A/N: *smash hands on desk*
I'm okay. I swear. Now, does anyone have some bait? The ending to this chapter keeps running away, and after 4,000 words, I still can't seem to catch it.
(Previous warnings may apply.)
The falchion rose into the air to prepare for another strike. A brief glint flickered across the blade's length once Dream's stance brought it to peak height and reappeared again when the weapon hastily descended with an audible swish, which sounded throughout the battlefield as the sharpened metal sailed toward its next target. Its aim stayed steady and precise, like that of a well-aimed arrow. Until it didn't. A rather sudden, excruciating discomfort bloomed in the armor-clad guardian's abdomen, causing the color to flee his face and sheets of yellow-tinted sweat to form at the base of his skull. His sword-wielding hand began to violently tremble halfway through the slicing motion, sending a shock wave that nearly knocked the weapon into the icy snow through the hilt and up the blade; And, unfortunately, led to the swing missing. Metal met snowy earth as the attack swerved past Nightmare's dark tendril, leaving it unscathed.
Stars of the damned, Dream's mind instantly supplied after breaking through the shock spawned by the jabbing pain.
His eyelights barely held shape due to the agonizing pang, and fat yellow droplets of magic gathered around the corners of his eye sockets. Each breath released came out uneven. Hitched and quickened to the point he sounded like a wounded balloon filled with gravel. Fighting down tears plus forcing his breath to level became a daunting task in and of itself, spectacularly failing when the added sting produced by his other injuries decided to rear its ugly head. His jaws clenched to prevent a wet sob from escaping. All the while, the hand shakily grasping the falchion tightened its hold around the blade's handle.
He drew the weapon close, holding it in a defensive position in front of himself, and prayed it would be enough to block any subsequent attacks. Then, using his free hand, Dream investigated the thick leather and metal armoring his stomach for breaches, rips, and the like. The frantic prodding revealed worrying results. Nothing laid there; no deep gash or scratch. In fact, there was still no discernible damage of any kind. Unsurprising, considering how he focused on protecting that area above everywhere else. But pain and knowledge of the afflicted region brought forth silent panic. An emotion exceedingly tricky to hide from his closest opponent, Nightmare.
Okay, okay. It's fine. Probably just Palette kicking or something. The armor-clad skeleton thought (or more like prayed), attempting to calm himself with (false) reassurance, not even registering that the unoccupied arm/hand had long-since come to rest protectively around the baby's temporary shelter.
Nevertheless, I really should wrap this up quickly and get the hell out of here.
Dream's eyelights raised to study the dark, oozing monster. (When had he stopped watching the other?) A blazing cyan eye gazed back. The malice-filled orb locked onto the younger guardian's form, analyzing- taking in the sight of his scrunched brow and renewed trembling before a wicked grin stretched across its owner's face. Like the way a cat would smirk if their favorite meal fell right into their paws. Blackish-purple tendrils poised themselves for an attack, practically wiggling in anticipation. The Guardian of Positivity could only speculate how much it would hurt to be skewered by the bunch. Needless to say, he did not want to find out. His feet shifted, slowly edging him away from the other while keeping the sword in front to separate them. However, the action sputtered to a halt as a sharp spasm appeared in his gut and forced him to stop himself from dropping to the ground and curling into a tight ball.
Palette, sweetheart, now is not the time for this!
Pinching his brows, Dream stumbled back as far as he was willing to allow himself to without further leading himself toward the trio behind who had yet to attempt to steal their boss' kill. Though the few feet he gained dwarfed in comparison to the dark lord's reach. The sharpened tendrils thrashed at him from afar with wild enthusiasm. Logically, dodging or holding his ground was less than likely to succeed. So the weak, injured skeleton did the one thing he could think of: He let his legs fall out from under him and crashed bottom first into the snow, which (just barely) made the deadly appendages miss the most vital parts of his body and earned him a few new cuts along his arms and legs.
