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In the streets of New L’Manburg there was a ghost. In reality, there were many ghosts in varying states of literal manifestation, but there was one that was quite tangible. He was good natured, friendly, and always, ultimately, alone. He wore yellow, his hair dark, his hat dull red, his skin hovering somewhere between pallid white and dull grey, but his hands were blue, his chest was blue, and his heart was steeped in blue. He didn’t notice it. Other people quickly disregarded it. It was just the state of things now. There was a ghost in New L’manburg and in all ways but physical he spread blue over everything.
Until one day, something noticed the blue, and followed the blue. A small sheep, living in the frozen tundra far from the haunted streets, who’s coat turned blue at the first touch of the ghost’s hand. The sheep left its home, travelling the land to the blue city with the blue ghost, and decided quite quickly that it had met the ghost for a reason. It set out to ease the blue running through the man’s veins and collect the scattered blue thoughts haunting the streets of this new nation it had found.
The ghost with the blue heart had named it Friend. It did its best to be one for him. The blue-hearted man seemed to need one. He surrounded himself with people, yet spent much of his time murmuring to himself and Friend, not to them. It learned a lot through that soft, bright murmur. It never understood his words, but it never needed to.
Others spoke too loudly, too quickly. Friend shied from them, clinging to the translucent blue of the man’s feet. It picked up one thing from those confrontations. A name. Wilbur. Strangers called the word at the man’s blue heart, which Friend could see twinge weakly at the sound, but he responded to it.
The strangers didn’t stick around long enough for Friend to learn their names, though. Friend had never been able to understand why people hurried away from him. The man with blue dust falling from his hands was gentle, kind. Friend loved listening to him, the lilt of his words and the soft cadence of his voice. His words were meaningless, but Friend could read his intentions in his eyes and shoulders and melancholy smile.
Will you be my friend?
Friend knew the man who cried blue tears didn’t deserve his loneliness. It knew none of the people that he tried to reach out to would fill the emptiness. So Friend resolved to live up to its name, following close behind wherever he went, as much as it was able to. Sometimes things hurt it, and it would wake up alone, unable to find Wilbur. Its only friend. It worried greatly until the familiar scent of melancholy drifted through the air and it could hurry to his side once more.
There were times where the man was less blue, instead multitudes of colors bloomed under his skin. He’d speak louder at those times, faster. A pale song on the breeze that carried hope, childlike glee, a victory cry. Words scribbled in a book, pen moving feverishly with the pace of his muttering, dark ink dripping from his hands when he broke his quill. The thin red line of his mouth, distrust slipping into his gaze as he crossed paths with someone, fading moments later and the blue returning with his grin. He seemed sadder, heavier, in these moments, but somehow more complete. (He didn’t seem to notice Friend when those moments struck.) Afterwards, though, he’d curl into Friend’s coat with a smile on his face and blue tracks racing each other down his cheeks. Friend didn’t think he noticed them; he always looked startled when Friend touched its nose to them. They tasted like salt and regret.
Friend loved its new friend and enjoyed the company of the strangers they crossed paths with. It started to recognize some of them, though no names ever stuck out as clearly as Wilbur’s had. In the city with hollow streets it was fawned over, and Will seemed just as excited as the sheep was itself, so Friend made sure to be extra friendly to everyone. There was the kid with the burned face and weight of the world on his shoulders, who’s face softened when Friend bleated at him, and Wilbur seemed proud. There was the cheeky man with a fox’s face and humor, but looking at him made Wilbur’s chest ooze blue, so Friend steered them clear. The man with the jagged scar, missing tooth, and jaunty humor rarely gave it a second look, but occasionally he’d sneak a quick pet. The lady with hair the color of flowers and a soft voice barely holding a tide of sharp pain seemed to almost understand it sometimes, and Wilbur smiled so widely when they met that Friend could see the blue on his tongue. It tried to see her often. She seemed good for Wilbur.
There were others too, farther out. The boy with quick fingers and quick wit, who’s shouts covered a well of fear and doubt. Wilbur turned the most colors around him, and his form often seemed far more solid than anywhere else. My little brother. Wilbur had whispered to it one night as they trekked across the snow. I’m so proud of him.
