Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The button hums under his touch. He’s a spark, he’s a live wire. It’s all about to end, and Wilbur is fucking tired.

The voice that calls out to stop him is so small and panicky that it makes his heart squeeze. “...what are you doing?”

“Tommy?” His little brother has an arrow-shaped scar in the center of his forehead. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” Wilbur reaches down and wraps his arms around the trembling shoulders. “Just go. Please.”

“What? What, no, I can’t! I’m not letting you do this. It isn’t right!”

“It’s not up to you.” He shoves Tommy away from himself. “I’m going to blow it up. It’s happening whether you like it or not.” He blinks and sets his jaw. “Now get to safety.”

“Wilbur, but you--”

How close he is to crying. He laughs instead, the sound maniacal. “Yeah, exactly. My nation’s going down today, and I’m going with it. Leave. This is your last chance.”

Tommy braces himself in the doorway. “Not without you.”

“You think you can stop me?” He flicks the button with his thumbnail, and Tommy flinches. “My mind’s made up. I’d prefer not to have to kill you.”

“Sorry, Wil.” The boy takes a ragged breath. “I’m not going to make it easy for you. You press that button, you risk both of our lives -- oh, wait, you don’t fucking care. You risk my life.”

“I’ll do it,” he giggles, hand flitting over the detonator. Tommy thinks he won’t, and Tommy needs to know that he is wrong. Wilbur pretends to draw his hand away, and his brother sighs with relief. Then he slumps backwards casually into the wall, depressing the button with his shoulderblade. Tommy yelps with fear, and in the last second before the bombs go off, Wilbur wraps him into a tight hug, trying to shield him from the blast, trying desperately to love him and keep him close at the end of the world.

***

Wilbur’s whole back has been scalded. His hair is white with dust. There’s a chip of concrete embedded in his neck, just an inch off from his spine. Tommy is deathly still underneath him, his bangs dyed sticky crimson. All scalp wounds bleed a lot, though. The injury might not be too bad.

After an agonizing moment, Tommy stutters awake and glares at him with uneven pupils. “You really did it. Fuck you.”

“You’re okay,” he whispers.

“You bastard, you ---” He struggles to sit up. “My vision’s all blurry and my ears are ringing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You will be.” He rubs dust from his eyes, and when they clear, he realizes Wilbur is holding a sword. “What the fuck are you going to do with that?”

“Kill me, Tommy.” He gestures with the handle of the weapon. “Take it. End it.”

Tommy snatches the sword away from him. “What the shit?” 

“Kill me. Do it now. Murder me with that sword.”

“Wha -- that isn’t -- no!” His lip twists in disgust. “Why would I…?”

“I blew up L’Manberg, Tommy.” He runs an affectionate hand over the scar on his little brother’s throat. “You gave up everything for that country, and now it’s gone.”

“It’s not gone, it’s not --” he flings the sword out of the room and down the precipice. It clatters on the rocks below, now far out of reach. “It’s not over!”

Wilbur smiles softly and hands him his crossbow. “It can be. Real soon. Just one arrow.”

“I know it only takes one arrow!”

Tommy died twice for his nation. Why won’t he kill once to defend its honor? The bow is called Chekhov’s gun, and Tommy looks like he’s going to be sick. Wilbur musses the blood that’s drying into his brother’s blond hair. “You’re hurt, you’re disoriented, you don’t know what to do. Listen to me. I planned this. Here’s what happens next: you shoot me in the heart.”

Tommy spits a glob of pink snot and tosses away the crossbow. Wilbur asks, “why did you do that?”

“Because I’m not going to kill you,” says Tommy, as a thin trickle of blood runs out of his right ear.

“Are you going to make me do it myself?” At that, Tommy grabs his arm, a bony grip that the madman can’t dislodge.

“Don’t. Don’t go.” He shakes with a fear that Wilbur can’t bear to associate with his brave, brave brother. “Please. I still need you.”

Wilbur points down to where his onetime citizens stand amidst the destruction, staring up at him. “If we don’t take care of this, they will.”

“No,” says Tommy around a string of red drool, “I won’t let them. We’ll tell them I pressed the button. Or, or we’ll convince them it was an accident.”

“And why the hell would you do that?”

“Because I don’t want you to fucking die!” Tommy balls his fists and shouts down to the audience. “Don’t try anything! I’ll take care of this.”

Quackity slowly releases the draw of his recurve. “Tommy, really? Are you sure?” He shakes his head. “He’s the traitor. Is that safe?”

“Yes. Back off.” He blocks as much of Wilbur as he can with his smaller body. “Don’t threaten my brother.”

“Fine,” says Quackity, lowering his weapons. He adjusts his grip on Tubbo, who is leaning on him for support. The boy has broken several ribs after an impact with a flying wooden beam, and besides that he’s President. It’s Quackity’s job to protect him now, as a member of the cabinet but also as a friend.

“Tommy,” says Wilbur, and he slumps to the ground, dejected. “What a letdown.”

“We’d won, Wil.” Tommy stands over him, expression tearful. “We took the country back. Why’d you have to try and ruin it?”

“Try?” He laughs. “Tommy, I won. The land is a crater. It’s all over. We can’t come back from this.

“No,” he protests, “the people are still there. We’ll rebuild.”

“Sure you will,” says Wilbur, inching closer to the edge of the cliff.

“We will. You’ll fucking see.”

“It doesn’t matter!” he shouts, hysterical, “Whatever you create here, it won’t be L’Manberg. My country is dead. I killed it myself! There was a special place, really there was, but it’s not there anymore, and it can never exist again.”

Tommy shakes his head. “Maybe not. But let us try.” He grabs onto the sleeve of Wilbur’s ratty trench coat. “Will you make a bet with me? One last deal for L’Manberg?”

Wilbur brushes dust from his hands. “Tell me your conditions.”

“Give us one month. Thirty days to build a city, to fix what you’ve destroyed. Time to talk, time to repair your broken relationships, a chance to remember what L’Manberg is, before you decide it’s gone and never coming back. At the end of that, you come back to me. You sit and we listen to one more disc. And if you still feel the same way, I promise to kill you. I will do this thing for you. One month, that’s all I ask in exchange.”

Wilbur bites his tongue. He can wait a little longer; he knows what he’ll choose. “Alright. I accept the terms.”

Tommy gives him a brave smile.

They shake hands.

***

Wilbur tries to slink back to the ravine, but Tommy won’t let him. “You don’t need to be there. Spend the night at my house.”

“I hate your house.”

“And yet it’s still standing, even after everything you’ve done.” Tommy drags him by the hand into his shitty shack. His stride is uneven and his voice slurred; he seems almost drunken.

“I think you have a concussion.”

“Yeah? I wonder how that could have happened.” He directs Wilbur to his bathroom. “Get cleaned up. You’re tracking dust all over my home.”

“Your floor is literally made of dirt.”

“You smell like smoke. Like explosions. I hate the smell of gunpowder.” Wilbur turns on the shower tap to drown out his brother’s voice.

Water runs gray and pink down the drain before the color fades to clear. The cut in his neck has stopped bleeding; he picks at the puckered scab. The redness on his back is light as a sunburn, it peels away like snakeskin. He’s not too badly hurt. He should be hurt much worse. He should be dead. That’s what was supposed to happen. He didn’t plan on living past his last act, and now he’s just not sure what to do with himself.

“I have to keep an eye on you while you sleep,” he warns, stepping out of the shower and pulling on a dry sweater. Tommy’s face is wet from where he’s hurriedly scrubbed it in the sink. He lies flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, eyes pressed closed against the weak afternoon sunlight. “I’ll wake you every two hours. If you don’t get up, it means your brain is swelling.”

“My brain is so large. It could not possibly get any bigger.”

“Sure. Just trying to prevent you from slipping into a coma.”

“You should be nicer to me.” Tommy yawns. Now that the adrenaline has drained from his limbs, he realizes he’s fucking exhausted. “Since I just saved your life and everything.”

“We’ll see.”

Tommy feels like his head is stuffed with cotton, like something heavy is pressing him down, down, down. His mouth is dry and his thoughts don’t quite run to completion. For a moment, he forgets where and when he is and all the horrible things that have happened. As he sinks off into his pillow, his big brother watches over him with pride.

Chapter Text

Tommy's sat up in his bed while Wilbur slumps over in a wooden chair. Every few seconds his eyelids droop closed and he jerks upward, shaking himself back awake. Tommy glares at him. “You can sleep now, if you want to. I’m not gonna die.”

“...watch you,” he mumbles.

“Oh for fucksake.” There’s brown blood dried around his hairline; it’s itchy. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.” He fidgets with his sheets. “I’m so bored and you’re being a terrible conversationalist.”

Wilbur shakes his head sadly. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

“You slam-tackled the back of my head into the fucking ground.” He touches the tender place; it makes him wince. “If you’re not gonna be any fun, at least give me a book or something.” But he knows he can’t read now. His eyes are still blurry and his head aches when he tries to focus.

There’s a knock on the door, crisp but tentative, and Wilbur stands to answer it. Quackity stands at the threshold, his lip pulled into a sneer. “I was told I’d find you here.”

Tommy leaps up so fast he gets dizzy. “What do you want with him?” He stumbles, and Quackity catches his arm before he can fall.

“Relax, please. I’m here on official business.” He motions for Wilbur, who bows his head and steps closer. “The President has asked to speak with him. Alone, Tommy.”

“Fuck you,” he says as he collapses onto the mattress, “Tubbo’s my friend.”

“Mine too. Which is why I can trust him to handle this situation, fairly.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Wilbur, fixing Tommy’s quilt. “Get some rest. I’ll be right back.” 

Tommy closes his eyes as they leave, the door hinges throbbing in his ears. “Fuck you both.” They can’t hear him. He really does love Wilbur, though. Hasn’t he already done enough to prove that?

***

Tubbo found this suit in Schlatt’s closet. He’d had his own, once, tailored, but it’s ruined now, covered in dust and blood. His own, his friends’, his citizens. The three-piece he takes off the hanger is navy blue and smells of tobacco smoke and alcohol. He has to cuff the sleeves four or five times. Nobody will take him seriously. He knows how to tie his tie.

There are scars on his face. His country is just rubble. His desk is a haybale on the edge of a cliff and his elbows itch. They tried to ruin his life, so he will have a great one instead, simply out of spite.

