When Wilbur awoke the following morning, visions of storming into L'Manberg and casting Schlatt off his admittedly impressive throne into the inlet marched through his brain. Yes, Schlatt might have been democratically-elected, but he wasn't even supposed to have been in the running! Who cared if he had won fairly? L'Manberg is mine! Schlatt has no right. I am not the villain–Schlatt is. Technoblade is right. The people are oppressed under his rule. They are wishing I would come and free them. And free them I shall!

"You know I love you dearly the more I'm going away…"

Wilbur assumed his trench coat over his bandaged body and rushed out into the main cavern, not bothering with the suspicious plate of American breakfast Tommy had left by the side of his bed. Wilbur then realized he'd slept remarkably well for the first time in days–or had it been weeks? His injuries felt fantastic–on account of Technoblade's potion-tea, whether he liked it or not. Where was Technoblade anyway? He popped in and out of several caves before he discovered the legend in the canyon, soaking potatoes in one of the hot springs.

"Techno."

"Hmm?"

Wilbur sifted through his thoughts. "If…if I were to let you join my side, would you–train us to fight back?"

Still focused on the potatoes: "Yes. I would do that."

Elation filled Wilbur's chest. He felt ready to do something, something worthwhile. Maybe the child had been right. Maybe he did embody the spirit of L'Manberg, and without it, he was nothing. Why waste time here in these miserable caves? L'Manberg needed him.

His chest warmed.

Nihachu needs me.

"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,

When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen…"

A short ways up the bank, Wilbur found Tommy rinsing the breakfast dishes in the water. Wilbur presumed Technoblade had instructed him to do so, yet that didn't explain the child's unwontedly tranquil disposition while performing his least favorite chore.

"Tommy," he called to him, coming over, "we need to construct a barracks, or a training facility. And then I want us to practice. Tommy Innit, we need to take back L'Manberg."

"That's grand!" A smile sprawled across the child's face. "We'll be our own figh'ing force! Oh, what will we call ourselves? Wilbur, we need a name and we need to decide it now."

Wilbur did not feel as convicted as Tommy, but he obliged the boy. "How about 'the Underground District'?" He sat down beside him.

Tommy groaned. "No, no, no, we've got 'ave a good ring to it, you know? It's got to be short, snappy, loveable."

Wilbur picked up one of the bowls Tommy finished and inspected its smooth interior. "I like the Underground District…"

"But we came up with L'Manberg, which is the awesomest name in the world. 'Ow about 'Man Cave'?"

"Bruhhhh," Technoblade warbled from further down.

Encouraged by Tommy, Wilbur tried again. "The Raviners."

Tommy scrubbed at a fork with his tatter of a dishrag. "The Cobblestone Cowboys."

Technoblade stood up, catching Wilbur's attention. "If that's our name, I'm changin' sides, just sayin'. My standards are low but not that low."

Tommy ignored him, his eyes bright with sudden inspiration. "I know what we can call our new nation! It's actually what I had wanted to call L'Manberg in the first place."

Wilbur turned on him with a burning look. "We will NOT be called TWEFT. Or, I suppose that would be TWT now–"

"No, no, no, Wilbur! We will be Pogtopia. You 'ear that? Pogtopia! POG 2020 will never be defea'ed!"

Pogtopia. Us, the Dirty Crime Boys. "I like Pogtopia."

"Yeah!" Tommy rejoiced and hopped to his feet. "You like it, Technoblade?"

Technoblade returned to his potatoes. "It functions as a name."

This satisfied Tommy, who spread his arms wide, the lantern light making a blinding half-moon of his brace-strapped teeth. "Welcome to Pogtopia, everyone."

Later that afternoon, while Technoblade patrolled and Tommy kept himself out of trouble, Wilbur finished mapping out Pogtopia and scouting out possible locations for their training area. He had found a large cave with a sunken, but fairly flat floor which he thought would work nicely. As he returned to the main cavern, the rocks reverberated again, not with the harrowing rumbles from before, but the high-pitched squeaking of what could only belong to a bee boi.

Tubbo!

Wilbur scaled the precarious ledge to the topmost level, then headed down the tunnel to the entrance at the surface.

A combination of wrath, revulsion, and relief surged within Wilbur at the sight of his comrade–or former comrade–Tubbo. Besides a couple of clingy twigs, his blond hair was brushed and gelled. A long, stuffed knapsack dragged off one shoulder. He wore the white dress shirt from his L'Manberg uniform, except it had been washed and pressed. He also sported a prim green necktie, by which Technoblade held the boy at his mercy. Tubbo, blindfolded and kneeling at the feet of the legend, could not get much smaller or shakier.

"Tubbo," said Wilbur, "is that you?"

Tubbo whimpered in reply.

Then Tommy came swaggering up from behind Wilbur, his tone making it apparent he hadn't heard the ruckus. "Good, you're back, Techno. So, I've finished peeling the first batch. These spuds are awfully–" Then his eyes locked upon Tubbo. "Toob?"

Tubbo started at his voice. "Tommy! Is that you?" he trembled. "You-you-you found–Te-Tech-Tech–"

"Well, it was more like I found him," said Technoblade, letting go of the boy and watching him melt into the floor. "Ordinarily I would've done away with him, but he mentioned being an ally of yours, so I brought him over. I can kill him now if you wish."

"No!" cried Tommy. He sprang to Tubbo's side and went about doing away with the blindfold. "Tubbo! Tubbs! Are you all right?"

Wilbur's mouth tasted bitter. What do you mean, "are you all right?" Of course he's all right; he's the little secretary of state. We're the ones who were banished.

"I'm–I'm–f-fi-ine," Tubbo wheezed, blinking in the low lighting. Technoblade must have realized this seventeen-year-old could hardly inflict any harm upon them, so he strolled down the lighted tunnel to work on some other business–this alone did wonders for Tubbo's nervousness.

After a long enough silence, Tubbo wobbled to his feet and took in Wilbur for the first time. "Wilbur, you're alive!" he exclaimed, now able to form coherent sentences. "You made it through the bunker, that's what you did. I started going after you that evening, the evening of the election, because Schlatt–"

"Don't say his name!" Wilbur flared."It was because he told you to bring him our heads, no?"

Tubbo took a wobbly step back. "Well, not–not for that. It was the perfect opportunity to make sure you were safe, but I didn't go far before I decided to turn back. I didn't want to risk anyone else following me and finding the bunker."

