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He’d give anything up for his friends, Tubbo thinks.
Even himself.
Even if it means dying.
Because what point is there, to live without giving something up? You have to, to make progress- to lose is to gain, and that’s the way he’s always been taught.
Good people are selfless, because selflessness is a virtue.
And yet, too much of one thing is never good.
He is being chased, Tommy thinks. This will be his final stand, if he does not act fast and think faster.
He is running. He is quick. He is the personification of speed, he thinks. His thoughts are interrupted- it turns out that he is not quick enough, for an arrow grazes his shoulder. He tries not to yell, not to scream, not to make any noise, which is abnormal for him, because Tommy is not one to be quiet.
He is a diversion.
He is expendable, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t true. And yet? He knows it is.
So he is a simple, forgettable diversion.
And yet, he wishes he were something more.
Why did he let them do this? he thinks, as he stares at the battlefield covered in corpses, the grass glazed with blood. They’re only children, they should be in school, they shouldn’t be fighting in a war, and yet, they are.
Wilbur does not regret many things, but this is one thing that he should have never allowed to happen.
He joins the fray, his diamond sword glinting in the light as his soldiers rally around their leader.
He has no choice but to press on, for their hopes and spirit have been replenished, and he can no longer deny them combat.
He hates the gore that stains his sword’s sharp edge, crimson falling to the grass in dripping streams as person after person falls to its cyan bite.
And yet, this is the price of war.
He is tired, Fundy thinks. Tired of fighting. Tired of killing so that he is not killed.
He wishes it was simpler.
Perhaps…
Perhaps Eret was right, in leaving.
Perhaps if he left as well, they- the L’manburgians- would surrender, and finally, the war that had raged on far too long would be over at last.
And yet, he stays loyal to his motherland, for this is where he was born, and this is where he shall stay.
He has regrets, Eret thinks.
He had thought that Dream was right.
That this war… if he left…
That it would end, sooner rather than later.
That Tommy…
Tubbo…
Fundy…
Wilbur…
That they wouldn’t be hurt.
That they wouldn’t die.
He sees how incredibly wrong he was.
He is lonely.
He is friendless.
He has been trying to make alliances the whole time he’s been here, between all the battles and skirmishes that happen far too much for him to be comfortable.
And yet, nobody trusts him, because if he can betray his friends once, he can most surely do it again, and Eret hates how they’re right.
Tommy is trying to escape now, genuinely.
But they are catching up, and he is only a child on two legs. He cannot last much longer against grown men.
He isn’t sure what to do. He is running.
But for how long?
Tubbo is searching. Searching for Tommy. He knows the other is a diversion, but he can’t get the ‘what if’s out of his mind- they are spreading like wildfire, like a disease, and no matter what he tries to distract himself with, he has to go- go find Tommy, or he’ll go insane- he cannot stand seeing the bloodied corpses of his friends anymore, on the ground.
He hates this war.
He hates it more than he’s ever hated something before- he hates it more than he should be able to.
He
has
to find Tommy. He can feel it in his bones.
Something is wrong.
Something is so incredibly wrong.
He lets his feet guide him instead of his mind, going on autopilot as he speeds through fields of mangled bodies. He hijacks a horse and tells it to run.
He can’t let Tommy die.
Tommy’s shoulder itches.
Well, it burns, really.
It burns with a fierce and fiery pain, and he hopes it isn’t infected.
He… hopes.
He weaves between trees, trying to hide from the arrows that seek his heart, his head, his lungs, his legs, the arrows that thirst for his blood to oxidize in the cold, biting wind.
He won’t grant them their gruesome satisfaction.
Tubbo finds him, and it is terrifying to behold him as he breaks into the clearing, eyes blazing with righteous anger as he sees his childhood friend, pale and cold and shaking and afraid.
Of course, the soldiers do not see this, for all they see is a child.
Not even a child, really.
A pawn.
An expendable pawn.
One of them fires an arrow, and Tommy, stood still and looking at Tubbo in shock, does not see it. Tubbo, thinking fast, jumps from his saddle, trying to block it, to deflect the arrow.
He thinks too fast.
He miscalculates.
The arrow sinks into the hint of exposed flesh between his armor with a gruesome thud, and, the footmen, realizing their job is done, leave.
Tommy screams.
He screams at them, to come back, to face him so that he can tear them into bloody pieces.
He screams at the unfairness of the world.
And then he lets his walls down, and he cries.
Tubbo cries too.