With him was always the towering man with the tusks, who’s gaze was as intense as his trust. His red eyes always softened when Wilbur came along, but there was something lurking under it that Friend could never place. It made Friend nervous.
And of course, the angel with the shattered wings. Friend knew him very well. Wilbur lived underground, and Friend’s hooves weren’t well suited to climbing up and down ladders. So it lived in the city over the hole, hooves ringing hollow on the floors, with the man who’s tattered wings dragged limply behind him. It had been content there for a while, when Will came everyday to collect it for whatever adventure he had planned. One day, though, Will had stopped returning. A few days after that, the winged man had stopped coming home, too.
Friend was feeling more and more anxious as days turned to nights turned to days and no one showed up. The little house had once been bustling. It now sat empty, with just a lonely sheep curling in the corner, awaiting the return of the man carrying blue, or the man with dark wings. But neither showed, and none of the other residents checked in either. Friend had plenty to eat, and it had managed to prop the door open so it could walk in and out as it pleased, but it was completely alone. It was sure that one or both would return soon, though, so it resigned itself to waiting.
That night the world had exploded around it, and it had still been utterly alone. Friend had been resting, curled against the icy stone of a hearth that hadn’t been lit in weeks, ears twitching at the distant sound of yelling from outside. None of the voices were soft or blue, so it kept its head on its forelegs and its eyes meandering desolately across the overturned barrels and scattered chests. When the earth shook, though, it stumbled up in surprise. The surprise gave way to terror very quickly as the world burst with sound so loud Friend struggled to fold its ears flat to mute it. It was bleating loudly, urgently, but there was no one to hear it. When the house burst with light and fire, Friend was just as alone.
It awoke in a field of green, the memory of searing red heat still dying its skin, curling under its blue fur, and it felt nothing but fear for the man with blue burns over his back. It hadn’t seen him in a long time, but it knew Will spent a lot of time in the hollow city. It got no peace for days, wandering aimlessly in the distantly familiar landscape it found itself in, grazing and languishing in worry and failure. It was meant to be a friend. And here it was, wandering alone, decidedly far from the one it was meant to be a friend to.
Until the scent of blue was once more borne to it upon the wind, and it eagerly scampered over the fields towards the source. There were three of them: the man with crooked feathers, a new man with empty eyes and a void in his chest, and, of course, the man whose joyous laugh sent blue scattering in the air.
I missed you.
Friend butted their foreheads together. It had missed him too.
They were talking quickly, a current of urgency running through the words.
We’ve got it now! The man with the empty eyes was excited, almost desperate. Friend’s worry flared, and it shuffled closer to Wilbur’s legs as the man stood up.
Let’s try it again, how about? The winged man wasn’t excited at all. In fact, he seemed on edge, and his movements were too sharp, too careful. Something was wrong.
Wilbur hadn’t said anything to them, and when Friend glanced up his eyes were fixed on its coat, studying the way the wool twisted between his blue fingers. Friend let out a soft, comforting baah. It got a distracted smile in return.
Wilbur led it to the crater (which wasn’t very far from where Friend had been wandering lost), down the steep sloping sides that were littered with loose rocks, scorched lumber and still crawled with the unforgiving red stench of smoke. And there, in the center of it all, an island of blue. It was familiar and strange at the same time, clearly designed with Wilbur in mind but detached from what made him Wilbur in the first place. Friend was immediately distrustful of it. Something smelt rank here, and it wasn’t just the lingering smoke.
It didn’t exactly know what was happening, but it knew its friend was scared. He looked small, somehow, maybe sinking closer to the ground. His hands were dyed dark with blue, and it still didn’t seem enough to calm him. When Wilbur’s fingers curled into Friend’s coat, it could feel them trembling. The other two were somber, words weighted down with sincerity and their expressions twisted with concern.
Everything is going to be ok.
They seemed to be trying to convince themselves of it. Friend did what it could to steady the man, but his form was struggling to hold together, scattering blue to the ground around him.
It could only watch the man cry tears of blue as the angel with burnt wings spoke, exaggerated in a pantomime of emotion, but a heavy yoke of guilt dragged his feathers towards to the ground.
You’re my son!
And Wilbur replied, voice trembling as much as his blue hands.
