There was a place that Wilbur had visited many times in his dreams before. It was a city with great walls that would never fall. Wilbur loved those walls, loved his city and all the people there. They must have loved him too.
Someone terrible came to the foot of those beautiful walls he knew. The smiling face he wore was a mask, the arrows he held meant destruction. He loaded his crossbow, and aimed it upon the fair city. But the walls were strong, its gates thick. He could hammer and fire, but he'd never touch the city Wilbur loved. Until another character entered the stage. A traitor, eyes concealed behind a blindfold, too unholy to be seen. He saluted the smiling tyrant, and opened the doors for him.
It was never meant to be.
The arrow spun through the gates. At once, every part of Wilbur's home kindled orange against the stormy blue night. That was when the world shattered.
It made his entire being tremble, aggravating the pain already in his shoulder and stomach. Wilbur looked down at his shaking hands. How small they looked, as if he were a child again, listening to that lullaby. The lullaby Wilbur always sang, the one he always knew, the one to which he wrote the verses of his nation's anthem because he could never remember the words.
He felt arms curling around him, and he knew he had nothing to fear. A familiar figure drew him into its embrace. He hugged it back, as far as his child's arms could reach, ignoring the pain in his body. His fingers felt something like feathers. Then the world surged around him, booming and breaking as the city he used to know became just that. Wilbur ventured to open his eyes and saw the dark wings beating on either side of him. He squeezed his lids shut again, and gripped all the harder. As long as he held on, trusted those dark wings, clung to that ceaseless lullaby, he wouldn't fall.
If I fall, the song will end.
If I fall, it will all end with me.
The song ended before he could hear how it finished.
Gray. It was the air, the ground. It spread around him, rising and falling in great hills of ruin. Above, birds cawed and swooped in and out like falling ash. He stood alone in the gray's silent song.
"Are you lost? Where are your parents?"
Ashes.
"What's your name, lamb?"
He tried to speak, and it felt as if his mouth was full of dust. He tried again, and heard his voice. "Wil...Wilbur..." His voice sounded odd, childish, but that's what he was.
"Wilbur, you say? Wilbur what?
He looked down at his hands again, now blackened, along with his rumpled clothes and dirty shoes. Nothing else.
"Poor little doll, all covered in ash and soot. Makes you look to be graying early, even a wee thing as you." A hand brushed over his curls. "If nothing else, you're Wilbur Soot."
Nothing else but fear. He felt afraid. Afraid of the pain, the gray song, this person he did not know.
Then the stranger's body convulsed, stretching into something monstrous. Enormous in size, with two glowing, bloody-red eyes. The monster spoke, voice abysmally deep, the words muddled together like some strange, old tongue. It held a knife in its hand, coming for Wilbur. Terrified, he stumbled and fell onto his back. While attempting to scramble away, he found himself pinned in place. He called for help, but someone or something covered his mouth. The monster took Wilbur by the collar and ripped his clothes open. It yanked his arm forward, agonizing his shoulder. Then the knife plunged into the back of that shoulder, the left one, where it hurt the most. There the blade carved and twisted until the tears seeped down Wilbur's face.
I don't want this. Where is the one who rescued me from the fire? Where are those dark wings I trusted?
There they were–drapes of black feathers on either side of that wonderful, mysterious figure. Was it the same person? Regardless, Wilbur ran for the figure's open arms. They shared a blissful embrace...until Wilbur noticed the blood dripping between them. And the blade protruding from his own back.
"Why..." Wilbur rasped, "why would you...?"
You'd never do such a thing. Neither would they. My people.
He could see their faces. Tommy, Tubbo, Fundy, and Niki, in his bright and beautiful land. His loyal subjects, those who had called him their president, their friend, shooting him full of arrows. And when that wasn't enough, they dragged his body away, into a lightless room. There they clamped down his arms and legs, and waited. The blood-eyed monster was in that room.
"No," Wilbur pleaded.
He saw the knife, the needle, the rest of the tools.
"It's okay, Will," said Tommy, unfeeling.
"No! Give it back! Give me back my city! The one I loved."
The city at night again. And the archer, ready to fire. Except Wilbur was the archer this time, poised upon the peak of a distant cliff. From here he could see all the people within the walls, celebrating their president with streamers and sparklers. But it wasn't him. Wilbur drew back the string until the flaming arrow singed his bare hand.
He freed the arrow, watched it flare through the night and set his city aflame. The walls, the caravan, the flag–everything in the home he had made was burning. L'Manberg was burning. Then the earth cracked beneath the walls, the inlet's gentle shores disintegrated, and the ocean came to swallow it up. It dragged the city and everything around it down, down. Wilbur went down with them. The choking water rushed red with his own blood like before. He could see his city: drowning, burning, crumbling. The fires blazed brighter, bursting and billowing in a hundred different colors like so many fireworks. And every mouth of its dying citizens:
"It's L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh...
It's L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh...
It's L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh..."