The terrorist is still wearing his trenchcoat, his wrists bound loosely by a length of rope. He could slip it but chooses not to. He can’t meet Tubbo’s eye. There’s a blue stain on his forearm.

“I apologize for our unprofessionalism,” says Tubbo, “But there isn’t anymore courthouse.”

Wilbur’s eyes look dull and blank.

“What happened to Tommy?” That’s the first thing, the most important thing, to unravel. There will be many unanswerable questions to ask later, and they all start with the word why.

“Head injury. He -- he’ll be okay. The bombs went off and he was standing too close.”

Tubbo despises the passive voice. “You hurt him.” In so many ways. “You hurt all of us. And you hurt me.” He’s not just talking about the broken ribs that poke into his lungs. Wilbur had condemned him, sacrificed him, used him. Used Tubbo as a spy, a symbol, a mascot, a martyr. But now Tubbo is the one who has power, power over the man who’s wronged him. “Look, as the President--”

Wilbur laughs sadly. “You’re President of a crater!”

“Yes, as the president--”

“Again, of a crater…”

“Wilbur, you moron. There’s no point in focusing on the negative.” And isn’t that the truth? Part of him wants to make Wilbur suffer, wants revenge, wants to put a little more pain on someone who deserves it. “You’re right, my country needs a lot of work. I need help to repair it. I need more pairs of hands. Wilbur Soot, as reparation for your crimes against L’Manberg, I sentence you to forty hours of community service, to be completed at my own discretion.”

“You’re skipping the trial?”

“Fine, Wil. On charges of blowing up my fucking nation, how do you plead?”

He looks at his hands. “No contest.”

“Wonderful.” Tubbo slams his fists together like a mock gavel. “You start now. You report to me, and when I'm busy, to Quackity.”

The man smirks behind his sunglasses.

“In my speech, I said that this country had damages, and I wanted to fill in the holes. This isn’t what I meant.” The President is feeling very small in his uniform; his chest hurts. He needs a friend.

***

The tamarack comes crashing down at a blow of Wilbur’s hatchet. He watches its yellow needles swoop an arc through the air as it falls. Tubbo assembles a sawhorse and they split the trunk into logs, strip off the bark. Sweat runs down Wilbur’s forehead, his hands blister.

“This isn’t how you build a nation.”

“No,” says Tubbo, “We’re just gathering materials.”

“I mean that there’s no spark. No revolution. No point. This isn’t an independent country, it’s a lakeside motel.” Like scaffolding over the surface of a pit, whatever they create here will be hollow.

“No war,” adds Tubbo, “No bloodshed.” 

Wilbur bites at a callus.

“Leave that alone. It hurts now, but in a few weeks, your skin will get tougher.”

“Sure.” He’s always had thin skin. The boy hauls stones onto a sledge, as though thinking right at that moment about foundations. Wilbur laughs. “Words are what’s important. Declarations. Ideas.”

“Can you live in an idea? Can you eat one? Will an idea stop an arrow?” Schlatt had driven Tubbo out of Manberg, and so the new White House he’d just commissioned never got finished. “Someone has to build. Someone has to do the hard labor of leveling forests and pouring concrete, and today that person is you, Wilbur. Maybe this will teach you to appreciate what you have. L’Manberg is mine, now. You’re the one who gave it to me. I’m giving a piece of it back. You can build yourself a dirt hovel if that’s what you want, just do the work yourself.”

“I don’t need a house,” Wilbur says absently, “I live with Tommy.”

“Mm hm.”

“I’ll do what you asked of me, and then I’ll be gone. I won’t cause any more problems for you.”

Like Wilbur’s mistakes won’t follow Tubbo for the rest of his life. He’s the third president, and at least he knows what not to do. He sets down his jigsaw and he makes a list. 

1. Never get angry. At most, he’ll be stern. Rage, no matter how justified, will sweep away his sense and intellect down the storm gutter.

2. Don’t drive away your friends. Wilbur had many allies once, but by the end, he had only Tommy. And yet Tommy was enough all on his own. He’s special, how desperately he cares. So Tubbo will keep Tommy close at any cost.

3. God is never actually on your side. Dream’s been known to lie about this. For one short moment, Tubbo and Tommy and Wilbur had believed him, and the mistake had cost them their homes.

That should be enough. That should set him on the right path. He’s too young for this, and unprepared, but he’ll do what he must. He’ll rise from the ashes and be the greatest leader L’Manberg ever had. Or he’ll fail, or he’ll die trying. 

He lifts stone after stone until the sledge is full and then drags it off along the forest floor.

***

He finds Tommy sitting on the boardwalk, throwing pebbles into the crater. “Hey, man. Should you be up?”

“Took a nap. Felt better.” He flings another rock, overhand. “Do you need any help?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s what Wilbur’s for. He’s my own personal chain gang.” His friend smiles at the joke, his face softening in relief.  Tubbo says, “You should take more time to recover. Don’t lift anything heavy.”

“I know, I know. It’s just -- there’s so much work to do. So much material just to fill this in, just to get back up to sea level. You know me, I'm always in a hurry. I need to -- L’Manberg needs to be like what it was before.”

“I don’t think it ever will be.”

Tommy’s face falls. “It has to, Tubbo, you can’t give up--”

“I’m not. I’m just being realistic.” He takes a seat beside his friend and accepts a small stone. “But that’s not a bad thing, you know? We get hurt, and we heal, and we don’t heal the same as we were. What we build here will be different. Maybe it will be better.”

“Will it still be L’Manberg?”

“We can call it that. And we’ll remember the history. We’ll take what we loved, and carry it forward.”

“I hope that’ll be enough.”

Tubbo considers this. “I don’t think we should fill in the crater.”

Tommy grimaces. “We can’t just leave it that way.”

“No,” says Tubbo, and he itches his scar. “What if we flood it? We let it fill up with rainwater, and we have a city on a lake. That would be nice, I think.”

“And it wouldn’t be able to explode again.”

“That too.” He misses the days when they didn't have to think of practicalities. “Tommy,” says Tubbo, and he takes off his tie, “I’m scared. I’m scared to be the president. I’m afraid to make laws and I’m afraid I’ll make mistakes. I don’t want to go crazy like Wilbur did. If I fail, everyone will remember me as a failure. And success might not even be possible.” He huddles up against Tommy’s side. “I order people around and I feel like a fraud. I’m sick to my stomach all the time. It’s hard to breathe sometimes, and I wonder if I’m doomed. I see the fireworks again every time I’m on a stage, and now I’ll have to give so many speeches…”

Tommy looks at him with sincere blue eyes. “Thank you for talking to me. For trusting me.” He was there for his brother when he needed him, and he can be there for Tubbo too. “I’ll help you, y’know? Maybe not with the laws, and I’m not good at speech writing, but I can tell you when you’re being a dick. And when it’s all too much, we can run away from it all and have fun together, at least for a little while.”

He has his own fears, but he’d rather die than do Tubbo’s job. “Don’t let this pull us apart. Remember that I’m here for you, okay?”

Tubbo smiles. As with everything else, he’ll try his best.

Chapter Text

Wilbur lounges against the trunk of an oak, picking at the scab on his neck. Quackity sneaks up behind him, his eyes narrowed. “You’re not working.”

Wilbur works one corner of the scab free. “Neither are you.”

“I am, actually. I’m your supervisor. Yelling at you is my job.”

“Really? This again?” He rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re back to middle management. And you’ve somehow downgraded from Schlatt to a child.”

“Oh yeah? Oh, fuck you.” He punches the tree Wilbur is leaning against, shaking down a single leaf. “You’ve made a big fucking mistake. And so have I, but at least I’m taking some accountability.”

“I tried to.”

“No, Wil, you tried to die. That’s the exact opposite of accepting responsibility for your actions.”

“It’s a more fitting punishment than community service.”

“Sure,” says Quackity, “But we don’t care what fits you. You’ll do what Tubbo asks of you, because it helps him. Killing you would just make him sad.”

“Then maybe he’s not ready for this job. He’s too soft.”

“You’re still doing it!” His teeth grind together. “You’re trying to bait me into shooting you.”

Wilbur gives a tiny smile.

“You don’t believe any of this shit. You just want to dodge your responsibilities, again.” Quackity picks him up roughly from the ground. “You’re not getting out of work that easy. There’s a lot to do, you lazy bastard.”

He steadies himself against the L’Manberg tree. “You know the legend about this oak?”

“Yeah,” says Quackity, “Supposed to be the only wild tree left standing from before the country was ever founded. Inspiring story.”

“And I made it up!” he says gleefully, “It’s never been true.”

“I know.” Quackity traces his fingers over the bark. “Watched Schlatt put the sapling in the ground myself.”

“It’s like a, a false idol.”

“Mm hm. Nothing wrong with a bit of good propaganda. Well, a lot wrong, actually. But the ends justify the means sometimes. You made a country, and I tried to make it better. We did what we had to do. At first.” He wonders when that changed. When did pursuit of power begin to speak for itself? When did Wilbur decide he and his country were both so broken that the only thing left to do was put them to rest? “I’ve never hated you, you know? We’d been enemies, rivals. But until you pressed the button, I don’t think I even disliked you.”

“And how about now?”

“I’m angry, Wil. I’m tired of your shit.”

He plucks a blade of grass and twirls it around his index finger. “Me too.”

“That’s the thing, though. You don’t get to be.” He hands Wilbur a hammer and points him in the direction of the new scaffolding. “Go do something useful, okay?”

Wilbur nods slightly and heads over, his posture bowed. He hums a single note and holds onto the sound.

***

Quackity feels -- well, he’s fucking disgusted. This is Wilbur’s fault. He did this to him, to Tubbo, to himself, for no reason. Out of some self-serving, short-sighted, literary-inspired cruelty. Doesn’t there have to be a reason? Not one Quackity can see or understand. He blames himself. He blames his running mate. He’d blame Schlatt, but Schlatt is dead, a fact which makes him happy and sad at the same time. The body in the trailer, limp and sweaty. He’d been the one to clean up the mess. And now he’s cleaning up another mess.

He’s not a janitor. He’s not anyone’s lackey. Maybe he was always meant to be a Vice President, the power behind the throne. In a position to make his country better, but outside the range of authority’s searing beam. He doesn’t want to be corrupted. He doesn’t want to be useless either.

Wilbur fell from grace a long time ago, though only now has the ground caught up to him. He survived his landing, but he’s broken, twisted at odd angles. But for just a moment, before he destroyed it, he had something that Quackity longs to possess - a legacy.