I keep forgetting he's not as dull as he seems. "So what have you been doing since then? Tubbo, do you enjoy working for…Emperor Schlatt?"

Tubbo gave him a nervous smile, but his excited voice belied his true disposition. "Honestly, it's such a great opportunity. An opportunity to see behind the scenes, see how the country operates. I–it's–really something."

I don't want to hear that. "You were also secretary of state back when I was in charge, Tubbo."

"Yeah, yeah, but I get to see a bit more now. It's like my eyes have been opened to this world I've never seen before."

I was protecting you. "Well then, you know a lot about the goings on in L'Manberg, don't you?"

"I do, I do." The excitement in the boy's voice became more reserved.

Wilbur walked up to him, rolled his shoulders back, slid his hands in his pockets, looked down on Tubbo from his height. "Tell me, what's going on?"

Tubbo hopped back and forth on his feet, no doubt restless to still be standing in the entryway, not even having been offered some tea. But Wilbur needed to know where he stood, what he thought of the whole situation. Tubbo began talking, in the way that one would read an essay in grade school. "Well, there's been a lot of plans for construction and the like. Since much more people have been moving into the country, they need flats, so–"

"Tubbo," Wilbur cut in, "do you like Schlatt?"

Tubbo averted his gaze. "Why do you ask this?"

"Tubbo, I want you to give me a straight answer. Do you like Schlatt?"

Tubbo glanced at Tommy, as if anyone else that might be listening, and whispered, "Not really, no, Wilbur."

Really? But it's Tubbo. Tubbo wouldn't lie. And of course he doesn't like Schlatt. No one likes Schlatt. They're playing a game, a ruse. Once I return, they'll come back to me. My Nihachu will run back into my arms.

He let it rest for now. "Do you want some tea, Tubbo?"

They walked down the tunnel until it opened onto the caverns. Tubbo gasped, his little body overcome by nature and sheer human will. "Oh, wow. Is this the headquarters?"

For the first time, Wilbur felt a sense of pride at their accomplishments. Maybe it wasn't as miserable as he thought it to be. "This is Pogtopia. It isn't a nation, as much as Tommy seems to think it is. We're a commune. You know, in the commune, we're all equal. We're comrades in the revolution. In this one. We were kind of French in the last one. This one we're quite Russian, I'd say."

They navigated the treacherous way to the main level, Tommy clutching Tubbo's arm to keep him from falling. The overfilled knapsack swung out over the sheer walls, threatening to throw them both over. A massive dog bounded from around a bend in the cavern hall below and up the narrow path, a mass of gray fur and fluff around a wolfish face. It singled out Tubbo, shoving past the others, almost scattering the lot of them over the edge, and thrust its snout into the boy's hands, great big eyes glowing with adoration. If only my own people had looked at me that way. Wilbur held back from the creature, its licking and snuffling contrary to all his sanitary standards.

"Who's this?" Tubbo laughed, as the giant animal just about bowled him over. Tommy steadied him from behind.

"Apparently the closest thing Tommy and Techno could get to the comfort kitten I requested," Wilbur said dryly. "He's our national dog. L'Mandog."

"L'Dog," Tommy corrected from behind. As if on cue, L'Dog bounded back down and threw himself into the hot springs far below, bouncing to the surface a moment later.

"He can float," Wilbur clarified.

Tubbo looked appreciative. "Oh. That's cool."

"Yes, he's a very cool dog." And with that, Wilbur tripped and joined L'Dog in the hot springs.

Technoblade leaned out of a cave. "I told you, you need the railin's."

Wilbur ignored him, too busy trying to escape the reeking wet dog intent on expressing its devotion upon him in the most dog-like way possible.

"That's it," said Technoblade.

Wilbur, squelching out of the springs, looked up and saw Technoblade stacking stones into a small wall of some sort along the edge of the bridge over the main cavern.

Wilbur shook. "No, Techno!" He ran back up to them, spraying water everywhere. "You don't need to."

"You're gettin' it wet," Technoblade complained.

"I won't fall again," Wilbur said through his teeth.

"I'm just child-proofin' it," retorted Technoblade.

"I'm older than all of you!" cried Wilbur. "I'm literally the eldest here!"

Technoblade did not stop. "Then I'm elder-proofin' it."

Tommy doubled over in a fit of laughter. Tubbo stood by, smiling awkwardly.

Wilbur kicked the stone wall, sending a shower of rocks into the little cold spring below the bridge. "We're not–I'm not a child."

"I might need that," said Tubbo.

"No. No, no, we're good," Wilbur insisted. "Because in the commune, we're all equal. We don't need child-proofing."

Tubbo watched as Wilbur kicked the stones aside. "Oh."

"It's okay. So here, welcome to the commune. Welcome to Pogtopia."

Tubbo backed away from the edge, slipped, tumbled forward, and fell off the bridge and into the now murky spring below.

Wilbur reddened and didn't look at Technoblade. He knelt beside the wall and looked over the edge. "Are you all right, Tubbo?"

"Yeah," said Tubbo, floating on his back and staring up at the black hole of the cave ceiling.

A moment later, Wilbur plummeted into the cold water in a cloud of dust.

Tommy sounded like he was being strangled, and his laughter came out in gasps.

"The railin's," Technoblade called down.

"Maybe–maybe we can put the railings back up eventually," conceded Wilbur in a small voice.

After Wilbur replaced his icy-wet coat with a shroud of blankets over his shoulders, the party moved on to the cave the Pogtopians used as their stockroom. Wilbur had only been there once before, and was now shocked to see not the rag pickings, rusted metal, and frayed wood from before, but a cornucopia of every material an underground commune could hope for, with spare potatoes on the side. Not much in the way of other food, though, unfortunately.

Wilbur gaped at it all, no doubt looking much like Tubbo had earlier. "How much–did you get all this iron, Technoblade? And this leather?"

"Uh…yes. Well, we got sponsored by Popeyes, but beyond that, it was me. Once it's no longer wet outside, I'm hopin' to go enderman-hunting and get us some pearls."

No wonder this man was called a legend. It most certainly wasn't possible to acquire and craft these resources from scratch over the span of so few days, Popeyes or not.

They reentered the main cavern, and Tommy fetched their guest some tea. Technoblade provided potato cookies. They sat around the fire pit, warming their chilled fingers, and Tubbo revealed the items he'd smuggled for the exiles. One by one, he pulled them out of his knapsack: Tommy's favorite clothes, Wilbur's yellow jumper, his red beanie, lighter, and even a couple packs of cigarettes. Not his watch, unfortunately, yet the boy had still saved Wilbur's spectacles, handling them with utmost delicacy. But most precious of all, Tubbo had somehow managed to smuggle the worn guitar out. Wilbur held it close, caressed it like a beloved comfort kitten, and felt some of his anxiety shrink back into the recesses of his tired mind.

