( 10 ) HISTORY DREAM SMP ✓
VARIOUS DREAMSMP x THEY / THEM READER

( descriptions of war, mentions of blood, ghostly apparitions, suicide mentions, dream SMP spoilers, multiple mentions of burning )

THEY WERE ONLY HUMAN.

HISTORY IS A PACK OF LIES about events that never happened told by people who weren't there. The quote applied to many history books Y/N had read. Historians told stories of agreements and arguments and of things that had never even occurred with such vigour and had not even been there to witness these events themselves. It applied to nearly every historian, with a rather rare few of their retellings being factual-and, coincidentally, one of these historians who told these rather rare few retellings was Y/N.

You see, Y/N had been present during the creation of the L'Manburg. They had watched as Wilbur Soot had pulled up to the borders of Dream's land, parked his hotdog van on some random, grassy hill, and then had proceeded to recruit soldiers for his nonsensical war that had sprung up out of nowhere for nonsensical reasons. They had watched as he had weaved words and promises so intricately with those fingers of his that were not yet scarred from his cons and his lies; as he had warped the minds of impressionable children, telling them tales of a land with perfect ideals that never truly came to exist. They'd stood on the sidelines, quill between their fingers and hands stained black with ink as they scribbled down every single action on the old, weathered pages of a journal.

History was a delicate thing. One slight miscalculation and you might end up being exiled, just like young Tommy Innit. A single glance in the wrong direction and you would be accused of things you hadn't planned on ever doing, until, of course, you were told you would-just like Wilbur Soot, a once noble man gone mad. One sentence, one phrase, a single word out of line, and you would find that your role as the puppeteer challenged-just like Dream.

History was a delicate thing. It required quick fingers, a sharp mind, and a skill of being able to read others as if they were all open books and you were the librarian. It required a neutral stance on a lot of things-a mind open to all possibilities and choices.

Which was why Y/N had taken on the daunting task of documenting it.

Spending every night under twinkling lights that shone across the twilight sky with their nose in a book and their fingertips slowly staining black with ink, it was no wonder how they'd acquired the dark circles that seemed to lay permanently under their eyes a few days after starting on the job. It took no high IQ to figure out why their eyes seemed to read every action you made, to dissect each sound that left your lips. No one asked why they had never taken any sides in any wars-though people had tried to convince them to change alliances with bribes and extravagant offers. It was simply because history needed no sides. After all, what good is an account of historical happenings if they're all biased opinions?

Before they had arrived, history had only been written by the winners-by the survivors. There were no accounts in history books from the losing side; from the dying side. Before Y/N had come, there had only ever been one side to wars. But with Y/N there, with their curious, prying eyes that seemed to appear everywhere, filled with a desire to learn about each nation and its inhabitants, they were able to get the bigger picture. They'd found out secrets that had been spoken by a man now dead; they'd bargained for information with the nations' first democratically elected ruler; they'd discovered things that would never reach the ears of another citizen. They were a vault of information; they knew the inner workings of every single person, whether they be living or dead.

They knew that Dream didn't care as much about his friends as he had when it had all begun. They knew he had slowly started to become more and more distant, more disconnected, with each passing day. They knew this because of the way he seemed disinterested when his companions, George and Sapnap, would talk about their own problems. They knew this because of how obviously-yet people always seemed to miss it, and whether that be because they wanted to or because they simply could not see it didn't matter anymore-his eyes would glaze over with boredom when he wasn't talking about his own plans. They knew this because then his fingers would twitch with the need to pull at his invisible strings again, almost like an addiction. They knew most, if not all of the things he'd ever done were done with only his own goals in mind. With power in mind.

They were aware of the fact that Tommy only kept his discs, that he only acted as if they were the most precious things in the world because they were a reminder, a memory, of what had been. What life used to be like. They knew that, however slowly, he had started to understand how Dream worked. How Dream had played him and always had been playing him. And was still playing him. And how he was very, very outmatched.

