There once was a lonely town on the water. A young town, in regards to buildings and inhabitants. Even in that time of unsettled peace, you'd still see the children erecting new shanties, decks and bridges, thatched roofs, and paper lanterns. All constructed on stilts over the water because the land had long since washed away. The river had found another path to the sea, and slipped through the town out by the watermill, the gate to the inlet.
"It's L'Manberg. Ahhhhhhh...
It's L'Manberg. Ahhhhhhh..."
A single voice carried a weak melody over the frigid waters' dirge. A lonely man – less than that, a ghost – perched, swinging his legs at the end of a bowing crane on the more rickety end of town, what he'd heard the others call the Slums District. He had no instrument but his own lifeless voice and the forlorn words it shaped as thin blue tears coursed down his face.
"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 –"
"Shut it!"
A splash of water dashed through the air, sizzling when it hit the ghost's body. The ghost winced, and looked down at the man on the snow-dusted market platform. A tall fellow with fluffy coral orange hair and furry, pointed ears like a fox's, his hand dripping.
"Say the name 'Wilbur' again and I'll very well drown you," he threatened, bristling. His ears twitched as if afraid to miss a single sound.
"Aren't we supposed to sing songs for the deceased?" the ghost inquired in a hollow, but earnest voice. "To commemorate them since they're not with us anymore?"
"Mighty fine thing for a phantom to say!" The man reached over the edge of the platform and threw another handful of water.
"Please don't do that. It hurts."
"One thing's for sure – if Wilbur Soot was still alive, we'd drag him to the town center and execute him. That's what happens to traitors. They don't deserve songs."
"Then is there another song you'd like me to sing?"
"The only thing I'd like you to do is to quit haunting this place. Maybe L'Manberg's gone, but New L'Manberg's not a ghost town."
The ghost removed his glasses and wiped them before putting them back on. He shakily climbed down the crane onto the platform, avoiding the snow. "Whatever crime did this Wilbur commit that you call him a traitor?"
"Crime? Look around you! Thanks to him we had to rebuild our city in a flooded crater. We'd barely tasted victory over Manberg when that bastard Wilbur Soot blew out the very stones beneath us." The fox-man grinned nastily. "But we rose again anyway, stronger and freer."
"I'm sure Wilbur had a very good reason to do what he did."
"You think?" The man stooped once again.
"Fundy, stop!" A young woman raced up to him and grabbed his arm before he could send another splash. His ears spun toward her. "Get a hold of yourself. The war's over."
"It's okay," the ghost assured her. "He probably just needs a little blue." He reached into his jumper pocket and pulled out what looked like a withered flower bud, ethereal as the ghost, and very blue. He held it out. "Here."
"What is it?" asked the woman as the fox-eared man took her hand and continued glaring at the ghost.
"It's blue. You take it and it sucks up all your sadness, and then you throw it away along with all your worries. You see, it turns blue when it absorbs your sadness, and that's why I call it blue."
"It's…already blue."
The ghost looked at it. "Oh, dear. One moment, I'm sure I have some more here somewhere." He wrestled with his pockets.
"It's okay," said the woman. "We really should get going now. Come, Fundy. I'm almost done packing up the stall, and then we have to set up the rest of the decorations." The man growled, but said nothing.
The ghost smiled. "Very well, I understand you're busy. Pleasure meeting you, ma'am."
She paused. "Do you…remember my name?"
"Is it 'The Fair Maiden with the Hair Like Pink Rose Petals and Courage Like the Dawning Sun'?"
She didn't reply.
"What's that? Did I guess correctly?"
"No," she said bitterly, turning away. "You did not."
The lonely ghost wandered through the town slums toward the sewers, his only home. The other citizens all lived next to each other above him in their stone and wooden cottages, and sometimes what looked like separate houses actually had hidden passages connecting them. Neighbors shared sleepovers every other night. But if the ghost tried living closer to them, they'd run him out. He never knew why.
He slipped between the iron bars guarding the sewer, avoiding the flowing water as best he could. Ouch. There was no avoiding burning his bare feet. Once inside, he turned a corner and climbed into a dry alcove used for storage – and also his meager abode. He had carefully arranged the various boxes and barrels he had found there against the back wall, and had then installed his own things. He had papered the moldy cement walls with bits and pieces of things he'd collected: scraps of election ballots, wanted posters, a shred of a flag, a document with only one legible word: Independance. In addition, he also had a sink, a stove (neither of them worked, but he saw that the others had them, so he figured he should also), and a bed – his home had everything necessary for a simple living. Living. The one thing the ghost truly struggled to grab hold of.