Tubbo beamed. "I thought you'd like to have your music back."

Wilbur faced his old secretary of state. "Tubbo. I propose a deal for you."

Tubbo nodded, as if already agreeing to whatever Wilbur would say next. Is this how he had joined Schlatt's ranks?

"Do you remember what made L'Manberg powerful?" Wilbur asked. "It was the people and their resolve. That's where we got our power. Tubbo, you've seen me build a nation, and I'll do it again. We'll work our way back up. Tubbo, I know that you're not stupid." Wilbur dropped his voice, hoping Tommy would understand what he would say next. "When the second revolution comes, Tubbo, I want to not have to kill you."

Tommy gasped. Tubbo stiffened. "Okay."

"Tubbo, look. You see, with Technoblade–I have no doubt that Technoblade is on my side." Yes, an American is on my side. 'Cause with Technoblade, I know he just wants to fight and kill bad guys, right? That's just how Technoblade works!"

"Down with the state," said Technoblade, glancing Wilbur's way and giving him a respectful nod. Tommy glowed.

Wilbur smiled. "Yeah, look at him. He's a libertarian, a little anarchist, right? You however, I–I can't tell whether you're cozying up to Schlatt to help spy or because you quite like how he treats you. Look, Tubbo, I'll be the first one to say, I didn't always treat you the best in L'Manberg. I know I didn't. I was somewhat of a distant ruler; I pretty much only–"

Tubbo nodded.

Wilbur frowned. "Don't agree with that."

"Oh. Okay."

Wilbur placed his hands on the boy's little shoulders. "I wasn't the best ruler. And now, I don't know if you are just preferring Schlatt's rule over mine. I feel like I've got to win you over."

Tubbo shrugged. "Okay. Oh, I mean, I came to find you, bring you your things. I wouldn't be putting in this much time if I wasn't all for you."

"No, I know." Wilbur smiled. "Good." He took out a cigarette and lit it, put it to his lips and inhaled. Ah. This feels more normal. Exhaled, smoke mixing with that from the fire pit and heating up the air. "Tubbo, I want you to join us, but I want you to join us in proxy. I want you to stay in L'Manberg and I want you to keep up the charade that you're Schlatt's lackey, the secretary of state. But I need you update me on what's going on in L'Manberg. I need you to be our spy on the inside. Can you be my Hercules Mulligan, Tubbo?"

Tubbo straightened, saluted like he used to. "I can! I can grab the information, and then I can smuggle it–ah! I got that reference!"
Tommy joined them, grinning. Apparently he did understand. "Welcome to the team, Tubbo."

But Wilbur wasn't done. "Tubbo, if Schlatt calls on you, you need to be ready to lie. You need an alibi. If he asks, 'Where have you been, Tubbo,' what will you say?"

The bee boi floundered. "Ahhh…bees."

"Good. Tommy, get him out of here."

Tubbo waffled. "That's–oh, okay."

Tommy escorted Tubbo out of Pogtopia, after which Technoblade would take over and guide the boy back to L'Manberg. Wilbur could sense the boys looking back at him as they made their way to the cavern exit–but he kept his gaze ahead of him, not really looking at anything, just watching the cigarette smoke form a white cloud over his head.

A week passed since Tubbo's visit. Wilbur went up to the surface for the first time, since they had almost run out of wood for their evening fire, and Tommy had forgotten–or shirked–his responsibility. Wilbur didn't want to nag, and decided to take it upon himself to gather the wood. It was warmer above the ground than below, despite the dank atmosphere and late hour. The moon looked almost full; perhaps it was reaching its peak, or maybe it had just passed it. The silver light cast the shuddering branches above him in pitch black, living silhouettes in his own personal horror movie. If only someone would reassure him, tell him that it wasn't real.

Wilbur walked out a ways into the forest to gather the wood so any passersby–or mercenaries–wouldn't suspect anything, but plenty of dead branches made a graveyard of the ground beneath the trees everywhere. Wilbur stooped, piling the driest of these in his arms, when he smelled something sharp on the biting wind. He straightened and looked around. Silver and black, mist and death. Smoke, from faraway. He turned his head. Above the cliffs of Pogtopia, smoke wafted in front of the moon. From L'Manberg.

Wilbur laid the wood down and climbed the sloping hill off to one side of the cliffs, though his shoulder and abdomen ached and spasmed at the exertion. He crested the hill and stood, bending over and gasping, but he raised his head to see what there was to see.

Barely a point of orange on the far horizon beyond the trees, and a snake of coiling smoke. L'Manberg wasn't burning, but a deep chill borne on something other than the autumn wind wrapped itself around Wilbur's heart, and he sat on the ground.

What are you burning now, Schlatt?

What are you doing to my children?

Back in Pogtopia, all was routine, down to Tommy's late-night irritability. Technoblade dished up the watery brown soup he called gumbo, which turned out to contain a lot of stewed potatoes and probably what Techno thought were herbs, but were actually just bits of maple leaves and grass. Wilbur removed the inedible bits in silence, feeding them to L'Dog sitting beside him, while Tommy announced his disgust for the whole world to hear.

Burning arrows, burning children, burning…

"We all fall down…"

"Wilbur, you're pretty quiet tonight," Technoblade cut in when the child paused in his tirade to fill his mouth with potato.

"Thinking," said Wilbur. He set his bowl aside, the contents only half-eaten, and rubbed the feather charm between his fingers.

L'Dog dove into Wilbur's food. Tommy slurped down the rest of his gumbo, somehow messier than the animal, and then slammed the bowl on the ground. "I'm bored," he said in a loud voice, and burped. "Pardon."

Wilbur reached for his guitar as though expecting to find it on a handy shelf or leaning against the chair which they didn't own, grabbing only empty air. "Sometimes it's good to just sit and contemplate, Tommy."

"I think that's Wilbur's way of sayin' shut up," said Technoblade. He settled back on the ground with his customary potion vial, looking quite at ease.

Tommy slumped further into the ground.

"Tommy, will you fetch my guitar?" asked Wilbur.

Tommy sat up. "Are you going to play for us?"

A voice from the past: "Can you sing us a song, Wilbur?"

