#implied errorink

Dream had spent a minute just staring at the sky, hand outstretched, feeling the weight and warmth of the light on his fingers. Just feeling the light almost made him forget the weight of bound wings on his back.

He had not been meant for this mission, in truth. It had been Nightmare’s, but he had returned from his previous one with several broken bones and a head injury.

Dream had felt himself jolt before realising it was fine. This was normal. Nightmare always returned with injuries. That was why Dream was needed. Dream was their healer. It was why he was useful. It was good that he was useful. 

He had been reminded of that several times over by them.

It was good to be useful. He had to be useful. 

He never mentioned this to Nightmare, though. The few times he had, Nightmare had went silent immediately and started glowering at his half-empty cup of water. It made the little time they had together very sour, so he learnt to stop bringing it up.

So he healed Nightmare’s bone fractures in silence, the green healing magic mingling with his gold magic as the wounds mended themselves. Once that was done, he shifted him so his skull was in Dream’s lap, and placed both hands on the injury and let the green mingle with the gold again. 

A wince leaving Nightmare was his cue to check on the injury. He removed his hands to wipe away the blood and found there was still a little left to heal, though it was all done in a matter of seconds. Dream sat there and waited for him to regain consciousness.

There was a time outside, wasn’t there? A time and place beyond this. A garden, flowers, grass and sky.  

Did he have a mother? A father? Or did he and Nightmare sprout from the skies like falling stars and grew wings because of it? That sounded like a story he’d heard before.

The sky and stars. Beautiful, even in stories and even in dreams.

Dream liked to daydream. It made passing the time easier. There were no major settlements for miles, anyway. Just roads and towns here and there, and even fewer within radius of them now. 

Nightmare begrudgingly confirmed it when he asked. Nightmare did not seem to like the world, so Dream did not ask much of it from him. Learning the world from books and stories was enough.

Speaking of.

It took a few minutes, but soon purple eyelights were blinking back at him. 

Nightmare winced as he got up, a hand flying to his head, but his gaze found Dream soon enough and he let out quiet sighs into the still silence that had settled between them, though it was not an uncomfortable quiet at all.

Nightmare stretched his fingers, his knuckles cracking. He bit back a laugh, and the knowing warmth in Nightmare’s eyes did nothing to help Dream quell it.

The laugh died down in his throat once he realised Nightmare was still wincing as he got up. That wasn’t good. Had Dream missed an injury? Had he—

The door slammed open. Nightmare’s gaze lost what warmth it had had. 

It was them. They stormed in, thundering against the wooden planks and— 

Dream hadn’t realised he’d edged closer to Nightmare, but the latter didn’t protest it. 

It was two of them this time. Dream recognised the first, though not the second.1 The former had thin-rimmed glasses and white fur with black spots near their neck and legs. They were the one who told Nightmare his missions, so he had to have recognised them too.

Dream missed the gleam of dark delight in his brother’s gaze. 

“You got your wings hurt?!” The voice of the one he did not recognise echoed through the room. “You—”

“Relax, Azre.” The one he did recognised rolled their eyes. “Healer’ll heal it.” They (both of them, both them and Azre apparently) found his gaze and Dream flinched.  “Won’t you?” The same person repeated. It wasn’t a question, but Dream nodded. Of course he would. Even if they hadn’t told him to, he would’ve done it. 

Wait. Nightmare’s wings were injured?

He hadn’t noticed Nightmare’s cyan wings dragging against the floor.

He turned quickly—

“You didn’t tell me you knew how to heal wing injuries.”

Nightmare wasn’t asking a question, and he wasn’t asking it to Dream either. He was still looking at the pair in the doorway, speaking in monotone even as his own brother went stock still. 

Dream’s stomach had dropped. It was as if someone had punched a hole in it.

He didn’t know how to heal wing injuries. 

He hadn’t even seen his own wings in years. 

“You don’t?” Azre cut in. 

Dream hesitated. He— he could learn. He could try. He could still be useful—

“No.” The other cut in. “Wing injuries are too risky. He’s never healed any other wing before, and if he messes it up…” He fought not to flinch when their cold gaze landed on him. “Assassin is worth more than Healer. We’re not risking Assassin’s ability—”

“Don’t call me that,” Nightmare hissed. 

“You would rather us call you a nightmare? And Healer, believe me, you’re far from a dream.” They snorted, before turning back to Azre. “My point stands. It’s just too risky.”