"No, it's not L'Manberg!" he cried.
"It's L'Manberg."
Ashes, always ashes. A grave for everything he treasured. There the crows picked among his mountains of soot.
Wilbur wrenched himself upright. At once, his abdominal muscles constricted, forcing him back down. He could still feel the monster's knife grating through his flesh, but the pain now dulled. His mind cleared, his breathing heaved, but he was awake. The dreams would not return until the next time he closed his eyes.
Dreams. They're all just dreams.
The burning city. The new president. His citizens shooting him. It wasn't real.
I'm safe within L'Manberg's walls.
"He was born in a castle once…"
An unlit lantern dangled from a rusty chain above his head, so close, it felt like it was between his eyes. Only a couple faint lights playing just outside whatever chamber he occupied restrained sheer darkness from consuming him. He was alone–that much he could tell, lying on a pile of ruffled fabric spread on the ground, a second pile spread on top of him. Besides that, his frail body was clothed in little more than a dozen layers of suffocating gauze.
It was just a dream…no?
"While crows sang him a lullaby…"
His fingers clawed at his chest.
Where's my necklace?
"Brilliant! You're back!" a voice screeched and reverberated from another room. A voice he knew too well. Tommy. It carried on in its childlike, singsong manner: "Look'it wot I've done! I cleaned out the furnace, also filled the buckets with water. And I've gathered these lanterns to brigh'en the place up a bit!"
Wilbur couldn't make out the reply. Just the complacent, deep male voice, which carried a decidedly American accent. What's an American doing here? What is this place?
"Aye," came Tommy again. "I checked in on 'im. Still sleeping, but the dressings look nice and white as of yet. You want to 'ave a look?"
Footsteps neared, echoing as they would in a cavern. Wilbur couldn't sit up, but eyed the entrance for the first person to step in. His face betrayed his fear as the monster from his nightmares strode into the room. Massive, shadowcast, two points of glowing red. Wilbur jerked backwards, aggravating every tissue in his body. No. It was supposed to be a dream.
It still hurts…
The monster kept coming, coming to torment Wilbur like it had so often before. And Wilbur couldn't get away. The pain. The weakness trembling up and down his arms. "You won't touch me," he seethed. "You will not touch me again, beast!"
The monster stopped in front of him. Then its fingers glided up to the helmet it wore and unfastened the straps, lifted it from its head. Pink hair cascaded out of the helmet, instantly catching the dim light and making it glow like a halo around the head of the monster. Not monster–man. Maybe. "I'm pretty sure he's awake now," said the monster-man in the American-accented voice.
Tommy came scurrying from around the corner engulfed in some sort of oversized tunic, a matchstick wobbling between his fingers. He poked this in the lantern, making it dance like a pendulum before illuminating the cave-like room and its inhabitants.
Wilbur couldn't breathe. He did not know if he was more terrified now or before. So the man wasn't a monster, but that didn't mean he looked human. Not with that tall, statuesque frame, adorned with spikes of netherite armor and a crimson cloak pouring down his back. Not with that uncommonly beautiful face–white, hardly a mark or blemish besides the prominent scar slicing across the bridge of his nose. His long, slanted eyes didn't glow anymore, but the irises remained the most striking of reds. The expression within them reflected that of casual indifference. Each of his ears tapered into a long point, adorned with chains and rings.
"You're all right, Will!" Tommy proclaimed, almost flinging himself onto the makeshift bed. Wilbur, trying not to gag on the ripe scent of Tommy, noticed the band-aid on his right cheek. "I almost thought–I almost thought you wouldn't make it. I thought neither of us would, but not even banishment can stop us!"
Banished. It was not a dream. We lost L'Manberg. To "Captain" J. Schlatt. To the Americans.
"I'm so 'appy you're back! And look who I found! Now we've got a shot at taking back L'Manberg!" When Wilbur still failed to respond, Tommy gave him a nudge. "Will, it's the legendary Technoblade!"
"Tech–" Wilbur finally found the energy to spit it out: "TECHNOBLADE IS A BLOODY AMERICAN?"
"Surprise," Technoblade droned, looking only slightly irritated. He advanced despite Wilbur's fretting, extending a bejeweled hand. "Let's see if the fever's broke."
"Don't touch me, fiend!" Wilbur slapped the hand away, immediately clutching his injured shoulder as a burst of pain darted through it.
"Bruh. You gotta chill. Seriously. I'm only dangerous to oppressors and, uh, orphans."
"Why orphans?" asked Tommy. "Aren't they oppressed?" He gestured at Wilbur. " 'E's an orphan."
Technoblade blinked down at Wilbur, who glared up at Tommy.
"My parents were brutally murdered by orphans. Since that day, I have sworn vengeance upon all orphans." The monster's voice rang louder. "I'm the second-worst thing to happen to orphans."
"Wot's the first-worst thing?" asked Tommy, so absorbed in Technoblade's stupid story, he seemed to have forgotten all about Wilbur.
