Chapter Text
it has been exactly three years since wilbur pressed a button and destroyed his symphony.
in time, they’ve worked together to write another masterpiece. there is no one composer, no one conductor; they take turns. it’s enough.
niki is standing on the outskirts of their work. there are no fireworks, in honor of the lives lost to them; there is no celebration. it is a day of mourning, of remembering what happened, of remembering the chaos that unfolded when a city exploded. tomorrow there will be singing in the streets and they will rejoice, because they have rebuilt, but tonight, they are mourning.
in the aftermath of a world destroyed, it makes sense that pogtopia didn’t stick together, especially after tommy’s exile. the streets grew quiet. dream’s rule grew more oppressive. and one day, tubbo snapped, resigned his post, and took off in search of tommy. fundy was elected with niki as his vice, ranboo and more new faces serving as their cabinet. quackity formed his own nation, and eventually, he took some of his people and left, went far away from the death that hung thick in the air of l’manberg and the smp. he started another nation, a new nation, and as far as niki knows, he thrives.
eret, techno, phil- they all went to different worlds. phil returned to one of his hardcore worlds, and niki visits occasionally, but not enough. techno conquered a new empire and then left it, and then did it again, and again, and again, until there was a slew of worlds that have been conquered by the blood god but not ruled by him. eret found a world where the people are at peace, because if there’s one thing they needed it’s peace; they were made king and they live in a world that loves.
and niki is going to drag all of them home. even if it kills her.
there is one member of pogtopia unaccounted for, one member who has long since been gone. the people call him ghostbur and they say he haunts his streets, but niki knows the truth. that’s why she’s standing at his grave, fresh loaf of bread and bouquet of flowers in hand.
the people may not outwardly mourn their lost leader, but she does. she mourns wilbur. she doesn’t know if she’ll ever stop mourning wilbur. she sets the bread and the flowers down at his grave and she takes a deep breath and sits down.
“hey, wil,” she says, like she’s said every night, once a week, for the past three years. “how are you?” she does not expect a response. she never expects a response. because she knows the truth.
“i’m doing okay, i think. i miss everyone. fundy’s been doing his best, and i think you’d be proud of him. i know you’re around here somewhere, i just hope- i hope that even if you don’t talk to me, you’ll talk to him. someday.”
she adjusts the flowers slightly.
“i know you won’t talk to me. you haven’t yet, have you? i just think- well. i know phil’s been off-world for two years now, and techno longer than that, and i don’t even- i don’t even know where tommy is, which hurts most of all. he doesn’t respond to any messages, not him or tubbo or quackity, which is understandable, i guess. i just hope you’re with one of them, talking to them, making sure they’re okay.”
the bread is still warm. she can smell the flowers.
“because they all believe the ghostbur act, yeah? which is why you talk to them. and i know it’s an act. i know the perma-death cleared your head. you know exactly what you’ve done, wilbur, and instead of- instead of facing it , you’re hiding. because you’re scared. you’re a fucking coward, wilbur soot, and you don’t realize that we’ve- that i’ve - already forgiven you.”
she takes a shaky breath. there are tears in her eyes. it’s the same speech she’s given him once a week for the past three years. just in case he’s listening.
“i think i’m going to reunite us,” she says. this part is new. maybe, if he is resting in his grave, it’ll pique his interest. “pogtopia. i’m going to bring them home. i’d like you to be there.”
she’s been thinking about it for a long time, about how she’d do it. and for the finishing touch, she’s been travelling around, searching for the three still on-world while scouring every library within a five-hundred-thousand block radius. she’s got a hidden bunker filled with every book containing every spell and potion and enchantment she might need.
“why?”
she knows that voice. it has been three years, but she knows that voice.
“you’re here,” she says softly, and she doesn’t turn around. she can feel a presence at her back, watching her, watching the bread and the flowers and the heavy sword she put on the ground when she sat.
“i’m always here. your speech is different. bringing them home?”
tommy described ghostbur’s voice to her, once. soft. scared. like a child, almost, someone who didn’t know his place in the world. this is not that, but this is not the crazed wilbur who blew up a country, either. this is wilbur, before, the one whose arms she jumped into when she first arrived in this world. this is wilbur, before, the one who led a war and tried to keep his son and brothers safe. this is wilbur, before, who was exiled from his nation and still left flowers on the doorstep of her bakery twice a week.
this is wilbur, and she knows him, and she loves him. so she turns and smiles and is greeted with the ghostly form of her best friend.
“yeah,” she tells him. “i’m gonna bring them home. a reunion, sort of.”
“you’re crazy,” he tells her. “and you want me to be there?”
niki is filled with rage, for a moment, that they’re not going to talk about the fact that he’s been avoiding her all this time, even though he’s been listening. she looks out to l’manberg, where she knows fundy is leading the people in memoriam of the hundreds who lost their lives to the tnt and the withers and the war of the leaders of the world.
“they’re mourning,” she tells him.
“they’re not mourning me,” wilbur scoffs.
“they’re all mourning you,” she corrects him. “yes. i want you to be there. it’s a reunion, isn’t it? we all miss you, wil. i miss you.”
he looks at her sadly. it’s been three years since she’s seen him. he’s exactly like tommy described him the one time she asked: the sweater that she knows is yellow, the beanie that she knows is red, the curly hair that she knows is brown. it’s all a light blue-grey now. he’s still tall, but he’s hovering in a kneeling position next to her.
“i know you’re not just saying that, because you’ve been here every week,” he says. “how’s fundy?”
“the best president he can be,” niki says with a smile. “i’ve tried to be a good friend, but it was hard at first. he was just so angry. at you. at techno. at the world.”
“i haven’t been haunting him,” wilbur tells her.
“maybe you should have been,” she replies.
they sit there for a while longer, both of them silent.
“thank you,” wilbur says eventually. “for trying to comfort me, even in death.”
“of course,” she replies, and she purses her lips. she’s not going to let him rest in peace for much longer.
she’s been collecting books, she’s been practicing her brewing and her enchanting. when she says she’s bringing everyone home, she means she’s bringing everyone home. even if she has to raise the dead to do it.