How can he help L’Manberg? What can he do to make this project stronger, more independent, more real? A country that can’t defend itself will fall under the sway of scavengers far more dangerous than Schlatt. He needs a way to prove that he’s not weak.

Tubbo has strong morals, he is sensible, and he is wise. But he has nothing to back up his words. Wilbur, even sunken so low, can still disrespect the President without fear of consequence. People should take Tubbo seriously. Quackity will be by his side, will help him learn to trust himself. Q’s not a bad influence on the innocent, he’s protecting the naive. He’s doing the right thing as a friend.

***

Wilbur does his manual labor until the sun goes down. The ache in his muscles feels correct and comforting. It’s a better way to hurt. A few times he catches his fingers in the blow of the metal hammer or stubs his toe on a wooden pallet, and these sharp pains tug his mind back down from where it’s been floating in the ether. 

He’s still here, and there’s no music playing. Just the rubbing of saws and the clattering of nails. His fever has broken and he feels too limp to fight. Though he clings to the scraps of his dream-logic, nothing makes sense anymore. The world does not have morals. Life just Happens. 

He returns to the tree that has always been a lie. Its fluttering leaves are peachy in the twilight. He finds a heart carved into the bark, now dried to a silver scar with letters in it. JS+Q, it’s a beautiful, now irrelevant act of defacement. The mar is small and high up, maybe nobody was ever meant to notice it.

“The L’Mantree is still standing.” Tommy’s voice cracks mid sentence. He approaches Wilbur from behind and clenches his hands into fists.

“It sure is.” Because how’s he gonna tell his little brother that the tree doesn’t matter? That his discs don’t matter, that L’Manberg doesn’t matter, that Wilbur’s life doesn’t matter? To Tommy, it all matters. He fights so hard to keep his meaningless things. He’s sentimental.

“If someone burned it or cut it down, I’d be really mad.” He fidgets his feet. “But I still wouldn’t give up, right? I’d just plant a new tree. I’d find something else to care about.”

That’s good to know. “Would you be alright without me?”

“No, fuck, don’t --” a tear falls out of his eye and spills down his red cheek. “No! No, I wouldn’t, okay? It’s different, you’re a person, you can’t…”

“It’s fine, Tommy, please, don’t cry.” He stands awkwardly still and lets his brother hug him. “I just wanted to remind you how strong you are. How good. So you know, whatever happens, you’ll be fine!” He’s right, he knows he is. What he’s saying is true, and it’s kind. Tommy has lost everything, over and over. He’s still him, still never afraid to get attached. If Wilbur dies, Tommy will grieve, but in the end, he’ll be mostly unaffected.

“Fuck you,” he says, squeezing Wilbur close. He pulls back and punches his brother in the jaw. “I love you!” Wilbur led him down a dark path. He’s more violent now, more scared. He has the marks of permanent injuries. He’s done things he hates and can’t take back. Maybe he should be angry, but he isn’t. He just feels sick and scared. He’s tried so hard to protect Wilbur, who doesn’t care, who is still slipping through his fingers no matter how tight he holds on. Wilbur is the only stability he’s ever had and Tommy won’t lose him, even if he has to follow him out of his own damn mind. 

He hates being Wilbur’s only protector. In a small voice he asks, “What did Quackity do to you?”

“I’m fine, Tommy. Nothing bad.”

“Did he hurt you? Before the battle, he was saying he’d kill the traitor if he found them.” Tommy has a horrible thought. “They’re killing you, aren’t they? They’ve let you go and say goodbye to me, and that’s why you’re acting so weird.”

“No,” he laughs, “Tommy, no, no way. Tubbo gave me community service. I’m helping rebuild New L’Manberg.”

“Oh.” Tommy’s knees go weak with relief. “Ha.”

“Quackity’s angry, but not like you think. I couldn’t even get him to take a shot at me.” He gives a guilty smile. “He told me I was being a selfish coward.”

“You’re not--”

“I always thought it was brave, to sacrifice yourself for a cause. You understand that, don’t you, Tommy?”

He touches the scar at the center of his forehead. “I do.”

“Then why…?”

“I don’t know, Wil.” He clings to the coat-clad arm. “I don’t have all the answers. But I really, I really don’t want you to go. Please don’t leave me here. I’ve tried so hard.”

“We’ll see, Tommy,” says Wilbur, and ruffles his blond hair. Tommy has tried. He has given so much, and Wilbur is proud of him.

Chapter Text

Wilbur spends a lot of time underground these days. There’s a whole network of tunnels down there, basements and vaults and alleyway sewers. The atmosphere is dim and cool and quiet and still. It’s a good place to think, and to hide from the people who all look at him with a mix of derision and sadness.

Without seeing the sky, he can travel all the way to the hooded ravine where he once plotted a revolution, and sometimes he does, and remembers his glory. But he also frequents the small blackstone box where he lost both his first life and his ability to feel safe. The Final Control Room.

He’s begun to think of the room as his: a petty hideout. He fills the empty chests with books and blankets. It’s a cursed place, but that means he won’t be interrupted. Until one day he is. Wilbur at first refuses to acknowledge the intruder.

Click. Click. cliclick.

“Please stop mashing the button,” says a deep voice. “The noise is making me uncomfortable.”

He smacks it several more times with his fist. “Oh, you don’t like this, do you, Eret? Does it bring up some difficult memories for you?”

Wilbur pressed to the wall, spluttering, an arrow in his lung. Tubbo facedown on the ground and Fundy, his son, lying prone, his dead eyes out of focus. Watching helplessly as Dream grabbed his little brother from behind and slit his throat. Giving him the jagged scar that Tommy now hides under his borrowed bandana.

“Fucking leave. This is mine now.”

“Wilbur,” says Eret heavily, “I’m not much of a king.” Their eyes shine faintly, concealed behind a pair of dark glasses. “My people do not respect me, my power is tenuous. The betrayal never made me happy.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Wilbur spits, “I’m so sorry.”

“I am not trying to ask for your pity. I’m saying that I relate to you.” Eret slips off the crown and holds it in their hands. “I understand what you’re going through right now.”

He taps the button again. He wishes it were still wired up.

“Dream lied to us both,” Eret continues.

“No,” he snarls, “I made my own choices. Dream just facilitated for me. I killed my own country, instead of parasitizing somebody else’s.”

“Is that how you think of me?” Eret leans against a chest. “L’Manberg was my home once, same as it was yours. I signed the Declaration of Independence. You four were my friends. I believed in your message.”

“And you threw it all away over fucking cash.”

“At least I got something in return for my betrayal!”

Wilbur staggers over and slams a hand into Eret’s chest. “You fucking bastard! You don’t have any values. Even when you’re sorry, you’re still just thinking about yourself!”

“And what about you?” Eret’s white eyes flare brighter. “You were ready to destroy everything and everyone you’ve ever cared about, and not even for your own gain!” They shove Wilbur away with such force that he topples to the ground.

“Because that’s fucking evil!” Wilbur grabs at the bottom of the ridiculous royal cape and yanks. Eret chokes.

“What you did was evil too,” they say, slipping out of the cloak and stepping on Wilbur’s hand. “It just also happened to be stupid.”

“Yeah?” He cradles his bruised fingers. “Maybe I’m a terrorist, or a monster, or a tragic hero, or a martyr. But you? You’re nothing but a traitor, and no matter what else you do in your life, that’s the label that’s gonna follow you.”

Eret shrugs. “Life is long. Things can change.”

“It’s not even that you fought against us, Eret. Plenty of people did.” He sits, leaned against a false wall. Anger has drained out of him as quickly as it appeared. He feels numb as a wet rag. “Because of what you did, nobody will ever be able to trust you again.”

“And what about you?”

“I don’t care about me, Eret.” He shakes his head wearily. “But I’d heard you were looking for redemption. Thought I’d share the cold, hard truth.”

“That’s just depressing,” says Eret, replacing their golden circlet. “Terrible way to think.”

Wilbur sighs dramatically. “Get out of my Final Control Room.”

***

A king stalks through a sewer, furred hem dripping with dirty water. They don’t know why they feel so compelled to revisit the scene of their crime. Maybe if they whisper enough apologies to the bloodstains and black stones, they can finally find out where they stand with the people who were once almost like family.

Tubbo treats Eret with reserved politeness. He learned from the incident, learned that allies may be out for their own interests. It’s not a reason to push everyone away, just something to keep in mind. The boy now faces Eret with composure and soft smiles, but they can’t help noticing that he doesn’t turn his back anymore.

Tommy, who wears his heart on his sleeve, is claustrophobic ever since. In small spaces, he trembles. He keeps Tubbo’s ascot close to his jugular. Fundy is close to Eret. Fundy seems desperate to be close to anyone. He bares his heart and makes himself vulnerable, but he knows it’s dangerous. He keeps his own secrets.

Now Wilbur, Wilbur’s told it like it is. It echoes in Eret’s ears. You may be liked, but you can’t be forgiven. Why does that horrible thought feel like such a relief? Wilbur can keep his sewer. Eret doesn’t need to come back here anymore.

***

Wilbur returns home to find Tommy, clad in a jet-black outfit and carrying a bulging pack over his shoulder. “You look ridiculous,” says Wilbur. “What’s in the bag?”

Tommy’s face lights up as he shakes the contents onto his grass floor. Books, scrap metal, a few animal hides. Some carrots and a bouquet of pressed flowers. “And I got a couple potions - they weren’t labeled, so I don’t know what they do, but I’m gonna drink ‘em and find out!”

Wilbur rakes through the pile of garbage. Nothing in here could really be called valuable. Tommy thieves simply out of love of the game. “Did all this stuff fall off the back of a truck or what?”

“Stole it from George. I don’t think he saw me.” He taps his foot in excitement. “I also broke a couple of his windows.”

“Really?” Wilbur laughs. “You don’t want to antagonize Dream.”

“No, see, that’s exactly what I want to do.” Tommy begins to stash his loot in various disorganized chests. “He has my discs and I want them back, so I’m trying to piss him off.”

“Tommy, listen to me.” Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek. “Dream -- he’s not the way you remember him, okay? He isn’t -- this isn’t some game he’s playing anymore. He’ll take it too far.”

“I’m not worried.” Tommy snorts. “He’s still just some guy, even if he thinks he’s God. And you can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dad.” He uncorks a pinkish bottle and takes a large gulp. “Tastes spicy, I think it’s -- hey, light me on fire and see if I burn.”

