Archive of Our Own ^beta

A fall from grace was anything but peaceful. Callahan knew that firsthand.

Falling from godhood was as if you had dropped off a cliff, hitting every rock, every bush, and every branch. Once you hope it's over, when you finally hope it's done, your broken body ends up in the swirling rapids of a giant river, whirlpools pulling you back when you try to climb back out. There weren’t many mortals who rose to the rank of godhood, but every single time the fall had been crushing. Most were not able to pull themselves out.

Once upon a time, he had been that man. And while he tried to avoid being drowned, he trained another, indoctrinated him into his own beliefs before setting him loose on the world. In hindsight, he should have been more careful, more cautious. He should have seen what would come in the decades that followed.

Bitter and angry, humiliated and hurt, he had brought in a young boy named Clay, one who he had discovered at the docks of another server far from the one he had been banished from. His wounds had barely closed, one of his legs dragging behind him, when he pulled a child into his open arms, the jagged edges of his ripped-off antlers tearing into the boy’s hoodie as he bowed his head. 

“You will not like me now, but you will come to learn the only way to survive.”

Back then, he wasn’t aware of the dangers that came with speaking. Instead, he had used his silver tongue to create a mirror image of himself. When Clay struck back, he returned the hit with twice more vigor.

“Again,” he would say, twirling the sword in his hands, the boy broken and bleeding at his feet. “I thought you weren’t weak. I thought you wanted to be a god.”

The child would struggle to his feet, the heavy iron sword holding him slightly off balance. “I’m not weak,” he spat, fire glinting in his eyes. Callahan saw it, and he was hungry for more. His weapon, his project, was doing better than he had ever hoped.

“Adjust your stance,” he said coolly. Awarding the boy kindness would get him nowhere. “You rock back on your heels too much. Any kind of reverberation in the weapon will throw you off and you will die.”

Clay looked down at his feet, and that was when he struck again. Clay’s sword clattered to the stone, and he fell to his knees, the tip of a blade at his throat. “Never let your guard down!” Callahan yelled. “You see where that gets you? Tortured, by the people you would have called family!”

The boy’s eyes flickered up to Callahan’s antlers, still ungrown and snapped off mere inches from his head, then looked away in shame. His own, the horns of a ram, had yet to grow in, but the ears were as prominent as ever. While his skin was clear and unmarked, save for the bruises and scratches from their daily training, Callahan’s was battle worn and marred. He looked every bit the devil he portrayed himself to be.

“I’m sorry,” his lip quivered. “I’ll do better next time.”

Satisfied, Callahan threw his sword off to the side. “You’d better. Let that lesson sink in, Clay. Nobody is your friend.”

Years later, when Dream was all grown and every bit the immortal that Callahan made him into, he set him loose. His time stewing in supposed peace made his bloodlust go up. Injuries healed, even scars wiped clean, his antlers back to the twisting, beautiful bone that they once were, he set off, armed with an arsenal of weaponry to take revenge on his former family.

He once thought that his fall from grace had been reversed, and that his newfound hatred was enough to restore his former glory. All that was needed now was the land he once created.

The place was booming with life, when he returned. His sweet words and muttered lies were enough to convince them that he had changed, and that he would be a good ruler, a good admin, as he should be. 

Once he was put back in charge, however, that façade came crumbling down.

He punished his server for the atrocities committed, for the hurt they caused him. And with every bit of carefully controlled anger he could muster, he convinced them all that they were the ones at fault. Now, of course, he saw that they were all the problem, all the issue, himself included. But it was only he who did not let go of the past, to let it guide him into retelling the same story a thousand times.

When with a final parting word, his server took its own life, was when he realized that he was wrong. His silver tongue had gotten him out of everything, begged his server to spare his life, and then subsequently used to commit the same tricks that he had done for years before. 

It was only when the last player of his server was there, dying in his arms with a broken smile on her face, her own sword stabbed through her stomach, that he understood. His words got him to where he now was, his lands dying around him.

The world was abandoned, and closed off. He traveled back to the place he called home for the past several years, only to find it destroyed, a simple smile drawn into the dirt. Leave no attachments behind, he remembered teaching the boy. They are your weaknesses, and weaknesses get you killed.

