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Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was .
-Henry Scott-Holland, Death Is Nothing At All
It happens in a flash.
Dream seizes their medical supplies; whether it's out of an actual need or just another brilliant act showcasing his brutality, Eret never quite makes his mind up on.
Nevertheless, an opposition forms itself, a pathetic, small uprising, embers of a dying fire.
They don't stand a chance and Eret knows, has known from the moment he first set foot into L'Manberg and continues to feel the weight of this truth as he builds up their walls, stone by stone.
Yet he's entangled himself in the revolutionary ploy, can't cut the threads that bind him and watches on as they march towards their inevitable demise.
And watch he does, as, not unlike a game of chess, sacrifices are made all across the board: Sacrifices not only of land, but of innocence, of dreams and hopes and ideals.
He watches and he waits.
(There's something monumental about being able to pinpoint the exact moment the light vanishes from someone's eyes. He sees how Tommy's seemingly endless energy gets drained more day by day, knows that while he may have entered this war as a child, he will leave it as an adult. Tubbo's naivety is gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by hardened resolve and distrust. Sometimes, Eret wonders if there's something he could've done.
He assures himself there wasn't.)
It all ends as it begins, on the wooden pathway connecting what they used to call their homes.
Eret feels the shape of loss in his mouth as Tommy and Dream line up on the path, mouthing along to the silent countdown leading to their demise.
It feels monumental, this moment, historical before it has even passed.
Yet he knows it won't be in the history books, the way both bows fire in perfect synchronicity, the way the sun reflects on Tommy's hair, the glint of dusk in Wilbur's eyes.
Simultaneously, he knows he will never forget any of it.
Tommy's shot misses, whizzes past Dreams head by an inch-
(-and Eret can almost see a different outcome, where it hits him-)
The arrow buries itself in Tommy's sternum. He stumbles for a second, face a picture perfect depiction of confusion, before his knees fold in on themselves.
"I must go to him", Eret says, mouthing words numbly, not feeling their shape as they tear themselves out of his throat. They taste like blood anyways.
He's pushed out of the way.
He gets a drink.
-
Rewind .
-
" -and the pursuit of victory .", Wilbur says.
Eret blinks.
I've been here before , he thinks, I've heard this declaration .
The battleground was so quiet, Eret rationalizes, that maybe he's dreamt up this scene that remains fond in his memory; one that glows with noise and vivacity much like the eyes of his friends, gathered around him.
What makes him pause, though, is Wilbur's face; the lessening of the tightness around his mouth, the brightness in his eyes, the way his arms move when he says freedom .
He takes the book and sets his signature the same way he did before, two dots over the first E, a curved line through the T.
He blows on the drying ink and hands it to the person next to him in one mindless movement, as if he'd done it before. You have , Eret chastises himself, don't let this dream confuse you .
And then he sees him.
Tommy, not bleeding ugly red on wooden pathways, hands not pressed desperately over a gaping wood but looking at the world with an all-consuming hunger, a desperate need for recognition, energetic and not dead, not dead, not dead .
Eret freezes. He silently counts to ten, smells the blood in the air and knows that this is his second chance.
He hands the book to Tommy. And he continues breathing.
---
He steps outside the caravan and ponders the reality of his situation, this extended sense of deja-vu painting the world an ugly gray.
Wilbur sits down next to him in the grass, turns his head towards the sky and smiles.
A sudden urgency takes hold of him as he watches Wilbur's relaxed demeanor and lazy smile.
"Wilbur", he says, "sir- I- "
"I know you're worried", Wilbur answers solemnly, "Believe me, I am too. But look around, Eret, look at where we are! Look at where we started! I believe we can win this war. Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy, they may not look it, but they're brilliant fighters-"
Eret turns his head. He's had this conversation before, before a war that hasn't happened yet, before a desperation that hasn't yet taken form.
Wilbur talks on, and Eret takes note of how untouched his voice sounds when he isn't leading his men to their death, the carelessness with which he says Tommy's name, as if it weren't part of a never ending tragedy.
A tragedy that hasn't happened yet, Eret thinks, and wonders how long this dream will hold.
---
The Battle of the Towers sweeps them up in unprecedented fury.
Eret feels the boom of the cannons in the roots of his teeth, lets the screams rattle his bones and watches a bloody dawn settle in the sky.
His second time through the war for independence, he realizes he is not dreaming.
---
Wilbur leads them into battle, sword raised into the skies like a prayer.
Eret watches, with a sort of distant sadness, as his friends fall one by one, figures on a chess board taken by the enemy.
He kneels in the grass, presses his knuckles into his eye sockets until his vision rips.
He doesn't get up.
---
Rewind.
---
" we shall prevail- ", Wilbur's voice cuts through the echo chamber of his mind.
He isn't dreaming.
Eret sways on his feet; he can barely remember the words he'd used two lifetimes ago, the happiness independence used to bring him. He can remember this moment though, a conversation frozen in time to be replayed over and over again.
He exits the caravan, never signs the declaration. Instead, he sits on the roof of his castle, watches the sun go down over the walls he's built, the destruction that hasn't yet come to be.