Wilbur buries his face in his hands. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“It’s been a week.” Tommy cracks his neck. “I think my brain is basically back to normal. Or at least I’m not getting headaches anymore, I mean.” He squints at Wilbur. “How about you?”

“No headaches either.” He watches wearily as Tommy takes half a set of pewter silverware out of the bag and arranges the forks on his windowsill. “I suppose there’s no chance I can convince you to go give it back?”

“Hell no.” The tip of his tongue sticks out as he concentrates on balancing a butter knife. “I need these for decorations.”

“This really is the tackiest shit.”

“Hey, if you hate my house so much, get your own.” Tommy glares at him. “Seriously. You’d love Tubbo, talking about spruce wood and stone brickwork and consistent aesthetics. You two can go and be boring together.”

“I don’t know.” Wilbur stares at the packed dirt of the floor. “A house is sort of a commitment…”

There’s so much desperation in Tommy’s pale eyes. “I know. That’s why I want you to have one. Wil…”

“You’re not playing fair,” he says, and his stomach twists.

“Because it’s not a game! It’s your life.”

“Yeah.” He takes on a mean tone that makes Tommy shrink back. “My life.”

“You can stay in my house for a while, okay.” He laughs uncertainly. “It’s nice to have company.”

“Thank you,” he ruffles his little brother’s hair, “for understanding.”

***

Eret’s castle would be colder without the tapestries on the walls. It’s a beautiful building, regal and customized. The luxurious halls are filled with color and light and yet very little life. The floor is made of intricately patterned marble that is freezing when Eret gets up in the middle of the night to walk to the bathroom in bare feet. The throne is solid gold but unpleasant to sit on.

Eret has offered people sanctuary in the palace before, but few have accepted. Even those who do always move on in the end. The empty rooms seem haunted. Sometimes Eret hears echoey screaming that comes from nowhere. It’s grand as a monument but feels more like a tomb. Do kings really live in castles? Or do they lie, like Eret does, and start sleeping instead in small shacks in the courtyard?

Chapter Text

Fundy has learned to look out for number one, because no one else is going to. That’s not selfish. He’s a clever, reactive man who lives with the knowledge that he’s never been cared about. Wilbur, his father (he calls him Wilbur now), always seemed to have other priorities. That made sense. A country was much more difficult to raise than a child. It required more attention. You fought wars for it.

That was okay, because Fundy loved L’Manberg. It was his home: a place he’d strived for, a land he’d wanted to inherit someday a long time in the future, to carry on his father’s message. All his happiest memories with Wilbur took place here in the meadows, in the shadows of the walls. L’Manberg was something they shared, a physical representation of their bond, a declaration of love so powerful and public that it would find a place in history.

And now Wilbur had blown it all up. That was the thing that didn’t make sense. Hadn’t Wilbur loved L’Manberg more than anything in the world? Protected it over Fundy and over his own life? What the hell does this mean? Fundy is afraid to ask.

“Wil?” He’s finally gathered his courage and approaches his father as the man hammers together the new White House floorboards. “Can we talk?”

Wilbur freezes and won’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, I have to work. I still owe Tubbo twenty-five more hours of service.”

Fundy blinks back his hurt. “As Secretary of State, I’m assigning you a new job. It can count toward your reparations.” His dad looks up at him shyly. “Wilbur. Please.”

“Okay, sir.” He winks. “What can I do for you?”

***

The man in the green cloak stands outside of a smoke-stained cabin. The arsonist has doused their own flames. He searches the mud for footprints. Mushrooms have sprung up in the yard the way they do after a rainstorm. He kicks a ruffled fungus with a white cap, beheading it.

Dream is livid. Someone has caused more problems, made a mess, defied him. It isn’t hard to pick a suspect. He replaces his mask and stalks into L’Manberg, where the traitors crawl like ants over the carcass of their country.

He can’t find his quarry, but he sees the next best thing: the child president, in overalls, his forehead streaked with mud from where he’s wiped his brow. “Hello,” he says, silky and respectful. “I’m looking for Tommy. Do you know where he’s gone?”

Tubbo shudders: there’s something in the masked man’s tone that make him feel as though he’s being hanged with a necktie. “What’s wrong?”

“Tommy fucked up. He needs to be punished.” 

Dream is an enemy. Dream is not on their side. Whatever Tommy’s done, Tubbo can fix it. “What did he steal? I’ll talk to him. We can pay to replace it.”

“No. I said, he needs to be punished.”

Tommy is his friend. “I can’t, I don’t understand.”

“You have a duty to your country, Mr. President,” says Dream, and shifts so that Tubbo can see a stick of dynamite tucked into his pocket.

“I - is this a threat?”

Dream smiles, his mouth tilting upward under the mask. “We’ll speak again tomorrow. Be wise about this. I trust you to make the right decision.”

Tubbo; who’s been called a yes-man, a pushover, a pawn, his whole life; waits for Dream to leave, buries his scarred face in his hands, and screams.

***

Fundy and Wilbur pull off their shoes and roll up their pant legs and dangle their feet in the cool lake. It’s nice. It reminds Fundy of the early days, when L’Manberg was just wilderness and his father had taught him to swim. You’re a natural, little fox. Just like your mother. “Well, dad, I guess I understand now why you didn’t make me the President.”

“It wasn’t a very kind thing to do to Tubbo, was it? Sort of a bait-and-switch.”

“At first I felt hurt.” Fundy flicks his pointed ears. “When you said ‘there’s only one other person who could possibly take this job,’ I thought you were gonna call me to the stage.” His heart had climbed into his mouth. “You implied I could never be a leader. Did you mean that?”

“I did. I still do.”

There’s a hairball in his throat. “What?”

“I don’t say that to be cruel.” Wilbur reaches out a hand that his son doesn’t take. “Being President, the responsibility, the power, what it did to me…I didn’t want that for you. You’re too much like me, Fundy. I was worried that you would go down the same path.”

“I could have handled it!” he cries out. He despises condescension. “You tried to shelter me and you ruined my life!”

“Fundy…”

“There’s something wrong with you, Wilbur. With you, okay? Not with me.” His jacket shifts on his shoulders. “I’m in control of my actions. I’m never going to fucking go insane. You, it’s like you’re broken. Like you want to get hurt and you don’t have any survival instinct at all. I am the opposite of that.”

“I see.” His father’s tone is icy, his face blank. “Do you have a task for me, Secretary?”

“Yes.” His black eyes glint. “You’re going to help me scavenge some supplies. Come on, I know a place.” He shrugs off his coat and dives into the lake, swimming down into the cold and quiet.

***

“Ah. Technoblade’s base.” Wilbur shakes water out of his curly hair.

“He no longer needs it,” Fundy says simply, “He left L’Manberg and he won’t be returning.” He opens a chest and begins shoving emeralds into his pockets.

“Huh.” Wilbur squeezes a fermented spider’s eye, the sack of poison globulous in his hands. He inspects quiverfulls of potion-tipped arrows. This will help supply the armory. His son is very clever.

Fundy feels uncomfortable here, in this blackstone room with a low ceiling. Logically, he knows he has nothing to be afraid of. The war is over and Eret has become his friend. This isn’t the Final Control Room, but it pricks the hair on the back of his neck and draws bile up from his stomach. “I’ve always wondered this: why don’t you wear armor?” He points to an unused set, the black metal alloy that shines with protective magic.

“I don’t need it.”

“But you do, Wil.” He balls his hands into fists; there’s a lump in his throat. “You get hurt just like anybody else. Every time you step out onto the battlefield in your stupid trench coat, you risk dying.”

“I know.”

“Wilbur, who taught me how to take care of myself? How to put my own safety first, ahead of any stupid allegiance or ideology or flag? Because I’m starting to think it wasn’t you.”

“Sally was a real survivalist. While the other salmon swam upstream to spawn, she stayed downriver where the bears couldn’t get her. That’s how we met.” 

“I stopped believing in Santa a long time ago,” he sighs, “I know you didn’t actually fuck a fish. Please drop the bit.”

“Then where’d I get you, little fox?” Wilbur opens another chest with a prolonged creak. “Hey, golden apples.” He takes two for himself and tosses another to his son.

Fundy bites into the sweet fruit, the metallic coating flaking off in his mouth. “My favorite.”

“What a treat,” says Wilbur as apple juice runs down his chin, “And Technoblade has crates of them, the crazy bastard. We could eat until we make ourselves sick.”

Fundy smiles, slightly drunk on the subtle magic. “Hey, dad, I’ve got an idea. Let’s play dress-up.”

“Oh?”

Fundy takes a netherite chestplate off the mannequin and hands it to his father. “Try this on, please.” Wilbur does, fidgeting with the straps as though the weight of the garment makes him uncomfortable. “I like it, Wil, you’re looking good.” He takes the leggings next. “Here, these pants match.”

Wilbur laughs as he completes the outfit with boots and helmet. His nose is pink and he looks close to tears. 

“You should keep it, I think.”

“Okay, Fundy.” He tosses away his second apple core. “I will.”

***

As they emerge from the surface of the lake, Fundy’s chest expands with relief. He can breathe again. Wilbur seems happy for the first time in years as they sit side by side, shivering in the sunlight.

“How should I record this on my timesheet?”

Fundy smirks. “Call it… training.” He feels like he’s finally taught Wilbur a lesson.

***

“Tommy.” Tubbo’s face is streaked with tears and his legs quiver under him as he stands framed in the doorway. “Please help.”

“Come in!” He stops reading and snaps his book shut, excited to see his friend. “It’ll be okay, man. Deep breaths.”

“I don’t, I don’t know what to do.” He crouches at the end of Tommy’s bed, his cheeks sickly green, holding himself and rocking back and forth. 

Tommy sits beside him and pats him on the back. “Tell me about it.”

“What did you do? What did you steal?”

“Uh, not much?” Tommy spins an empty bottle. “Is that really what you’re crying about?”

Tubbo snorts. “No, it’s Dream. He, he’s mad. He wants me to punish you, but, uh, it-it-it felt really bad. It sounded like Schlatt saying -- no, I don’t know. It’s off. He’s going to hurt you, and I don’t know what he’ll do to L’Manberg and the people in it if I don’t let him.”

“Fuck. Fuck him. It’s okay. You’re safe.” He squeezes Tubbo’s hand in reassurance. “I won’t let anything happen to this country. We’ll fight him.”