Y/N knew Ghostbur only existed because of Wilbur's destroyed ideals. That Ghostbur only remembered things that had made Wilbur happy because subconsciously he knew that all of his old memories and negative emotions would only get in the way of his goal; to recover a broken country. That once his goal was completed, and once L'Manburg had been returned to its former glory, it was then that he would fade, it was then that he would disappear, never to be seen ever again.

They knew many things. They noticed many details, many expressions, and if you asked them, they would answer that yes, it was true that eyes were the windows to their souls. Yes, it was true, they could tell what someone was going to do next days before they did it. Yes, they knew people that well. And because of their immoral actions and irregularly sharp mind, people had tended to forget one crucial detail-one small, very often overlooked weakness that they held and everyone else had.

They were human.

They were still human, and they cannot help but fall in love with the inhabitants of this cruel world. They were only human, and they cannot help but understand the reasoning behind each word spoken; each action made. They were only human, and they cannot help but admire the passion and drive Tommy held, the determination he had to get L'Manburg and his discs back. They were only human, and they cannot help but see past the manipulation and the puppets and appreciate the cleverness behind Dream's actions. They were only human, and they cannot help but pity Wilbur Soot, despite all he has done. Despite all the wrong they have all committed.

They all thought they were heroes of the entire story. But in truth, they were only heroes on their sides. Of their stories. Y/N didn't blame them for it, of course-after all, they were only human. Just like Y/N.

Y/N was only human after all, and they cannot help the emotions that, though it is a rare sight, seem to cloud their judgement every once in a while.

They were only human.

And they could not help but love the people in their cruel world.

It is both a blessing and a curse to be the historian; to be the one behind the camera; the pen behind the pages. It is relieving to know that you will not be taking any part in the events concerning the rest of the country's well being, that your location and ideals did not matter, and you would not be imprisoned for what you believed in because you could not show what you believed in.

Yet.

They could not hug or show any affection to those they loved more than others. They could not show any bias, any feelings, to those they understood. They could not love, they could not hate-or, at least, they could not show it if they did. They could not confide any of their worries with the others about their circumstance; they could not be free of the inky black chains that held them to the papyrus of their journals. They were human; they still had feelings like any other person-and yet they could not show it.

And, though they did not realise it, this burned them.

It is burning to know they cannot comfort the boys that were too young to be participating in a war that came from problems that were meant to be far beyond their years. A war that, originally, didn't even have anything to do with them. It is burning to know they cannot advise a broken father on how to end the bloodshed, on how to stop the bombs that came with the smoke and the overwhelming fear, and it burns even more so to keep silent about his son's growing resent for him. It is burning to seal their lips and to not speak to the soft, kind woman who bakes cookies and gifts them pastries and is too nice to be living in such a crumbled nation that is still crumbling. It is burning to look away when a soldier betrays their nation to become a king, when a soldier betrays the trust of those he once loved, she once cared for, to gain power and protection, and to not tell them that he is not alone.

It is burning to watch as a man whose smiles were once as warm and homely as the sun, set everything around him aflame because of an insatiable hunger for destruction and death. It is burning to see a man wearing rose coloured goggles not be able to spot the red flags flying high above his comrades and instead mistaking them for green. It is burning to watch as a man receives another medal for his service and slings it around his neck, unknowing of the implications of the shimmer and the shine. It is burning to see a man as kind as an angel, with a pure heart, a blindingly pure heart-a rare sight-just to shut their eyes tight and to ignore when the darkness devours him and turns his once blindingly pure heart jet black.

It is burning to watch as an old friend begins, once again, tying thin, invisible strings around his people, his people who he once considered his friends, and to watch as he creates a nearly impenetrable mask to cover the guilt he carries for his actions, to cover the deep lines he wears across his face. It is burning to see him fall, fall down a hole of irrevocable and incomprehensible evil, and to not be able to reach out a hand to attempt to help him back up.