Kill me, - --.
He doesn’t mean it, not really. His back is to the angel, and his voice is loud, but his eyes are full of fear. His hands twist together in front of him, and Friend tries to push its nose into his knuckles in comfort. It’s pushed away, and just in time too. Friend is face to face with a glistening blade and blue dripping to the ground as his friend dissolves and is no more.
They’re yelling for him. They’re nervous. Friend is frantic. Its best friend lies in a puddle of faint blue on the ground at its hooves, and it stumbles back a step to avoid it. The others don’t seem to notice the formless mess dripping into the water, swirling and dyeing it, and step closer, calling loudly.
Did it work?
Will!
Wilbur?
Friend is confused, still. They don’t seem malicious, or gleeful. If anything, they seem frantic, desperate for the man to reappear from the blue by some miracle. Friend might be a sheep, but it knows a thing or two about death. Maybe because it’s a sheep. Stabbing someone is permanent. What did the broken winged man think would happen?
Oh, god. I did not want to be here again. Get me out of this shit. Friend looks up from the blue water, startled by the new voice. It freezes. Wilbur is back. Or rather, something with a blue heart and yellow sweater is back. The voice is not Wilbur’s, the form resembles its friend, but it’s very wrong, just like the blue platform they stand on. This new being, who drips blue in an entirely unrefined way that Wilbur would never condone, doesn’t even notice Friend braying indignantly behind him.
Things changed after that day. The man who exhaled blue sighs vanished from Friend’s life, leaving this person that resembled him but was nowhere near the same. The new man leaves Friend quickly. He barely even gives it a second glance, striding with a purpose Wilbur has never had, vanishing from the blue island, the crater, and then from sight. The others follow, scrambling after him shouting questions. They fade into the distance before Friend can catch their words.
Once again, Friend was purposeless and was left to wander. The house it had called home was gone. The winged man was gone. Where the town had stood was now a crater of unknowable proportion that seeped red into the air and choked the blue that had stood before. When it approached others, it sensed the deep sadness that overcame them, and it knew they remembered the absence of the man. Friend felt no sympathy for them, though it kept that hidden. Wilbur would want it to keep that hidden.
Then one day, quite inexplicably, Wilbur returned.
The man no longer had blue hands, or blue tears. But the blue hadn’t left his words nor his heart, and an imperceptible trail of blue followed him everywhere. Friend once again followed that trail wherever it led.
Tonight, it led a familiar route. It was a challenge for Friend to traverse, but it had become accustomed to making the journey into the chasm that had once held its home. It was a cold night, the wind blowing stiffly across the land, but as the blue sheep picked its way down into the crater, the glass cover blocked the movement of air. It was still and silent down here. A place frozen in time.
Still and silent save for the tapping of feet on rock. Wilbur was pacing, his steps frantic and each footfall leaving a deep depression full of blue that grew deeper and bluer as he moved in circles. Friend paused a short distance away, watching with growing concern.
It moved closer, pausing at one end of the blue pool that the man was sinking into. Friend knew it had to leap in if its friend were to escape. It started forward carefully, baying softly, attempting to ease Wilbur out of the bubble he was trapped in. His pacing didn’t even falter, and Friend had to leap back to avoid being trampled in the man’s path. The blue was only getting darker, deeper, and any second now it seemed like he’d be consumed by it completely. Friend tried again, more insistently this time. It took off following Wilbur’s concentric paths, baahing at his heels, scampering a little ways ahead of him, nudging him with its nose…
Wilbur only noticed it when he physically ran into it, tripping mid-stride and sprawling across the stony ground. He laid still for a moment, seemingly dazed, and Friend worried for a moment. Then he sat up slowly, looking around at the jagged rock, up at the clouded sky, sheltered from them by the glass observation deck far above. Finally, his gaze fell on Friend, who stepped up to him, pushing its nose against Wilbur’s weakly curled fingers.
He let out a soft hum, rumbling his chest, and absently ran a hand through his hair. The blue that had threatened to consume him seemed to be ebbing a little, and as his hand lifted to tug at Friend’s curls, it could feel the blue seeping out of him. Friend pushed closer, resting its head on his shoulder, eager to take the heavy blue from the man.