He turns his back. Walks away.
---
He meets Wilbur somewhere in between smoke riddled cities and abandoned homes, a street leading to nowhere at all.
Wilbur is what Eret had never dared to be: A revolutionary, words careful and molded into something tasting like freedom, standing behind a cause far greater than his own life.
The idealism radiates off him like light.
And Eret?
Eret is scared of what might become of him, what leading the same life, making the same mistakes, will make of him.
Wilbur only smiles knowingly.
"If you stand for nothing, Eret, what will you fall for?"
The words reverberate in his ribcage, bury themselves in his bones and echo in his veins.
If you stand for nothing what will you fall for? What will you fall for?
---
Eret doesn't come back.
The revolution still fails, even without him: Dream strikes them down in one, decisive swoop.
It's a bloody massacre.
An echo of an old conversation lingers in his mind, Wilbur's voice haunting the edge of words unspoken: In the end, you have no control over who lives, who dies, who tells your story.
He turns back to the road.
He gets a drink.
---
Rewind.
---
In the eye of the hurricane, there is quiet. For a second, Eret thinks he can see the reflection of a yellow sky in Wilbur's eyes-
" Independence ", he sees Wilbur's mouth form, sees the smile that tugs at his lips when he picks up his pen and starts writing. And the flash of turbulent sky is gone.
Eret thinks about Wilbur framed by a different sky, sword raised and voice firm, Tommy illuminated by the dying sun and bleeding blue sky and has to stop himself from being sick.
Then, he sets his signature.
Same as before, two dots over the first E, a curved line through the T.
Insanity , someone had told him once, is doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.
Something in him curls in on itself. There has to be something that can be done.
---
Dream comes to him like a godly vision, in the middle of the night.
He stands at the entrance of his castle, merciless ruler crowned by death, and smiles almost pityingly.
"Eret", he says, "I have a proposition to make."
Eret grimaces. Hands calloused and body aching, he would rather not listen to Dream's insanity. Yet what choice does he truly have? Dream is the king, after all, and Eret is nothing before him.
"Come in", he begrudgingly says.
Dream's gaze is cold. Calculating. He takes apart the castle with his eyes, stone by stone, until its foundation lays barren beneath his eyes. He does the same to Eret, flays him until nothing's left to protect the deepest layers of his soul.
"I know what you and your… little friends are planning."
Eret's blood runs cold. He thinks, silently, that it might be better this way; less bloodshed if Dream decides to just end it right here. Nothing but a failed uprising, erased by history in mere moments.
"And I propose", Dream continues, "That you switch sides."
Eret blinks.
Something heavy sinks in his stomach, iron weight and cold, tea thrown into the harbour, sinking to the ground.
Betrayal.
"What's in it for me?", he asks and the words taste like ash on his tongue.
He wonders, briefly, if his friends could forgive him.
"Anything you want. Riches, power, a title, hell, you could be the new king for all I care! I can give you everything. Your friends have nothing to offer you except whatever measly excuse of comradery they give to you. It's not too late to switch sides, to stand on the right side of history."
L'etat, c'est moi , Louis XIV had once said.
Eret looks at Dream and sees the same power hungry glint, the same dark greed in his eyes, in the way he holds himself. And truly, what's the difference between one brutal monarch and another?
In the end, they all fall the same.
"I'm sorry", Eret smiles, "But I have to refuse. And now get out of my home, before I decide words won't cut it anymore."
---
Tubbo leads them into a small tunnel, carved deep into a mountain.
There's something grim hiding in the lines of his face, eyes hardened by bloodshed and gunpowder, innocence lost in between fighting and losing.
Final Control Room , the sign reads.
There's a room buried deep beneath the ground here, delicately carved out of the dirt and lined with stone bluntly reflecting the dim torchlight.
"I've-", Tubbo starts, stumbles over the words, like it's a script he's poorly memorized, "In these chests, there's all I have been working for. Our last chance to win this war."
If anyone notices his emotionless delivery, they don't care enough to mention it.
Eret opens a chest, finds it empty-
The walls open up, and like a biblical punishment, their enemies pour out, swords raised, armour hardened by enchantments forgotten by time.
There's a fight, small and hopeless, before the realization that they stand no chance has finally settled in.
Dream has them lined up, backs to the wall as his soldiers stand guard before them.
He smiles devilishly.
"Tubbo, don't you have something to say?"
Something shifts in Tubbo's face, guilt and shame and fear mixing into one, indistinguishable thing, as he steps forward to face his friends.
"Down with the revolution.", he says numbly, "It was never meant to be."
Eret thinks Tommy might be screaming, but his ears are still ringing and the implications of what just happened bury themselves into his skin, making him bleed an ugly red.
Wilbur closes his eyes, rests his head against the wall.
"We surrender", he mumbles, "It's over."
Eret chokes on a sob.
---
Rewind.
---
" All men are created equal- ", Wilbur declares loudly, voices tearing through the air like a gunshot.
The sun is setting over the caravan. Somewhere, it is going down over a wooden pathway stained by blood.