Then there was the makeshift library in the back with the boxes and barrels. It took just a moment for the ghost to kindle the fireplace before he turned his attention to the shelves. His spectral fingers danced over the cracked books he'd salvaged from the ruins of the last war. More little curios decorated the spaces between the books, like TNT shells, a broken watch, a cracked beer bottle, an empty bottle of hand sanitizer. He chose a bundle of water-damaged parchment, and laid it on the crate which served as a lectern.
" 'October 19th – Wilbur's Farewell Letter,' " he read in the jading lamplight, then chuckled, "Will's will – how comical." He kept reading:
As much as I hate to admit it, we've lost it. L'Manberg and everything it was is gone. We keep fighting, but what's left to fight for? We lost it the moment Schlatt was voted in – the moment democracy won us over and L'Manberg turned into the vile thing they call Manberg. We've lost our country, our land, countless allies, and I fear I'm losing my sanity as well… Before that time comes, when we're lost to legend, I'd like to say a few final words.
To Tommy:
You're a talented, headstrong child, but you're also stupid. Just because your voice is loud doesn't mean it's right. You too make mistakes and you must take responsibility for them. It's a part of growing up, something you must do one day. What's really important to you? Is it your never-ending scramble for your music discs? Remember your friends, the attachments that truly make you strong. Promise me you'll be a fine, responsible man with cast-iron determination and unwavering loyalties.
To Tubbo:
While you've just been in one of the most difficult situations of all of us, it's only proven how incredibly strong you are. I only hope that you swiftly recover from your injuries so we might see you take the lead again someday. I've never seen such humility and selflessness. If L'Manberg were to ever have a president, it would be you. But please, take care of yourself. Don't let the others push you around, especially Tommy. Take care of the child, Tubbo. He needs you.
To Nihachu:
This war has hurt all of us, but this is sheer cruelty. I'm sorry, so sorry, Niki. I'm sorry that I've put L'Manberg before you. There's no excuse I can give to win back your love, no words I can write that will bridge the chasm between us. Whether or not we meet again in another world, I love you.
To Fundy and Quackity:
I fear for you, for your decisions. We all stumble and hurt for it sooner or later. But don't let bitterness define you. Overcome your enemies, don't turn into them. Don't make yourselves the villain like me.
This country has been the sweetest song I've ever written. It pains me that it must end so soon, but sometimes you have to be a martyr for people to learn. I just hope that, unlike me, all of you live to finish your symphonies.
(signed)
Wilbur Soot
How strange, thought the ghost, that he addressed this letter to so many people, yet I'm the one who received it. He had a great many people he cared about. Maybe I should write down my experiences too, just like Wilbur Soot. Then I can have people I love and send them letters.
He withdrew a blank-paged book and quill and began: Things I remember, by – and he wrote down his name.
Let's see. What did he remember? Whenever he thought about it, his mind turned void. He scratched at the void. What would he have done when he was alive? Before…it happened. He would have laughed, he would have had friends, he would have eaten. What would he have eaten? That pink-haired lady owned a bakery. Maybe he would've eaten her bread. That's right, bread.
The smell of bread
Then what?
L'Manberg
But not this L'Manberg. The other one, from the beginning. The one that fought for its freedom. The one that needed –
Revolution
He didn't like that word. It reminded him of fighting, explosions, all that bad stuff. He should record happy things instead. He scribbled down Bullying Tommy. People might get the wrong idea from that. He quickly added (he's a child). There were other happy things to write about, too.
The wind
The taste of salt
The memories surged through his pen onto the page.
