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Wilbur looks up at the falling snow, watching the snowflakes twirl from the sky, landing on his nose and in his hair, settling in his coat. It's a mute brown cloak with dark patches of brown, buttons going up and down the centre. His father sewed it for him, which is the only reason Wilbur still wears it. He doesn't have much of a reason to wear it otherwise. All it is is a reminder of what he used to have, what he's lost. There are stitches in it from ripped hems and pulled strings, all which make it so much more real. The coat is fragile and so breakable and soft, it's unbelievable to him that he still has it. Throughout everything, the coat has remained with him, and Wilbur sometimes thinks that he would like to burn it. That he would like to watch the fire curl off of it, that he'd like to watch the smoke fade into the cold winter air.
He thinks that he would like to watch it burn.
He stands still, closing his eyes as he feels snowflakes land on his face, internally wincing whenever they melt. Wilbur can see the sun behind lidded eyes, wondering how long it'll take before it goes down, before the moon rises. He shoves his hands in his pockets, swaying gently on his feet, listening to a melody in his head that he thinks that he should remember. Wilbur thinks that it's a shame that he got all of his bad memories back, yet he still can't remember the little things. He can't remember the things that made him Wilbur, he can't remember what made him a real person, what made him different from everyone else.
Wilbur has heard that he used to stand out from the crowd. That no matter what happened, he was always seen and heard. That his voice would echo through miles, that people would have to listen to him. That he was the one to shout the loudest when he faced injustices. Wilbur wonders if that's true or not, he wonders if he used to be that loud. Wilbur is quiet, now. He's not nearly as talkative as everyone once described him as. He prefers to keep to himself, he prefers to keep his mouth shut. Wilbur wishes that he had someone who would understand, but he doesn't.
That's alright, he thinks. Wilbur opens his eyes, listening to the songbirds sing in his ears. He wonders what they sing about. He'd like to sing, too. It's been years since he's really sang, he thinks. It's been so long since he sang, since he performed. If Wilbur thinks hard enough, he can think of a time where he sat on a stage and played music for a crowd. He thinks that he may have won whatever competition it was for. Wilbur thinks that he didn't want to win. He remembers that he wanted someone else to win, someone who he looked up to, someone who he admired. Wilbur doesn't remember his name or what he looked like, but he remembers how much admiration he held for whoever he was.
Wilbur wonders if he's doing alright. If the man who stood on that stage before him is alright. Wilbur wonders who he was, where he came from, what he was like. He would like to remember, he would like to know. He'd like to talk to that man again, he would like to ask him questions and catch up. He'd like to compare their lives from before and from now, just to see how different they are. Wilbur wonders where he is. Wilbur hopes that he's okay. He can faintly remember things from his old past, more so than his new.
He remembers sitting on an island in the sky, his legs hanging off the edge. He remembers staring down into the void, watching the stars and the light get sucked into that pit of darkness, leaving him alone and empty. Wilbur remembers feeling something akin to hope after a few months on that island, though he isn't sure where that hope came from. He remembers hating it up there, Wilbur remembers it so vividly, the feelings that emerged from his time in the sky. He isn't sure how he got there or how he got back down, and sometimes he wonders if it was all a dream.
Wilbur feels his face sting, the frost biting at his fingers and his ears, chilling his nose and his cheeks. It's been so long since he left his house and just stood in the snow. Wilbur has always liked the snow. He remembers days back in his nation, L'manberg, he thinks it was called, where he laughed and sung tales of war and friendship while his soldiers listened to him. He remembers the traitor laughing at his jokes, he remembers the fox grinning at him and adding onto his songs with his own notes and choruses. He remembers the baker listening to him, her eyes never leaving his own.
Wilbur remembers the martyr and his friend, the spy. He remembers the martyr better than he remembers himself. He was a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, with a red and white shirt that remained unscathed throughout his time a as a soldier. The martyr had bright eyes and a stupid grin that always stayed on his face, very rarely wavering. The martyr changed down in the tunnels, down in the ravine of hell. Down in hell's depths, Wilbur remembers, is where he himself changed. Wilbur remembers that he used to detest and loathe people who became corrupt out of spite or out of power, and now, he thinks, it's funny how he became the very thing he hated.
His foil was the one who kicked him out. His antagonist, the man with horns and yellow eyes and a bottle readily in hand. Wilbur remembers looking into those yellow eyes, watching as they gleamed with power, tainted with the seeds of corruption and impurity. Wilbur told himself that he would never become like his foil, that they would stay as two different entities, that they would remain separate and far away, that they would never merge as one. His foil looked him in the eyes and he laughed, he laughed at Wilbur's attempts to flee, his attempts to be better, to stay better. Wilbur wonders if his foil knew, he wonders if his villain knew that he would lose his mind.
Wilbur wonders if he knew that the both of them would.