The silence hung between them like a venomous tension.

“What a shame,” Nightmare sighed with sudden contriteness.2 “I guess won’t be able to complete the next mission… it’s in, what, two days?”

They bit a scowl back, but it showed for a split second. “Tomorrow.”

Azre swore.

Nightmare’s defiant delight wasn’t missed this time.

Oh. Nightmare had done it on purpose. When he caught his eye, he shrugged with exaggerated innocence and Dream had to choke back his laugh this time.

A snort left him in its place and it immediately drew Azre’s ire. 

“You think you’re safe, Healer? Locked up in your little birdcage? We could always take something back. A finger, perhaps? You don’t need all ten to heal—”

“Wait.” The other interrupted their rant with no small note of annoyance. “Healer isn’t entirely useless here. Couldn’t we just send him?”

A startled noise fell from his mouth. Nightmare’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

“Him?” Azre echoed them with no small amount of incredulity. “He’s never—”

The light, the wind, the sun, the sky, freedom, flight—

“He’s still an Avian, like Assassin; his instincts shouldn’t be underestimated. He knows enough magic to send a bone attack. Even then, it doesn’t matter if he fails,” They said bluntly. “They won’t have any guards, so it’s safe enough. It’s not far, and it’s not like we’re being paid much for this mission. We could always demand more gold if Healer fails to get them this time.”

Dream felt a breath in his throat as if it was a stone.

“If he fails, there won’t be a next time,” Azre muttered, but his resistance wasn’t with much fire. 

He found—

He found he didn’t entirely hate the idea.

Nightmare moved forward. “I’m fine, I can go—”

“I want to go.” The words tumbled from his mouth before he could think it through. 

Nightmare flinched. “I can go. My injury isn’t very severe—”

An impatient sigh came from them as they strode in and tore what little cloth obscured the wing injury away with surprising speed. 

The stone breath fell back into his throat in an instant.

The cyan was stark, so bright it was blinding. Or it would’ve been, if it weren’t for the tear in the cyan, ripping through the very root of the feathers and leaving a trail o withered feathers. it was a long tear. From just the look of it, it would take much, much more than a day to heal.

Nightmare swallowed his protest. “Dream hasn’t gone on any missions before, he might not be able to manage—”

“He’s an Avian.” Their reply was curt. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll get hurt.”

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” Azre responded cruelly, but Dream found it was a truth. He was a healer, wasn’t he? He could heal himself if he got hurt on the mission. It wasn’t an issue.

“He’ll— he’ll—” Nightmare looked to him for support but Dream had nothing to say.

Nightmare stared at him.

—flight, fall, freedom, light, life

Dream looked back.

light, sunlight, the clouds, the sky—

“Do you want me to stay?” He hesitantly asked.

Nightmare’s face fell further.

“I—”

His gaze turned hollow. 

“You can go if you want to.”

A pang of guilt hit Dream, but— 

sun, flight, free, free— 

No. He squashed it down. Not free. Never free. 

(The thought of sky seemed to sing to him.)

“Come with us, Healer. We’ll brief you.”

He left Nightmare in the room alone, feeling oddly empty as he stepped over the threshold. ***

Dream had forgotten how the heat of the sunlight weighed. The weight on his back was hardly any weight at all as he stumbled along the dirt road with Azre. His breaths kept catching in his throat, as if unsure whether or not to breathe this new air.

“You remember the plan?”

“Yes.” Dream did. He’d been running through it in his head all night. 

“I’ll go through it again.” He sighed irritated. “I’ll drop you off along the road. Hide well, but make sure you have a good enough view to shoot. The target should pass you an hour or two in a carriage after I leave you.”

“Okay,” Dream said simply, hands shifting. 

“What do you do if you succeed?”

“Follow the dirt road back.”

“What do you do if you fail?”

“Hide and wait.”

Azre gave a stiff nod. “And we’ll come bring you back if you fail.” He stopped and turned. “This is a good spot. Hide and wait for them to come.”

Dream didn’t look back as Azre left. He shifted into position and hid in the bushes like how he’d been taught before they had turned all their attention to Nightmare, though the sky was calling to him endlessly. His fingers kept twitching every time he caught sight of the sky above him, and every time he forced them to lay still he felt the wings on his back grow heavier. 

What colour were his wings again? Were they gold? That would make sense, since his magic was gold. 

Nightmare’s magic was purple, and his wings were cyan.

Perhaps his wings weren’t gold. His fingers twitched.