"Certainly."

Tommy ran off, and soon returned with the old instrument. Wilbur took it from his hands and leaned over it, picking at a couple strings while adjusting the pegs at the end of the neck. Tommy settled back on the ground, an arm around L'Dog's neck. At last satisfied, Wilbur straightened, and his hands danced over the strings–a quiet, low melody that emerged into the firelit cave, a faint echo amplifying the haunted air.

"I heard there was a special place

Where men could live and be free.

There they'd sing and no longer see

Any oppression and tyranny.

Well, this place is true, you needn't fret,

With Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, not Eret.

A pretty big and not blown-up L'Manberg.

Ahhhhhhhh...

It's L'Manberg.

Ahhhhhhh...

It's L'Manberg.

Ahhhhhhh...

It's L'Manberg.

Ahhhhhhh...

It's L'Manberg."

"I like the part about Eret," said Tommy. "Serves 'im right."

"Did you notice what I did with the chorus?" asked Wilbur.

Tommy nodded. "I like it."

"That was pretty pog," said Technoblade. "Can you sing us another?"

And so, for the next half hour, Wilbur sang them this song and that, but nothing else he had written. "Sing no more ditties, sing no more…" After a while, his voice began feeling a little raw on the edges, and he set the guitar aside. "Why don't we tell stories now?"

Another voice, his own: "Why don't we tell stories?"

Wilbur shook his head. "Techno? I'm sure you know a tale or two, from your wanderings."

"Indeed I do." Technoblade ran a finger along the cavern wall. "You know, have you ever wondered why there's no settlements anywhere near L'Manberg?"

"There's the Communi'y Hub," said Tommy, rubbing L'Dog's head.

"No, aside from that. Long-established settlements. Ever wonder why the closest one is two weeks away?"

"I have wondered that, yes," said Wilbur.

"Well, it's because of these local legends about the land L'Manberg was built on."

Tommy scooted forward, still clinging to the dog. The glow from the fire wreathed his face. "Wot legends?"
Technoblade also leaned forward, clearly relishing this. "The legends…about an immortal being from beyond the edges of the world…a great warrior, bloodthirsty and powerful. They said he could summon lightnin' from the heavens…though that came with a price, and he was cursed with the head of a shark."

"That sounds cool," said Tommy. "I'd like to 'ave a shark 'ead. Then I could bite Dream's shtupid face off an' get me disc back."

"All the tales say you can summon lightning, Techno," said Wilbur with a smile.

"Yeah, I think someone got the two of us mixed up somewhere along the lines, though we're as different as dreams and nightmares. End-Gamers, they called him." Techno spoke almost as though in a trance. Wilbur wondered if this legend before him–the mighty Technoblade–considered this more ancient legend his predecessor. "Do you want to hear the most famous story about him?"

"Yes, please!" Tommy cried.

Technoblade settled back. "All right. Here goes. Once, a couple hundred or thousand years ago, End-Gamers decided to have some fun and visited a town called the Not a Very Good Town Town."

"That's shtupid."

"Shut up, Tommy. End-Gamers turned the people against each other, makin' them kill each other–as well as all the cats, for some reason. I dunno, maybe End-Gamers didn't really like cats. Anyways, the townsfolk all ganged-up against each other until they were all dead. End-Gamers left, but the people from the surroundin' towns and villages got all scared and angry at him because of what he did. They gathered together a rag-tag army and cornered him on the peninsula–"

"That's our peninsula, right?" asked Tommy.

"Yes. Though it's not an actual peninsula seein' how it connects back to the mainland."

"Oh."

"So, you see, they fought him there, and they were all thrashed. But End-Gamers didn't leave 'em there. He was angry that the common little villagers had dared rise up against him, and so he cursed the land, specifically the peninsula where the final battle took place."

Tommy just about keeled over. "OUR peninsula?"

"Yes!"

"What was the curse?" asked Wilbur, feeling a little uneasy, though he didn't believe in curses or legends–though Technoblade was very much alive. But Technoblade was a modern myth. End-Gamers had lived hundreds of years ago.

Techno leaned forward again, eyes flashing. "Oh, it wasn't just any curse, Wilbur. It wasn't just a bunch of words thrown to the wind. No, End-Gamers planted the seeds of somethin' horrible deep down there, a curse that would fester and grow until it destroyed everythin'. Which is why everyone stayed clear of it and never built anything near it until now."

Wilbur felt better at that. "I don't see anything growing or festering–except for Schlatt's ugly face."

"Well, the people from the village to the south say that there are farther-reachin' consequences."

"Like what?"

"Like, if you lose your life on the peninsula, your soul will forever be trapped in the form of a ghost."

Wilbur scoffed. "Rubbish."

"I'd like to be a ghost," said Tommy. "Then I could 'aunt Dream and get me disc back."

"No one's going to be a ghost," chided Wilbur. "One–because it's nonsense, and two–none of us are going to die."

Except the traitors. They will always burn in the end.

Wilbur could still see the fire, the rising smoke, the acrid scent of burning and death the next morning.

"They burned down the city, see,

"Then they stole him away…"

He pulled Tommy aside soon after breakfast, after he had changed his bandages. Technoblade occupied himself with mining in one of the farther branches of the complex with L'Dog, and Wilbur felt the comfortable, familiar sensation of communicating with his closest confidant. He took a lantern from the wall and walked down to the end of the explored portion of the main cavern. None of them had gone beyond this point yet.

"Where do these tunnels go, Tommy?" asked Wilbur, holding the lantern out into the darkness.

Tommy shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe forever."

"Let's follow them. Maybe they'll take us…let's see, what direction is this?"

Tommy put a finger to his mouth and looked around. "Umm…left?"

Wilbur pulled a compass Tubbo had given him from his pocket. Tommy stared at it like Wilbur had pulled Technoblade from his pocket. "No, Tommy. Directions. North, south…oh, it's west. West!" Wilbur whirled on Tommy. "West, Tommy!"

Tommy shrugged again. "Okay, I don't see what that means–"

"That's where L'Manberg is! The tunnels must keep going–maybe they go all the way to L'Manberg!"

Tommy hesitated, Wilbur's last words still seeping into his brain. If the child truly wanted people to consider him a man, he could use a good dose of confidence. Scratch that, actually. He had too much confidence. Tommy blew up. "This is perfect! It's the perfect way to launch an attack!"

"Yes, our rebellion! Oh, once Technoblade trains us, and we have everything we need, we can come up from the tunnels like–like–gophers!"