“We can’t fight him,” Tubbo corrects, “Well, we could, but we’d lose. That’s just the fastest way to get both of us killed and New L’Manberg blown to pieces.”

Tommy frowns. “It’s me he wants, right? I’m the person he’s angry with.”

“That’s what he said. But you can’t, you can’t--”

“I could leave. I’ll take my best gear, and some food and supplies, and I can travel far away from here. Dream will stay away from L’Manberg, and he won’t be able to find me.”

“It’s unfair. This is your country. You have a right to be here. We wouldn’t have anything if it weren’t for you.”

“I know, Tubbo.” He nods. “I care about this place, so much. You’re my President. If this is what will help us, if this is what you think is best, if this is what you want from me, then I’ll do it.”

Tubbo swallows a dry sob. “Just for a little while. Until we’re strong enough to defend ourselves.”

“I believe you, Tubbo. You’re doing a good job. You’ll be ready soon.”

He laughs softly. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn impulsive.”

“Can’t help it. ‘S just the way my brain is.” He flashes a crooked smile. “That’s like asking Wilbur not to be a dramatic little bitch.”

Tubbo pulls his best friend into a crushingly tight hug. “Be safe.”

“Oh, you know me. I’m a big man.” He pats Tubbo on the back and lets him go. “Good luck.”

***

The President feels like he’s being torn in two. His friend; his country. His heart; his duty. His body and his soul. This isn’t what New L’Manberg was supposed to be. Is he failing already? Sure, he believes in compromise. But Tubbo knows this one is wrong. He won’t sleep right until Tommy is back home and safe.

Chapter Text

Tommy’s a survivor. Wars have claimed two out of his three lives so he holds the final one tightly in his fist. But this isn’t the same as leading an army into battle. How long since he’s been alone at night without shelter? Since the monsters have posed such a threat? His legs shake after hours of running, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his friends. It’s moonset before he allows himself to catch his breath, sinking his heels into a decaying log and leaning over on his knees. He chews at a loaf of bread, straining to eat more slowly. He hasn’t brought enough food, but his pack is already so heavy, digging into his shoulders.

He wants to be back home with his friends, to be laughing at their jokes. He wants to take a hot shower. It hurts every part of his soul to tear himself away from the people he cares about. He cares so much, and that’s why he’s doing this. To help Tubbo. To keep New L’Manberg safe. Because if something happens to L’Manberg, then Wilbur will… He shakes his head as though to dislodge water from his ears. He doesn’t want to think about it.

A clack, a twang. A skeleton’s arrow strikes him in the side. It embeds in his chestplate and scratches the skin beneath, stopping just short of his gut. He holds up his shield, the arrowshaft snapping off as he moves. Tommy beats the skeleton apart with his broadsword, but not before it gets a second shot off, this arrow slipping between the plates and lodging in his thigh. He lets out a little howl of pain and is answered by a low moan. An undead ghoul scrapes at his damaged armor with dirty fingernails.

“Fuck!” He slaps away the hand and a set of rotten teeth bite down on his glove. He’s able to pull back his fingers but the leather stays lodged in the zombie’s mouth. His bare skin looks pale and vulnerable. The next scratch will likely pass him the fatal infection. Run, run away.

He’s perfectly happy to retreat, but the arrow in his leg is slowing him down. It binds the muscles like a straight-pin, removing all his mobility. It’s all he can do to stagger, dragging the limb behind him. The zombie is only a step behind, and its horrible gurgles are attracting friends.

Tommy bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and grips the arrow where it protrudes. He tugs, and stifles a scream as the projectile slides out of him, the wound spurting bright-red blood. He sprints, adrenaline dulling his pain. The night is so cold and he can’t feel his hands. Is he putting some distance between himself and his pursuers? The growls get quieter, but so do his own footsteps.

How much blood can he lose before he passes out? Before he dies? One and the same, because if he collapses out here, he knows no one is coming to save him. He’s bleeding worse since he removed the arrow, but if he left it in he couldn’t run. Maybe being torn apart by mobs would be a quicker, kinder, death, but he doesn’t care. At least this way he still has a fucking chance.

He’s leaving a trail, isn’t he? Blood trail. Need to find some way to disguise it. Is that the ocean? A sound traveling over the hills like rumbling machinery, like a seashell held to his ear. He smiles faintly and stumbles toward the crashing waves.

A rowboat lies on a furrow in the sand, surrounded by the wreckage of a now-receded tide. It has no paddles or sails, the oarlocks empty rings. Tommy pushes it dizzily down the beach. It’s heavy and bucks against his push once the ripples catch it. Saltwater in his cut burns like fire. With the last of his strength, he hauls himself into the boat and collapses under the rower's bench. He slips out of consciousness with his head pressed to the curve of the hull. The tiny vessel drifts, uncaptained, into the sea of reflected stars.

***

Dream knows this will be easy. The capitol building is draped under tarps, the walls still streaky with wet paint. Tubbo has traded out his work denim for a crisp suit, yet he looks worse than ever. His hair is rumpled and there are bruise-dark hollows under his eyes. “Have you come to a decision, Mr. President?”

Tubbo smiles faintly. “Yes.”

“How are you going to punish Tommy?”

He meets Dream’s mask. “I’m not.”

“Oh.” Dream leaves heavily on the desk. The antique wood groans under the pressure. “You want me to handle it. That’s okay, I’m happy to. It'll be fun.”

Tubbo shudders, and Quackity gives him a reassuring kick from underneath the table. He takes a deep breath. He told Tommy in time, Tommy is gone. His cabinet stands behind him. Fundy keeps a knife in his pocket. He can do this.

“Give him to me, then?”

“I can’t,” he says, holding up his palms. “He left.”

“What do you mean, left? Where’d he go?” Dream's grip tightens around the hilt of his sword.

Tubbo shrugs meekly. “I don’t know.”

The man lunges forward, quick as a cat pouncing. He wraps his fingers into Tubbo’s hair and yanks the young president over the desk and onto his side. He tilts the boy’s chin up to expose his neck. “Quackity, tell me where to find Tommy or your President dies.” Tubbo lets out a squeak of terror.

“He already told you, man” the vice growls, “we don’t know where he went.”

Dream brings his sword to Tubbo’s throat, the blade resting just below his Adam’s apple. “Are you going to let this happen again?”

“I’m not fucking bluffing.” Quackity squeezes his hands together and resists the urge to reach for a weapon. Fighting back would just seal Tubbo’s fate. “This won’t help you. Please don’t hurt him.”

Dream tilts his head as though pondering his next action. Tubbo holds his breath, trying to fight down the vomit that’s rising in his stomach. If he gets murdered he wants to go with dignity, not sick all over his shoes.

Dream cuts a shallow slice into the skin and huffs. He shoves Tubbo roughly to the floor. Quackity helps his young friend up and holds the boy close to his body, shielding him with his arms. Fundy stays frozen in place, but his jet-black dog lips pull into a snarl. “Dream, get out. You won’t find Tommy here. You want him that badly, better start looking.” 

“Okay,” says Dream, and they could swear his mask winks as he turns on his heel and leaves back through the front entrance.

Tubbo heaves dry sobs into Quackity’s shoulder, and the man feels rage pour into him like molten metal. “He threatened your life. He shoved you around like you were nobody.”

“I am nobody,” says Tubbo, pinching the red line on his neck closed, “to him. At least for now.”

Fundy’s claws tap at his knife. “We’ll make him pay.”

“We will,” says Tubbo, “But we have to be smart about it. L’Manberg needs an army. Fundy, Big Q? We’re going to fight.” His men nod.

“I’m sorry,” says Quackity, “I hate it, but I think I would have told him, if I knew.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Tubbo smiles. “No harm done.” He’s never in his life been so thankful for Tommy's habit of rushing into things without a plan.

***

Tommy never came home last night. Which is normal, of course. He often stays out with his friends. Lately it seems he’s been avoiding Wilbur more and more, and that’s for the best. He knows he’s a burden, and Tommy deserves the chance to be a normal kid. 

So Wilbur stays in the dirt shack, rereading dog-eared books and trying to ignore his anxiety. But then he sees something that makes his blood run cold. Dream is trampling through the front garden, polishing blood off his knife. His mask is off. His smile flits between half-satisfaction and anticipatory excitement. He crouches, tracing his hand over sneaker-tracks in the wet earth.

If he confronts Dream, he knows there’s a better-than-even chance he’ll attack him like a rabid animal. And that’s sure to end with Wilbur impaled on a sword, which Tommy doesn’t want, and he's made a promise.

***

The second man who interrupts Tubbo’s cabinet meeting looks utterly broken. The young president is at least trying to maintain his composure. Fundy bandaged his cut and Quackity has helped him hide it with a cravat.

Wilbur looks the way Tubbo feels: his face blotchy red and his eyes wild. “I saw Dream. Please tell me if Tommy’s still alive.”

“Tubbo warned him,” says Quackity, “He made it out before Dream came in.”

“Out?” Wilbur waves his arms in a frantic gesture. “He’s out there?”

“It was the best I could do for him,” says Tubbo in a choked whisper.

“Fuck you.” Wilbur slams his fist into the wall and comes away with fresh white paint on his knuckles. “I’m going out there. I’ll find him.”

“You won’t find him,” says Quackity, “That’s the point. You want to bring him home, so do we. There is only one way to do that.”

“Put the construction work aside,” Tubbo tells him, “There’s a new job we need you for.”

“You want me to kill Dream?”

“No, Wilbur. I don’t want you to get fucking stabbed by throwing yourself into a battle which you aren't prepared for. We want him dead, but that man might as well be a God.” Quackity prods him in the chest. “We need you to handle our recruiting.” He gives Wilbur a crumpled piece of paper: a list of names. “Convince these people to fight for us. Magic, coercion, bribery, I don’t care. Do what you do best, you charismatic bastard.”

***

Tommy drifts in a state halfway between death and sleep. The motion of the water rocks him. There’s a sunrise behind his eyelids. He dreams, somehow, of catching a rainstorm in a teacup.

He’s bailing water out of a sinking ship. Each time he fills the scoop, twice as much of the sea rushes in to fill the empty space. The water is hot and opaque and thick as milk. He’s making no progress. He needs to fix the leak.

The leak. His pants are wet. Something is dripping. 

Wake up wake up wake up. Don’t go down with the ship.