Dream hadn’t thought much about the target until he realised he would be sending a bone attack into their carriage in an hour or so..

It was fine. He didn’t have to hurt them. He could send it into the door to minimise contact with them since the seats would be at the sides. He could just give them a nasty shock. They said it was okay to fail the mission, anyway.

He had an hour or so, so he had time to think, but all these thoughts were reminding him of the time he asked why Nightmare was allowed to have his wings out when he went on missions. I thought we weren’t allowed to have our wings out, he had asked. 

They hadn’t laughed, but he’d seen the amusement bloom in their face.

Because he’d have to leave you behind to fly away, they’d replied.

Dream had said nothing about it after. 

The sky was a beautiful blue. The clouds were a beautiful mist, a pearly white. It really was beautiful. The weight of the sunlight clung on his fingertips like rings.

(How would the sun feel on his wings?) ***

The rumble of wheels on dirt caught his attention. He stilled. There was the carriage, wheels rolling on the road, getting closer and closer.

He noticed the strange air around them. That made sense. There was no coachman, so it was probably being manipulated by magic.

It was getting closer.

His fingers stiffened. He watched the turning wheels, then when it got too risky to stare out his gaze fell to the ground and watched the shadows instead. The carriage was getting closer. Closer.

Dream swallowed.

Golden light crackled between his fingers, a spark fell to the ground.

The bone tore through the door of the carriage.

The wheels stopped turning. Dream let out a breath. 

The door tore open. The bone broke, one half stuck in the ground and the other embed in the broken door. Dream stopped breathing. 

The door and half-bone was tossed to the ground and was promptly trampled upon by a glitched Monster barging out. 

Dream’s chest seized. Oh no.

“Who the fuck was it, huh?! When I get my hands on you—”

“Calm down.” A voice called out from the carriage. “You’ll encourage them to shoot again.”

A second Monster strode out behind him, giving a face to the second voice. He strode to the bone rising out of the ground. “Interesting.” He stuck two fingers out, trapping the bone attack between them. “Gold like the sunlight. It’s rather beautiful, actually.” “Is flattery your plan to subdue the assassin?”

“I’m holding hope that it wasn’t an assassin. Hello! I know you can hear me. If you’re not an assassin and that was just an accident, I hope you’ll show yourself now. For your own sake, friend.”

Dream didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.

It wasn’t that he was an assassin. No, that was Nightmare’s job. It was more of an instinct not to draw the ire or attention of either the man who’s magic had torn through wood as if it were flesh in seconds, or that of the man who was able to subdue the former with mere words.

“Alright, then, probably an assassin,” They said, popping the ‘p’. “Friend, if you come out right now, I’ll pay you triple what you’ve been promised you for my head.” 

After a few seconds, he frowned at the clear lack of response.

“Clever of them.” The glitched Monster turned to the other. “We both know they wouldn’t live if they came out anyway.”

“I was just trying to give them a chance.” He sighed and turned back.

Something quieter and smaller than an exhale escaped him. Yet the glitched Monster’s gaze didn’t leave the area, scanning over the foliage with no small amount of amusement. 

Something was odd. Every fibre in his body screamed at him to stay still, to not even breath.

He kept very still. He had failed, so he was supposed to hide.

And they wouldn’t leave just like that.

Dream kept very—

Something tugged at his feet.

Everything went silent.

His gaze was torn downwards. It was… a black mass? It shifted over the grass, reaching and twisting around his feet—

“Gotcha.”

Something in him snapped and he yanked his foot away. Dream broke into a run. 

“Hello, friend! You can call me—” Something tore at his neck. “Ink.” He turned to catch a glimpse of the slit along his shoulder, around the edge of his neck. The cheerful smile of his pursuer made something in him shiver. “Though I suppose friend’s a little misleading, considering you just tried to kill me.”

It wasn’t the glitched Monster, yet— yet this was worse. A dull terror struck him as he realised he hadn’t shaken all the black mass off and that it was pulling his feet to the ground with every step even as he fought to keep running away. 

Strings tore into his bones and a tiny scream fell to the ground from between his teeth. They hurt. They hurt so badly. They felt like the little needles they’d struck him with when he’d tried to run away that first night. 

He tried to tear the strings away but that only made him hurt more.

He remembered that soft, unyielding oblivion as he was pulled under by the drugs.

No. No no no—

Blue bones glitched into existence around him.

“That’s the end of the chase, I’m afraid.”