Tommy deflated. "Gophers?"

"Look, Tommy. Why don't we go there and see how far the tunnel goes, hm? Let's scout it out, see if it takes us to L'Manberg."

Tommy squinched up his face. "But it's underground. 'Ow will we know when we–"

Wilbur took the child's hand and pulled him along. "We'll figure it out once we get there."

They walked through the dark in silence, illuminated only by the glow of the lantern Wilbur held. Their footsteps made faint reverberations through the ground, earthquakes for sleeping worms. Wilbur couldn't tell how long they walked. The light never changed, the air–but wait, now the air grew warmer, if only slightly, as the tunnel rose. And then suddenly, as if materialized out of the musty ground, stood a crude wooden wall, barely blocking them from whatever lay beyond. Tommy threw himself on the broken slats, but Wilbur reached out and caught the child's collar, dragging him back.

"But Will–"

"Tommy," Wilbur whispered, "we don't know what's on the other side." Anybody could be there. Schlatt could be there. "This calls for discretion."

"But Tommy In–"

Wilbur stepped ahead, held the lantern close, and peered through the slats. Darkness. Something that looked like an opening into a cave, perhaps? Wilbur walked back to Tommy. "It looks safe, but keep it down."

Tommy saluted, then ran at the wall and gave it a mighty kick. He flopped to the ground with a shudder and a squeaky curse.

Wilbur helped him to his feet. "Together, all right?"

Tommy nodded.

They ran at the wall, thrusting the full weight of their sides onto the slats. The wood snapped, and a cloud of dust welcomed them. Wilbur stepped over the splintery boards still standing and shone the lantern around. Another tunnel, turning off onto a shaft perpendicular to it. The child zipped past him and ran down the right-hand branch.

"Tom–!" Wilbur groaned and ran after him.

"Wilbur!" Tommy cried from further ahead, his voice like a hole, loud and definitely not whispered. "It's Tubbo's secret bunker!"

The right-hand tunnel opened into a wider hallway of sorts, with more cave entrances branching off of it. Long-dead lanterns hung from the ceiling. Furniture lay strewn about, as though someone had been attempting a blockade of sorts. Cracks crawled up and down every walls, as if the place were waiting for some big enough explosion to send it all crumbling in on itself. A hollow sound like water in a faraway tank somewhere above his head played a melody just off his senses. Something about it felt horribly familiar to Wilbur. His shoulder and abdomen seized up, flaring pain through him. Nausea rose in his throat, and he steadied himself against a wall. He stared at the ground. Dark burgundy stains dotted the earthen floor. He lifted his head. Like some nightmarish red carpet, the stains dribbled down the tunnel, into the darkness, to a lonely place far outside L'Manberg, beneath weeping trees, where the man he once considered his friend had tried to help–and Wilbur had spat in his face.

Wilbur swallowed.

" 'Ey, there's still some potions 'ere! Good ol' Tubbs, coming through again!"

The child. The child still needed him. Wilbur followed the sound of his voice until he found him in a chamber stacked with chests. Tommy leaned over an open one, waving vials. "Invisibili'y potions, Will! Like good ol' times!"

Wilbur knelt beside him and took as many as could fit in his trench coat pockets. "You got room, Tommy?"

"Oh, yes!" Tommy grabbed potions like they were candy.

They both froze. Voices floated in and out through the rock and the cavitous sound of the water above them–unintelligible, but distinct.

Wilbur grabbed Tommy by the arm and dragged him away into what would have been the library. There he let go of Tommy and examined the bookcases. Large, but empty. Hopefully light enough to move.

"Wil–"

"Shh!"

The voices came closer. Wilbur yanked a vial from his pocket, held his breath, and misted the potion over himself and Tommy, trying not to cough at the stench.

"The bookcase, Tommy!" Wilbur hissed, and tested the end of the shelf. He felt the side tilt up as Tommy grabbed hold of it. Together they scraped the bookcase about half a meter out from the rocky wall, when Sapnap's loud American vocalizations just about gave heart attacks to the two Pogtopians. Wilbur heard Tommy dart behind the shelf, probably cramming himself into the corner closest to the wall. Wilbur slipped in after, only then realizing he hadn't quite misted all of Tommy, a corner of red from Tommy's shirt glowing in the dark.

Don't come in, don't come in, don't–

"Look at all the blood. See, I told you they didn't resurface. We would have found them, invisibility or not, and then maybe one or two of us would finally fill his pockets with emeralds." Sapnap.

An annoyed sigh. "So, Tubbo completely missed this when he searched the pond? Unless he's been keeping it a secret." That was Fundy. "I suppose Wilbur could be alive after all and they're both running loose in the wilderness. Though mobs could've finished them off…"

"Do you want them dead? Not that I care, but I'd just think that since you have some history with them–"

"I'm done with them. I'm loyal only to Schlatt."

Sapnap let out a sadistic cackle. "Ooooh, does it still hurt?"

A sound like a smack resounded in the caverns. "Don't touch! What is wrong with you."

"Don't touch me, ya weirdo–hey, what's this?" Sapnap's voice rang in the library cave, and Wilbur held his breath. His heart pounding in his chest and temples sounded too loud.

"Just shelves," said Fundy.

"When did they have time to make all this stuff?" Soggy-sounding footsteps into the cave. Wilbur tightened every muscle.

Fundy's voice grew louder, another set of wet footsteps entering the cave, the sound of someone playing with the wheel of a lighter. "Tubbo probably built it. He's always been really good at stuff like that."

"When could he have had–wait! Then he might know where they're at! I bet he's a traitor, too!"

"That kid has no opinions of his own. You've seen how loyal he is to Sch–President Schlatt. Wearing that fancy suit he made him, 'sir, yes sir,' all that stuff. There's nothing else to him." Scoff. "I even think he's scared of me. Thinks I'll burn him in his sleep or something." A ghost of a laugh, and the snapping of the lighter wheel ceased. "There's no way they survived after all that, after this long. Come on, let's go back. Wilbur's dead, and Tommy probably is, too."

Footsteps out.

Loyal! Fancy suit! Sir, yes–Tubbo, are you really for us? Are you just really good at being a spy? Or are you…I don't…I don't want to have to kill you…

A scrape of something along the rocky floor split the stifled air. The retreating footsteps halted. Wilbur glanced at Tommy–or where Tommy would be. Tommy…!

The footsteps returned.

"What is it, Fundy?"

