Chapter Text
The darkness of the Overworld is both exactly and nothing like it is in the End.
The sky turns black and casts the city in shadow, with lanterns and candles illuminating the streets. It gets colder, albeit nowhere near the biting chill that Tommy’s grown used to. But even in its quietest hour, the Overworld’s night is captivating. Stars decorate the sky, just like Ranboo had told him about, like he’d seen in the End portal but so much more real. The moon, he finds, is the sun’s softer counterpart. He’s almost disappointed to see the gentle silver light fade behind the castle as they approach. Almost.
Tubbo leads them through a side entrance and into an access tunnel. “It’s how the servants would get in and out when they had to go into the city,” he explains. The tunnel is uncomfortably narrow and dark. Tommy feels the inexplicable urge to run down the hall, like something might be chasing them. He knows there isn’t anything behind them, but he checks anyway. There’s nothing but shadow.
The three eventually come out in another corridor, simple doorways lining the walls. “The servants’ quarters,” Tubbo points out. He gestures to another set of doors. “That’s the kitchen and the laundry room.”
“How do you know where everything is?” Tommy asks.
“I don’t,” Tubbo says. “I’ve only been here a few times. It’s creepy.”
They keep going down the corridor and emerge into a grand foyer. A huge crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, scattering moonlight across the room. A double staircase leads up to a landing and a second floor farther up. Hidden behind large doors on either side of the stairs is some other room, no doubt as equally elaborate as the main hall.
There’s an overwhelming sensation that settles over Tommy as he takes in their surroundings. Several, really, but the one he can confidently pin down is longing . Longing for something he doesn’t know the name of. Longing so strong that it aches in his chest and lodges in his throat.
He swallows it down for now. “Where to?” he asks Tubbo. “Where’s this ghost?”
Their guide shrugs sheepishly. “I’m not sure. I’ve never actually managed to find it before.” He starts toward the stairs, waving them along. “It’s fine; we’ll just wander around a bit! We’ve got to come across it at some point.”
There’s something unsettling about the palace, besides the obvious fact that it’s haunted by the ghost of a murder victim. It’s like looking at a portrait with no subject. The background is done and there’s a space all set up for someone to pose. But they left before it could be finished, or they forgot to show up. Or maybe the painter lost his mind and killed them.
More than that though, Tommy feels a certainty in his gut that this — the empty halls, the deafening silence — is inherently wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows it. He just does. It reminds him of somewhere else. Another castle that’s not entirely unlike the one he’s currently in but somehow so much worse.
As they walk, Tommy’s step falls in line with Ranboo’s. He catches the enderman’s eyes flitting over to him every few seconds, like he’s afraid if he looks away too long Tommy might disappear into thin air.
“Hey,” Tommy says. Ranboo jumps. “Everything okay?”
The bodyguard flashes him an attempt at a reassuring smile. “Of course! Don’t worry about me.” He coughs uneasily. “Are you okay? You’re still sure about this?”
“Yeah.” Tommy chuckles. “It’s weird.”
“What is?”
The prince makes a vague gesture to their surroundings. “This whole place. It feels… familiar. Like I’ve been here before or something.”
“You gonna write that down in your little notebook, too?” Tubbo jokes.
He’s being sarcastic, but he’s got a point. “Yes, actually.” Tommy folds back his journal to a new page and hesitates before writing. It’s difficult to put words to the indistinct feelings this place gives him, but he tries his best.
He pockets the journal when they finally reach the second floor. The hallways that trail off into different sections of the castle are identical. There is no way to tell them apart other than the directions they go in. But Tommy is being tugged by some invisible string to the east hall, like it should be second nature.
“Tubbo, what’s down there?” he asks.
“Uh, bedrooms I think.” The boy is already headed for the west hall, so Tommy snaps the invisible string and follows, glancing back.
The odd sense of déjà vu lingers as they pass through the hall. They peek into some of the rooms, if they can be opened. Most of them seem normal (save for the fine layer of dust that sends Tommy into a sneezing fit every time they open a door), like whoever lived there could come back at any moment.
The feeling gets stronger when they reach the last room at the end of the hall. It’s a study, a rather small room lined with shelves and a dark wooden desk. There’s a comfortable blue-cushioned chair that the king once sat in as he wrote letters and read reports. The only lights are a fireplace and a pair of dim oil lamps hung on the walls.