(The strings did not feel as bad as dull needles.)

The black mass lunged and pulled him to the ground.

What good was that? No amount of magic would get him out the ring with two obviously powerful Monsters waiting on him on high alert (except maybe teleportation, but he had never been taught that, they said it would’ve let him leave too easily) so what good was that little comfort when—

“Ahh. There’s our little assassin.” The other leaned over the ring of bones. He frowned. “You’re small.”

“Hypocrite.” The glitched monster spoke dryly, but Dream saw the glacial fury in their mismatched eyelights. 

The fury was aimed at him. 

Well, Dream thought. Fuck.

Huh. He hadn’t thought fuck in years. He’d only ever heard Nightmare say it once.

A hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t the glitched Monster, it was the other. “You must be surprised. I wasn’t the one meant to make this delivery, you know.” His grip tightened on his shoulder and it felt nothing like Nightmare. “Last minute change. Favour for a friend.”

“Our friend,” The glitched Monster did not smile. “And they happen to be a very kind person. I have to wonder what sort of person would want CORE Frisk dead.”3

“A very foolish one,” The other continued. “Because it would’ve hurt CORE4, but not kill them. Yet the fool here can be killed. I’m curious, little one.” The other gently tilted his chin back, but the dark curiosity in his eyes did not stop the wound in his shoulder/neck from aching. “Hm, I caught you in the neck. What made you think you would succeed?” He didn’t.

He thought he would.

He thought it didn’t matter.

“Probably hubris. Wouldn’t be the first.” Something (the strings, he acknowledged vaguely) tugged him away to the glitched Monster. “I have a better question. Who and what sent you?”

Dream shook his head. His skull slid to the side, desperately looking for something—

“That won’t do. You have to answer our questions, or Error here will just kill you off, right now.” The other nodded at the glitched Monster… Error, apparently. Fitting name. Whatever humour that was there was lost as Dream shuddered. 

“Well?” The nameless one asked again. “Answer.”

Answer. He had to answer.

But he didn’t know the answer. 

“I don’t know,” He said truthfully. He really didn’t.

A gasp left him as the strings around him tightened. 

“You don’t know?” Error repeated incredulously. The nameless one held a hand up. “He might be telling the truth. He’s small, after all.”

The two exchanged looks. 

The strings were loose, Dream tried picking them off his bones— 

“Don’t even think about it.” He bit back a sigh. The strings had tightened right back.

Then strings laxed. Error’s eyebrows creased. “How old are you?”

He swallowed the fear in his throat. 

“I— I don’t know—”5

That was the wrong thing to say, because it made Error’s gaze turn from distantly curious to glacial. Dream froze. 

“Ah.” That was the extent of Error’s response, because then the strings completely fell off him. He stared at the blue strands on the ground, uncomprehending. 

“Do you know your name?” The other asked, more softly than before. 

A spark of indignation sprouted in him at that. Of course he knew what his name was.

“Of course I do.”

Error snorted, but the other didn’t back down. “What’s your name?” 

He didn’t want to tell them his name. Ink’s gaze turned purple to blue, the mischievous glint fading to an aching coldness in a instant. Something in him lurched.

“Healer.”

Blue into green. “Well, I know there’s a trend of roles becoming names, but I find it so off-putting. It feels wrong to refer to people by their purpose. No other name?”

Dream shook his head. 

“Here, little one. I’ll give you my name in exchange, alright? It’s Ink.”

“He could just not have a name. Or maybe he does and forgot it. You would’ve.” Ink broke eye contact to shoot Error an annoyed look. “Most people know me as the Destroyer, not as Error.” 

Something cold curdled in Dream’s stomach.

“That’s because most don’t live long enough to learn your name.” Ink straightened up. 

His name was Ink. He shivered. Wasn’t that a familiar name? 

The black mass, curling around his feet with the quiet promise of manacles if he tried to escape. Ink’s ink. 

Ink.

A God that lived amongst the living. The sole survivor of bloody battles. The Justiciar. The Protector, but only of the wrongfully hurt and wrongfully broken. A fatalistic force of nature. 

Of Creation.

Everyone knew him. Even Dream knew him, from the rare books of Myths and Legends he got to pass the time in those four walls. 

“You’re a God,” He breathed. 

Ink blinked.

“Oh, that was quick. But no,  I wouldn’t call myself a God.” He broke off with a laugh, but Dream’s gaze was already on… Error.