"I heard something."

"What?"

Pause. Wilbur could almost hear Fundy's long, sharp ears swiveling around his head, picking up every little sound. He'd forgotten how well Fundy could hear with those things.

"Does that bookcase look a little funny to you?"

"So you're an interior decorator as well as a baker?"

"Shut up."

The footsteps came closer. Fundy had to be standing right in front of the shelf now. If Fundy looked closely, he might see that one bit of Tommy's shirt. It was dark, though, and surely Fundy didn't have fox eyesight, too?

Please, Fundy, please don't…

Fundy's sharp face appeared in the opening, less than half a meter away from where Wilbur stood, a little damp from the swim in the pond to the bunker. Something about the fox-boy looked different, aside from the fact that he was wearing his old black trench coat and hat again instead of his L'Manberg uniform, but Wilbur couldn't figure it out and didn't care. If Fundy tried pushing the bookcase back into the wall, he would discover them. Wilbur sealed his lips over his breath, letting only a thin, slow stream in through his nostrils. Fundy leaned forward a little, squinting into the dark. Wilbur's chest hurt. If Fundy didn't either leave or find him out in less than ten seconds, Wilbur was certain his lungs were going to explode and it would be all over.

But at last, Fundy moved away from his line of sight, and did not touch the bookcase.

"You feeling kinda jumpy?" Sapnap sneered from the hallway.

"Shut up. Let's just get back and report to President Schlatt. Make sure not to let anyone else know of this."

The voices faded into the rock and water enveloping the bubble of air that was the bunker. Wilbur didn't allow himself the luxury of breathing normally, though, until he had counted to ten twice. Tommy exhaled loudly a couple seconds before that.

"Will!" he hissed, so loud, Wilbur didn't answer, in case Fundy had remained in the passageway, silent, waiting for them to blow their cover. But nothing happened, and Wilbur let out a long gasp before turning his attention on the child. It didn't matter he couldn't see him; he had Tommy cornered.

"Tommy! They almost found us! Why did you–why–"

The blurry red patch indicating where he hadn't misted Tommy vibrated. More scrapes underfoot, though not nearly as loud as the one before had sounded, now that there were no more large, treasonous fox ears eavesdropping on them. "I di'n't mean to! I lost my balance an–"

"Tommy, you don't understand. You don't understand anything." Wilbur planted his feet wide-spaced and perpendicular to the shelf, in case the child tried escaping him. He felt all the rage building up over the past week, the past months, scouring to place the blame, spilling over right now. "You've never understood anything. All you care about is your discs and leverage and being a man and all that rot. Have you ever–even once–considered that there are other people in this world besides yourself? Have you ever truly believed in anything? Have you ever believed in L'Manberg?"

Wilbur heard Tommy's mouth open and shut, the light clink of his teeth, and then the child burst, "Of course, Will, of course! Why would you–why would you say such things?

"Maybe because you're so careless! You know–we wouldn't be in this situation–we wouldn't be cowering, hiding in the caves if it hadn't been for you! Traipsing about, disregarding my authority, making me need to legitimize myself, of all things. And then–"

"I di'n't make you do anything! You did that yourself! You called the election, Will! You know–you know–if it weren't for me, you would 'ave died out there in the wild! I 'elped you, made sure they di'n't make mincemeat of you! I saved your life!"

"It wouldn't have needed saving if not for your negligence!"

"Wot negi-neggle–"

"Let's go, Tommy. We need to fix the mess you've gotten us into." Wilbur shoved his end of the bookcase aside, not caring if Sapnap and Fundy returned later and found it moved, and stormed down the tunnel back to Pogtopia.

"Will! Wilbur, where are you going?" came the child's panicked voice.

"Back to Pogtopia."

Tommy's footsteps ran after him. "It's not me fault, Will! Why are you so mad at me? Come on, Will, what 'appened to our pogchamp comra'ery?"

"We never had comradery, Tommy. It was all a sham. All a joke. That's what this has all been."

The invisibility wore off after another minute. They dragged a shelf in front of the tunnel leading back to Pogtopia, and then walked on in silence. It was so familiar to Wilbur, so similar to when they walked these tunnels the opposite way, he almost felt as though he had fallen into a time loop, and soon they would see the bunker open up in front of them again.

But no. The warm yellow light of the lanterns strung along the length of the main cavern greeted them instead. Without acknowledging Tommy, Wilbur strode up to Technoblade's cave, where he found the legend with his back to the entryway, focused on mixing an evil-smelling potion over a sizzling brewing stand. A huge volume of Greek mythology lay open on the table beside him. L'Dog rested by the bed, and raised his head when Wilbur entered.

"Hello, Techno," Wilbur said. "I'm in a better mood today." He clenched his teeth into a grating smile. "The violent revolution is coming, only I'm not going to be sad while doing it. I'm going to be happy while revolting."

Happy while I crush Schlatt's face in my hands, grind his horns to powder, drink his blood…

Technoblade turned around, looked Wilbur up and down. "Are you feelin' okay, Wilbur? You look kinda…murder-y."

Wilbur blinked.

Technoblade shrugged. "You are one, you know one. We're not murderin' yet."

It all bubbled up. "Techno, I hate him," Wilbur seethed, and began to pace in the small area between the table and the doorway. "Schlatt's the worst! He's everything I cannot stand." He stopped, clenched his fists. "We went over to L'Manberg."

Technoblade raised his eyebrows.

"Not–we went through the tunnels." And he spilled everything that had happened there, from finding the bunker, to Sapnap and Fundy's conversation, to the fancy suit and Tubbo's questionable loyalties. "He might be lying to me!" Wilbur blurted. "I don't know if I can trust him to be our spy! But I'd hate to see him get hurt by Schlatt–"

"Then let's go there."

Wilbur's monologue screeched to a halt. "What?"

"Let's go to L'Manberg, above the surface, spy for ourselves. That's the only way to do it."

It made too much sense. Wilbur groped for an excuse, though he knew deep inside he wanted to see it. See what had become of everything and everyone. "I'm not just an exile, Techno. They tried to kill me before, they'll still be out for my head. They have skilled fighters, mercenaries–" Wilbur broke off when he saw Technoblade's amused expression. Who am I to think that mere mercenaries pose a threat when I have Technoblade, the legendary Technoblade who never dies, on my side. "So," Wilbur started again sheepishly, "when do we head out?"