He pries open his crusty eyes. His leg throbs. He’s lying in a pool of blood and seawater. He splashes his hand in the puddle. Have to patch the arrow-hole. With numb fingers, he works loose the knot in his green handkerchief. He ties the fabric tightly around the wound. Potions, he has potions in his backpack. That will help. The bottles shine like glass ornaments. For emergencies only.  This counts.

Healing is pink and sweet and sludgy. But regeneration (which tastes like a thin saltwater broth) will be better for treating his bloodloss. Tommy mixes himself a custom cocktail and gulps it down. “Yeah, bitch.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll live.” He smiles at the night sky because the monsters can’t get him, even though he’s certain no one’s looking out for him up there. He drifts back to sleep and rests until he hears the scrape of wood on sand.

***

Jack Manifold crouches on the roof of the Kingdom’s highest tower. Screwdriver in hand, he’s fiddling with a Ham Radio. “Enjoy the view?”

“Shit! You made me jump.” He whirls around to see the man whose body is sticking halfway out of the access hatch. “And no, I’m up here because I get better reception. What do you want?”

“A chat.” Wilbur sits beside him casually. “Have I ever told you what I thought about on the day of the war? When I saw you standing beside me on the battlefield?”

“Uh, no.” Nor does he care.

“I turned to Tommy, and I asked him, ‘Who the fuck is that guy?’” Wilbur gives a self-deprecating grin. “Tommy says, ‘Oh, that’s Jack Manifold. He lives here.’ And I say, ‘You’re making that up, I’ve never heard of a Jack Manifold in my whole life.’”

“Wow. What’s your point?”

“You’ve lived in my country almost since the first day of our independence, and yet we never met personally. You shared my ideals. You believed in L’Manberg’s message and decided, on your own accord, that you’d fight for what you knew to be right. You’d been told I was a leader, a hero, a paragon. Now you’ve found out who I really am. But some things haven’t changed.”

Jack sighs and spins his radio dial. “I don’t think you have a right to ask anything of me.”

“Of course not. So I am not. I’m just here to pass on a message.” He pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket: Schlatt’s presidential stationery with the name crossed out. “As usual, you aren’t fighting for me or Tubbo or Quackity or anyone else. Here’s the information. I trust your judgment.” He excuses himself and turns back down the ladder.

Jack Manifold folds the flyer into a paper airplane and tosses it into an updraft. The needle nose points up into the clouds. “Seen enough. Fuck it. I’m in.”

Wilbur hides his mouth with his hand and smiles.

Chapter Text

The oven is cold. In another lifetime, the fire was constantly stoked, and a sweet-natured woman would mix and measure ingredients, a lilt in her voice, flour on her apron. But Niki no longer bakes, and she isn’t quite certain why. The war is over. She could start up again, and even though her friends are busy rebuilding the nation, she knows they would still find time to drop in and break bread. 

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t seem to have the energy anymore. Bakers have to start before dawn to have fresh pastries ready by the breakfast rush. But even with early bedtimes and catnaps, Niki feels sluggish when she wakes, her limbs heavy. It’s difficult to open her eyes.

Or maybe it’s the anger that sits poisonous in her liver, the way she overworks her glutens as she kneads, although it isn’t the dough that she wants to punch. There’s a scorching flame on her hands that kills everything she touches, even yeast. Her cupcakes are bitter with bicarbonate soda. She can’t bring herself to follow recipes when everything tastes equally dull and sits like wet cotton in her stomach.

Wilbur asked to see her a week ago. She wanted to stab him in the gut. She wanted equally to throw herself at his feet. She’d told him, “I’m not ready yet.” It takes time to sort out how she feels, and everything moves so fast. For nearly a month, she rests, she rises, and at last she decides to welcome her long-lost friend back into her life.

***

Tommy builds a camp. Not a home, just a tentsite. He has faith in his friends. He won’t be here long. His armor is damaged from his ordeals, so he fixes it, hammering simple iron patches over the cracks and punctures. Not back to the way it was before, but maybe good enough. He pulls up cod that school in the nearby inlet and cooks them over an open fire. This is like a vacation: it’s uncomfortable, and he has bug bites and dirt covering him. But he’s having an adventure. This will teach him to appreciate what he has, he tells himself, though the thought makes him cringe. He misses his friends more than anything in the world. He needs to be home soon, he needs to be there for Wilbur.

He’s become incredibly jumpy. Each snapped twig or stray gust makes him whirl around in shock and reach for a weapon. But Dream doesn’t know where he is, right? He can’t know. Tommy hates it, but he’s safe here. If he’s not safe here, then what’s the point of being anywhere?

God is he fucking sick of eating fish. He misses sweet crunchy carrots, and bread crusts, and cake with icing. He wishes he’d set up a farm when he first arrived. It’s too late now. He’ll be home before the crops have a chance to grow. He has to believe that.

He’s losing track of time. What’s the date? He’d tried to scratch tallies into a tree trunk like some sort of convict, but quickly gave up. It was undignified and made him sad. But what’s the date? It doesn’t matter. He’s done all he can. Now he just has to let this play out. He takes off one morning on the track of a wounded animal, planning on a steak dinner. The food he eats, that’s something he can still control.

But it’s a long fucking chase, and when he finds the cow at last, collapsed from exhaustion, it’s pitiful and has a foamy tongue and reminds him too much of Henry. So he scratches it between the horns and feeds it a handful of grass and lets it live. By the time he gets back to Camp it will be dark, and he supposes he won’t eat tonight. Still, he doesn’t understand what kind of person hurts a creature that’s already been so beaten down.

Oh, yeah. His tent is on fire.

He sees it from a great distance, the orange light obvious through the dusky forest. Lightning strike? He hopes so, although there’s been no storm. He’s out of breath, branches clawing at his face as he sprints headlong into the darkness. The smell of burning leather makes his mouth water.

Tommy bursts into the clearing. “No, no!” His tent, his chests, his makeshift fishing pier, the little boat that carried him to safety, have all gone up in smoke. A man in a green cloak stands in the blackened field and laughs.  

“Dream?” He feels ice-water injected into his spine. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I found you, Tommy.”

“Yeah, you - yeah, you sure did.” This is okay, he knew this could happen, at least Dream’s here with him, not hurting Wilbur or Tubbo or anyone else. “My, my stuff, why…”

“You know why,” Dream shrugs, and yeah, in a sick way, he guesses he does. “It isn’t that bad. Compared to what happened to New L’Manberg…”

His stomach drops. “What?”

“I never expected you to run away, Tommy. To not be there when your country needed you.”

“I had to -- I was trying to help! What the fuck did you do?”

Dream smiles and procures a stick of dynamite from his cloak. He lights the fuse and tosses it too close to Tommy’s feet. The boy just barely has time to skitter back before the ground he’d just been standing on goes up in a spray of dirt. “Here, I have leftovers.”

His ears are ringing. This doesn’t feel real. His sinuses are clogged and his belly is so empty.

“The survivors have scattered. The crater’s twice as deep as last time. And Wilbur, he seemed pretty broken up about it.”

He failed he failed he failed. This was his one chance to prove that things would get better, and, and they didn’t. Is this how his Wilbur always feels? “Survivors?” he chokes out. “Who died? …is Tubbo alright?”

“I’ll be honest, Tommy, I didn’t pay much attention. I was just thinking about you.” He grabs Tommy’s arm and yanks him sideways, so forcefully that he loses his balance. “If it’s so important to you, we can find out together. Come on.”

Tommy wiggles out of his grasp but stumbles and falls to the ground. Dream drives a boot into his chest, forcing all the air from his lungs. “Hey. Listen to me. You try to get away from me, this is what happens. You know that.” He kicks him again, in the stomach this time. Tommy curls around the blow and retches up watery bile. “You’re done, then? Done acting out?”

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper. If he could, he’d call the green man a bitch.

“Let’s go.” Dream picks him up like he’s a little kid. “It’s time for you to go home now, Tommy.”

***

Wilbur steps through the door as soon as Niki opens it, wearing an unrecognizable expression that might be shame. But that doesn’t seem like him, her Wilbur, not at all. She loves him the way he is and yet he’d better be sorry, and also she hopes he isn’t sorry because then it will be easier to hate him.

“Hello, Niki. It smells nice in here.” He drapes his coat and shawl over a cafe chair and sits down at the counter.

“Really?” Her hands shake, and she hides them behind a display case. “I don’t have anything fresh. It’s been… quiet.”

“Well, it still smells like your pastries. Chocolate, cloves, melted butter, cinnamon…”

Her mouth and her eyes are watering. “Why are you here?”

“I’m supposed to be recruiting you for the New L’Manberg Army,” he admits. “And, uh, I thought I should be upfront about that. Because we really do need your help. But also, I hoped I could talk to you.”

“I don’t think you want me for your war,” says Niki, “I’m not much of a fighter these days. I just, I mope around here and cry and sleep all the time.”

“Oh? Are you okay?”

She answers with another question. “Why, Wil? There was no need for you to do what you did. I don’t understand.” All her life, Niki has been both moral and kind. She can see that her friend is hurting, and the kind thing to do would be to hold him tightly and pat his back and forgive him. Yet he’s also been a monster who has put so much evil and destruction into the world. He needs to pay. Until Wilbur, Niki had always known how to tell right and wrong apart.

“Is it better or worse if I have a reason?”

She laughs hollowly.

“Eret asked me that. I’ve been thinking about it, ever since. I’ve been thinking a lot.”

“I don’t understand,” repeats Niki, “I’ll never understand.”

“We’re meant to be happy, aren’t we? Happy all the time?”

“You blew up the country because you were sad?”

“I sound like a fucking cunt when you put it that way.” 

Despite herself, she giggles. “I miss baking, Wilbur. I miss meeting people in the kitchen with pie and cookies, and making my friends smile. But I would have to fetch wood and stoke the oven  and milk a cow and thresh wheat and strip sugarcane, and I don’t even have the energy to start.”

Wilbur grins. “I have an idea. How about we stay right here and eat an entire bag of chocolate chips?”

She nods. “That sounds nice, actually.” She blows dust off the pantry shelf - no one’s been in here since the beginning of all the wars. She tears open the bag with her teeth and pours the chocolate onto the table between them. “This is why I’m your friend. I hate you, and I’m pissed off at you, but, uh, at the same time, this makes me feel better.”

He bows his head. “I am sorry.”

“You could have led with that.”