Those blue strings. The very trademark of the Destroyer.

He wanted to throw up.

Error. The Destroyer. The God that brought destruction to the living, the face of catastrophic wars and battles. Not the Justiciar, but the Punishment. The axe and executioner of the sinners and sinned. 

Error seemed to have read his face. “You don’t need to be scared of me.”

Error, of Destruction.

And they were both peeking at him over the ring of blue bones.

Dream sank back into the ground face-first. He barely even registered the ink leaving his feet. 

“Don’t do that,” He vaguely heard one of them say. “You’ll get dirt on your face.” 

The strings reattached themselves, tangling with his waist and arms before pulling his torso back up. Dream tried tearing them off again, albeit half-hearted, but they yanked him—

—white hot, searing.

He saw white.

pain painpain—

He choked back blood (why was he tasting blood?) as he reached for— what?— (something, someone, anyone, peace home safety freedo—)6

His magic found him, blooming bright into a thousand golden sparks—

And the sound of ripped fabric.

The tension bled out of him. Dream blinked the white out of his eyes, burning warmth spilling down his eyesockets like nothing at all. 

“— Healer!”

He blinked again and shook it off. “I— I don’t—”

He was breathing. He was breathing differently. Something was different. 

“Ink.” 7

“Can you hear me?” He looked up to find Ink face to face with him. He flinched—

He didn’t flinch. 

(home, together, embrace, warmth—)8

Huh? 

“Ink. You really have to see this.”

“Hold on. Can you hear me, Healer?”

“Dream.” The name slipped out before he could force it back. Huh?9 “My real name’s Dream.”

“Okay, Dream, breathe with—”

“Ink!”

“I know,” Ink turned to hiss. “ I did see his magic, but he’s in the midst of a panic attack—”

Dream pressed against his throat, confused why his voice had suddenly betrayed him and given his name. 

“It wasn’t a panic attack.” Error’s voice began with an exasperated growl, but it tapered off into just exasperation. “Just— just look.”

“Fine—” Ink went silent. 

The silence made him look back up. Ink was staring at something behind him. A terribly cold fear hit him. What was it this time?

Almost unwittingly, Dream followed his line of sight. A horrible hollowness followed.

He first saw the taut strings, and realised they were propping him up. Beneath the blue, there was unmistakable white.

Oh. He breathed what seemed like his first breath in years and it was not a sweet breath. That explained the pain earlier. He must’ve overestimated Error’s pull and launched himself backwards.

The strings had torn through his wing bindings. 

The crumpled, mangled mass of feathers certainly did not seem able to hold his weight at all.

No wonder it hurt so much.

“Oh.” Ink echoed his thought. “He’s an Avian.”

Something dawned on him and made his chest seize again. A terrible glimmer of emotion blinked through the haze of cold numbness and it was of fear. 

Fear, of them. 

They would be furious if They learnt his wings had been unbound. They would be so angry. He wasn’t allowed to have his wings unbound. He wasn’t allowed. He had broken their rules.

He was going to get in trouble.

Dream was shuddering.

“Dream.” His head whipped up. Error looked furious. “Did you bind your wings… yourself?"

No, of course he didn’t. They did. But Error looked so angry. Would he get angrier if Dream said no?

He steadied himself. No, he shouldn’t lie. He’d get himself in even more trouble, so he shook his head. 

“Who did?” Ink’s voice was so quiet he barely heard it. “Was it… was it the same people who sent you?”

He was suddenly grateful and he didn’t know why. He nodded.

Ink cursed. It felt odd to hear such a quiet voice curse. 

“He has to come with us.” The voice was so quiet, Dream almost thought it was Ink speaking. “He isn’t going back to them.” Error spat out the last word like it was dirt. Dream did not hear Error’s footsteps as he stepped behind him.

(Though he was glowering, Dream had the oddest feeling of being safe under it.)

“No,” Ink replied, just as softly. “Of course not.” 

When Ink’s gaze hit him, Dream shrunk back.

“It’s alright, little one.” Ink said softly. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

He shrunk—

(safe, home, together)

—huh?

He couldn’t move. Ink reached for him; he was smiling but it was with teeth and it didn’t match his eyes either. 

All the fear drained out of Dream and left nothing but an aching tiredness. 

Dream didn’t take his hand, so Ink instead wiped the dirt from the ground off the former’s face with the outstretched hand. The contact didn’t even make Dream shudder. He was that exhausted, it seemed.