He would have been proud, had everything on his server gone well. Instead, he dropped to his knees, hands clenching the soot and dirt mixed together. With that boy on the loose, going to create his own server, with his own players, and his own form of government, there was no stopping him unless he managed to pull himself out of the self-destructive spiral that Callahan set him on. His beautiful, eloquent speaking had once again doomed yet another server, with yet another generation of players that Clay, or rather, Dream, as he started calling himself, would corrupt.

Not a word fell from his mouth from then on. His contract, the one he wrote and signed in blood, forbade him from uttering a single word.

It was difficult, at first, not being able to speak to the animals or the little beings around him, but he made do. Dream would come back for him, so he didn’t bother rebuilding his home. Rather, he switched servers, and vanished into the wilderness.

At some point, he hacked off his own horns as penance. Over the years, they grew back, and he continued filing them down with the rough end of a stone. It hurt, much worse than anything else anyone could have done to him, but it was his own way of apologizing to those who he could not apologize to.

Decades later, he finally allowed himself to experience peace and joy. He still didn’t build a house, choosing instead to sleep among the roots and leaves as he had been doing for centuries, even adopting one of the deer that chose to follow him around.

His hands never made to craft weaponry, or even a single piece of armor. It was not anything he needed, nor anything useful. With his manipulation of the forest, mobs were not able to come close. By his own hands, every tree in his home was marked and enchanted to ward off hostile creatures. Not a single monster could spawn, and none could even come to the edges of the forest. The only creatures allowed in his little sanctuary were those sweet, harmless beings that only existed to be slain by players.

He didn’t see anyone for years. Not Dream, not any player coming to look for the ruined admin. He made his own clothes, stitched together as carefully as he could, ragged hems because he always wore them until they fell apart and because he had a tendency to snag the fabric on the thorns of the roses he liked to plant or make the server grow. Flowers grew on the vines and moss that curled around his antlers, and he did not have the heart to pull them away and ultimately kill them. He was wild, and he knew his appearance reflected that, but without players, there wasn’t anyone around to care.

Centuries must have passed by like that, in his peaceful little exile, his only company the fluffy little rabbits and wolves that would curl up next to him as he slept through the tranquil night, listening to the soft chirping of bugs and the beating of wings, the squeaks of bats and howls as the packs moved out to hunt. Sheep and deer would surround the tree that he had designated as his bed, lying around the roots to bask in the soft peace and protectiveness that he offered. It was a neutral territory, for lack of a better term. Peace quelled the tensions between dogs and sheep, birds and mice, foxes and chickens. None of them would jump back when he stretched out a hand to check their wounds, to pat them softly on the top of the head. All the crooning and purring and delighted barking made his nights never silent, but they distracted him enough from his wandering thoughts.

None of the animals belonged to him, of course. He refused to collar them, to chain them down to his own world, but it didn’t seem like they particularly cared. Though they didn’t return nightly, there would always at least be a few animals curled up by his feet, sheep warming his body from either side under the leafy canopy that shielded them from rain. No matter what journey he went on, whatever trip he made, leaving the sanctuary of the forest, there was always something by his side.

Exile was lonely enough, but he wouldn’t have made it without their help. Physically, yes, but he wasn’t so sure if his mind would have lingered as long without something there. And with his vow of silence, it was hard enough to communicate at all.

One day, he felt a disturbance towards the edge of the forest, far away from his peaceful territory in the center, but it was unlike anything he had ever experienced as he listened and reacted to his own server, his own land crying out for him.

The enchantments around the border had been shattered, and the one who had done it was approaching. 

Even then, when the animals could sense his panic, could detect his distress, they stuck to his side. Not even then did he decide to make a weapon, make the choice to attack. Centuries of reflection were enough to set him free from the war-torn ways that he had built for himself.

He reached out to his server, to feel the ground under his bare feet, and commanded the land to make a barrier, to halt whoever was approaching, a god much like himself. The world responded, and he felt a rumbling as the dirt rose up to counter the sudden invasion. 

The god shattered his defenses in an instant, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of his code. Strings of perfect, distinct lines that he recognized, lines that reflected his own player code, lines that he had written himself, with some darker additions that he had not dared to attempt to create. 

It had been perhaps thousands of years of nothing, not a single word from that man, but he hoped that the time was enough to pull his greatest masterpiece and his worst mistake out of the hell and hatred that Callahan himself had thrust him into.