I’m sorry.
Friend knew he wasn’t talking to it, so it stayed still, letting the man bury both his hands in its blue fluff. Wilbur tilted his head down, resting his forehead on wool as blue as the tide within him. He murmurs into Friend’s fluff.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know where to go.
The man who wasn’t blue anymore didn’t seem to have a home yet, and Friend wondered if he didn’t want one. It had seen the man with broken wings offer, and it would have been perfectly happy to settle back in the frozen land. That was where it had first seen the blue powder dusting the snow. Besides, back when his hands had been blue, Wilbur had visited often, and Friend had followed faithfully. The towering piglin in red and the scrawny boy with twitching fingers seemed to be close to him, if the shouting laughs and brightening expressions were anything to go by. It didn’t understand his aversion to returning there, but it wasn’t its job to question him. Its job was to be there for him regardless of where he called home.
I don’t want to be alone, Friend. What do I do?
That was something Friend did know. It butted its head against the man’s temple, prompting him to pull his face from its wool. It knew the angel would be able to help. Wilbur shook his head at it.
I don’t… I can’t bother him with this. He’s with -- - -. Something that Friend can’t read from Wilbur’s shifting stance and twisting expression. A name.
Friend huffed softly in his face. It couldn’t afford to take no as an answer. The man needed a friend more than ever before now that all the blue was trapped inside him. A friend that could speak to him and do more than simply absorb his blue. He needed someone that could change his color.
After a while of exasperated baahs and insistent headbutting, Friend was following Wilbur through a land of fire, flinching from enemies and clinging close to his heels, and though he said nothing, he waited for it. He paused on the other side of the log bridge, scanning the horizon until Friend’s nose bumped his hip. He sat for a moment at the top of a jagged pillar for Friend to navigate the uneven landscape, following once Friend was through. And at the other side, as they neared the sickening purple window to the other world, he turned and rested a hand in Friend’s coat, as though his hands missed the blue. They went through it together.
They came out to the familiar snow laden landscape, fat flakes drifting from the sky to gather on the ground and settle in Friend’s wool. It hurried to urge the not-blue man towards the cover of trees, recalling how the snow had burned through his clothes and poured blue from his veins. But the man isn’t blue anymore, and he does not drip color as he stands steady in the snow.
The snow gathers in his hair, curls that fall over his eyes the way Friend’s do, disguising blue deep in his gaze. The flakes settle on his shoulders, gathering in the crooks of his scarf and the wrinkles of his coat, and he seems to revel in it. It’s strange, it’s not the man with blue scars that shied from weather and curled around Friend for safety until it passed. This man is buffeted by the wind and powdered by the snow, and he laughs. His breath mists on the air, and he pauses as the icy wind hits his lungs, tearing the sound from them, and his face is lit with emotions beyond Friend’s understanding. Wonder, childlike excitement, a sort of reverence… Friend bumps its head against his bare fingers, which no longer trace blue, but are flushed in the cold. The slender hand curls into his coat, combing through the blue fluff as the man speaks.
I’m scared, Friend. I shouldn’t be here. His words are fast, nervous.
I shouldn’t ask them to do this for me. His voice is heavier than it had ever been when he was blue. Years of accumulated weight clings to it. Friend bleats softly in response, and the terse smile mellows a little bit, his laugh a soft chuckle that turns into crystals in the air.
He takes off over the snow, following the rough path that several past feet had packed into it. He moves with gravitas now that his feet touch the ground, and he sinks into the snow with each step. These footfalls are natural impressions, and Friend is grateful to see the deep pools of blue left in his wake are lightening as they keep going. Friend wonders how dark its coat is now.
Wilbur’s legs are long, and Friend has to scamper to keep up. The sky is dark above them, heavy with unfallen snow, and the flakes continue their steady dance to the ground. Friend revels in the cold, leaping through the deep drifts, bleating excitedly at the cold touch on its legs and belly, though it never strays far from Wilbur’s feet. His coat flaps in the breeze, the tail of it nearly catching Friend across the face as it stumbles behind its friend. He laughs at Friend’s startled expression, warm and blue in the cold air.
