthiest. Not anymore, of course, but nonetheless.

Finally, the preparations made not in official Council discussion but covert exchanges to prepare a variety of beauties. Some fair-skinned, some not. Some freckled, some not. Some muscled, some not. Some more compliant, some more recalcitrant, some more aggressive.

We don’t know his tastes, and there was an undercurrent of humour in it, even. It would not be the first time someone demanded people for their war efforts.

It was a little extreme. Even Nightmare’s tastes were… ah, somewhat sane. But Cross didn’t know the Sun Immortal, so perhaps his tastes were indeed less sane. Nonetheless the day of the Summer Solstice arrived like the sun rising for each day.

Now the Council would be arriving earlier today for fear of missing the Immortal’s visit, but though they’d arrived at their predetermined time (just after dawn) there was already someone there. A stranger in light silks, asleep in one of the chairs. Arms folded, head dipped, sleeping quietly.

His breathing was quiet, but it was still there, and in the silence of their held breaths they heard it clearer than their own. No sooner had the first of them stepped over the threshold, however, did the stranger’s eyes flutter open. “Ah, good morning.” His voice was clear and light; like a drink of water in the desert. “I assume you’re the Council?” There was a silence, before CORE Frisk responded, “Yes. I assume you’re the Sun Immortal?” At that, a sweet chuckle. Still so light, sweeter than honeycomb. “Officially, yes; but just call me Dream.” At that, whispers again: but they were quickly silenced by a look from Undyne. The Council had tentatively started filling in, all the while Dream was looking at them rather curiously, a hint of amusement in his gaze yet any mocking absent from it. Just like how an adult would look at a child. Like an immortal gazing upon mortals?

Cross was familiar with that sort of look.

Dream got to his feet and tilted his head. “I’m assuming I wasn’t so fortunate to choose my seat on a guess?” “Unfortunately not, but we’ll show you to your seat?” CORE Frisk had taken a tentative step forward when he raised his hand abruptly— lazily? “No need.” He reached over and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Guard. “You.” He smiled. “Show me to my seat.” The poor Monster was so very stiff as he led the Sun Immortal to his seat; a cushioned, grand thing, positioned in the centre of the rows of seats wrapping around it in a circle. 

Cross made sure he wasn’t scrunching his eyebrows. Wouldn’t that be obvious that it was his, a seat in the middle? And once again that sweet, clear laughter. “Oh, that’s— aha .” His fist crumpled over his teeth and mouth. “It’s just— ah, it’s almost as if I’m on trial.” He pulled his hand away from his mouth. “So, terms! What will you offer me?” And Cross swore his golden eyes, though still agleam, sharpened. 

Dream had not taken his seat.

“What would an esteemed Immortal such as yourself prefer?” Asgore’s tone had found the cadences of officiality, of usual Palace affairs or even mundane Council business. Still, it seemed to interest the Immortal (Dream, was it?) as he looked to him intently. “Such as I?” He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t as sweet. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I want. It’s up to you to make a good offer, Your Majesty.” 

In the Immortal’s mouth, the title was like dust. But to his credit Asgore maintained his composure and answered. “I suppose I should start off with the simplest offer. Coin? Jewels?” And it was evident that he did not think Dream would accept this offer. And he was right, Dream only raised an eyebrow. “I can find jewels anywhere. Coin even more so. What else do you have?” And then the silks, the cloth. He was as unimpressed with the offer as with the first, but strangely, Cross noticed from his place against the wall, not an inkling of disappointment lined his face. Still he let them offer more, and more. Offer after offer was raised with the speed of bullet fire, flying across the space as they desperately tried to appease the Sun Immortal.

Silently, Dream raised his palm. It seemed his patience had reached its limit.

“And what if I said I want people?” Immediately the tension in the room thickened. Looks were exchanged, confused blue on repulsed green, yellow irritation on pink curiosity. CORE Frisk observed Dream quietly, but did not speak up. Dream smiled a tiny small smile.

“Well, Esteemed Immortal,” Duke Isre murmured hesitantly. "If it would please you, you may have your pick of the courtesans of my court.”

“And mine, of course!” Another hurried to protest. “The courtesans of Sere are known for their allure—” “Oh?” Dream’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Tell me more.” Then there were a dozen, more than a dozen, speaking at once; all so eager to grasp at the Immortal’s interest. 

But that wasn’t a sparkle. Cross swallowed the sigh into his throat. It was a gleam: the gleam of amusement, of sardonicism. Dream was not interested in them, not truly.