It is so burning. And the burns litter their body, scarring, and scarring, and scarring, the white hot flames licking at their skin until there are no more patches of smooth, untouched surface left; no more areas left to burn.

Y/N knows this. They know they are burned. That, just like every other person in this unforgiving universe, they are still burning-and that the heat will continue rising, continue burning them, until there is nothing left. Until they are ashes.

However, there is one small detail that most would not have taken into account; one fact that always seemed to be overlooked;

From ashes, there rises a phoenix. And for those lucky few people out there, while it is difficult to differentiate between a phoenix and a bird, at the end of the day, they are phoenixes. After all, isn't there that one saying... the one about once you hit rock bottom in a deep, dark hole-that one deep, dark hole with an overwhelming feeling of defeat and frustration that slowly drags you to its bottom and lets you lay there to decide your own fate-is it not true that once you do fall and bruise yourself on the cold, hard ground, that the only reasonable direction to go in is up? To the light?

Well, they've seen it happen to people with burns far worse than theirs.

Did it not happen to Tommy Innit? Young, obnoxious ( albeit it was rather endearing at times ) Tommy Innit? Was he not exiled by his own best friend, by the person he trusted the most, and cast into the outermost regions of Dream's land? Did Dream not manipulate him, play him, turn him into a weak reject desperate for some kind of attention, any kind of attention, and had used that want-that need-for attention to his advantage? And then what had Tommy done next?

Now, let Y/N tell you what he did not do; he did not build up into the twinkling twilight sky-the twinkling twilight sky Y/N themself wrote history underneath-and then step off of a tower made of earth and dirt and fall, the wind whipping through his blond hair, the cold air pinching at his pale skin as he silently gave in. Tommy Innit did not succumb to the pain; he did not give up on those passions Y/N admired him so much for having. Tommy Innit did not retreat into some out of the way cave filled with the darkness he feared ( though he would never admit it-he was too arrogant for his own good ), and he did not hole himself up with the monsters and creatures he hated. He did not give up on his ideals, if you were foolish enough to believe so.

Instead he finally realised how important he was to the nation; how crucial he was to not only the country's survival, but its inhabitants' survival as well. Tommy finally realised that he was the only one Dream could not truly control, and that gave him power; power to know he was the one puppet with the severed strings. It gave him power to know that though sometimes Dream would try and tie the strands together, it would all be futile, as they would unravel at the end of the day and render his efforts fruitless. Or rather, puppetless.

And with the realisation came the determination, and, as previously mentioned, the power. Tommy now knows that Dream cannot control everybody, that Dream isn't as all powerful as he plays himself out to be.

Do you see it now? The power from rising from the ashes? The freedom of being able to admit that yes, you have fallen to the bottom? Yes, you are your lowest? That you cannot go any lower, and the only option left is to go up?

There is so much power in it. And, just like Y/N, Dream knows this too. Because he is not like Tommy, too naive and too focused on his own goals to notice the events all around him. Dream is not like Wilbur, who gave up far too early and gave in far too late to the voices that took him from the inside. He is not like Schlatt, a man whose power is restricted by the rules he has implemented into his own nation.

No, Dream is far more dangerous. He carries far more scars than any other person-and he knows this. He uses this to his advantage. Because Dream is not stupid; he is not childish; he is not a man who waits too long; he is not a man held back by his own ridiculous decrees.

Dream is a god.

At least, that is what they say; it is what he says. That is what they all say. That is what he thinks he is. That is what generations upon generations of historians have warped Y/N's books into becoming. It is what they want to see.

But Y/N knows better.

Y/N knows that history books are a facade; the words that dance across the yellowed parchment are the actors on the stage. After all, history books and the historians that have written them are often biased. They stick to the winners side of the story-their side of the story. They do not care for the others' problems, though they do keep track.

