Antítheta//A Dreamnotfound Fanfiction

Prologue

The Charms and the Sterlings. Both groups of people with one main difference.

Magic.

Magic and the Charm's population had thrived in the West Marina kingdom for years before the beautiful and prosperous queen's untimely death. A curse ridden with illness had befallen her, and the only cure was one that could only be administered by the curse-giver. Unfortunate for the royal family, the queen passed away due to the magical illness and was never given the chance to live once more.

The king, Wilbur, was sent into a spiral of grief and pure, undying hatred for the Charms–which he cleverly renamed to "Hexes"–and decided that the magical population was nothing but curses themselves. And with this pure lividity, most of the Charm (or Hex population, depending on your opinions towards them) population was wiped out except for the few who survived. Those who survived the month-long massacre were sent to a hidden patch of the Uprooted Forest to which they could never leave without being killed by the patrolling officers of West Marina.

Sam, one of the strongest Charms left, rebuilt this uninhabitable section of the Uprooted Forest to suit his people and his young son. During which he named the new village to "Meridian" and became the president and head of all magical operations.

As for this young son–technically the "prince" of the Charms, if you desired to call him that–grew into wondrous powers that were just as strong as his father's.

His name? George Davidson.

George wandered through the low-lit path of his village, passing a smile to anyone he saw along his walk. One foot in front of the other with a hint of poise behind it, directing him to his father's cottage–also known as his old family home he had grown up in for most of his life.

Even though the time of day was just morning, the land in which he walked was damp and dark, all due to the overgrowth of the trees just above. The only light source that seemed abundant was the neon colored mushrooms which were meticulously planted to outline the main path of the forest. It was quaint and dull, the land smothered with an air of gloom.

George pushed open the door to his father's cottage, letting it swing open lackadaisical like he had done all throughout his younger years. A sense of nostalgia rang when he smelled the familiar smell of gunpowder wafting to his nostrils. He hated the smell quite honestly but he tolerated it due to his long exposure.

"Dad?" George called out, peeking his head around the wall to his left; Sam had been busy toiling with a new potion. "There you are."

"George," Sam greeted in a half-attentive murmur; he flinched when his potion emitted a bright white plume of smoke. "Damn."

"Too much flavolite powder," George hummed, stepping next to his father. "Try adding less but more gunpowder. Should help with activation."

"I knew my son was a genius under that thick skull," Sam teased, knocking the top of George's head with his knuckles.

George whacked Sam's hand away as he let out a pleasant chuckle. "I knew my dad was annoying under that thick skull."

"Touché."

The brunette let the playfulness settle before he murmured, "...Things aren't going well at the children's hospital."

"That Hundred-Year's Flu, huh?"

"Exactly. It upsets me that we can't go and pick the berries to make the potion, and it also upsets me that I can't just cure it," George looked down disappointingly to his hands, squeezing them into fists which glowed a shimmery gold. "I'm supposed to be powerful. I'm supposed to help cure, yet I can't cure this."

"George," Sam sighed, looking over to his son for the first time since he arrived. "We already talked about this. There isn't anything you can do. Just... deal with it. Like you're supposed to. Those fucking Sterlings don't fucking care, yeah? If you get worked up over those sick kids it isn't going to end well."

"But-"

"This is one of those instances where you need to shield your emotions. It shows weakness. Weakness means death. Always. Because-"

George rolled his eyes and listlessly recited, "-If I was weak, we would be dead like the rest of the charms. Yeah, yeah. I get it. I just wished sometimes you would pretend to care–it's children's lives on the line."

Sam stared disapprovingly at George before turning his back to his potion's stand.

"...I don't have time for this, George. I'm working. I told you about bothering me while working."

George scoffed, clenching his fists to relieve the annoyance brewing in his system. Careful as to not say what was really on his mind, he responded, "...Right. I'll be at the children's hospital then."

"...Right..."

George stared for only a moment before he turned, his boots scraping against the stone floors as he spun himself around to the door. He truly did not want to engage in a fight with his father at the moment; he wasn't in nearly the right headspace to indulge it. As for Sam, he maintained his silence and continued on with his potion-brewing, shaking his head with a sigh.

George sprung himself to the door, slamming it behind himself hard enough to make the walls rattle against the force.

If his dad didn't care about the children, then so be it. George will see to it that they find the cure, even if it takes his own life in the process.

—

War was a common occurrence amongst those inhabiting Marina; so common, in fact, that the Prince himself put on his armor as if it was just another day. He stared himself down in the mirror, turning once he realized he wasn't out to impress, and grabbed his crown off of his wooden desk upon which it sat. With fear he would lose it in battle, Dream decided that it would be best to leave the crown behind; not to mention it would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other commoners on the battlefield. Dream shined it with the side of his glove, watching the light beams reflect and dance from the emeralds lining the elegant crown. It held scratches and chips all from Dream's time as a kid. The crown fell from his small child's head every single time he went to go play or climb a tree in the gardens. Regardless, it maintained a timeless charm–even more so with the inconsistencies.

"Dream," King Wilbur–also known as Dream's father–called from the open doorway. "It's almost time. It'd be wise if you came down to each before we go out."

Dream's eyes met with his father's for only a moment before he dropped them. In a silent murmur, he replied, "Yeah... sure... whatever you say."

Wilbur let the silence percolate awkwardly before murmuring, "Yes... also your armor isn't strapped on right, so you know-" Wilbur interrupted himself by stepping forward, his hands finding the straps "-There I'll get it-"

"No," Dream stepped away, looking off to the side. "I'll fix it myself... don't..."

Wilbur sighed, mumbling, "...I see. Well. You should come downstairs."

Dream only nodded, using his peripheral vision as an aid while watching Wilbur back out of the room.. He finally looked up, walking over to shut the door to his bedroom. The blond leaned against the door using his forearms afterwards, his breathing turning to a shudder; slowly he pulled the necklace from tucked under his armor and looked at the engraving which bore his mother's name.

Whether it was in Dream's own mind or not, he and his father were polar opposites. Without his mother there to stick them together throughout all of his developmental years, they just never got the time to truly bond. Wilbur was always busy making Hexes "pay" regardless, so there was no time for family.

Although... he was starting to lose the memory of his mother. The only thing that would come to mind anymore was small details and tidbits he heard in passing from others or Wilbur.

Dream forced himself to hold back his tears, shoving his locket back under his armor.

Prince's weren't meant to cry. He wouldn't break that unspoken rule now.