"Tommy," said Technoblade in a soft voice, "they weren't always orphans."
Tommy frowned, then gasped. "OH." The child said no more, but vibrated in spooked silence.
"Here." Technoblade knelt beside Wilbur, put down his helmet, and picked up a suspicious-smelling mug from beside Wilbur's bed. "I need you to drink this."
After all that? "I'm not doing anything you want."
"If you don't take it, I'm gonna have to make you drink it."
"What, you're going to shackle me to the floor and force poison down my throat?" Wilbur tried to laugh, successfully producing a hoarse hacking noise instead.
Technoblade didn't argue. Rather, those long ears of his perked at the idea.
"Please drink it, Will!" whined the child. "It's just tea–some nice, spiked tea that'll make you feel bet'er!"
Wilbur snapped to Tommy. "You want to make me feel better? Let me tell you what, Tommy. March back to L'Manberg and kill everyone there! Slaughter them! I don't care. That would make me feel so much better."
Everyone who shot at me, who ripped everything away from me, rip them into a hundred pieces.
Technoblade caught Tommy's attention, and made a vague gesture in Wilbur's direction. The child bubbled a couple unintelligible protests before he crouched next to the bed. "Will…"
Wilbur glared at Tommy's hands hovering over him, and he knew what the child was about to do. He scrunched the bedcovers around himself. "Tommy, don't you dare–"
But the child had already pinned him captive, his knees securing Wilbur's left arm while his hands held Wilbur's other arm fast, as well as his head. The reek of the child just about knocked him senseless, but still, Wilbur struggled. Any movement he made caused his injuries to scream at him, though. So he screamed instead: "Get off of me!"
"You don't understand, 'e's 'ere to 'elp you! 'E removed the arrow'ead in your shoulder, cleaned out the 'oles in your side, all so you'd live, Wilbur!"
Technoblade came forward with the spiked tea. "Revolution waits for no man, Wilbur. Not even you." Then he grabbed Wilbur's jaw, forced it open, and it was like one of the nightmares all over again. Dark room. Blood eyes. No way out. The liquid flooded into Wilbur's mouth, startlingly cold, stinking like rotten eggs, and he thought he just might drown from it. Moments later, his assailants released him, and now stood back to watch him cough and sputter and try not to cry.
What are my citizens doing while I suffer? Do they rejoice or do they weep? Have they all forgotten about me?
Sensations like tiny firecrackers tingled throughout his body, concentrated on his injuries, threatening to turn them inside-out. His mind contorted like dough beneath a baker's kneading. He was lying down, now he was sitting up, stooped over, drooling over everything. The world reeled before his eyes, so vibrant, so nauseatingly colorful.
"Oh no, 'e's not gonna be sick, is 'e?" came the child. "Should you 'ave diluted it more?"
You have turned on me after all, Tommy. Not a single loyal citizen left.
"Will…Will. Do you feel better now? Would you like some supper?"
Wilbur raised his tremulous gaze. He ignored the blabbing child and snarled at the splash of brilliant pink, red, and violet that was supposedly Technoblade. "Get out of my sight, you Hadean spawn."
"That's a new one," the splash of color mused.
Tommy drew the monster aside, oblivious that Wilbur could hear their every whisper. "Techno, the thing is–Wilbur's a lit'le sensitive right now. All the Americans have turned on him."
Not just the Americans. My very own citizens. After everything I'd done for them. And everything I said I'd do.
"Very understandable," said Technoblade.
"And I 'ate to break it to you, but you are quite American, Technoblade."
"That is true. As much as I'd like to be Greek, here we are."
"I want you on our side, Techno. Wilbur's not with you yet, but I am. I know 'ow strong you are. I've 'eard the stories."
"Sooner or later he's got to come through. Or we'll be spendin' more time on this revolution than the real one."
The revolution. The revolution to reclaim L'Manberg.
"This is pogchamp! Tommy Innit and Technoblade teaming up for the first time!"
Wilbur tried laying down again, as restless as his brain felt, clawing at the lining of his skull and threatening to crawl out his ears. Tommy and Technoblade's voices melded into the background as his own thoughts swam to the surface.
L'Manberg. My L'Manberg. It's still mine, isn't it? I made it. We already had our revolution. We signed the documents–our Declarations of Independence.
"...the nation which shall be henceforth known as L'Manberg is separate, emancipated, and independent from the nation of the Dream Team SMP."
What are the people back there thinking? What do they think we fought for? This is not what the people want. They want me. They've always loved me.
"The right of the people exists above…the right of the government."
Yet I elected myself. So when they had the chance–when I gave them the chance–they voted me out for Schlatt. The people wanted this? My citizens wanted this drunkard as their president instead of Wilbur Soot? Nihachu wanted this?
"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of victory."
No, no, it was the coalition of SWAG 2020 and Schlatt 2020 that gave them victory. POG 2020 got the popular vote. They want me. They're waiting for me.