The two stole out of Pogtopia the next day, after giving Tommy a mandatory nap time by barricading the entrance to his cave. Not that Tommy put up a fight–the child had been uncommonly somber since yesterday. But no matter. Wilbur and Technoblade flew through the fire-dotted woodlands like two shadows, one brown, one pink–Wilbur, wearing his trench coat over his mustard-yellow jumper, and Technoblade with his long pink braid. The white stones of Eret's eastern tower pierced the pale skies, tearing at the clouds. The wind came cold to Wilbur, colder than it should have been for October, he thought–or it could have been his wounds feeling the pain in the air. But nothing would stop him now. He needed to see his country. His symphony.

My Nihachu.

They broke through the trees surrounding the tower, crowning the hills above the little country. Wilbur stopped, everything bitter and distant in head and heart.

"Where are the walls?"

Where once great, protective black walls had stood guarding the lost children of the land, there now lay only blackened lines, tell-traces traces of rubble and death, now exposing a jumble of buildings, ones Wilbur had never built. The overcast sky never looked so massive, felt so threatening. A cold hysteria rose in Wilbur's chest, pitching his voice louder, higher, heedless of the wind that could carry his words into the heart of the country.

"Where are the walls?!"

"Not too loud, now," Technoblade warned. "We gotta be careful."

Anger filled Wilbur's chest. What had they done to the walls? The walls he, Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy had worked so hard to build? Their walls which had given them such a sense of protection, though futile they had proven in the first war. They didn't need to see the sky with such splendor surrounding them. They needed only the knowledge that they were right.

When did this happen? Was it before Tubbo's visit? Why didn't he tell me?

"Let's go down there," seethed Wilbur, dropping his voice. "Schlatt did this, I know it. If he's done this to my walls, what more has he done with my people?"

My Nihachu.

They stole down the hills into the country itself. A scattering of new buildings, garish and cheap-looking to Wilbur, now suffocated the land on the tiny peninsula. Across the river–such a bold move of expansion as Wilbur never would have dared–rose the skeleton of what would eventually be some massive new building. There were Sapnap and Punz, patrolling the borders–apparently the people felt they still needed protection without their walls. If they had known that both Wilbur and Technoblade were still able to sneak in unimpeded, the citizens would have done well to fire their guards.

"Did you bring any invisibility potions?" Wilbur whispered as they slipped along.

"Nah," said Technoblade, pushing his braided hair over one shoulder. "Those come with a bad side effect of carelessness."

They kept to the backways behind the fresh tenement buildings, watching the citizens as they walked their streets. This must have been a holiday for them, considering all the work still required on the big building on the other side of the river. There was Ponk, looking inexplicably happy as he skipped along with an oversized pair of pruning shears. There was Fundy, grinning that same old nasty grin, head held high, more haughty and disdainful than ever before, carrying something long and large wrapped in canvas.

The two Pogtopians hid behind one of the new buildings near the plaza in front of the podium and observed. The Off-White House glared on them from its lofty hill above the stage. Though he had helped raise it up, Wilbur could only look at it in disgust, knowing that a hateful, imposterous American lived inside.

Wilbur heard movement behind the podium. Then the curtains in the back parted, and the hateful, imposterous American himself waltzed out, that simpering Quackity at his heels. Behind them came Karl, loaded down with an easel, canvas, and a box of paints.

Schlatt positioned himself in front of the scarlet curtains, slouching for the benefit of no one. Quackity postured beside him. Karl set up his things about a meter in front of them, perched on the very edge of the stage. His nervous voice wavered though the square. "So, uh, President Schlatt, could you maybe stand straighter or–"

Schlatt didn't move, didn't even look Karl's way, but fixed his gaze somewhere above him, consumed by great, presidential thoughts. Karl nodded, as if Schlatt had actually done what he had requested.

"Okay," Karl continued, "Vice President Quackity, can you maybe lift your wings a lit–"

Quackity stood straighter, his sunglasses directed full on Karl's quaking form, mouth pinched into a decisive frown. Something about his face didn't look quite right to Wilbur, but he couldn't figure out what it was. The tattered wings remained down. Schlatt touched Quackity's arm, and the vice president relaxed, the frown softening into a smile which then became uncomfortably wide. He slowly extended his feathers so they provided a strange, dingy backdrop for whatever sick painting would eventually be hanging inside the Off-White House. Karl kept nodding, faster and faster. "Okay, okay. Do you want to take off the sunglasses?"

Quackity gripped the belt loops of his trousers, still said nothing. Wilbur thought Karl would fall off the podium from all his shaking and nodding.

"All right, well, I'll start, I guess..."

Karl opened his box of paints on the grass and selected a tube. He smeared some blue on a palette, looked at his subjects, at the palette, scratched behind his ear, looked back up, produced a long brush from the box, stood, and dabbed the brush in the paint. He paused once to wipe his glistening forehead, then attacked the easel with a delicate hand.

"Anythin' else you wanna look at?" asked Technoblade, his gaze riveted across the plaza where Ponk still skipped about with his shears, apparently not going anywhere in particular.

Wilbur clawed at the air. "I...want...to..."

"Our little town looks awful beautiful today, don't you think?" Ponk commented in a loud voice, and for one moment, Wilbur wondered if Ponk had spotted them–but then he noticed Tubbo crossing the plaza, nodding at Ponk and smiling. Could he be thinking of his fellow rebels, cowering in the dark earth, skin and hearts grown cold and callus around their wounds?

"Oh yes. Beautiful. I was thinking we could decorate with some lanterns, make it look even more beautiful, like at night."

"Oh, I like that."

Wilbur glanced back at where Karl still painted. Schlatt looked the same as before, but Quackity looked a couple feathers short of a chicken, half-squashed as the president leaned against him. Wilbur leaned further out from his hiding spot until he saw the front of the canvas on the easel–a demure sketch of the president and his lackey standing before the curtained back of the podium.

Art for peacetime. Art for death.

Wilbur clenched his fists.

"Why are they all so happy? It has to be an act," he hissed.

They still would rather have me. We were happier when I was president. We were.

"Right, Techno? It's all just an act."

"Sure. They'd be happier without a government altogether."

Or maybe they are truly happier under Schlatt and nothing I did ever mattered.