“But it wouldn’t mean much.” He digs into a chip with his thumbnail. “I ruined your life. You see me and you start crying.”

“I am perfectly capable of being sad without you, too.” This is good, her friend is happy and has chocolate in his teeth and everything seems fixable. “You know, two weeks ago if you’d apologized to me, I would have clawed your eyes out. A week after that, I would have forgiven you. So thank you for waiting.”

She will fight. For L’Manberg. For Wilbur, because he doesn’t expect it of her. Maybe just because of all the sugar in her veins. It’s reason enough. She excuses Wilbur, and he leaves his black scarf behind. She holds it to her cheek and notices how it smells of smoke.

***

Dream lied. Why does that even surprise him at this point?

His home. His friends. Still standing, still alive. Tommy wants to run to them, but the predator still has its claws around his neck. Dream marches him all the way to the new White House, where he rings the doorbell like an absolute parody of civility. 

“It’s you!” Tubbo dashes over and wraps himself around his waist, and Tommy doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s squeezing fresh bruises. 

“Are you okay?” asks Niki, her eyes wide with concern. He stumbles toward her, throat tight with relief.

“Did you hurt him?” Wilbur demands.

Dream prods the still-healing wound in his thigh and makes Tommy hiss with pain. “He did that to himself, out in the wild. Almost died before I rescued him.” Fundy and Quackity share a doubtful glance.

“What was the point of this?” Tommy’s breaths are shaky. “You told me you blew up L’Manberg, and it wasn’t even true.”

“I didn’t, yet,” says Dream. “But I will.” He makes a spark with his flint and steel. “It’s your fault this is happening, Tommy. Shouldn’t I make you watch?”

“You fucking bastard, you’ve fucked up this time, you--” Tubbo is holding him back. He squeezes Tommy’s wrist in two tight pulses. It’s a familiar message: stop, don’t, this isn’t smart, you might regret this. Too much is at stake here, so although it goes against every instinct, he quiets.

“Twenty-four hours to say your goodbyes,” Dream tells the cabinet, smirking as widely as his mask. “Then I’ll come back, and soon L’Manberg will be gone again.” He looms over them, and Tubbo’s grip tightens. “Because you had to defy me, didn’t you?”

Tommy steps forward, putting his body between Dream and his trembling friend. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

Tommy sways dizzily and slumps against a wall. He tries not to think about his promise, or the fact that tomorrow is December Sixteenth.

Chapter Text

Fundy has fond memories of being just a pup in his pastel uniform. Fighting for his country, with his father, back to back. Maybe his childhood was fucked up, but he was happy, and so as he sharpens his sword he smiles with nostalgia. All those fox-years ago life was better, he was loved. He misses that. If it takes another war to bring his friends together, then he can accept that sort of violence.

Niki wraps her warm hands around Tommy’s shoulders, so gentle that he barely has to flinch. “You don’t look well. Can we get you some food in you?”

“‘m not hungry.”

“Okay. But we need a lot of rations for the battle. Would you help me bake, please?”

And yeah, that’s something he can do. He’ll be warm and indoors and won’t have to think about Wilbur as much if he keeps his hands busy. “Yeah, that--that’s a good job for us, Niki. We all need to prepare.” He’s had to fight, all his life, and tomorrow he’ll raise his weapons again. But maybe, just for a few hours, there’s a break in the boilerplate clouds.

“We have to take down Dream,” says Quackity, his voice low and deadly. “No matter what he pulls, even if the whole city’s already leveled, we don’t let him get out of here alive.”

“I’ll kill whomever you want me to kill,” Jack Manifold offers, “but really I just don’t want to lose my fucking house.”

“None of us do. That’s why we’re fighting.” Tubbo fidgets uncomfortably with his tie. L’Manberg was only ever meant to be a home. Why can’t he keep his home? His belly aches way down low. After this, assuming he lives, he’ll step back from his position. One way or another, this ends tomorrow. It’s a relief that he won’t have to pretend to be in charge for much longer.

***

“The last two times they blew up my country, they used buried explosives.” Fundy zips his jacket. “So I’m going underground to check.”

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Is it past my bedtime, Dad?”

“Just be careful, Fundy.” Wilbur squeezes his hand. “Come back as soon as you find something, or if you’re in any danger.” 

He nods curtly and shifts a manhole cover, descending into the wet darkness. He can handle danger. Doesn’t Wilbur know that by now?

***

Tommy tears into a loaf of fresh bread with his teeth. His shriveled stomach threatens to heave it up. He’s eating fast. He misses food and he's worried he’ll die and never have it again. “Can I come in, or are you still busy?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Tubbo answers from his office, “this is a lot of work. If I finish soon maybe I can still get some sleep.”

Tommy opens the door and sits down on the president’s desk. “Please just talk.”

Tubbo points to the bread. “Can I have some of that, or did you just come here to eat in front of me?”

Tommy rips off a large hunk and passes it over. “Will you tell me how you’re really feeling right now?”

“I am sorry, okay? I wouldn’t lie about that.” He chews on the back of his pen. “I thought you’d be safe. I never would have let you go, if I’d known you would get hurt and almost die.”

“We're not talking about me, Tubbo. How are you?”

“...tired.” He slumps down toward his desk.

“No - I’m already driving myself crazy worrying about Wilbur. Don’t start acting like him.” Tommy’s eyes narrow. “I said I’d be here for you, and I left, but I’m back now, so talk to me, okay? What happened while I was gone?”

Tubbo shivers and a tear drips out of his eye and down his cheek. “Dream came here. He wanted information. I’d never tell him, I swear, I don’t know how he found you but it wasn’t because of me, you have to believe --”

“Breathe, big man. Of course I can trust you.”

Tubbo puts a hand on his shaky chest and listens to his own heartbeat. It helps. “It happened right here, it was so fast, he picked me up and then he had his sword to my throat, and, well… I’ve died before, twice. It shouldn’t scare me anymore.”

Tommy steps around the desk and hugs his best friend as tightly as he can. He likes to act as if he’s not afraid of anything. “It should always scare you.” 

***

Wilbur feels oddly calm. One more day to pay back his debt. Maybe Tommy’s right. Maybe L’Manberg can be made special, can be saved. It’s certainly worth a try. And if not, then that’ll be alright too. He still has his deal to fall back on. He’s been able to hold out for so long in part because he knows Chekhov’s gun still hangs loaded on the wall.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” A hoarse whisper, a knock on the door of the dirt shack.

“No, Eret, it’s just me here alone.”

“May I come in, Wilbur?”

“Fuck if I care. It’s not my house.” He lets the King in, and Eret stands with her back to the corner, sunglasses fitting tightly on her face. “You want something?”

“I’ve heard you’re fighting a war tomorrow.” She takes off her crown as if to show respect. “On behalf of the Greater Kingdom, I can provide reinforcements.”

Wilbur scoffs and his eyes narrow. “How can you possibly expect me to trust you?”

“I know you can’t.” She smiles gravely. “But tomorrow, I’ll give you a reason for that to change.”

He sighs. “Fine, but don’t expect me to follow you into any small supply rooms.”

“Of course not. So I’ll give this to you here and now.” She pulls out an elegant recurve. “Tommy’s dueling bow. I’ve been holding onto it, but it isn’t rightfully mine.” 

He takes it gingerly, like the string will snap on his wrist. “...thank you.” Tommy’s bow. The same bow his little brother had loaded with a shaky arm as Wilbur begged him to stop, to back down. His life was worth more than the revolution, worth more than Tommy would ever know. The useless bow that had slipped from Tommy’s hands as Dream’s shot struck him, that had clattered off the bridge and sunken into the river below without a sound. While Wilbur had held his brother’s lifeless body and screamed at the arrow embedded above his cloudy left eye, Eret had dredged the weapon from the water and kept it safe. Tommy deserved to be safe too. When had all of them decided that it was okay to take a human life?

***

He can’t find the bombs. They’re down here. They’ve got to be. The underground passages are eerie, especially at night, illuminated by dim red heatless strips of LEDs. Fundy taps his hands along the walls, listening for hidden passages and hollow places. Nothing. His nose twitches at the overpowering stench of mould and mildew. Surely he’ll round the next corner and step right into a greasy pile of TNT. Nothing.

He’s looked everywhere. Almost everywhere. There’s one place in the waterways he never goes, one room he still has to check. He ducks his head as he squeezes through the narrow tunnel, his heartbeat accelerating to frantic speeds once he enters the blackstone closet. But there are still no bombs: only the same wooden chests. Not empty anymore, he opens one and finds his old baby blanket, and a book his father used to read to him as he fell asleep.

Is this what he’s been missing? Is this what he wants? He’s a child of war with a strong spine. But seeing this, a slaughterhouse redecorated as a nursery, nearly makes him vomit. He shouldn’t try and be a kid again. The solution to his past does not lie in that past. 

Fundy hears a muffled thunderclap from above him, and the ceiling of the tunnel starts to bleed with debris. Fuck. The war has begun, and the city’s coming down on top of him. He sprints for the nearest exit, but a cave-in blocks his path. As he turns on his heel, another section of roof cracks apart and showers him with fine dust and stones the size of fists and cinderblocks. A blow to the shoulder and he shrieks in pain, holding his dislocated limb. A smaller rock strikes him on the head and he drops. Before he can get up again a huge chunk of earth lands on his waist, pinning him. It’s too early, he thinks faintly as the city cries out like a gong. He coughs, and white dust fills his eyelashes. It wasn’t supposed to start yet. It wasn’t supposed to be over so fast.

***

“Wake up, wake up!”

Tommy rubs at an eye crust. His back aches from napping on the oval office floor. He checks his watch; he didn’t oversleep, he’s only been out two hours. Then he hears a concussive boom that turns his insides to water. Tubbo startles and presses himself into a corner.

“I, I, I saw him, I couldn’t sleep so I was trying to look up at the stars. Then I realized I couldn’t see the stars. The, the sky, he blocked it off with that obsidian grid.”

Tommy stares upwards where Tubbo is pointing. The horrible infrastructure, nearly impossible to see against the inky blackness, flashes a faint glimmer as the aerial bombs are primed and delivered. “It’s starting, man, we gotta go!”

Tubbo freezes up, so Tommy takes his hand and all but yanks him outside, where a few of their allies are already waiting on the boardwalk. Quackity stomps about half-dressed. “What the fuck. What the fuck is he playing at?”

Wilbur shrugs. “People lie, sometimes.”