There was only one thing he could do, sending a message to his old protégé through the letters and numbers that created his world.

It’s been a long time, Dream.

His advance halted. I would appreciate you not destroying my world.

Î̵̢̧̹̄͝t̴̡͂ ̵̙̟̲̋̉̃̊̐h̶̟̮͙͉͓̪̑a̸̬͔̼͍̳͗̿̎̈s̵̺̻̳̣̮͍͕̽͝ ̶̲̰̟̺̬͗̈́̈́̊͝͠b̵̮̻̻͐͋͋̎̏ė̶͈̇͆̆̋̆e̷̜͎̞̒̅̚n̸̠̜͎̘͓̥̆͛͗ ̵͔̹̫̟̓̊̏̔̑̕â̸̟̣̈́͑̍̓ ̶̜̟͈͈͇̯͈̒͗̔̇̍̑̕w̵̡̟̮̼̻̩͒̾̿̂͝h̶̢̛͉̥̱̹̦̊̇̾͌̕ȋ̴̧̭̩̫̜̼l̵͙͔̞̅͒e̶̻̯͍̜͒̑͒ͅ,̴̫̘͈̫̃͋͌̂͐͠ ̸͓̮̈́̋̋C̴̩͇̯̗͇͌̉͑̌͋̆̿ą̸̳̰̋͆̉̂̐͗̾l̶̩̭͕͒̄l̸̯̩̪̟̇͌ä̶̲̟̻̦̗́͘h̷͙̣̐̕a̸̧͇̘͕̜͎̳͆́n̸̢̘̦̙͈̈́̉̐͆̓̚.̷̤̜̫̽͌ͅ

There was a quick motion, and then Dream himself emerged from the trees, his white smile mask just as he remembered, bonded to his head by magic that even Callahan didn’t recognize. He had neither grown nor shrunk, his age not apparent on his body. The animals started back as he drew closer, and Callahan drew himself up to his full height, looking up into the lifeless black eyes of a mask.

“Well.” He could practically hear the smirk in his tone. “You’ve certainly let yourself go.”

On instinct, he opened his mouth to respond, only for his throat to tighten, restricting his airflow and cutting off the speech before it could even start. He paused, taking a moment to breathe, and closed his eyes.

What do you want, Dream?

His protege tilted his head to the side. “Not speaking?”

Not in centuries.

He hummed. “Alright. I can respect that.”

What do you want?

“What?” He pushed the mask up and to the side, allowing Callahan to see the bright smile spread across his cheeks. “I can’t visit an old friend?”

I thought you left all attachments behind, right?

Dream cringed at the reminder. “I’ve taken a slightly…different approach to your teachings. I hope you understand.”

Inwardly, Callahan was glad. Maybe he hadn’t scarred a young immortal, a young admin beyond repair. His relief must have shown on his face, because Dream commented on it. 

“What, have the centuries softened you?”

Opting not to respond, he turned away, looking to the animals that had stuck by his side, even as they growled and spat with hair raised. A hand raised in the air calmed them, a gust of wind settling them down, blowing leaves up into their fur. 

The dull thump of something hitting the ground dragged his attention back to Dream, and he watched him with wary eyes, eyeing the book that had just hit the dirt.

“An invite,” he said. “To my server.” He waved a gloved hand, his elegant manner in which he held himself not lost to Callahan’s disinterest. “I feel you’ll be a good influence. A way to…start things off well, if you will.”

Leave my server, Dream. You’re scaring my animals.

“If you were really that desperate to be alone,” Dream drawled, “you wouldn’t have left this world as public.”

And it was true. Loneliness took its toll on someone, immortal or no. Callahan was desperate, desperate for others to come join him in his quiet peacefulness, to draw him out from the shell he had forced himself into when his old world died.

Leave.

Dream raised his arms in the air, the corner of his mouth drawn up into a smirk. “I seem to have touched a nerve. Maybe I just missed our little talks. Maybe I missed your lessons.”

Not the ones I beat into you.

His smile fell. “No, I’m afraid not those. Those were mildly…traumatizing, to say the least.”

So why bring me into your life again? You want me gone, want those memories gone. You aren’t even abiding by my teachings. Why do you want my influence on your players?

“That,” Dream drew the mask over his face, “is what you’ll have to figure out.”