Winning the election
People cheering for me
Tunnels
Arrows
A loud explosion
Niki
He stopped. The flocking memories burst away like a flurry of uncatchable crows. The quill quivered in his hand, wanting to write more, but all that came out was:
I don't know
The bell from the town center echoed above the sewers, summoning the citizens. It only rang for very important occasions, so the ghost wrapped up his work and hurried out of his home. From the foot of his crane he could see the two platforms near the middle of the flooded crater which formed the town center. What looked like a coffin lay in the midst of the scaffolding. So it was a memorial event. The cold sun dimmed behind the horizon, and in turn, colored lanterns dotted across the town, lit by the middle-aged man with great black wings who lived in the house beside the mill. Dandy shades of red, yellow, and blue blazed in a dancing circle around the buildings. Bright, shimmering streamers laced post to post, swaying gently in the late breeze.
Rather unusual décor for a funeral.
There they were, L'Manberg's citizens, a little more than a dozen folk in the audience stands on one of the platforms in the town center. Across the water stood the second platform, adorned with a sound equipment-tangled stage. There were quite a few outsiders as well – maybe they were close to the deceased. Some of the citizens still wore bandages from the war just two weeks prior. The ghost tried to take a place in the front, but after receiving more than a few looks and spits, he searched for a seat in the back. He found one, beside the middle-aged man with black wings, who had just finished lighting the lanterns.
"Mind if I sit by you?" the ghost inquired. "Don't suppose you're a stranger too?"
"Aye," said the man, giving the ghost a second glance as he made room on the bench. "My homeland is far, very far from here. I traveled for years in search of my son, a journey that took me here. And now, I'm a citizen of L'Manberg."
"I take it you found him, then."
"I did find him." The man's voice trembled, dropped a little. "And then I killed him."
"That's curious."
The man bent forward, staring at the wooden boards of the platform as he related the story in quiet tones. "I found him in the middle of a war. I saved him from the destruction he wrought, from the bombs buried beneath the earth. And then…I killed him. Not on purpose. It happened so…fast. He was just a child. A lost child with the dream of building a nation. This is his nation of lost children."
It was true. Scanning the audience, the ghost saw that not one of the citizens looked even thirty years of age.
The ghost turned back to the man. "Then Wilbur Soot's your son, no?"
The man shifted uncomfortably. Most people were uneasy sitting next to the ghost, but at least this man wasn't hostile about it. He just rubbed his hands together and swallowed one too many times. "Wilbur Soot," he repeated, "…that's what they called him."
"Attention please!" A microphone screeched and everyone turned their attention to the stage. A young man – or boy – at the mic stand, his face covered in burn scars between his long bangs and his scarf, began to speak. "Visitors and fellow L'Manbergians! This is the president speaking. We're gathered here to acknowledge the passing of our late president. He left us quite a while ago, but thanks to our busy rebuilding of the town, we haven't been able to commemorate him until now. So without further ado…good riddance, J. Schlatt!"
"WOO, LET'S GO!"
Much to the ghost's surprise, they all started cheering. It was a party, with everyone laughing, singing, toasting to the death of the late president. They sprinted up to the casket – which the ghost presumed to be empty, seeing how long it had been since the war – and began scribbling all over it with knives and graffiti.
"What are they doing?" he asked.
The older man's face twisted into a painful expression as he watched. "I'd take it they're writing their final regards for President Schlatt. You familiar with him?"
"No. He passed before I got here."
"I'm sorry, lad. I just figured since you're dead…"
The ghost shrugged, flustered. "I don't know. I don't feel dead. But I'm not alive either."
"There!" exclaimed a scrawny blond child bundled in a muffler as he finished his penmanship. "Burn forever, Schlatt! May we never 'ave to see your ugly face again! Long live President Tubbo!"
"This is a curious funeral," remarked the ghost. "Was Wilbur Soot's funeral similar to this?"
The man's voice came out as a stiff recitation. "He had no funeral. No burial, no memorial. His grave is the crater he carved out beneath L'Manberg."
"Ahem!" A shivering fellow in an informal tracksuit and beanie limped onto the stage, a pair of feathered wings like those of the older man dragging behind him. "Realistically, and jokes aside, I think serving next to Schlatt taught me a lot of important stuff about the world." He paused to take a swig from a thermos he'd brought with him, choked, coughed for a full minute, and continued: "Um, more importantly, a side of him that I think most of you didn't really know." He drew his wings closer to his body. "So, as L'Manberg's self-appointed bard or whatever, I will now sing a song in honor of President Schlatt with assistance from my dudes Karl and Sapnap."
