L'Manburg was at its last legs. After the war, the founding and revolution of Pogtopia, it had remained a mere shell of a previously defiant nation. Sure, it was slowly being rebuilt, blocks cut with precision and care but the presidents, both the old and the new were dead and they had left the reins to two children. The charismatic Wilbur had led with his voice, soft, warm, and confident until the stress and paranoia dug under his skin. The elected 'presidency' of Schlatt had ruled with arrogance and a wine bottle in hand despite the man's deteriorating health and heart issues.

They had left behind a broken and shattered nation to two traumatized teenagers who could barely stand on their own two feet. Now, the falling nation was kneeling at every demand, threat and want of the Dream SMP. First a nation of a madman, then a country of a drunkard and presently a slave of a sadistic master.

They had been overpowered so easily -which was to be expected, honestly.

Ironic, isn't it? L'Manburgs ideals of freedom and independence had been crashed in one day and one night under the foot of one, singular man. A man who had cut all leashes from his neck, who had disconnected and ripped all threads and strings from his limbs; a man who had exchanged his soul for absolute control. They had been defeated by a man who could manipulate whoever he wished, caring not for what he had to sacrifice as long as it benefited him, and no one was capable of manipulating him in turn; that was an undisputed fact.

His undoubtable self-confidence was the reason Tubbo had been discretely pulling his fingers into tight fists, blunt nails digging into his palms and leaving their impressions in the soft skin. Even in enemy territory, Dream sat relaxed on the opposite end of the table, the pearly white smiley mask had been lifted up so that calm, arrogant smirk of his was in view and a bead of cold sweat rolled down the young president's temple, his lamb ears nervously twitching at every sound in the dark room, the roots of the stubby horns atop his head becoming itchy. Dream was sure of his win, that much one could from his posture which was not as stiff as the others' were. 

The quill in Ranboo's gloved hand had been scratching the paper of the book, laying down pitch black ink as he recorded the words that were being spoken; the rules; the deal that was slowly forming between the master and the slave. He had yet to decide whether to write this event down in his prized memory book or not, whether the outcome was way worth remembering than what was happening. He would forget anyway, right?

And Tommy... even if he didn't want to show it, he was scared, frightened, frustrated with the ordeal they had found themselves in; he was scared of what would happen to him and the others; what the outcome of it would be. His fear had seeped into his mouth way before the meeting had started and it had morphed into words; curses and empty threats directed at the green-clad man as a means of defense. Fundy and Quackity were desperately trying to keep him calm and his foul mouth closed as to not make their situation even worse, though Dream had seemed thoroughly amused by the boy's idiotic antics.

Finally, when they had managed to turn the tables on Dream with Tommy's sharp logic, and Fundy and Quackity were celebrating their supposed victory as Dream teared down the obsidian wall, Tubbo had felt the tiniest bit of hope swelling in his chest. Of course, his mind still had doubt -and rightfully so- yet that hope was trying to fight it off. The effort soon proved to be in vain, though. Tommy was a great asset when he would shoo away his rage and brainstorm for a new tactic on the spot. He had used Spirit's skin, one of the only things he had known that Dream prized.

Dream bowed to no one, however, especially not to his favorite plaything; his own toy! That would have been ridiculous in his opinion; he wasn't a masochist. The skin of his late horse, Spirit, had had value to him... once. He had valued it as a memoir of the stallion, one of the few friends he had but Spirit had died long ago. He had found no reason for a dead animal to hold him down; losing because of an attachment to the dead was less than ideal. The stallion had died and he had grieved more than enough for it; it had been buried and he had decided that life moves on. Simple as that.

It would have left a permanent sour taste at the back of his throat, a constant itch, if he had let himself go down like that; if he had let them think that he would cooperate because they were showing him a dried pelt.

They should have had expected that a mastermind like him would bend the rules as he wished; heck, he was the administrator of the server -theoretically a god!- he could bend the rules whichever way he wished; erase them with just a flick of his fingers in seconds! He prefered to do things the traditional way, though -maybe that was a weakness? They should have expected that Dream's determination -his obsession- to control everyone and everything was stronger than any other trait he held. Not even his speed and dexterity could compete with that.

What fools they had been. And they had no one else to blame for the situation other than themselves.