This is the scene Tommy has in his mind before Tubbo even has his hand on the door. Somehow, it’s a perfect match to the one that lay before them when they enter. Well, not quite perfect.
The room is in complete disarray. Books and paper lay scattered across the floor. The desk has been reduced to splinters. The chair is lying on its side, an ugly gash through the cushion. Broken shards of glass crunch under their feet as they enter.
“Damn.” Tubbo shoves debris out of the way with his foot. “What happened here?”
Tommy tenderly steps around the wreckage. The sight of the room in such a state is, like most other things about this place, not right. His stomach twists. “Do you think… you think maybe this is where it happened? Where they died?”
The boy examines the room and considers Tommy’s words. He starts nodding. “I think you’re right. There’s no way someone didn’t die here.” An eager smile forms on his lips. “Which means we’re in the right place.”
Before, the prospect of finding a ghost excited Tommy. Now though, it doesn’t sit quite right in his gut. He’s still absolutely determined to see it before he leaves the Overworld, that hasn’t changed. But there’s a tension all around him, a thickness to the air, that he hadn’t anticipated.
“So,” he says. “How exactly do we find it?”
Tubbo’s expression goes blank. “Uh…”
Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You do know how, right?”
“If I’m gonna be honest, I didn’t think we’d get this far.”
Behind him, Ranboo scoffs. He hasn’t gone very far into the room, choosing instead to hang back by the doorway. “Well, you’ve got about ten minutes to figure it out. After that, we’re leaving and I’m in charge.”
Tommy looks at Tubbo helplessly. “Got any ideas?”
The boy puts his hand to his chin. “Maybe we could try… summoning it?”
“ Summoning— are you—” Ranboo makes a pained noise. “Nope, I’m not part of this. Do what you’re going to do and leave me out of it.”
Tommy ignores him. “How do you summon a ghost?”
Tubbo thinks for a moment. “Ask nicely?” He looks upward into empty air. “Um, hello spirit! Or spirits. My name is Tubbo, that’s Tommy and Ranboo.”
“Don’t involve me.”
“Sorry to hear you died,” Tubbo continues. “We were just wondering if we could have a little chat? Face-to-face, maybe?”
Silence falls as they wait for a response. Ten seconds pass with no answer. “I don’t think it worked,” Tommy says.
Tubbo frowns. “Well, maybe we need to stand in a circle and hold hands. Jack says that’s what cultists do when they want to summon a demon.”
Tommy chooses to ignore the implications of Tubbo’s boss knowing how occult rituals work and instead points out, “We aren’t cultists. And we’re not summoning a demon.”
“It’s worth a try, though. Worst case scenario, nothing happens.”
“Worst case scenario, a demon shows up,” Tommy corrects, but he still takes Tubbo’s hand.
They both look at Ranboo, who shakes his head. “Absolutely not. No way.”
Tubbo pouts (a trick he must have picked up from Tommy). “We can’t make a circle with two people.”
“I told you, I want nothing to do with it.”
Tubbo holds out his hand. “What if the reason it’s not working is because you’re not helping?”
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. “And then you’re going to be all smug and shit that it didn’t work and force us to leave.”
Ranboo doesn’t look too convinced. “Three people isn’t a circle, that’s a triangle.”
Tommy gives him his best kicked-puppy expression. “Please?”
They stare at each other in a war of attrition. Tommy’s eyes start watering from going so long without blinking, but he thinks it might look like tears, so he keeps them open.
Ranboo rolls his eyes and completes the circle.
“Oh great spirit!” Tubbo says in a deep and dramatic voice. “We have come to speak with you. Show yourself!”
Nothing happens.
“Please?” he adds.
Still nothing.
Tubbo drops his hands dejectedly. “Fuck.”
Tommy pats his shoulder. “It was a good try.”
Somewhere in a distant hall, a grandfather clock begins to chime. Ranboo heads for the door. “Your hour’s up, Tommy. Time to leave.”
As if on cue, something in the air shifts.
A chill blankets the room and sends goosebumps up Tommy’s arms. It’s so cold their breaths form clouds in front of them. Mixed in with the tolling of the chimes is another sound that grips Tommy’s heart with claws colder than the room’s sudden temperature change. A voice, a whispering scream full of more desperation and pain than he has ever known in his whole life. It starts as an echo, but when the last chime fades, it’s in the room with them.