Callahan frowned. Like student, like teacher.

“Indeed.”

And with that, a message flashed across his vision. [Dream has left the game]

Never subtle, was he?

The book was left abandoned on the ground, and Callahan couldn’t help but steal several glances at it. An invitation, or so Dream claimed. As another admin, he would be able to influence the server enough to build himself a new home there, even if it left his centuries of peace behind. To rebuild in a world of players, people that had been left to their own devices, to make new inventions without his guidance, the guidance of a god.

He doubted that any of them would even know his name.

And even though his retirement was peaceful, his new life easygoing, he still left the server the very next day to join Dream’s. He could always return later, he told himself. It wasn’t like he was only confined to one server.

It was quiet, at the beginning, very quaint as they built small buildings and allowed him to live out in the forest that they continued cutting at for resources. Callahan was not, of course, oblivious to the start of new servers, and knew that they needed supplies. Though not on his home server, he could feel and interact with the land under his feet, summoning items to him versus creating them out of thin air.

Teleportation was not something he missed. The dirt under his feet, barely protected by a few layers of cloth, was all he needed to move from place to place. 

More players began to join. A young boy, Tommy, who believed that the world spun around him. Callahan foresaw him being a major troublemaker, and advised Dream that he should limit the amount of people joining, and should prevent conflict at all cost. Three hours later, and the boy was banned, only to return a few days later when Dream lifted the restrictions and sternly told him the rules if he was to remain. They were broken again mere minutes later.

Wilbur Soot joined shortly after, dragging the young Tommy to a corner of the server to build a drug van. At that point, Callahan was reluctant to let them be, as they built walls and declared it the territory of L’Manburg. History was beginning to repeat itself.

Dream, of course, was understandably furious, but his anger startled even Callahan, despite his old familiarity with his protégé. He demanded the walls come down, demanded that they disband the country and dissolve back into the main SMP. As expected, the players refused. Watching everything fall to pieces was just as reminiscent of his own server, reminding him of every wrong action that he had taken.

His protege, however, was right. He handled the situation much better than Callahan would have, thousands of years ago. Granting the country independence after a war was far less than what he himself would have done. At best, the traitors would be exiled or imprisoned. At worst, they would be slaughtered, slowly and painfully.

 Satisfied, he hid away in the forest, watching everything from afar, content to just live amongst the flora and fauna of the forest, sleep on a soft bed of moss, and subsist on plants and small animals when the situation called for it. For the time being, at least, he had the rare luxury of being able to relax, settling in around the Dream he had trained and built into a god.

Only, as the months went by, and he maintained his distance, things began to happen, exact mirrorings of his own old server. A child was exiled. A country blown to pieces. A group formed, the butcher army, to hunt down two gods of the server, and only failed because they teamed up. In his own world, his other admin turned his back and left him to the sudden rage of his players, and it was only a matter of time before the same thing happened here.

He saw it coming when Dream was cornered and thrown in prison, Technoblade’s back turned to him as he frantically messaged for him to help.

And he knew what would happen when Quackity started visiting Pandora’s Vault.

Still, as a god himself, it was not his place to meddle. He turned away, watching, waiting for the whipped tiger to leap out of its cage and to claw at his tormentors with weapons they forgot he had, tending to the server in its god’s absence.

Once, he considered breaking his old student out, to try and rectify his centuries-old mistake. But he had been too selfish to risk watching yet another server fall to pieces around him. Rather than leave, though, to return to his quiet life from before, he remained watchful, a protector of the server that Dream had forgotten was a living being.

When Dream broke out, he went initially to Callahan, crying out for his help.

He had thrown up invisibility enchantments and looked the other way when Dream collapsed into the dirt, and allowed the server to reunite with its owner.

It was expected that the moment his pain was taken away, Dream returned to take revenge.

Callahan should have stopped him, yes. But he knew too much about his own grave to attempt to help.

The only person who could dig himself out was Dream.

He stayed away, and watched Dream try to build himself up from rock bottom, instead only digging himself a deeper and deeper hole. Eventually, maybe, he could finally hit bedrock and be able to drag himself up to the surface rather than sink down into the void. 

Maybe.

But as Dream just fell more and more, hitting every little rock on the way down, it was all Callahan could do but to stay silent, and not intervene, constantly looking in a mirror and being reminded of his greatest failure.