They chased me out with burning arrows.
When his mind at last somewhat cleared, he found that the child and his monster had left him to himself, buried under the rumpled sheets. He couldn't stay here. So he shoved the covers aside, accidentally tipping over a cup of water next to his bed. The water penetrated through the sheets and onto his skin; for the first time, Wilbur realized how numbingly cold it was in the room. He ventured standing up. By now, his vision had returned to almost normal, as normal as his plight in this cold, cramped cave could be. At least he didn't feel like regurgitating the spiked tea now.
Not spiked tea. Potion-infused tea. They're using some kind of healing potions to accelerate my recovery.
A clothesline stretched parallel to one wall, upon which hung the washed remains of Wilbur's clothes, betraying multiple glaring stains. After the agonizing process of putting on his trousers and yanking his boots over his threadbare socks, Wilbur decided against going for the shirt. Not that there was much left of it to cover him anyway. A corduroy trench coat Wilbur didn't recognize hung beside the other articles of clothing. He draped it over his bandaged shoulders. It was warm, and fit him uncannily well, the hem falling past his knees. Only once he'd put this on did he notice the length of shredded black and blue fabric dangling on the far end of the clothesline. He approached it, reached for the ripped edges, scorch marks, and bloodstains.
I'm not the president anymore. They didn't want me.
He reached up to the middle of his chest, then remembered he still didn't have his necklace.
Tommy materialized in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere, his stench already clouding the room. "Are you ready for supper, Will?"
He wanted to say no, but the hole in his stomach was louder. "Didn't you already ask me that?" He rubbed his eyes. "What did I say…"
"That was yesterday, Will," Tommy said in a small, gentle voice.
"Yesterday? That was less than an hour ago!"
Tommy walked to the bedside and stooped to pick up the cup on the floor. Then he came up to Wilbur and patted his arm. "I think you're still a little swammy. It's all right. I can bring you something."
Wilbur brushed his hand away, wishing he had his hand sanitizer with him. "Where's my necklace, Tommy?"
The boy dug into a pocket of the tunic and held out his hand. " 'Ere it is. Though you'd be more comfortable without it."
Wilbur hooked it behind his neck. "Did you make supper?"
"No, Technoblade did."
"Never mind."
"You need to eat, Will! You refused to 'ave breakfast, you didn't even–"
"I'm not eating anything any American has made." Wilbur sat down on the blankets and glared at Tommy. "What if he poisoned it?"
"I've been eating 'is food for the past two days. An' wot do we 'ave to lose? I'll bring you something." The child ran out of the cave, popping back once to say, "If you're tired of the bucket, the loo is next door!"
Wilbur glared at the ceiling, glared at the walls. Yesterday. Ridiculous. It's only been an hour, during which nothing has happened. It's like time is not real anymore.
The earth trembled. A very low, deep sound clawed below the musty air, somewhere above him–or maybe all around him–faraway, but pricking holes in his skin. It ceased after a short while, and Wilbur wondered if he'd imagined it as well.
He sat very still. It felt ridiculous–how could anything be real at this point?–but he wondered, and could not remove the thought from his head…even when Tommy came in with a bowl of some horrible overly-seasoned American dish, Wilbur hardly noticed or complained, but still turned the thought over and over in his mind, unable to let it go, though it rather made him want to march up to Dream and ask him where he had acquired his TNT so he could do away with everything under the sun–
Is that the sound of a nation dying?
There was the child again, a mug held apologetically in his hands. He silently passed it to Wilbur, but didn't leave. Not until Wilbur finished every drop of the "spiked" tea. It stung to drink, not to mention there was too much of it, but Wilbur would not let Technoblade humiliate him again by forcing it down his throat. So Wilbur behaved, for now.
Tommy still sat beside him, even after Wilbur finished the mug. Wilbur covered his nose. "When was the last time you bathed?" he asked.
Tommy grinned. "Oh, I 'aven't bathed since the election. I've been discovering the wonders of mud."
The spiked tea rose to Wilbur's throat and forced it back down. Tommy lapsed into silence, and Wilbur got ready to ask the child to leave, when Tommy whispered, "Do you want to talk about it, Will? The election, the–"
"I've already talked about it! And I hate it! If I had a choice, I wouldn't–" Wilbur's mind curdled from his outburst, and he swayed for a moment, collecting himself in the world of spiraling color. He eased himself down so he lay flat upon the bedding, faintly trembling.
"No, not that." For once, Tommy was the composed one and Wilbur the loud and irritable. "We've been through a lot in the past couple days. I thought it would be good if we discussed it together."
Does he have a reason for bringing this up now? Maybe he thinks I'll be more willing to talk after downing that drugged tea. No, I don't want to talk about it. I want to have nothing to do with L'Manberg and the faithless citizens there. Wilbur frowned, tried to look as obstinate as possible, but could not bring himself to vocally turn down the boy's request.