"Marvelous! A song!" the ghost exclaimed, thankful for a bit of decorum in this deranged fest.
The bard's bandmates took their places on the stage. The one with the coiling brown hair and dripping earrings brandished an antique saxophone from a water-damaged case. The other carelessly arranged a makeshift drum set fashioned from barrels, portions of armor, and what looked like a rowboat. The lower part of the drummer's face was swathed in bandages.
"Wait – Sapnap?" came someone from the audience. "What's that scoundrel doing here in L'Manberg?"
"And wasn't Karl Schlatt's lackey?"
"Ahem!" The bard cleared his throat, nearly succumbing to another coughing fit. "Keep in mind that I myself was vice president of Manberg. Anywho and everyone is welcome here. All have come to give their regards to J. Schlatt – friends, enemies, and loved ones alike." A pause, and then he decided. "Actually, just enemies." The audience murmured in agreement until the bard wielded the microphone. "All righty! Silence, now. Respect the deceased!"
Hush. The saxophonist started a soft, jazzy melody accompanied by the drummer's gentle beat upon the cymbals. In that moment it was beautiful. Reverent. Then once the first measure passed, the bard sang alongside the saxophone, swaying to the rhythm:
"I sold myself for a stranger.
I gave my word to a liar.
I left my rights with a burglar.
I lent my life to a murderer."
The ghost was unsure if he liked the bard's voice. It somewhat reminded him of a fly buzzing in one's ear. But maybe he just needed to hear more.
He did not need to hear more. What happened next could only be described as a song in its lowest and most vulgar form. The drummer assailed upon his instruments with bloodthirsty violence while the singing reverted to a mixture of screaming, rapping, and ear-bleeding feedback:
"Boo hoo, hear my pretty tears of glee.
Thanks to your death, we're free to be free!
Free to steal all we gave, now we're dancing on your stupid grave,
Doing what we want, two can play at that game!"
The ghost could only cover his ears. The saxophonist (who was actually quite good) fell out of whatever rhythm the other two held, lost in his own mad solo. By now the drumming completely masked the vocals – a blessing more than anything else. The ghost didn't need to hear the torrent of shameless irreverence, name-calling, and downright dissing spilling out of the speakers. After more than a few mock-endings, the cymbals smashed for the last time, and everyone learned the meaning of world peace.
The "bard" wiped his mouth and grinned. The crowd blew up.
"You said it!"
"That was beautiful, Big Q!"
"Encore!"
He raised his hands. "Thank you, thank you, but that will be all for tonight. Come and see El Rapids again! We got Karl on the sax, Sap doing drums, and myself, Quackity, with the mic. We perform every Monday in the Slums District; just bring the jewels and we'll bring the jazz."
Amid the applauding masses, one voice rose above the rest. "That's enough! Is this a memorial for the deceased or a two-cent circus? Which one of you doesn't feel remorse in your gut for stamping on a hapless man's grave?"
She'd been viewing the festivities from a distance, only now stepping forward to the foot of the stage. A very tall woman – late-twenties perhaps – with fleecy, cloud-kissed hair, and a weathered red coat about her shoulders.
The bard looked around, but his bandmates had packed up their instruments in an instant and abandoned him. A flicker of unrest crossed his face as he realized this, but he speedily masked it with a crooked smirk. "Listen, lady. You're not from around here. If you had known Schlatt, if you had known what he was like –"
"I think I should know better than anyone else what he was like," she announced.
The bard glanced around nervously. "Yeah? Why?"
She stood straighter. "I am Captain Puffin Schlatt."
Gasps. The ghost wondered what the fuss was about.
"His…mom?" the bard ventured.
"His sister!" the woman seethed. "Now pray tell, what was he like?"
No one said anything for a long moment. Then the scrawny blond child waved from the benches. " 'Ey, I got this! Maybe you didn't know your brother as well as you think you did. So I'll show you what 'e was really like!" He bounded across the bridge to the stage and stood next to the bard, holding what looked like two severed ram horns. He placed these up to his own head, cackling hysterically. "Look, I'm Schlatt! I pretend to work out and be an evil dictator, but in reality, I just sit around and drink all day. I wonder why everyone 'ates me?"
The crowd lost it. Behind their whoops and hollers, the challenger stood stunned into silence, horror engraved on her face. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she gripped the frills of her gown.