But their offers of concubines and courtesans only continued, each one more outlandish than the first. Blue eyes like sea sapphires. Gold hair like threaded gold. Skin as smooth as a babe’s. Teeth like mermaid pearls. He had to force his eyes not to roll. Somewhere in him, however, there was the smallest shred of pity. Of irritation. If the Council failed to negotiate terms, they would lose their last hope. They were making too many mistakes; mistakes that were obvious in hindsight, but not so much in the doing; mistakes that were his job to report back to Nightmare to be exploited.

He did pity them, somewhat. He couldn’t just stand around and not see how much the common people were suffering. Starving children and cold corpses. Empty homes and unburied bodies.

But the Council was full of Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses. People who’d never lived a day of hardship in their lives. People who, only a century ago or two, would’ve been delighting in tasteless gold delicacies while the people starved of famine. The generals and soldiers, he was annoyed less by. They were competent, at least. But they still could not fight a God, certainly not Nightmare. It was their deaths he felt more guilt over.

“Dream,” CORE Frisk suddenly cut in. “You haven’t accepted any of our offers. May I ask what they lack?”

Dream locked eyes with CORE Frisk. To their credit. CORE Frisk stayed unflinching. There was a moment of quiet, of tension.

Cross realised Dream was no longer smiling. “Since you’ve asked, CORE, I’m more than willing to oblige. You see,” He gestured vaguely around him. “I believe I never said anything about wanting someone to warm my bed.”

He turned his eye upon the one who had gotten the ball rolling. 

“You know, I’m beginning to rethink this,” He said casually. “Maybe we aren’t suited for an alliance after all.” There was a dead silence. And then there was nary a sound, save for CORE Frisk: “I’m sorry for any offence caused, Dream,” They began. “May I ask why?”

There was sharp laughter, in the silence. Not a single eye wasn’t upon the Immortal, and Cross unconsciously noted CORE Frisk too was on their feet. “You want me to answer to you?” Like a violin string drawn taut, like the lightning striking the earth, backs straightened and sharp, fearful gazes were exchanged. “A little pretentious, don’t you think?” His eye was on CORE Frisk. The string, taut and tauter. CORE Frisk opened their mouth, but no words came out. 

Too taut and now the ripped alliance between them. Dream still looked unbothered under the fearful and indignant glares of the Council. 

“May I ask what it is that you want?” CORE Frisk tried, ever the meditator. “Or even just what you don’t want.” Dream looked into the rows and rows of people. Slowly, he turned his gaze down the row.

“I’m beginning to think,” He said softly. “That you don’t have what I want."

Well, that was it, then. There was relief of having finally bitten the bullet. Dream wasn’t going to help the Council after all. Nightmare would be happy to hear that, right? Momentarily his eyebrows almost scrunched together.

It would be difficult to get news to him, especially news of this nature. He’d have to wait till Dust came by to pass the news: it was always risking making contact on his own.

A pity, though. CORE Frisk’s face was blank, but they must’ve been disappointed. They weren’t as bad as the rest, really. But CORE Frisk was one person and the rest (whom he had little pity for) always outweighed them. 

A pity, but a small amount of it only. CORE Frisk was blank, but probably carefully blank. 

Dream locked eyes with him. 

“You.” 

Cross stilled. Those golden eyes, bright and alert, were on him now.

“Come here.” His outreached hand was curved, fingers beckoning. Cross did not move for the first few seconds. His eyes were on Cross’; no mocking, no amusement: there was nothing Cross could recognise. 

Then, slowly, he took his first step. Then another. Then another. All the while the quiet had been broken but quiet exhales, gasps, confused rustling and carefully blank faces almost faltering.

Soon he was before Dream. A smile was pulling at his teeth. “Ah, may I ask for your name, sir?” Cross felt the welt of saliva in his throat. “Cross, Esteemed Immortal.” Dream smiled indulgently, and reached for his chin. His breath was in his throat; then, ever Cross’ saviour, CORE Frisk interrupted. “May I ask what the Esteemed Immortal wants of this Guard?” “A Guard, huh?” There was interest in his eyes, but his hand still did not let go. “I see. I don’t suppose he’s a recent one?”

On instinct, most of the Council turned to Undyne, but she was looking to CORE Frisk with a sigh in her throat. “He was recruited by CORE, not me.” “He was not raised to be a Guard,” CORE Frisk said delicately, as it was the custom. “But he was enough strong and clever to be one, and I happened upon him a few years ago. I beg your Esteemed Immortals forgiveness for any caused offence on his behalf.”

A light laugh, through the hall. Suddenly the weighted air lightened and Cross could breathe again when the hand withdrew from his chin. “No no, no offence at all. I’ve merely found my answer to your question, CORE Frisk.” Just slightly, they tilted their head with the air of curiosity. “You have?”

There was ice in Cross’ stomach. 

“I shall help you in your war. By next month you will regain your frontlines,” He said casually. “You may reveal my part in it, or you may not. This I have no concern about. But in exchange,” And his eyes turned on Cross.