Years have past since that night, though he isn't sure how many have. He hasn't been visited once since he left, and although parts of him wish that someone would come to say hello, Wilbur is ultimately alright with being left alone for the rest of his life. Or his afterlife, he thinks. Wilbur turns his head at the sound of Friend's bleating, smiling gently at the sheep who huddles under the edge of the roof to protect himself from the cold. Friend is the one constant in his life, it seems. He's the only one who's stuck around, which isn't quite surprising, seeing as he's in a pen that he can't escape. Still, it's nice to not be entirely alone.
Wilbur shoves his hands in his pockets, swaying on his feet, listening to a melody in his head that he feels like he should recognise. He smiles up at the pale blue sky, watching as clouds drift across it, leaving behind little wisps of themselves as they go. Wilbur remembers being in the sky, he remembers it more than he'd like to. But some parts of him wish that he was still there, that he still was on that island, completely alone and desolate. It would be easier than this, he thinks. Wilbur knows that they could reach his house on top of this hill if they really wanted to, it wouldn't be that much of a hike. And yet still, they choose to never show their faces, they choose to leave him alone. At least on that island in the sky they would have a reason to not come to him.
Wilbur wonders if he really was as bad as everyone told him he was.
He's heard the tales of what he did and who he had become, but he doesn't know if that was true or not. He's got no one to trust, no one he can rely on. He thought he could rely on the baker at first, and then he thought he could listen to the martyr, but he was wrong. Wilbur tried to listen to the pig, but he ended up leaving with their father. Wilbur sighs, breathing in the cold winter air, freezing over his lungs, chilling the back of his throat. He's always loved winter.
He remembers picking up his guitar in the middle of a snowstorm and playing songs that meant nothing, he remembers singing and laughing with his friends. Wilbur remembers so much and yet so little at the same time, and half of the time he isn't even sure what's real or not.
Wilbur remembers that he used to play a game with the martyr - real or not real.
I'm a bad person.
Not real.
You're my little brother.
Real.
I used to be a good person.
You still are.
I used to play music.
Real.
Wilbur blinks, standing a little straighter, shaking his head to rid it of those thoughts, of those memories. It's been such a long time since he's seen the martyr, and he hopes that he's doing well. Wilbur can't remember his name no matter how hard he tries, he can't remember any of their names, but he wishes that he could. Friend shuffles in the snow behind him, wandering around the pen, picking at the grass that manages to peek through the snow. Wilbur looks back at his house, staring past the open door, his eyes landing on a guitar. It's handcrafted and made of oak, dents in the side of it. He floats towards it, an indescribable urge to hold it flaring in his head.
He picks it up by the neck, feeling the weight in his hands, smiling at the familiarity of it all. It feels so nice, so natural.
It's been years since he's spoken. Wilbur didn't want to start talking to himself, to rely on the words that no one else had to offer other than himself, so he didn't speak at all. Wilbur doesn't remember what his voice sounded like, the way he talked or what speech patterns he used. Wilbur tightens his grip on the neck of the guitar, the song that rings in his ears becoming louder with every passing second.
He opens his mouth, feeling his throat constrict and tighten, his head screaming at him to not break the silent promise he made with himself. He rests the guitar against his shoulder, running his hand down the strings, grinning when the noise reaches his ears. It's been so long.
Wilbur reaches into his pocket almost instinctually, pulling out a yellow pick that he doesn't quite remember having. He sways on his feet for a moment before he floats back to the outside, glancing up at the sky when he exits his home. Friend looks at him, his eyes almost human-like, but not entirely there yet. Wilbur opens his mouth again, internally hissing at the way the cold hits the back of his throat. He strums his fingers over the strings, closing his eyes with a smile. It's been so long. It's been forever since he's heard anything other than the wind pounding at his door or Friend bleating. It's been so long since he's heard something that makes him happy.
He breathes out, feeling something akin to nervousness and fear settle in his chest. It's been so long since he's spoken. Ever since he left that place behind, he hasn't said a word. What if he tries? What if he tries to speak, but he's unable to? Wilbur swallows back that fear, focusing on the music his hands create. It's familiar, like second instinct. He doesn't even need to think to play, and he wonders how long he's played for. Memories come back into his mind, opening a floodgate with them, bringing back things he had forgotten about for years.
"Well, New Milo, I may have lied."
"Sky Gods, do you have fun taunting me? Hurting me, tricking me?"
"I want you to see the world, New Milo. You deserve it so much more than I ever will."
"Where there's a Will. Oh, come on, that was funny as fuck and you all know it."
"Tommy, I think that you're going to do great things."
"No, Tommy. I know that you're going to do great things. One day, when I'm gone, you'll be here still, strong and unwavering."
"I'm proud of you, Tommy. I'm so proud of you."
"Let's be the bad guys."
"You know it takes a lot to move me."
"I think this time I'm dying."
"Kill me, Phil."
"Kill me!"
"I think I've found what moves me."
Wilbur winces, closing his eyes.
"I'll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready," he whispers, "and I'll put down my roots when I'm dead."
The words are broken and his voice is cracked, shattering on every syllable, but he sings.
He sings until he can't, until the memories flood back, all of them hurting him in a different way, every one of them stabbing him in the chest, drowning him, igniting him.
Wilbur had picked up his boots years ago.
He's most certainly put down his roots today.