(Something in him made a happy little noise. It was the joyful chirp of a little fledgling.)

“Dream?” He felt someone, probably Error, tap his shoulder. “There’s still some cloth tangled with… your wings. I’m going to remove what I can with my strings. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

No. The word formed immediately, but just thinking it made him wince. Yet the dull fear that thudded through him seemed to grow sharper every passing second. He cast a look back. It was ugly; a mangled mess of feathers and cloth, but it was evidence of some struggle, at least. 

He could get away with a few scratches if he said it had been removed against his will, but if he agreed now, he’d be complicit. 

And that would make them even more angry. 

He forced the no out, but it was soft, so soft that he didn’t think they heard it.

“It’s for the best, little one.” Ink bent down and held his hands in his. He still shook his head. “Are you saying no because you’re scared it’ll hurt?”

For some reason, when he made eye contact, his throat squeezed with the odd urge to cry. Then his head betrayed him by bringing up the image of Azre’s face and the terrible lump in his throat melted into something that tasted oddly like blood.

He shook his head again. No, he wasn’t scared of his wings hurting. He wasn’t scared of that hurt.

“You think you’re safe, Healer? Locked up in your little birdcage? We could always take something back. A finger, perhaps? You don’t need all ten to heal—”

But Azre would hurt him if he let them take the cloth off. Maybe he wouldn’t even take a finger. Maybe he’d take his wings. For good.10

“Is there another reason why you’re saying no?” Ink asked so gently. 

Azre was furious when Nightmare had returned with injured wings. What if—

Dream went still.

(not safe, danger, help me—)

Azre had called him useless. He wasn’t useless, but Nightmare was certainly more useful to them. Healers were less rare than Avians. Dream wasn’t irreplaceable to them. 

So what if—

He’d threatened to take a finger because Dream laughed. 

What if this time, Azre took—

“They’ll kill me,” He whispered. “If you take my bindings off.”

—his life?

The silence hung between them like the gap between life and death. Ink’s eyelights had disappeared completely.

(Something inside him whimpered.)

“Error, take it off.”11

A gasp throttled through Dream as the sound of torn fabric echoed in his head. He felt arms around him, holding him still as the strings tore through—

(soft, embrace, home)

“Done. ” 

Dream wanted to cry out as someone pulled at the torn feathers. The hand stopped and he was able to breathe again. He couldn’t move in the firm embrace, but he was able to turn his head back ever so slightly.

He could see some yellow feathers in the white, now.

The strings had destroyed the cloth entirely. No scraps were left. None.

The Destroyer’s wrath is terrifying not for its bloodshed, but because it is utter destruction. It has no room for mercy. It refuses even the release of death.

Slowly, he made eye contact with Error. 

“All done, kid.” 

Ink released him, but Dream still felt as if he was being suffocated.

“Dream, they’re not going to leave even a finger on you. I swear it on my life.”

“You’re immortal,” He muttered, but Ink still caught it and broke into a grin. 

“That I am! So you don’t need to worry about them hurting you again. You will be safe with us.”

(Safe. The word echoed inside him.)

It weighed on his tongue and suddenly he didn’t want to say anything at all.

Dream took a breath, another, and lost the thread of fear. He thought vaguely, I want to sleep now.

Ink caught his chin before it could fall.

And he was gone, out like a light. ***

“Well, that solves that problem.”

Ink sighed. He bent down and shifted Dream into a supporting embrace so he wouldn’t wake up with a killer headache, 

“Stars.” He said it like a swear. “Error, I think he might have imprinted on us.”

“Stars?” He repeated, then paused. “Ah. Crap.”

“Yes, stars, he’s a ch— fledgling. I’m not swearing in front of him. And yes, ‘crap’ is right.”

“It’s fine, he’s asleep, but— isn’t that good? That means he hasn’t imprinted much on the fuckers that took him.”

“Well— that, yes.” His gaze went cold, before melting into the warmth of concern. “But that means he’ll be dealing with his Avian instincts. You know what imprinting on someone means for them, right?”

Error’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Vaguely?”

He smiled bitterly.

“I have a hunch he doesn’t what imprinting means. It doesn’t seem like they bothered to educate him much on his own heritage.” 

Error’s gaze grew dark. The strings around them twitched. Ink shook his head. 

The strings went still again. 