Sticky red magic gushed out the fresh wounds and traveled down the cracks in his armor, staining the dark leather with crimson. Dream's blood-splattered scarf fluttered helplessly in the glacial breezes that swept across the town as he attempted to will himself to stand. Alas, to no avail. The pain plaguing his stomach remained strong, leaving his arms and legs shaking and unwieldy, and the sharp wind stung at any open cuts like an angry hornet. Or an entire nest of the foul creatures. Regardless, he continued to struggle - demand the appendages help him stand (and, quite possibly, run away) - and only when another biting spasm shot through his stomach did he quit. Soon, dropping his sword before pulling both arms around the afflicted area; Each leg lying uselessly half under and half in front of the quivering skeleton's injured, hunched over form. If a small whimper escaped without permission, the guardian would allow it just this once.
Soft crunches in the snow were the only indication of Nightmare's advance; Even then, they sounded featherlight and barely audible above the labored wheezing squeaking past his jaws. Dream kept his head low, unable to bring himself to watch the negative being approach. Unable to face whatever sneer or triumphant expression adorned his counterpart's sludge-coated skull.
A deep, familiar voice filled the air when the footfall halted. "I must say I am quite impressed you put up so much of a fight. You're clearly not as out of practice as I thought you would be, given how you have avoided your 'duties' the past year and forgone maintaining a slim figure." The speaker paused a second, adding in a lower, more sinister tone, "A shame it has to end here."
His eye sockets squeezed shut, new tears gathering in the corners and flowing down his yellow-flushed cheeks. This battle may be the end; The conclusion to their century-old war, and possibly the start of a new one. (Assuming Ink cared enough to avenge him.) Such a chilling thought made his blood run cold and a violent shiver jolt down his spine, shaking his whole body. The many wounds marring his form protested at the movement, decreasing his critically low HP by a point or two. And, in turn, reminded him of how greatly his plan failed.
You are in a corner, Dream. Trapped, low on magic, and with bleeding injuries and a stabbing pain in your gut.
All while carrying a child.
Fear coiled in his belly as though it was a boa constrictor squeezing at his nonexistent insides, planning to make more room for a permanent residence. The Guardian of Positivity knew the risks all too well, yet foolishly decided to go through with his plan. Alone. At the very least, he could have called for back-up. Cross was out searching for a way to revive his AU, yes, but the swordsman might have been willing to postpone his search for a day or more if Dream asked nicely. And Blue- The bundle of pure, unfiltered energy from Underswap had made his stance on the Council's current position quite clear. Though he and his old friend weren't speaking at the moment (courtesy of Ink), Blue would have helped as well. Probably.
I should have left when I had the chance, the traitorous corners of Dream's mind added. Then maybe this whole situation wouldn't have escalated the way it has.
Now the price of Dream's actions could very well be his life and his son's. Meaning: Palette, his precious baby boy, would never grow up to know the feeling of sunlight or a cool autumn breeze, take his first steps, discover his favorite hobbies and explore everything the Multiverse had to offer, or live a full life and start a family of his own one day. All because his mother's idiocy robbed him of the chance.
No. I can't let that happen.
Not without one hell of a fight, at least.
He hoisted his head high enough met Nightmare's eyelight with his own. A dark glint whispered frightening tales of the dangerous emotions running through the mind of the monster before him. It certainly didn't help that a smug expression rested on the dark's face while each individual tentacle waved threateningly behind him, ready to strike at a moment's notice. The other's confidence and conceit grew even higher the longer his cyan eyelight bore into Dream's. After all, the eyes were the window to the soul. So the Guardian of Negativity got a rather good taste of the horrid cocktail of emotions swirling in his being- from the tangy bite of fear to the sour notes of despair. All tainted by love, care, and the will to protect. Whether Nightmare believed those feelings were reserved for the Multiverse, Dream did not know nor did he care. One thought gained priority above all others: escape.
Desperation gleamed in his eyelights' pale yellow depths as their wobbly pinprick forms frantically darted left and right while looking for an opening. Anything would do. A breach in the enemies' defenses, a simple slip up, the tiniest misstep- Anything. Yet, the more Dream observed, the sooner he realized the four scoundrels were not going to give him one. He didn't doubt the possibility that they had planned for a moment like this and planned it well.
If that was the case, then how could he get out of this? And, better yet, was it possible to? A black and white blur sprung to the forefront of the guardian's mind, shifting into an all too familiar skeleton with fluff-laden armor and a bright grin.
Cross! The armor-clad guardian perked up slightly at the thought, which brought a new question to mind. What would Cross do?
What would he advise me to do?