Fuck.

“Will you come with me?” And his voice was so soft, so sweet. It was so different from Nightmare’s, yet exactly the same air of persuasion.

Cross’s words were in his stomach; weighing heavily. 

“May I clarify your intentions, Esteemed Immortal?” CORE Frisk carefully asked.

In turn, Dream sighed. “Why does everyone here insist on calling me that? Have I not said to call me Dream?”

“May we clarify your intentions, Dream?” The voice was just as dry.

“Isn’t it obvious? If he’ll have me,” He turned to him slightly. Cross steeled himself. “I’ll have him.”

Undyne frowned. “He is not a pig for sale. Courtesans, maybe,” And the look she sent the Court was no less disdainful than Dream’s earlier words, “Because it’s their job. But Cross is one of the Guard, not a cow to be bartered away to be a bed-warmer.” At cow, Cross almost flinched. God, that comedic timing was terrible and hilarious at the same time. Dream turned his gaze onto Undyne, who did not flinch, but subtly drew back. “I believe I have made myself clear,” He said quietly. “For him, I shall help you with your war. Without him, you die and your Kingdoms turn to dust. Simple as.”

There was a very clear swear in Cross’ head, confusion tenfold as he looked to CORE Frisk (he could do that, it would be in-character for what they knew him as) but there was conflict and no more in their gaze. 

“CORE, perhaps— perhaps it would be best. If the Immortal wants him, in exchange for victory…” The voice trailed over. Dream’s gaze was still on CORE Frisk, waiting. 

Abruptly Cross became aware of the eyes on him. The knowing gazes, the knowing eyes. Cross felt his face warm. 

“No.” CORE Frisk finally spoke, firm. “No, he is not a pig for sale. Jewels and gold, I can offer you. Land and palaces, yes. Silks and furs, yes. But I will not barter you a person who has yet to say anything on the matter.”

“But I did not ask you.” Once again his words held the air of spelling out something incredibly obvious. “I asked you, Cross.”

And once again Cross found himself at a loss of what to do when his gaze was upon him once more. “Will you come with me? For the war?” Well, I’m actually on the other side of it, Cross thought anxiously. But he kept his voice steady (or as steady as it should be for someone about to be sent away) and spoke to CORE Frisk. “CORE, if I agree, will— will it stop the war?” CORE Frisk held his gaze for a second more. “Yes, but… but it’s still your choice.”

Ha. No it wasn’t. He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes, of expectation, weighing on his very bones. It seemed Dream knew it too.

Dream and CORE Frisk exchanged a strange look.

Cross opened his mouth, little choice left. “Then I accept. I will go with you, and you will help—” He almost said them . “ Us, win the war.” He only hoped Nightmare would not see it as traitorous. 

Dream smiled brightly. “That was easy, wasn’t it?” He pulled a ring off his finger (and it was then Cross noticed the rings on his fingers, gold but the gold not of solid ingots but of the gold of sunlight) and gently took hold of Cross’ hand. He stiffened almost immediately, but Dream said nothing of it as he slid the ring on.

Onto his ring finger.

Well, a very public engagement.

“A gift,” Dream explained. “I will pay your family the rest of the dowry the next time I visit.”

The words stuck in Cross’ throat. “I don’t have a family.”

Because family did not seem like the right word for, ah, Nightmare’s right hand men. 

Dream blinked slowly. “Oh?” But he did not soften. “Nonetheless, I’ll come by soon.”

Cross, almost imperceptibly, nodded. It was all Dream needed, it seemed. With a rustle of silk, a gleam of light, he was gone.

And Cross was alone in the middle, a thousand eyes upon him. 

“Is there anything else?” Undyne said sharply. Angrily, almost. Cross kept his gaze on the floor. He would not know how to act if he locked gazes with anyone else. There was a silence. But Undyne did not speak again. Still there were a thousand gazes on him.

Cross feet turned and he left the Council chambers though it was against protocol. He knew no one would blame him for it; there would be no point, and far too risky to lay a hand on an Immortal’s betrothed. 

Just before he passed the doors, however, he had faintly registered that the burned-in words on the walls were gone.

Cross prayed that Dust would come by soon, so they’d hear the news from Cross’ own mouth and not rumours spreading quicker than wildfire. Not Horror, the hole in his skull too recognizable, and certainly not Killer with his messy dripping eyes. Dust was always the one sent by Nightmare. So Cross left the windows unlocked, staying awake for hours at a time. But, it seemed his prayers did not hold that much weight at all. If ever. Dust did not come the next day, nor the one after. He had the feeling something was going on behind the scenes, why else would an Immortal choose a random Guard? But he could not confirm his suspicions, for there was no one to talk to. No one came for him.