"Wai-Wai-Wait, Tommy, lemme try!" The bard snatched the horns and rendered his own impersonation: "My first decree as president of L'Manberg is be a total scumbag and chew off everyone who voted me in! Oh no, everyone's fighting now. I'll hide like the coward I am so I won't get caught in the crossfire. Oh no – a heart attack!"
The woman turned and fled, countless jeers in her wake. Laughter. Mocking. Ridicule.
"I don't like this funeral very much," mumbled the ghost.
After the charades continued for far too long, everyone resorted to a game of guessing what the late president's first initial stood for.
"By my Great Gran Matilda, I'm holding by Judah!"
"He told me himself it was Jedidiah Schlatt."
"Shut up. Everyone here knows his name was Jay Schlatt!"
Eventually they ran out of names beginning with J, which then meant the demise of the snack stations. The famished, hyper-excited attendees devoured everything until barely a table remained.
Finally satisfied, they cast the ruined coffin into the waters, smearing and slandering it to the bottom of the crater. Everyone departed until the bell's next summoning, leaving the town center disheveled in sickly silence. No one walked there except a ghost and the lonely challenger from earlier. She walked among broken glass and streaked graffiti until she leaned down to pick something up. The severed ram horns. She hugged them close to her, and the ghost barely made out her whispers.
"Rest in peace, big brother."
Then she stood up, brushed her fleecy hair off her tear-stained cheeks, and disappeared into the night. The ghost didn't see her again.
He made his way back to his crane, only getting lost one or two times, singing to himself as he went.
"It's L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
It's L'Manberg.
Between the dark and the light
They fought for victory.
A nation founded on liberty
And sweet democracy.
Well, the darkness came and then it went,
They built a home and watched it sink,
And from the rubble, there emerged L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
Their L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
Their L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
Their L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
Their L'Manberg.
With bloodied hands and weakened knees,
The people rose again
From empty fields and ruined canals
From all around L'Mantree.
With sweat and tears they armed their ranks,
And laid foundations on their land,
And from every lip up to infinity –
Ahhhhhhh…
They sing L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
They sing L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
They sing L'Manberg.
Ahhhhhhh…
To my L'Manberg."
On the boardwalk connecting to the marketplace below the crane, he saw that girl again from the docks, the one with the hair like pink rose petals. He felt he'd known someone else with pink hair in the past, but the memory escaped him. It was just her. She lingered there, gazing at lights dancing across the cold dark waters. Now that he thought about it, she hadn't attended the ghastly memorial ceremony.
"Niki's your name, right?"
She faced the ghost. "You remembered!"
"I put it together. I read a letter from Wilbur Soot, and he mentioned you."
"A letter? What did he say?"
"He said he's sorry."
She paused, then stifled a laugh and shook her head. "Of course he did. What more could he say."
The ghost warily stepped next to her and leaned against the handrails. "Tell me about him. What was Wilbur Soot like?"
"Wilbur Soot." A smile fluttered on her lips. "He was arrogant – but not in a bad way, not usually. He was self-assured and would step up when no one else would, emphasizing words over weapons. He said what needed to be said and had a way with his words, like you. Threats, armies, traitors – nothing could break him. Until something did." Her voice cracked and she reached up and touched the long necklace hanging down her blouse. The ghost noticed the worn silver charm she found among the others and stroked. "Something got into his head, drove him insane. Suddenly it wasn't about peace and building up. It was about destruction, about tearing down. One thing is for sure. He was already dead before the war started."
A tear rolled down to her chin.
"Here, have some blue."
She took the substance, though again, it was already blue before it left the phantom's hands. She watched as it flickered in and out of her fingers. The smile returned and she said, "It's good to know that both of us are grieving. Isn't that right…Wilbur?"
Hello everyone!
And we are back, much sooner than either VAERYS or I expected! We have finished the first part of Book 2, and the second part is already in the works. I hope you enjoy this next installment of Tell Me a Dream!
Disclaimer time:
"As before, I want to give a disclaimer that this story is based off of the Dream SMP and is not a direct novelization. VAERYS and I are aware that we have made a lot of changes to the original story. Along those same lines, the characters portrayed are our own versions of the in-game DSMP characters."
God bless,
Unicadia and VAERYS