Except Tommy is no longer in the study.
He’s in a dark bedroom, toys and books piled on the floor, huge drapes pulled closed over a window. He was asleep just a few moments ago, now woken by the ringing of that haunting scream. The door is open. Someone is there. Someone he doesn’t know.
“Holy shit.”
Tommy blinks hard and finds himself back in the study. Ranboo is standing in front of him with a hand on his sword hilt. Beyond them is an unnatural pulsing glow.
It takes a moment for him to comprehend what exactly he’s looking at. Floating a foot above the ground is a vaguely humanoid figure, nothing more than a smudged white silhouette emanating a sickly blue light. Tommy can see right through the gaping hole in its chest to the back wall.
Tubbo is slowly backing toward Ranboo, staring in wide-eyed awe at the figure. “Holy shit,” he repeats, his voice hushed. “Did I do that? Was that me?” Ranboo ushers him back.
This is terrifying. This should be terrifying. Here they are, face to face with a genuine spirit of the undead in a strange abandoned castle in a strange city in a strange dimension. But when Tommy’s chest tightens and it becomes harder to breathe, it’s not the icy grip of fear like he expected. It’s grief.
Until the ghost lets out an ear-piercing shriek and races toward them. Then it’s fear.
All three scream and practically fall over each other leaving the room. Tommy is the first to make it into the hall. He doesn’t spare a glance back to check for his companions or to even see if the ghost is still chasing them, he just runs. If he can make it to the foyer, he can work his way back through the tunnel and get the hell out of there.
The pounding of his heart is echoed by his frantic footsteps as he descends the staircase. He’s on the last step before the landing (of course it had to be the last step) when he trips over his own feet and lands squarely on his face. Maybe it’s okay, he thinks. Maybe it stopped chasing. Another grating screech proves him wrong.
He scrambles backward on the floor, his own screams harmonizing with the spirit’s as it speeds toward him. Ranboo and Tubbo are nowhere to be seen. Helplessly, he raises his arms up to defend himself and prepares to be possessed.
A freezing gust of wind hits his skin and the shrieking fades. The air is warm and still once again.
Tommy opens his eyes. He’s not possessed (as far as he knows), and he’s not dead either. It’s a relief and a disappointment at the same time. It would have been cool to find out what death-by-ghost was like.
“Ranboo?” he calls as he stands and dusts himself off. The tear in his jacket sleeve is bigger. His voice bounces off the walls and reverberates through the castle. “Tubbo?” He turns in a slow circle, searching for them, when he sees something he missed the first time they passed through.
Three peeling faces stare down at him from a portrait hung on the landing’s short wall. The oldest sits in an elegant chair: a man with blonde hair held back in a loose ponytail, a simple golden crown resting on his head. His soft smile and the wrinkles under his blue eyes betray his gentle nature. A nagging voice in Tommy’s head tells him that he should know who this is. Obviously, it must be the king, but Tommy knows him. His image, his face, even though it’s painted right in front of him, is trapped behind fogged glass. Unfocused. Unclear.
A miniature copy of the king, with short curly hair and crooked teeth, balances on his knee. About five or six years old, probably. He wears a wide smile full of a child’s innocent joy. Tommy’s own muscles ache looking at him, as if he can imagine what it was like to hold that pose for hours on end as the painter worked.
The final figure stands beside the king, and Tommy’s heart stops. Brown hair falls over pale skin that he remembers was once washed in golden sunlight. A solemn expression rests on a face that he remembers was once bright with laughter. Long, thin hands are gracefully clasped together that he remembers once danced across the strings of a guitar.
The fog lifts. The glass is polished clean.
“Tommy!”
He hardly has time to recognize Ranboo’s voice before purple particles appear and the enderman is beside him. Ranboo pulls him close to his chest and squeezes so hard Tommy thinks his ribs will crack. It’s painful, but he’s so taken aback that someone is hugging him that he doesn’t notice.
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” Ranboo frantically checks Tommy over for injuries. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Ask him if he’s possessed!” Tubbo shouts as he hurries over to them from the stairs.