Friend knows they’re getting closer when Wilbur slows his pace. His fingers twist in loose fists as the blue swells in his heart again. They can see the lights of the small houses a short distance down the hill, the quaint cottages with their connective bridge and the modified shack hiding behind them, bashful. Friend can see the dark pines behind them that it wandered in for most of its life before Will. The snow is trampled into paths, drifts rising on either side between the houses and the pen of cows and other buildings that Friend doesn’t remember from their last visits. Wilbur takes in a deep breath, releasing it in a cloud that drifts away from them.
Looks like they’re in. Wilbur’s feet shuffle with myriad emotions, and he hesitates on the edge of the hill. Friend bumps the back of his knees gently, urging him down into the light.
The night is quiet here, the snow muting any spare noise. Wilbur’s knock on the door sounds tiny in the grand white expanse around them, and Will seems ready to turn and leave when there’s no response. Friend bleats urgently, and the door is opened silently moments later. There’s a moment of quiet as the man at the door studies them, then a joyful cry.
Will! The man with the broken wings rushes towards him, the jagged edges of the limbs scraping past the walls as he does so. Wilbur flinches, just a little bit, almost imperceptibly, but the winged man notices, pausing his flurry of movement. He settles into a calmer smile, though Friend can see his hands twist uncertainly. Will. It’s been a while, how are you holding up? The angel is oozing worry.
- --, I missed you. Another name Friend can’t parse from their body language.
I missed you too. It’s a huge understatement, but Wilbur either doesn’t notice or doesn’t know how to respond.
There’s a pause. They study each other, as though neither one is quite sure the safest course of action. Friend barely dares to breathe, frozen where it’s pressed against Wilbur’s legs.
Come in, it’s bloody cold out there.
You sure -- - -‘s going to be alright with me in his house? Will’s question is wry, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before joining the man with the dark wings. He pauses inside the door, reaching back absentmindedly for Friend, who obliges, pushing its head against his hand comfortingly.
He’ll learn to deal with it, I’m not leaving you out in the cold like that. Friend is comforted by the intensity of the man’s promise. The tension still hangs between them in the air, an unspoken tale of loss and regret and blue, but it’s shared. Neither one quite seems to be drowning in it.
Wilbur crosses the room, shedding his coat and sinking down into a chair. He slumps down into it so low his legs are completely off the seat, stretched out across the floor as though he’s trying to be a hazard. Friend moves with more tact, receiving a brief hand through its wool as it passes by the crooked angel. It bleats in acknowledgement, then settles itself under Will’s chair.
What brought you out here at, uh, three in the morning. The winged man crosses the room carefully, as though the floor was laid with tacks. His voice is just as cautious.
Not like you’re sleeping either. Wilbur’s voice would sound challenging if it weren’t so tired.
Not what I asked you.
Hm.
Wilbur doesn’t respond immediately. Friend lifts its head from where it’s resting on the ground as long feathers pass it. Another chair is pulled out, and the winged man settles at the table too. The crackle of the fire fills the silence.
I’ve been thinking, - --. I was right, in the end.
The winged man goes very still. Wilbur is tapping one foot on the ground, full of nervous energy, pushing a depression of blue into the wood.
I don’t blame you, - --, hell you did my job better than I did in the end. Just took a minute to come around to it. There’s an edge to Will’s tone that Friend doesn’t like, and it doesn’t seem like the angel does either.
Wilbur.
Wilbur sighs, and when Friend looks up it can see the exhaustion on his face.
Why didn’t it work the first time? I did everything I could to destroy that mangled dream, and he laughs, and there’s a desperation to it that prompts Friend to push its nose against Will’s hand. He shifts slightly, the frantic tapping of his heel pausing, then picking up a calmer rhythm. They still rebuilt it.
They’re headstrong, Will. Not too different from a lad I knew once.
Will laughs again, but it’s a little less ragged than before.
How do you do it, - --?
How do I do what?
Build things. Keep things. I wanted to be great. I wanted to make something great, to raise someone great. My son, my little brother, my nation… How did you manage to keep what you care about?
The silence stretches for a moment, heavy with the weight of time unspoken. The man’s wings are spread across the floor, but they draw in closer as seconds tick. His feet shuffle under his chair, full of suppressed emotions. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is fragile.
