Dream stared at Wilbur.
Was it possible? Could he be looking at...
No.
There was a book in his hand.
Dream stood and moved back. There was a chest there, labeled, 'From An Ally'.
In the book, then, would be a signature. And that signature, it seemed, was Nightmare's, using the name Dream.
Dream followed, his dread growing slowly.
Wilbur was evolving. It was he who had built up L'Manburg from the ground, with Tommy and the others at his back. And he had lost it just like that.
Wilbur had apparently decided on another course of action, which Dream only discovered weeks later. When Pogtopia had begun to garner more and more support from the very citizens of Manburg, Schlatt had decided that that would not do. He had to put a stop to it.
And if he couldn't find and destroy Pogtopia, he would instead throw a festival.
The Festival of Manburg. The date was set.
And Tommy and Wilbur knew about it. There was no way that they could miss this opportunity.
But Wilbur was a different man now. He had warned Tommy that he would not be the same once they took back control of L'Manburg, if they ever did.
And that was the truest thing he'd ever said.
Wilbur no longer cared about regaining control. As far as he was concerned, it was already gone, and there was nothing they could do.
Nothing but burn it all to the ground.
Retribution was his cry, when once it had been salvation and freedom.
Dream stayed behind the next time that Wilbur went to his room to think.
But when Wilbur returned, he had something for Tommy.
It was a button.
Dream's head flashed with bright, vividly painful memories, and he gasped, falling to his knees.
He was made suddenly desperate. If only he could stop this.
Dream had to fight to get to his feet, and even then he could only stumble forward unsteadily and with the support of the ravine wall.
He was weakened by mental shock, a rational part of his mind said. But his rational mind was much too small right now, too small to do anything.
Too small to save them.
All he could do was wait.
And even that was difficult. As wave after wave of pain flooded his brain, memory after memory, he collapsed to the ground again.
And then, for the first time since he had returned from death, Dream fell unconscious.
When he woke, it was just as dark in the deep ravine. He straightened up stiffly and staggered out of the suddenly putrid stale cave air. He could no longer stand to be within it.
But even the fresh, crisp air of that constant breeze did little to soothe him.
Dream could hardly remember what the memories were that had affected him so strongly. It was strange. Like something had taken them.
Dream sank to his knees.
And then he, Dream, the second greatest Minecraft player of all time, his face hidden behind a mask with a smile painted on, cried.
He cried for pain and sorrow, for loss and madness, for minds once great twisted by revenge.
He cried for Wilbur. For Tommy.
But especially he cried for himself. For Nightmare. And he cried because he could do nothing else.
Once he was down, he sat there, almost silent. He had no more tears left to give.
But that was the way it should be. He was Dream, after all. There was no reason that he should cry.
He just had to figure out what he was going to do. What he could do.
And then they would take it step by step.