He is a dead man.
Not even a man.
A child.
He is a casualty of war.
The only thing he has left to do is die.
He cries and clings to Tommy, and Tommy clings back. “Don’t you dare die,” Tommy whispers harshly, and Tubbo laughs, but the sound is hollow and broken and fake. “You can’t just-”
“Tommy, did they hit you?”
“W- no-”
“With an arrow, T-” Tubbo breaks out into bloody coughing. “T- Tommy, did they get you-”
Tommy wants to lie.
But he can’t.
Not when Tubbo is dying, not when Tubbo is like this in his arms.
“Yes.”
Tubbo cries harder. “F--k- Tommy- this- this is bad- you have to get back to Wilbur now, go now, go r-” More coughing, and this time he chokes on his own blood.
Tommy, panicked, runs back to the war camp, Tubbo in his arms and exhaustion replaced with adrenaline. He checks Tubbo’s pulse fervently, not daring to touch the arrow. He knows that if he does, it could hurt Tubbo even worse, and he just can’t afford for that to happen.
He can’t even use a healing potion, because that would cause the arrow to get stuck, and… he doesn’t want to think about that.
His vision is blurring.
He does not care.
He has to save his friend.
He makes it, but barely.
He is shaking, face void of colour and pale.
His eyes are glazed.
He is near-dead.
Tubbo is barely there.
He awakens to the sound of soft whispers.
He makes a small sound, and someone rushes over.
Wilbur.
“Tubbo, what were you thinking?” he whispers, and there are tears in his eyes, but Tubbo does not care.
“Had to… save him…” he mumbles sleepily, closing his eyes, and Wilbur lets out a strangled sob.
“Don’t sleep, Tubbo,” he gets out. “Don’t you dare die on me now.”
Tubbo smiles.
He looks at Wilbur, and the light in his eyes has faded. “I’m… dead… arrows… poison…”
Wilbur blanches. “Tubbo. No. Don’t you dare.”
“Tommy… antidote…”
“I’m not picking one of you over the other, Tubbo, don’t make me do that-”
Tubbo lets out a dull laugh. “...please,” he whispers, and, unable to keep his eyes open longer, lets them fall shut, his breaths slowing further.
Wilbur grabs the child’s wrist and desperately searches for a pulse, and there isn’t one, and he doesn’t know what to do.
“He’s dead,” he whispers, choking on his own words. “Tubbo…”
He doesn’t want to have to bury him.
Tubbo.
Tubbo shouldn’t have died.
It hurts, and yet he can’t do anything about it.
He soundlessly walks over to Tommy, who is laying in a cot with the most peaceful expression Wilbur has ever seen on his face spread across his features.
He looks his age, Wilbur thinks.
He looks innocent, Wilbur thinks.
He shouldn’t have to deal with this.
He shouldn’t have to deal with the loss of his best friend in the whole wide world.
It isn’t fair.
Wilbur takes his hand, too, and checks for a pulse.
It is faint.
It is dying.
Wilbur wants to die, too.
How could he have let two children fight a battle?
How could he have done this to them?
Wilbur has never hated himself more than in that moment.
He clenches his eyes shut, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
He holds Tommy’s hand until the pulse is gone, and then, as his body grows cold, lets go and walks out of the makeshift hospital.
He is furious.
“You did what?” he seethes, glaring at his right-hand men. “You did what!?” he repeats, as if he wasn’t loud enough the first time, his emerald-green eyes glinting dangerously in the light.
“Dream-”
“You killed two kids, Sapnap, how could you have done-”
“They weren’t just kids, they were soldiers-”
“Do you not have any morals? Are you really going to sink that low?”
George steps in. “Dream, they had weapons, they would have killed us if we di-”
Dream turns to him, and George is faced by the full force of Dream’s rage. “Do you think I care about that? They were running, weren’t they?”
“Well- yes, b-”
“Then it wasn’t justified!”
“D-”
“Get out.” Dream snarls, turning away from the two of them. “Get out of my sight.”
Sapnap and George’s eyes meet for a moment before they turn and exit the room.
Dream is not happy at all with this.
He isn’t happy with George or Sapnap, and he is shocked that Wilbur would allow children to fight his war.
He has to put this right.
But his pride will not let him.
Selflessness is a virtue.
Pride is a vice.
These are facts, they say, but it’s really just advice.
Too much on one side, too far the scale tilts- if you overextend yourself, you die.
That is a fact, not just simple advice.