Eret signs the declaration, a million iterations of the same name carved into the paper behind him. Two dots over the first E, a curved line through the T.
He makes the same promise to fight for the revolution as a million times before, because while some things may change, some are worth carving in stone.
---
Eret turns to face Dream.
He wonders if this is how Tommy felt, all those lifetimes ago, hopeless and small before a certain doom.
He's shaking, he thinks, a leaf caught in a hurricane; spinning in senseless pirouettes towards insanity.
Eret tightens his grip on the bow.
From the other side of the path, Dream smiles at him, twirling his bow in one hand lazily, watching Eret stagger and hesitate as if it were nothing but a game.
He turns to the rest of L'Manberg.
The twinge of loss has already settled into the lines of Wilbur's face, resignation clouding his eyes like grey smoke a blue sky.
There's something fiery engraved into Tommy's face, embers glowing despite the fire's death, one last splinter of hope before the world tailspins into despair.
Tubbo's eyes glisten brilliantly, diamond in the sunlight. He tries his hardest to contain the tears threatening to spill.
Lastly, Fundy.
He has hardened his face, emotions hidden behind a wall threatening to break apart, crumbling at the sight of their demise. It's a quiet ending. Eret feels almost glad for it.
"Here", Fundy mutters, "Good luck."
The arrows feel flimsy in his hand, almost surreal as he stands back to back with Dream, hears Wilbur count the paces.
Idly, he looks up to the sky and wonders if there's even any use in this, if the revolution can even be saved. If maybe, it was truly never meant to be.
"Ten paces, fire!", Wilbur shouts, voice thick with something almost tangible.
Eret raises the bow up into the sky.
---
Rewind.
---
Tommy stands next to him, brilliant and young and eager to fight, a vision of the past in flesh and blood.
Eret thinks of grayscale pictures depicting a past one can never quite reach and wonders if this moment, too, is forever to be trapped in time.
Unlike a photograph though, history unravels before his eyes in real time as Wilbur picks at the feather, contemplating the words that will dictate their future.
Eret let's his eyes wander and catch onto each of their hopeful faces, not yet tainted by blood and death and sacrifice, nothing but dreams and ideals, romanticizing a war that would take more than they could give.
Tubbo smiles, careless, and Eret sees a million could-be futures reflected in his smile, all Tubbo ever was and ever could be folded back in on itself, back to this specific morning in a caravan on the brink of war.
"Forever, the nation of Dream SMP have cast great sins upon our land-" , Wilbur starts.
And L'Manberg takes its first, shaky breaths yet again; risen from trampled mud and the memory of gunpowder, it's a revolution.
He signs the book.
The world continues on turning.
---
The night Dream declares war is a quiet one.
Eret can faintly hear the drinking song Wilbur and Fundy are singing, down where the campfire bleeds red into the darkness: The world turned upside down...
The words trail behind, chasing the tail coat of his thoughts as he moves on to different regards.
He gazes up at the walls, follows the smoke as it dances up into the night sky.
He's familiar with it now, the boisterous red and oranges ravaging through the forest, screaming destruction and leaving but soot covered remains.
It's about time for him to call out to Wilbur now, report the attack and prepare for the war that will inevitably come over them furiously.
Still, Eret can't help but watch a little longer.
The flames twist and turn almost delicately, in a strange erratic dance, twitching with no rhythm.
There's no beat, no melody.
Dance macabre , a voice supplies in his mind, reminder of a conversation he can't quite place.
A single flaming arrow flies over the wall.
Eret blinks.
And as the caravan implodes into a million brilliant pieces flying through the air like fireworks, all Eret can think is:
That never used to happen before.
---
Rewind.
---
"Life, Liberty-" , Wilbur's voice tears apart the veil between life and death and Eret, once again, finds himself in the caravan.
He's familiar with the motions and words expected of him, has repeated the same line thirty-three times now, Sisyphos pushing the boulder up the mountain just to fall down yet again.
He signs the book.
There's one sole thing he hasn't tried yet.
---
Dream's side welcomes him with open arms.
---
Eret watches them all filter into the room, phantom-tasting ash.
He counts the seconds, mouths the shape of the numbers soundlessly.
Then, he presses the button.
He knows it will be in the history books, the look of betrayal on his friends faces, the pistons firing in tandem and the practiced smug look on his face.
"Down with the revolution", he echoes numbly, "It was never meant to be."
Desperation claws at his throat like a trapped animal and silently he wishes that his friends can see what lies behind words so carefully constructed that they almost seem real, that they know he's lying.
He knows it won't be in the history books, the pain that flares in his chest like a desperate flame, his shaking hands or the knowledge that this is the only way.
The universe shifts into this new reality almost seamlessly.
Eret knows that now, L'Manberg will win, no matter what.
Boundless sacrifice lies behind, a mountain of realities deconstructed and forwards is nothing but void, a paradise of loneliness he's created himself.
The curse of knowledge haunts him even when he knows it must be over.
---
He's exiled from L'Manberg.
---
They win the revolution in the end.
Eret smiles.
It's all he's ever wanted.