“I can see him.” Niki points with her flashlight beam, illuminating a scrap of green fabric. “He’s up there, running around manning the system.”

“He’s the one we have to kill,” says Quackity. “We get to where he is and we take him down. Once he’s dead, we break the machine. No more bombs.”

Tubbo does a quick head-count and bites his lip. “Not everyone is here.” If any of his citizens die in this fight, he’ll feel responsible. As a leader, keeping his people safe has to be the number one priority. “Wilbur, look for anyone who’s been hurt and help them evacuate.”

“I’ll go with him,” says Tommy.

“Okay. So to fight Dream, that leaves Niki, Quackity, and me. Anyone else?”

“Eret claims they’re sending knights from the Kingdom, but I don’t think they’ll arrive until later. If ever.”

“Whatever, fine. Go now, but stick together, no matter what.” He turns his attention to the baker and the Vice President. “I say we’ve got this under control.”

***

This will be easy, too easy. Dream doesn’t have backup, but he doesn’t need it. L’Manberg’s never in its history fought as a unified force. Just a bunch of angry selfish assholes living in close proximity to one another. This isn’t a real war, or even a game. This is divine retribution. This will be an utter annihilation.

The city sleeps, ignorant of the God who looms overhead like a spiteful angel. He’ll kill it as it slumbers, a rare mercy, a painless death. He reigns supreme, and he rains down fire. For several minutes, he meets no resistance. Someone shoots an arrow but they’re too low, out of range. It lands harmlessly at his feet and so he picks it up and stows it in his own quiver.

***

Niki spits mucus on the ground. It’s been a long time since she last used a bow. Her first shot? Pathetic. She tries again, drawing the string back farther so that it kisses her lip. The arrow flies high enough but it’s lost all momentum, and Dream easily sidesteps the attempt like it’s a child’s snowball. A voice in her head screams to try and try and never give up, but a more sensible reply points out that she’s wasting arrows. Get to higher ground and she might have a chance. But once she steps out of hiding she’ll immediately become a target.

She spies him on top of the Manifold Mansion, frantically beating out a fire with his coat. “Jack! Leave it, doesn’t matter. I’m going after him. Cover me.”

Jack meets her eyes and salutes. He leaves the fabric in the flame until it flares up into a white-hot blaze of polyfiber. He waves the makeshift sparkler as he clambers over the roof, a hard-to-hit dancer of light and shadow. He’s certainly drawing Dream’s attention.

Niki mouths a thank-you and shimmies up the exposed trunk of a redwood tree. Before anyone can notice her, she’s hidden away once more by the canopy of needles. Jack’s torch goes out and he leaps off his perch. Even from fifty feet up, she can hear his ankles crunch.

She gulps and steadies her breaths. Precision is everything. She nocks an arrow and pulls back the string until the fletching tickles her nose. The first shot will give away her position. But the first shot is all she needs.

The arrow lands just below Dream’s chestplate, angled upwards, slipping between the pieces of his armor. The wound dealt isn’t immediately fatal, but Dream gasps in surprise and steps backward, falling from his platform. His mask smashes to shards when he lands on the ground below, revealing a face that is lifeless and waxen. Quackity cheers. “One down! Two to go!”

***

Tommy wades through the waist-deep canal, swollen with broken logs and pale silt. “Did you see Fundy, last night? Maybe he just decided to leave and not bother with the fight.”

“No,” says Wilbur, “That’s not what happened. He went underground, trying to dig up the bombs. But since they came from the sky instead, he was far away. So maybe he’s fine.”

“We’ll find him. We have to.”

At last, amidst the bombs and terrified screams and roaring laughter, Wilbur hears a familiar whimper. “Fundy! Fundy.”

“I’m here.” His son’s voice is so sad and small. 

“We’re coming, we’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He sees a black jacket buried under a pile of rubble and his throat closes. “You’ll be okay, right? You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not hurt too badly. I just can’t get this boulder off of me.” He paws at the heavy rock that is sitting on his chest. “It’s hard to breathe in.”

“Yeah, that’s alright, that’s good, you’re doing so good. Tommy, help me -- Fundy, you lift too, as much as you can… one, two, three!”

Fundy’s free, and Wilbur helps him up gingerly. “You can stand?”

“And I can fight, too.” Blood runs from a gash in his forehead. His black eyes are wild and out of focus. His lungs rattle like crumpled paper in a fan. “I wanna use my new sword. I took it off Schlatt’s corpse. That makes it an heirloom.” He meets Wilbur’s sad smile. “Hey, you’re wearing armor.”

“There is nothing heroic about dying before you have to. Fundy, go with Tommy. He’ll get you someplace safe. There’s something I have to do now.” Wilbur runs off, faster than his injured son and kid brother can follow.

***

While Dream is out, Quackity sprints up to the catwalk grid and starts tugging at wires. He’s a bit surprised to see how quickly his enemy returns, mask gone, blood running freely from his nose, as though his first death hasn’t shaken him at all. 

Fine. Big Q draws his sword from its scabbard and stands firm as if he’s not wearing pajamas under his armor. “Want some more, green boy? You could have just left us alone, but y’know what? I’m glad I get to kill you.”

“You’re losing!” Dream laughs, “Do whatever you like, I won’t stop until L’Manberg is a crater all the way to bedrock.”

“So be it,” he grits his teeth, “as long as you’re dead.”

“Do you really believe,” he switches to the blunt side of his axe, “that you can kill me?” He hits Quackity in the stomach and the man doubles over in pain.

He rolls to the center of the narrow platform and wraps his hand in several layers of insulated cable. “I know I can.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe one of my lives, if you’re lucky. But you’re coming down with me, and you know what happens then? I bet you go off somewhere else to lick your wounds, and I come back here and do what has to be done.” He grins and connects another wire. “However you talk, you’re a coward, Quackity. You’re not willing to take that kind of risk, and why should you be? Your country is weak. You’re weak. What the hell do you have going for you?”

He takes a deep breath and lunges, catching Dream off guard with a headbutt. His unmoderated momentum sends both men off the edge. But after a split-second of freefall, Quackity’s cable jerks taut. He feels the muscles of his armpit rip at the sudden tension but the electrical cord holds firm, and with his good arm and a double shot of adrenaline he’s able to clamber back to safety. Dream has nothing to catch him and he stares at his killer the whole way down, eyes bulbous with rage. Quackity holds up three fingers and then lowers two of them so that he’s flipping off the corpse.

***

Wilbur steps forward. He takes off his helmet. “Dream. Am I the reason?”

“That’s a pretty self-centered thing to ask.” He has two black eyes and his cloak is full of muck. “Not surprising.”

“I know that I wasn’t supposed to live. You were finished with me a month ago. I blew up the country, and it was my time to die, but I didn’t. Is that why you’re here today? To finish me off?”

“Is that what you want? Are you asking me to kill you?”

“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of my actions.”

“Oh,” croons Dream, tracing his swordpoint along Wilbur’s earlobe, “it’s far too late for that.”

One quick motion and it’s all over. It’s all over. Wilbur feels the tension drop out of his shoulders. 

“No, Dream. It’s too late for you.”

“Eret?”

Flanked by three knights, the king forces him off of Wilbur. “You’re done. I have no loyalty to you.”

“You have no loyalty at all, you mean.” 

Eret digs their blade deeper into the hollow of his throat. “Shut up.”

“You only have power because I gave it to you!”

“Then I guess you made a mistake.” Eret opens his neck with the sword and he slumps over like a doll. Blood spurts from his wound until Dream’s heart stops beating, and then it seeps. “Gentlemen, it’s over.” There’s a mournful crack of thunder far away, then just the sizzle of rain on embers.

***

Tubbo laughs hysterically. “I guess that’s it.” He points to the wreckage of his nation. “I failed.”

Niki shakes her head. “You did the best you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“It was a difficult situation.”

“I say you succeeded.” Quackity’s arm is bound up in a makeshift sling, but his smile is broad and genuine. “We won. Dream sure didn’t.”

Fundy wheezes around his broken ribs. “Either way, Tubbo, I don’t think anyone would be willing to take over your job as President.”

Tubbo shrugs. “We’ll hold an election, then. And if that’s what the people want, maybe I’ll give it another try. We’ve rebuilt before. I guess we can do it again.”

Niki asks, “Should we?”

“There’s a story Wilbur used to read me," answers Fundy. His father had taught him to love Greek mythology. “You know Troy, the Trojan War?”

“Sure,” says Quackity, “Let’s say we do.”

“Well, the story isn’t true, obviously; it’s about literal Gods killing people with spears. But Troy was a real city, and when they excavated it, it turned out the place had just layers and layers of buildings - like eight major civilizations rose and fell in the exact same place. So it's like some countries are just meant to be great.” Fundy coughs. He thinks one of his lungs has deflated. “Then again, some aren’t.”

“It’s a big world,” offers Tubbo, “Maybe we should move on. Find somewhere with less history and more foundation.”

***

Tommy slides his favorite disc into the jukebox. Dream is dead. This is his trophy. The victory feels hollow. Wilbur sits at the very far edge of the bench and avoids touching him. “Now, this is L’Manberg the way I remember it.”

Tommy tries to laugh. “Y-yeah. Good old L’Manberg, a big friendly smoking hole.”

“Thank you for the month.” Wilbur interlaces his fingers. “I wouldn’t say it was the best one of my life, but probably in the top ten.”

“We had some fun times, didn’t we? You mocked my house, and we played cards, and I made you an accomplice to my crimes, and, uh, we saved Fundy, we helped kill a man?”

He ruffles his little brother’s hair and then gives a deep, shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, Tommy.”

No. His mouth hangs open in horror. He tried so hard, and now… oh, he can’t. Wilbur can’t make him. He can’t. He can’t even speak.

“I’m sorry that I did this to you. That I made you think it was your job to save everyone.”

“I will, I swear. Just give me another chance.”

“Tommy, please. I’m so sorry. I hurt you more than I can imagine, and I don’t know how to make it right. But if it’s okay with you, I’ll try to do better. I want to stay.”

Tommy gasps and buries his face in his brother’s chest. “Yes. Yes.”

Wilbur holds him close. “I’d congratulate your heroism, but I don’t actually want to encourage that behavior. So instead, I’m going to say thank you.”

“‘s okay--”

“Thank you.” Wilbur hugs him until he feels the scrawny boy relax in his arms. “Thank you,” he whispers into the top of Tommy’s head, “thank you.”