Tubbo's very soul was aching, searing pain and anger coursing through his veins. He could taste the foreshadowing taste of iron at the tip of his tongue, even though none of them were wounded or bleeding. Nevertheless, he had put on a brave facade as Dream led Tommy away from his own home to exile for the sake of the other two, the panicking men who had been trying to change his mind while he had been negotiating with Dream on the thin, flat platform of the wall. He had wanted to run after them so much that it hurt; he could physically feel his heart banging against his ribs at the sight of his best friend being taken away. He could feel himself tearing up, that distasteful feeling of tears welling up at the inner edges of his eyes.

He didn't need them to see a broken president so he hid his eyes until he stood alone on the wall which had been arranged to be taken down soon after Tommy's new residence would be established. He hadn't meant to remind them of the crazed Wilbur Soot or the tyrannic Schlatt but he had not succeeded. He was indeed weak and frail, shards of his soul already chipping away under the stress. He could have only hoped that they would understand; that Tommy would understand and perhaps forgive him -just a little bit.

Φ

Exile was no good. Tommy had been led to faraway, foreign lands. There was no shelter except for the oak forest that lined the edges of the expanding field of grass. Sand covered one side of the land, letting the sea lick at the crumbling dirt and pebbles in the far back. The breeze that came from the sea was cold and it lowered the survivability at night, when it would turn the air to freezing spikes. Sunsets had been beautiful once but then the sun was gone; the very thing that ever warmed up the location running away from its problems.

Tommy was not used to the cold as he had had the privilege of having a roof over his head and a steady fire to warm the palms of his hands whenever he needed before all that. In the barren land that only a few sheep passed through -which he was to call his new home for an undetermined amount of time- he only had a green, frayed tent (which Dream was oh-so-kind as to give him it) and a makeshift bed of crunchy leaves, gravel and a few smooth rocks he had managed to gather from the beach.

Days had passed and the sea salt had managed to eat away at the dye of the tent, leaving behind patches of white on the worn, green canvas. He was fine for a small while. With no one around, he could easily let the tears of bottled up trauma spill from his eyes and he could just as easily chop down trees to relieve the stress all of it had brought him. The stiffness in his shoulders was barely present and for once... he felt relieved. He felt relieved until Dream started visiting him daily.

When he had thought that he had made the tiniest bit of progress -acquiring armor, building a home- Dream would come and take it all away. "Items in the hole, Tommy", Dream would demand as he dug a deep pit, and the items in the hole would go, only to be exploded with a bundle of TNT. The first few times, he would hesitate and after a few threats he would do as he had been commanded. And then, he would drop the armor without as much as a word. It was belittling, shaming, degrading; all of his hard work being blown to pieces each time the man would visit and he had learnt to allow it in favor of him and the country that had done this to him; exile that is.

He considered Dream a friend; the only one who ever bothered to visit him; the only one who had taken time out of his day and certainly busy schedule to travel to him. He soon came to recognize him as his best friend in exile. And isn't that what best friends are for? To keep one company in rough times? Tommy had imprinted on the green man after the first few days, crowning him the holder of his life.

However, there was that feeling; the feeling of missing something. Not materials but rather of a part of him. He missed Tubbo. The sizzling anger he held for his friend had died down considerably in the week that he had spent away from the remains of the country and had allowed for the wrecking feeling of loss to take its rightful place in his heart. As he had realized that, he also realized that he missed the other people in his life. Phil, Wilbur (even though he was dead), Fundy, Quackity and all of the others. Heck, he had even forgiven Technoblade and his treachery!

That was what it took for his eyes to open; for the fog to clear in order to reveal that he had strayed from the path. It took him a week and a few days to finally see the strings on his wrists, the collar on his neck.

He needed to go back; he needed to escape but how does one escape an obsessed maniac?

Well.

He would find a way.

======================

First fanfic here, how did I do?
Also, I have not watched all the streams from the exile arc recently so all of this is from memory.
This work has been inspired by the lack of Hermitcraft x DSMP crossovers on Ao3 (at least, I didn't find many) and by the few ones that I like.
The plot is based on the events of HC S7 but everyone is finishing their series right now so who knows how it will develop? 'Cause I certainly don't.