"It's quite shocking, really," Tommy continued. "We 'ad L'Manberg, we 'ad it for so long, and now…it's not ours anymore. It's been very 'ard for all of us, for myself, but I know it must 'ave 'it 'ardest for you, Wilbur." Wilbur's frown rigidified. He would not let himself be moved. "I'm just 'appy you're finally awake and able to stand. It's been dreadful, watching you 'urting, saying strange things. I know you've always 'ad night terrors, but these 'ave been different." Tommy leaned over Wilbur, and Wilbur could vaguely make out the outline of the child's face in the distorted void. "Please, Will. I know you can never keep anything to yourself!"
"What do you want from me?" Wilbur hissed in a hoarse voice.
Tommy reached over with the corner of his tunic and cleaned off the drool from around Wilbur's mouth. "You can talk about the dreams to me. I will 'ear you."
"No."
"I'll stay right 'ere. I won't interrupt. I promise."
"No." Wilbur pinched his eyes shut and waited for Tommy to forfeit and leave. He counted to fifty, or sixty–he lost track along the way–and when he reached the end, he stole a glance out of one eye. Tommy still sat neatly beside him: a blond head atop a shapeless mass of the tunic enveloping him. He didn't move, and Wilbur could almost see the wise little child's face, fervently waiting for Wilbur to begin. Wilbur shuddered a sigh, stared at the ceiling. "There's a city. And it's on fire."
"Wot city is it?" whispered Tommy, harmless enough, despite his saying he wouldn't interrupt.
"I think…I think it was L'Manberg."
Pause.
" 'EY, L'Manberg's a city!" There was the loud idiot child Wilbur knew so well.
"No!" Wilbur winced, ears ready to bleed. "It was in the dream!" They're all just dreams.
"Still, that's pret'y pog! A city!"
"Tommy, didn't you say you wouldn't interrupt?"
"Oh no, I'm sorry! I'll be mum! Go on, go on. Hush, Tommy Innit."
"Okay." The last screeching echoes subsided, and Wilbur dove back into the caverns of his mind. He touched the feather charm of his necklace. "I haven't told anyone else about this. Something that recurs in these dreams of mine is, well, there's someone with wings. The wings of a bird. And these–"
"Quacki'y?"
"What?"
"Quacki'y."
"I'm talking about my dream. Why are you bringing up that sellout?"
"You said there was someone with wings, and Big Q's the only fella with those in these parts." Tommy's voice lowered. "Maybe the 'ole world."
"No, no." Wilbur buried his face in a blanket, mildly wanting to smother the child. "It's not him. I hadn't even thought of him before. Listen Tommy, I've been having these dreams long before he entered the stage. Anyway, do you want me to continue or not?"
Tommy nodded rapidly, a flurry of yellowy-white.
Wilbur resumed, blocking out images of uncultured duck-bois. "Okay, so I'm with the winged someone. They take me in their arms like an embrace, and next thing I know, we're flying. I'm holding on, we're trying to escape the burning city, and then–why are you laughing, Tommy?"
Tommy, his hand squished against his face, couldn't stifle the giggles hiccuping through his body. "Pardon–" he wheezed, edging on tears. "I couldn't stop seeing it."
"Why? What did I say that was so funny?"
"Big Q trying to carry you!" Tommy exploded into laughter, which turned to coughing, which turned to the child wallowing and hacking over the floor.
"This is ridiculous," Wilbur muttered, refusing to share in the tasteless humor. "Why did I ever agree to telling you this? That's all you'll get from me. You can take your callow mind of yours and leave me be."
The child eventually left him in a degree of peace and solitude–though his echoing whoops took much longer. Only then could Wilbur consider the option of sleeping.
If there was such a thing as sleep. The potion kept him alert, and while it worked on mending his injuries, it couldn't mask all the pain, especially when his muscles involuntarily seized. These outbursts, more numerous now than before, left him stone-still. He dared not so much as breathe, terrified that the slightest movement would provoke a second round of these spells.
His mind could not rest either–there, where the pain writhed like a worm lodged in his head. There the city burned brighter than ever. He sat upon a neighboring green hill, staring at its flaming apparition, all the while not feeling sadness or horror, but a haunting serenity. Come sundown, he wandered along the base of the walls, molten rubble pouring around him, but never striking him nor running out. He strayed down the slope of the ravine to the river, red and orange flickering in its currents like fish riding the wavelets. Wilbur knelt upon the bank, took a handful of the water, and raised it to his lips to drink. It streamed down his chin, soaking into his clothes until they turned red as well. Until he washed away with everything else. Then he awoke with an agonizing lurch, though he'd been awake the whole time.
"And the king and queen gave him the words
On that night of stormy skies…"
Surely it was morning by now. Surely Tommy would come jaunting through the door with breakfast. He stared at the cave opening, as if willing the child to appear by his gaze alone. No sense of time whatsoever in that underworld–but he was restless and peckish and did not want to miss half the day again. He finally forced himself up and off his bed, and left the cave.