Ranboo squishes Tommy’s face in his hands and searches his eyes hysterically. “ Are you possessed? ”
“No!” Tommy wrenches Ranboo’s hands away. “Calm down, I’m fine!”
Tubbo looks around in dismay. “What happened to the ghost?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Dunno. It came at me and disappeared.”
“Aw.” Tubbo frowns. He turns to Ranboo. “You know, you’re a really shit bodyguard.”
The enderman throws his hands up in the air. “It was a ghost! What did you expect me to do, stab it?” He glances at Tommy, like he’s waiting for one of his signature Tommy-quips, but the prince has turned his attention back to the portrait. Ranboo falls silent when he sees it.
“Oh look,” Tubbo says, brightening. “That’s the royal family! King Phil the Dragon Slayer and the princes.” He points to the young boy on the king’s knee. “There’s the youngest. People say his body was never found. And the older brother, the one who died in the study. His name was… uh…”
“Wilbur.” It comes out in a crackled whisper. “His name was Wilbur.”
Tubbo gives him a confused look. “Yeah! How do you know that?”
Tommy stares at the image of the young boy, no longer a portrait but more of a mirror of sorts. “That’s me.” His gaze shifts to Ranboo. The enderman stares right through him. “I remember.”
The rooms Tubbo got for them at the Pub are smaller than any Tommy’s ever been in. It’s only a tiny bed and a single window looking out towards the castle. The walls are so thin he can hear Ranboo talking in his sleep in the next room.
The bodyguard drags them back to town after Tommy’s revelation. Neither of them are very talkative, but Tubbo rattles off a million and one questions. Tommy is too disoriented to really hear any of them. The minute they get back, Ranboo goes to his room, mumbling about a headache. Jack calls Tubbo away and the boy reluctantly leaves Tommy to himself.
Now Tommy lays in bed, staring at the ceiling above him and listening to the fading chatter of patrons below. How Ranboo expects him to sleep, he has no idea. There’s too much swirling around in his brain for him to even consider being tired. A sudden influx of memories, mismatched names and faces, bits and pieces scattered around here and there. He tries to make sense of it all in his journal.
Three words stick out in the chaos. Wilbur. Brother. Died. In the span of a few short sentences, Tommy had gained and lost a brother. Wilbur. It seems so obvious now, flipping back through his previous dreams. Throughout all of his lost and hazy memories, he was the one constant. The one thing Tommy hadn't forgotten.
If Wilbur is his brother, that means the king, Phil, is his father. He is a prince of the Overworld, this Overworld city, and the city thinks he is dead. The king, Phil, his father , murdered Wilbur, his brother , and tried to do the same to him. But he failed.
Why? Did Phil spare him out of pity? Was he only trying to get Wilbur? Did someone save him? Was it Dream? Is Phil out looking for him right now to finish him off?
The tip of his pen snaps. A blot of black ink stains his fingers. Tommy throws the pen across the room and snaps his journal shut.
He closes his eyes, and there he is. Wilbur. Eighteen the last time Tommy saw him. He scowls to himself, a bitter taste in his mouth. He finally finds the guy who’s been plaguing his dreams for the past seven years and he’s fucking dead. Go figure.
And now that he remembers one thing, another one pops up, then another and another. It’s like everything had been locked away in Tommy’s mind, and he had tried his hardest to search for the key that fit the lock. Then Wilbur’s awful, agonized scream came barreling through the door and the dam broke. It was a steady trickle for now, all disorganized and jumbled up. But maybe there’s a way for him to pick out the ones he really wants. A familiar setting, perhaps.
That’s how Tommy decides to sneak out of the Pub and back into the castle.
There is no longer a sense of fear or unease as he walks the halls by himself. It’s replaced by the aching chasm of loneliness, and not because he left his companions back in town. Because now he knows that the corridors should be filled with sunlight and busy workers crowding the floor and music. If he listens close enough, he can still hear it.
His feet carry him past the stairs and to a set of double doors, behind which he finds the ballroom and his first distinct memory.
It’s mid-summer and the king has thrown a party. Tommy sees it all in a golden glow, reliving the moment in slow motion. See-through figures appear out of nothingness like a host of spirits. Royal diplomats and honored guests that he could never keep track of mill about, smiling and dancing. There’s the king standing at the head of the room. He watches with bright eyes and a proud expression. Decidedly not crazy, Tommy thinks.