“I’m guessing he’s dealing with new instincts because he imprinted. Probably much more different than the instincts he’s used to. More… familial.” Ink shifted his grip so he wouldn’t put much pressure on Dream’s wings. Carefully, he stroked Dream’s wings, stopping at a single yellow feather. 

“It’s all atrophied, and look at this. He has so few yellow feathers. He hasn’t used his magic in ages.”

Error hummed his agreement. “Magic use affects wing colours. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to use magic much.” 

“Yes,” Ink said softly. “He must’ve been born with white. Maybe the yellow feathers here were just from that burst of magic earlier."

"I’ll check.”

A single blue string drifted into view, slowly and so much slower than the previous strings.. It looped around Dream’s soul, gentle even then.

Then there was an odd pressure that made him stir slightly, and a golden light.

“Careful.” 

“I know.” The string wrapped around the gold glow. The quiet of contemplation weaved its way into their silent anticipation. 

“....That’s peculiar.”

Ink turned. “What is?”

“He’s… already imprinted on someone else.”

A coldness washed over him. “Who?”

Error was silent momentarily. Then—

“Nightmare. Twin of Dream. Fellow Avian,” He read aloud. “And you and me, obviously.”

The two exchanged looks. 

“He has a twin?” Ink’s horror was quickly understood by Error. The sheer idea of another soul in the same hellhole made something in him want blood. 

Especially someone like a fledgling Avian.

The two went silent. 

The God of Creation held the sleeping Dream in his arms, and the God of Destruction watched them. 

Dream did not know it, but he had never been safer. ***

Later, Dream would awake beneath blankets and dim lights that reminded him of stars. He would blink the tears of a nightmare away and watch as they soaked his pillow. 

Nest, a part of him would coo. 

There would come a time where he would not fight it. 

Then, one day, Ink would ask him where they were.

There was only ever one ‘they’.

Down the dirt road, he would say. 

And Ink would understand.

Once they found Nightmare, wings splayed out and bitter tear tracks as if carved into his very cheeks, there was no mercy left to be found.  

Nightmare was left outside, and he watched with the skies as the wrath of the Gods was realised. Soon the screams of those who took what never should have been theirs echoed into the skies, and the skies would not care for them for they had taken two of their own.

Nightmare watched their destruction with little reaction. One by one, the floors collapsed into dust and then nothing. He folded his wings as the screams gave out one by one. 

He saw a tuff of white landing on a windowframe a floor above, fading into black at the corner. 

Fur from a Monster who had had white fur spotted with black.12

He snapped his fingers and it burst into flames13. Mercy was sleeping in a pile of blankets and pillows. 

And the wrath of the Gods left nothing but utter destruction in its wake. 

Nightmare reached up and felt his cheek, felt the exhaustion, desperation and fear. He remembered the utter terror that had reached him when he realised something had gone wrong, and Dream would not return.

But Dream was safe, and Nightmare was finally going to leave this place. 

He and Dream were free of it. 

The fires cast shadows over him, and he closed his eyes. 

It felt cleansing.

The God of Destruction serves not as the Justiciar, but as the final Punishment. His wrath is terrifying not for its bloodshed, but because it is utter destruction. It has no room for mercy. It refuses even the release of death.

Though the God of Creation is the Justicar, the Protector, he is feared as much as he is revered for the Protector’s justice is not mere bloodshed either. It is worse. It is quiet, it is unyielding, and it is true punishment.

Far away, a little gold bird slept with preened wings, waiting for his brother to join him in his nest.

When a little cyan bird dipped into it, though his mind was muddled with sleep, some part of him heard him and cooed, family.

Then, quietly; home.

Footnotes:

the birbs. *nods approvingly* 1. Dream did not recognise Azre, which is why his inner monologue focused on the other Monster. 2. I believe it's obvious, but Nightmare did not find it a shame at all. 3. CORE Frisk had other matters to attend to, so unfortunately they couldn't make the delivery and asked their old friends Ink and Error to do it on their behalf. CORE Frisk was the target of the mission, not Ink and Error. 4. CORE Frisk happened to be immortal like Ink and Error, but not quite invincible. 5. Both Ink and Error had seen youthful souls capable of both foolishness and cruelty, so the Dream's young appearance did not seem cause for much concern, albeit perhaps a sign that Dream was merely acting on somebody, perhaps someone older,'s orders. However, learning Dream did not know his own age was cause for concern, because it was a possible indication of Dream's lack of autonomy over his own life. Dream, however, did not notice any of this, and only saw Error's physical reaction, not thought process.