At first, all was black like his chamber, yellow stains of light dispersed here and there. The stains focused into many lanterns noosed upon chains, and the more he looked, the more there were, defining the ancient cavern walls. Wilbur took a step out, and realized he stood on a ledge. He peered over where it dropped off, and his next heartbeat shuddered through his bones. The floor fell, maybe ten meters, probably more–Wilbur couldn't see the bottom. Bridges, comprised from wood or rock, crisscrossed the chasm; ledges and boardwalks snaked along the walls, entering recesses like his own room. On either side of him, tunnels wound away until the darkness swallowed up the last light.
Wilbur gaped at the marvel of it all, when Tommy came sweeping out from a round hole to his left, a cloud of unwashed skin hovering around him. "Will! You're up!"
Wilbur shook his head, but it did little to clear his mind. "How did–how did you find this place?"
"Sp'lunking!" the child bubbled. "Techno taught me 'ow to speh-lunk! Do you like? 'E says it's a mine shaft from the days of yore. We just 'ad to fix up a few things and then we moved in like it was 'ome. There's still lots of work to be done, though."
Home. These cold caves, deep underground. Home. He shivered and tucked his hands in his pockets.
The child looked like he was barely keeping himself from throwing his arms around Wilbur. "Will, I'm–I'm so, so 'appy you're okay."
Wilbur scoffed, pulling his gaze away from the complex. "You think I'm okay? You think I can be okay while Americans and swindlers are ravaging the nation I built, discarding everything it stands for?" He couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice as it rang louder, rattling down the chasm. "You think I'm okay while we're hiding away in this hole with nothing to do?"
I want to destroy them. Grind them to dust and forget they ever existed. Yes, I want to forget L'Manberg. But it must still be mine.
"I know, Wilbur! This is all very terrible!"
"I am going to make Schlatt pay for this. Oh, I am going to make him pay–"
"Not now," said Tommy, all solemnity. "Right now, you're staying in this 'ere cave, swad'led like a tot. You know bet'er than I that there will come a time. But that time's not now. The time will come eventually, and then we can take back L'Manberg."
"Did someone say rebellion?" Technoblade popped out from around a corner further ahead. "Should I break out my legendary armor crafted from enchanted orphans?" Wilbur hadn't thought that terrifying legends could be annoying.
Can we take it back? No, forget it happened.
But it's mine. They took it from me and will suffer for it.
No. This is what the people wanted. I called the election, like Tommy said, I paved the way for democracy, so I must let it take its course. If I try to go against it, I'm just making myself into a villain.
It's hard to forget a symphony, though.
Wilbur felt well enough to join the others for breakfast, though his brain still felt like a concrete mixer and every limb ached and dragged at his bones. They huddled around the fire pit in the main cavern a couple levels down to partake of another of Technoblade's concoctions. Wilbur still doubted the legend's credibility as a chef–or as a fellow associate, but hunger still held the whip. He missed Fundy's cooking, and vaguely regretted anything cruel he might have said to the Dutch fox-boy. Had he ever been cruel? He couldn't remember.
"He grew up within those gates,
Learned how to sing and play…"
Don't remember. Forget everything.
Technoblade dished up a soggy meaty mess from the pot over the fire and slathered it over slabs of petrified bread. Tommy's smell masked whatever aroma the food gave off.
"After breakfast," said Wilbur, glaring down at Tommy, "you are taking a bath."
"But Wiiiill, me mud–!"
"You know," Technoblade cut in, passing a plate to Wilbur, "you remind me of someone."
Wilbur glanced at Tommy, then back at Technoblade, and realized the legend had directed this comment at him.
"Oh–oh."
Technoblade served up another plate. "Yeah. Good friend of mine from years back. Haven't seen him in like, uh, how long has it been? Anyways, how old are you?"
Wilbur scowled at him, set the food aside. "Why do you care?"
"Come on, man. I'm just tryin' to get to know you."
"I am not sure what to do with you, Technoblade," said Wilbur, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. "This feels like a setup. I can't trust Americans." Not that Technoblade looked very American. No longer concealed beneath his netherite armor, the unbelievably tall, pink-haired man now wore a ruffled Victorian shirt, black breeches, and laced boots, brash jewelry strung over everything. A low ponytail constrained his overabundant locks. Fancy as Technoblade was, Wilbur was still not entirely sure he believed that this was the great legend he'd heard so much about. But who else could he be? Who else but Technoblade was as tall as the mountains, had hair like the dawn, and eyes like a wild boar's? None of the stories had ever mentioned him being American. Wilbur let out an exasperated sigh. "Are you even aware of what we've been through?"
Technoblade shrugged, dished up some more of the culinary mess for Tommy. "Any war crimes you've committed, I don't know about, so no judgment."