They moved on, creeping behind the buildings, taking in the smiling citizens, the new structures, the trimmed greenery, the freshness in the air that felt hot and cloying to Wilbur. They came up where the land fell in hills over the river ravine. And then, Wilbur saw, beside the great trestle bridge, at the base of the flagpole, stood Fundy, head tilted up as he raised the standard of the nation. But no beloved colors billowed now over the land, for in its place flapped a scorched stain, the blood of the skies themselves, arrayed in black and red. For a moment, Wilbur thought the flag had been burned, and tears filled his eyes, but then he realized that this was not his flag at all. An imposter had dared rising over his country–nothing but a sheet of black with a line of red and a single red cross.

Wilbur stared up at it, then down at Fundy. The fox-boy never faltered, never wavered, always smiled. Did he not remember their days building their walls, planning revolution? Did he not remember the pain in his shoulder from when he had refused to back away in the face of a traitor? Now the betrayed had become the traitor.

"Techno, shoot him. Shoot Fundy."

Fundy stopped and glanced their way. Technoblade pulled Wilbur further into the building's shadow. "He can hear from that far?" Technoblade breathed.

Wilbur shook him off. "Shoot him." He looked up at Techno. "He's an orph–"

"Now's not the time for violence, Will, orphan or not. We're just scoutin'–"

Wilbur turned on Technoblade, lunging to grab the bow strapped over his shoulder, but the legend snatched his wrist in an instant. "We're just scoutin'." Technoblade repeated, a trifle smug. Wilbur snorted and wrenched his hand away–once Technoblade let him, of course. He turned to face the flag and Fundy again.

They were all burning.

Burning colors, like the dawn.

A single thought, like a fiery arrow, shattered through his mind.

Nihachu.

Before Technoblade could stop him, Wilbur darted back the way they had come, where the land sloped toward the inlet, above the sea cliffs and the bakery built into their sides.

"Will!" came Techno's labored hissing. "Bur! Wilbur Soot!"

Wilbur slid down the sandy banks, down to the beachfront. The rocky path leading up to the bakery was strewn with the dried remains of plants fallen or ripped from their broken pots, Fungie's grave almost lost in the sand blown up around it. The door itself hung on a single hinge, leaning into the dark interior.

Niki.

He felt Technoblade behind him. "Wilbur, hey, I think–"

Wilbur ran inside.

Deeper darkness filled with the tumbled shapes of furniture and other belongings enveloped him, echoing the words he feared to speak, feared to think. Nothing to say, and nothing to sing. Only silence.

Wilbur tore through room after room, stumbling, falling, breaking through debris and rotten food, sending the rats scurrying away.

"Where is she? Where is she?!"

His voice kept rising as before, until he whipped around and ran into Technoblade. His chest contorted like a knot, and he could hardly squeeze out enough breath through the cracks. Technoblade caught his arms, and Wilbur blinked up into the ruby eyes. "We can't let anyone hear us," Techno snapped. "We gotta get outta here. We can come back when we're better prepared, but now–"

Wilbur twisted out of his grip. "No!"

Technoblade's arms wound around him, clamping a large manicured hand over his mouth. Wilbur jammed his elbows into Technoblade's chest, but the legend didn't loosen his grip. Instead, he dragged Wilbur out of the bakery, keeping close to the cliffs, never letting go. "You can't break our cover right now," Technoblade whispered. "I know you miss your friends, but now is not the time."

Wilbur's hands grappled his detainer, finding a potion vial hanging from his belt. He ripped it off, flinging it against the cliff wall in the same movement. Orange liquid splattered the rocks. Wilbur whipped the broken vial back around, gouging the glass into the back of the legend's hand. Technoblade yelped, his grasp loosened, and Wilbur burst free. He started running up the sandy banks, full intending to burst into the plaza, grab Schlatt by the neck, and hurl him into the inlet.

"OY, OY, OY! LOOKIT ME, EVERYONE! IT'S TOMMY INNIT, BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

Wilbur stopped. His feet sank into the sand, and he almost fell over backwards, but he put out a hand and steadied himself. Then he looked up. Tommy–who should have been taking a nap–stood on the roof of one of the new buildings above the bank, screaming and waving his arms.

"HO, HO, HO! I'M SANTY-CLAUS! COME SHOOT ME!"

Wilbur heard Schlatt's grating voice: "SUBPOENA, RAPUNZEL! GET HIIIIIIIM!" followed by a squawk which could only be the vice president.

"He's distractin'! He's makin' a diversion! Now's our chance–we gotta get out of here!" Technoblade came up beside Wilbur, grabbed his arm with a bloodied hand, and dragged him the rest of the way up the bank. He popped a potion vial from his belt and crammed the end of it into Wilbur's mouth, filling it with something horrible-tasting. At once, a rush of stamina filled his limbs, and Wilbur ran, everything else collapsing into a painful fog. Not once did he think of Tommy, wondering if the child had been following them this whole time, wondering if and how he could escape...

Where are you? Where have you gone, my Nihachu? My beautiful Nihachu...Did she never want me either?

"And even so, I still remain

A lover in captivity…"

Before he realized what had happened, or how he had gotten there, Wilbur found himself once more standing on the hills. Every muscle twitched. His legs wanted to keep running, and his heart beat so rapidly, it threatened to leap out of his chest, but he forced himself to be still and gaze down at the land he loved, the land which had already forgotten him. Technoblade breathed heavily at his side. Tears streamed down Wilbur's cheeks, and he couldn't stop. They kept coming, a flood of everything he'd held behind the dam of carefully constructed words, grand gestures, and fake smiles, smiles as fake as the one perpetually plastered on Fundy's face.

They never wanted me. I couldn't lead them. I never had them. From the beginning, they were never...it was always...

Cold. Cold as the wind haunting the hills and penetrating his exile's heart. Perhaps he would wake up, find himself back in his bunk in the Camarvan, Tommy and Fundy still asleep in the strewn blankets on the floor below...or maybe he would awaken in that light-drenched castle, that place from before the nightmares and the ceaseless searching, and he would see the great wings again, a lullaby stringing through his head on a silver voice.

He rubbed the feather charm.

Where had it all gone?

"L'Manberg, my unfinished symphony!" Wilbur cried, his voice sinking over the land like a crow's forsaken wail. He fell to his knees, shaking, already burning, burning once more. The image of L'Manberg, forever gone, blazed before his eyes, shimmering, shining, dying. "I never–I never got to finish you. I never got to finish you."

Froggy: Merci encore pour la belle critique!

EDIT: Subpoena is Schlatt's name for Sapnap, and Rapunzel is Schlatt's name for Punz. It's been a while since we heard Subpoena, and Rapunzel hasn't been mentioned before, so I apologize for the confusion!

God bless,

Unicadia and VAERYS