Next to Phil is a strange sight. A hulking man with pig-like features yet elegant robes and a humble crown. The two laugh like old friends, which Tommy knows to be true. Phil gives him a kind smile as he passes. The pigman reaches out to ruffle Tommy’s hair, his transparent hand dissipating when it comes into contact.
The spectral guests seem to part ways before him, forming a path, and at the end is Wilbur. All done up in fancy dress and wearing the same solemn face from the portrait, like he’s trying to convince everyone that he’s always serious and princely. But when he sees Tommy, the facade breaks and the sun returns to his face.
Tommy’s heart surges forward and takes his body with it. He runs and stumbles and is giddy with laughter, but when he crashes into Wilbur’s open arms, nothing is there. The memory is swept away like sand in the wind and Tommy is alone once more.
He’s next to a piano now. Yellowed sheet music still sits on the desk and he’s surprised when he understands what the garbled mess of notes and symbols mean. Tentatively, he presses a key. It’s out of tune. He sits down anyway.
When Tommy pulls out the bench and rests his hands on the keys, he is no longer in control of his movements. The piano is. Muscle memory, Wilbur called it. You practice a piece over and over again and soon enough, you don’t have to think about it at all.
The piece isn't exactly difficult, but as he reaches the end his fingers begin to stumble over the notes. He winces with each mistake and eventually gives up before playing the final chord. Honestly, it isn’t too surprising, seeing as he didn’t even know he could play the piano until about two minutes ago, but he gets a sudden pang in his chest at the thought of his clunky ending. Like he never learned the piece the whole way through. Like his instructor didn’t have the chance to teach it to him.
He leaves the ballroom in search of more memories. The king’s eyes bore into him from the portrait as he climbs the stairs. He glances at the younger version of himself for a moment, but quickly looks away. Seeing himself put on display is an odd feeling he would never be able to adjust to. There are no paintings of Tommy in Dream’s castle. Just one of the Ender king in the den. His eyes watch Tommy when he passes, too.
Back on the second floor, he follows the invisible string that pulls him down the east hall, not wanting to see the devastation of the study again. There are several doors and branching hallways, but he doesn’t bother checking to see what’s in them. The string tugs him along and leads him to a room that has been left wide open.
A dark bedroom, toys and books piled on the floor, huge drapes pulled closed over a window. The blankets have been thrown aside as if whoever was sleeping had left in a hurry. There’s a bookshelf against the wall. Tommy remembers his father sitting on a stool and reading to him while he and Wilbur acted out the story, using wooden swords and shields as props. Wilbur would tuck him in whenever the king was too busy to say goodnight. Sometimes his brother would hum to him until he fell asleep. That’s how it had been on the last night.
The memory begins with Wilbur’s scream.
Tommy is dragged out of blissful dreams and into a waking nightmare. The last of the scream echoes throughout the castle. A figure is standing in his doorway, their features obscured by the darkness, but Tommy is certain he doesn’t know them. He lies perfectly still as they approach, squinting so it appears he’s still asleep. They haven’t noticed that he’s awake yet.
A new sound introduces itself in the stillness, one that Tommy recognizes from watching the guards train: metal against the wood of a scabbard. The moonlight catches the blade as the mysterious figure raises it. Tommy struggles to keep his breathing quiet. All he can hear is his own heart in his ears. The sword stops above his neck. He can’t tell if it’s shaking or if he’s shaking or both. Should he call for Wilbur? Dad? A guard? Even if he can get his voice to work, will it even do any good?
Faint voices full of panic drift from the hall. The figure seems to be made of stone for how still they are standing. Tommy thinks this moment will last forever, a sword ready to drop and guards so close yet too far away.
Then the figure’s demeanor shifts. The blade descends, but not toward Tommy’s neck, to the scabbard. The intruder grabs his arm and shakes. A hand covers his mouth when he opens his eyes. They put a finger to their lips in a shushing motion. “Shh,” they whisper. From this close, Tommy can see their two-toned eyes glittering with fear. “You’re in danger.”
Suddenly they’re both in the access tunnel, running for the outside world as if something’s giving chase. They reach the end, and… that’s it. The memory fades and Tommy is back in his old bedroom where it began. There’s nothing more. But he doesn’t need any more.
What he has is enough.