He doesn't know. Why is he here? Why does he care? If not even Nihachu or Tubbo cares, then why should he? "We created a nation, Technoblade, because the Americans wouldn't let us sell potions. So we made our own nation, one without Americans."
Technoblade nodded. "Fair. That's how most countries are founded." Then he shook his head. "Not the potions part." He gave Tommy his share. The child bore down on the food. "But the, the makin' your own nation part. Usually someone is mad at someone else, so they split."
Wilbur couldn't tell if Technoblade was mocking him or not.
"And we will take back that nation," whispered the adjacent Tommy, firelight painting his young, earnest face.
Technoblade reached into his trouser pocket and extracted what looked like a potion vial. Wilbur stiffened. Technoblade grinned at him, then popped the cork off and took a swig from the vial as if it were water.
"We're not doing that." Wilbur sat straighter, though it hurt, and directed his attention back on the child. "We're staying right here. This isn't something we can debate. We held this election, and I'm not going to upset democracy just so that I can keep hold of L'Manberg." How painfully the words fell into the air, tearing at the shreds of his dignity. He forced himself to go on. "This is what the people want, so we will give them just that. The best thing we can do now is forget."
I called the election. I set my own city on fire.
He rubbed the feather charm.
Tommy stared at him, eyes wide, mouth stained with brown juice tucked into a confused little pucker. "Wilbur, I want to go back. I thought you wanted to go back. And not for me, but–because of what you said. For the people." Tommy looked strangely sincere, his face leveled into something almost–almost–adultish. Rather like how he had been acting recently. It would have been more convincing had he cleaned off his face. Or cleaned any of himself. Technoblade, who had been listening menacingly, suddenly stood with his breakfast and potion and departed down the passage without a word.
Wilbur watched him go for a moment, then turned back to Tommy. Raindrops of burning ash fell around them. "What do you mean, for the people?"
The adultish air vanished with an exasperated puff. "There's Tubbo, man! I have friends back there!" He paused. "Just Tubbo actually." His voice rose with impatience, eagerness, panic–Wilbur didn't know. "We've got to 'ave a way to go back there without being stabbed. And I don't know what that is, but we eventually need to work out a way to not be exiled."
Wilbur growled. "If you want to march back there, you can do that, Tommy. I refuse. You can go there and bastardize this whole situation if you want. Just stay–"
"Wot does bastardize mean?"
Wilbur continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Just stay alive, Tommy. I am not going to die with you out here."
Tommy nodded. "I'll stay alive."
After breakfast, the three worked on tidying up the hideout. Wilbur knelt upon one of the skinny walkways clinging to the cavern walls, gathering small rocks and debris strewn across the path and depositing them into a small sack. Should we take L'Manberg back? Could we? We have the Blade, who is a better ally than any in wartime, at least, so the stories say. If only he weren't so American.
"I wish we 'ad more people to 'elp us," noted a Clean Tommy just then. "Mining all this rock is 'ard work." He dashed his pick into the wall beside Wilbur, though Wilbur couldn't tell what he was trying to do beyond digging a hole in the rock.
"Mmmm," Technoblade rumbled in agreement. He worked on widening the entrance to the cave further up the path which served as the stables. As of yet, Technoblade's horse, Carl, was its sole tenant.
"We could get a slave," the child offered.
"Mmmm," said Technoblade, a little higher than before.
"No, we don't need anyone else," Wilbur said, in spite of his previous thoughts. "Everyone's turned against us." But Tommy may have had a point earlier. It would be nice to have Tubbo. Tubbo…always a hard worker, and a good lad, if somewhat daft. Is he working from the inside to bring Schlatt down, as he ought to? Or is he going along with him like everyone else? Wilbur shook his head. He flung the sack of slag over his right shoulder, and started up the walkway.
"What we need are child rails," said Technoblade, eyeing Tommy as he scooted along the rocky ledge with his pick.
Wilbur tightened. "We're not children. I'm–I'm twenty-five, Technoblade."
"All orphans are children," said Technoblade in a tone that repelled any further discussion. "And what about the actual children?" He motioned to Tommy.
Tommy growled. "I'm sixteen, I'm not a child. I even shaved this morning–with a knife! That's more than you can say, Techno, seeing 'ow you don't 'ave a speck of–"
At that moment, Wilbur slipped and fluttered over the ledge into the canyon, and that inevitably would have been his demise, except he plopped into the hot springs far below, promptly bobbing to the surface without so much as touching the bottom. His sack of slag ceased to exist. Tommy let loose with a torrent of laughter. Wilbur glared up at him, partially on account of his seething shoulder and side. He squelched out of the uncomfortably warm water onto the craggy bank. That was the closest thing he'd gotten to a bath in the past couple days, seeing how rubbing damp rags over his skin hardly corresponded with the description and satisfaction of a real bath.
Children. Orphans. Railings. Technoblade. Rebellion. What is this really about, anyway? Why are we doing this? L'Manberg is gone. But Nihachu is still there. Would she want me to give up? Do I really want to give up?