They were not there to watch as Wilbur Soot descended into madness, clutching at the dark strands of hair that lay atop his head and whispering things about voices in the dark. They were not there to watch as Tubbo stuck to his best friend the entire war, just for his opinion and his one request to be cast aside and for Tommy to betray him. They were not there to watch as Tommy Innit built up, and up, and up, until he felt as if just stretching his arm out and flexing his fingers would let him touch the stars. They were not there to watch as Technoblade realises that Tommy and Wilbur never truly wanted to destroy the government-that they only wanted to take it back and claim what they thought to be rightfully theirs. They did not see the betrayal on their faces.

On all their faces.

Because at the end of the day, they are not Y/N.

And while Y/N is human, they also feel as if they are not. They are so used to watching from above, not unlike the celestial beings that twinkle across the night skies. It is jarring to talk of yourself like you are like them, when you were never truly welcomed as they have been. Treated as they have been. When you were never truly one of them.

The scratching of a quill against paper echoes in the cave, the bounce of the sound across the cold walls feeling too loud compared to the quiet dripping of water from the ceiling; almost as if it were intruding on Y/N's thoughts.

Y/N doesn't blame them, of course, they claim as they scribble the lines onto the weathered pages, the pitch black ink a stark contrast to the pale yellow paper. After all, it is their fault that they have decided to take on the mantle of becoming the historian. They should have expected to be treated as if they were an outcast ( silently, they know they are, They know they will not be welcomed back after all they have done, and the belief is reinforced when thinking about all they had not done ) when they first took up the book and quill. It came with the burden of knowing all the secrets of every single person. And for them, the people, it came with the terrifying possibilities of confiding everything into one person, and being forced to trust them for the sake of history.

History is a pack of lies, but that does not mean they are all white ones. History is delicate, but it is delicate in the way that one false fact and the entire book is ruined. History burns, it scars each nation and it stands as a reminder of every person's mistakes, but that is only if you have not learned from its predecessors.

Y/N pauses, eyes darting towards the cave entrance as the rumbling of footsteps grows louder, as the shouts begin to echo in the cave.

They turn back and they write faster.

History is a pack of lies, but that is only because they are written testaments to what has happened on the surface. because unlike L'manburg, their historians did not live through the catastrophic events. Their historians did not stand on the sidelines of wars for freedom. They did not witness Wilbur's slow descent into madness, Tommy's blind chase, Dream's pull on each carefully placed thread.

And as a man in a mask spots them, and as he runs forward, his eyes land on the book clutched between their hands and as he watches them scribble the last line onto the faded pages, he catches one last glimpse of their history. Their precious history.

It is a few moments before it all burns.

Y/N burns with it.

Because, unlike L'Manburg, they did not have a historian standing on the sidelines.

AUTHOR's NOTE

- alright first and foremost, happy new years to you all!

- second of all, thank you so much to SUSHISOOT, S0FTR0ARS and IwantAhat for becoming my editors at such short notice and dealing with my disgusting first drafts. i don't think i would've been able to get this out in time without them. you guys should def check out their stories, they're all rlly talented and they so obviously need my clout 😘🥰 ( /s lol i'm a very small writer compared to them HAHSHB

- btw, if you guys check out my announcements and want to be one of my editors too ( i'll cap it soon though lol i want this to be a small circle of trusted people ), you'll see what i 'need' :)

[ THAT SOUNDS SO CONCEITED AND ARROGANT BYE I'M SO DONE WITH MYSELF ]

- and third! this was a super short chapter, but it was also a sort of new years special, if you get what i mean? there weren't any particular love interests in mind this time, and i hope you guys are fine with that for some holiday chapters!

- AND FOURTH! this is my tenth oneshot! super epic :) i also want to thank you guys so much for the support. like, EIGHT THOUSAND READS??? bro. TWO HUNDRED VOTES N COMMENTS???? i'm sobbing i love u all so much oh my god.

- as always, bubs, take care of yourselves! drink water and make sure to eat today! also hygiene. clean ur ears please that shits disgusting 🤢🤮

so so so much love! and
extra new years love!
lea <3

EDITED 2 AS OF 3.5.21