She stood at the battlements, staring into the wilderness, waiting for him. If only Wilbur could reach out and touch her fingertips, clasp her hand in his, and dance with her upon their country's walls. How long could they dance before the music ended and it all burned away? Would she burn with him? Why hadn't she.
Wilbur wiped his cheek, thinking it was a tear, but it turned out to be a drop of water, a souvenir from his dip in the springs. He shivered. I can't let go. Whatever made me think I could forget?
Wilbur trudged up a rock-hewn staircase, clutching his soaked coat around himself. As he came up, he saw Technoblade making piles of dirt along the bottom of the ledge leading up to the entrance high above them. Tommy stood nearby–not helping, but grinding some of the dirt into his face before he realized Wilbur was staring at him. Wilbur wasn't thinking about the child, though. Is Technoblade really here to help us? Does he really want to take L'Manberg back? Why? What stakes does he have in this endeavor? When was the last time he laundered his royal robe?
A little before what must've been noon, Wilbur performed the torturous process of changing his soaked bandages. Tommy offered to help, or fetch Technoblade to help, but Wilbur curtly refused any assistance. Wilbur noted, somewhat vaguely, how much his wounds had mended in so little time. It must have been the potion-teas. Feeling a little more refreshed than before, Wilbur found Technoblade in an out-of-the-way cave off the main cavern. Wilbur stood in the entrance, staring–for lo and behold, what had to be several lifetime-supplies of potatoes in wooden crates lay stacked in neat rows, filling every available space. Wilbur stared, trying to comprehend. "Is this what you've been up to, Technoblade?"
Technoblade shoved a crate into place. "There's more." He showed him where a little path wound through the crates, revealing even more spuds.
Rational thought dissipated as Wilbur's mind basked in potatoes roasted with goose fat. Where did all these come from? Wilbur glanced at his compatriot, who was companionably stroking a golden russet poking through a hole in a crate above him. Wilbur might have thought the man was insane if he hadn't been pushing two meters, looked like some ripped hero from one of those hazy, improbably-lit Renaissance paintings, that waterfall of silky pink lemonade-colored hair giving him a perpetual rosy glow. "Okay, how long have you spent here?"
Technoblade thought. "Uh, I haven't slept. Can't sleep until the government is overthrown, you know." He took out his potion vial again and downed the contents.
Wilbur's head hurt, and not just from what sounded like Tommy having a dance fight with a jackhammer over their heads. "Wait–you haven't slept since–since–when did you get these?"
"A little after lunch, yesterday. I've just been here, except, of course, when I haven't."
Wilbur blinked up at the mountains of spuds towering them. "That's like–twenty-four hours, Technoblade."
Technoblade shrugged, causing his long earrings to waver and twinkle. "Revolution waits for no man."
If we could win back our country with potatoes alone, L'Manberg would be ours in no time.
Wilbur wondered how far his own revolutionary fervor would take him. Farther than getting expelled from the very country he fought to free? Maybe Technoblade wasn't as crazy as he seemed. "I respect that." He hesitated, squared himself in front of the taller man, instantly feeling silly. Once, he had towered over the heads of his comrades. Now he knew what it felt like. "Technoblade, why are you helping us? Why are you doing all this?"
"I like violence." Technoblade smiled. "The voices in my head kind of like it." Wilbur nodded like he knew what Technoblade was talking about. "I like gettin' rid of oppressive governments. I like anarchy. This seems like a prime opportunity for all three. What, do you not want my help?"
Anarchy, he says. American or no, he's clearly not like Schlatt. "No, no…I'd…I don't know. I need to think about it."
"Well, like I said, revolution waits for no man. Better make up your mind before it leaves you behind."
Like everyone else left me. Wilbur nodded, only half-listening. "Can we eat all of these potatoes before they rot?"
"Oh, I imagine so. Especially with that kid."
"True, true."
Memories of eating nothing but stamppot for weeks on end resurfaced in Wilbur's brain, but he shook them away. They would have to do what they could to survive. Even if that meant reenacting Ireland in the 1800s. Hopefully they wouldn't end up the same way those poor souls had.
No, they would live. They would prosper. Wilbur could see himself marching back through L'Manberg's walls, an army at his back, all to reclaim his children. He'd save them from the fire, the strife, and their own foolhardy ways. They'd run back into his arms, never to leave or chase him out again. No, because he was their father. He was their president. He was L'Manberg. As long as Wilbur Soot lived and breathed and cared for his children, the city would never burn. He touched the feather charm.
"His parents sang that sweet, old song,
That he might not go astray."
And Wilbur found himself smiling at Technoblade. The legend smiled back at him, not in a condescending or patronizing way, but as one man to another. As comrades.
We will make it through this. And in the end, we'll finally come home.
I know this chapter is a lot different from the other ones, but I hope it's not too depressing! Please enjoy!
God bless,
Unicadia and VAERYS