I have lost far more than I’ve held onto. Will shuffles slowly, sitting up more properly in the chair. His hands disappear onto the table, and Friend can imagine the steeple they’ve formed. The man’s wings are pulled in tight to him, holding back a tide of emotion. I’ve reached greater heights and taken even longer tumbles. He laughs. I’m always surprised how much farther I can fall. It’s always deeper than it looks.
His voice is shaking now, hands clasped tight under the table. Friend picks itself up. The man with the tattered wings is not Wilbur, and Friend can’t see his blue, but he can tell the man is carrying a lot of it. The angel lets out a startled sound when Friend’s nose bumps his hip, tilting his head down to meet its large eyes. He laughs shakily, drawing a hand over his face, before reaching down to run his hands through Friend’s wool.
Will, can you forgive me?
You’re not the one who needs to ask that. Now Wilbur’s voice is the one that sounds brittle, bitter. Friend wishes there were more than one of it. They both need something to take their blue away.
Will. I killed you. I took your life with my own hands. I thought I couldn’t lose anything more than I have in my life, but taking my own son’s life…
It was selfish of me to ask it of you.
You don’t understand. If it hadn’t been my hands, it would still have been my own negligence. I –
It’s fine, - --.
The angel stands, cutting Wilbur mid-sentence. His feathers puff up, bitterness turning to self-deprecated anger, and his voice raises with it.
I spent years away, Will. I didn’t even notice. If it hadn’t been for -- - - and - -- -, you would have died and I would have never even known! A new name thrown in the mix. Friend wants to bleat, to break up the tension, but Wilbur speaks before it gets a chance.
-- - - and - -- -? He sounds confused. His foot is tapping again.
Yes. They both sent me letters about you.
Figures.
Wilbur. The first interaction I had with your little brother was him begging me to come save you. My first interaction with my grandson was to tell him of your death.
The angel slumps back into his chair, the rage seeping out of him, wings falling to the floor weakly, a few loose feathers tumbling free. Friend rests its head on his knee, and when he reaches down to touch its wool, it feels a glad it can help. Wilbur sounds small.
I’m sorry, - --. I’m…
Wilbur sighs, shifting in his chair, and when he speaks, Friend can hear the muffle of hands over his face.
We really are a disaster, huh?
Must run in the family.
There’s a long moment. Wilbur’s foot has fallen still, and the man’s wings are still and limp on either side of him. Then there’s a rustle of movement, and the winged man is standing, moving around the table. Friend follows him, curious, laying over Wilbur’s feet as a point of comforting contact.
The man with the broken wings stops an arm’s reach away from Wilbur. From its place at his feet, Friend can see the indecision on his face. Wilbur is still for all of one second before he moves, reaching out towards the man with the wings. He looks younger than Friend has ever seen, his expression crumpling, and Friend catches traces of tears just welling up in his eyes before his face is buried in the winged man’s shoulder. His arms wrap around the man’s waist, and his shoulders shake very slightly, utterly silently. The winged man’s face is a kaleidoscope of emotion, varied, twisting, impossible to parse, but there are tears welling in his eyes too. He closes them, tilting his head down to rest it on his son’s. His wings spread wide, curling protectively around the thin figure in his arms, a shield, a blanket, a promise. He whispers something into Wilbur’s hair, but it’s too personal, too private, for Friend to try and understand. It looks away, leaned against its friend’s legs, tuning the world out, letting the tiny family of two have their moment.
Nothing like a good 3 am cry to wear you out, huh? The winged man gives Will a smile, passing the steaming mug to him.
If you’re too sleepy for the drink, I’ll just take it. Wouldn’t want you to spill it on yourself. He reaches to ruffle Wilbur’s hair, who ducks and very nearly does spill the drink. He eventually accepts his fate, opting for a sip from the mug as the man with the dark feathers takes his victory, ruffling Will’s curls into a mess.
If anyone’s going to spill it’s you. How’s your joints old man?
They continue with the good-natured jabbing, settling in front of the fire in the cocoon of furs. One of the tattered wings curls around Wilbur, the ends of it draping over Friend’s flank. Will’s hand in its wool is warm. Their voices are warm, and soft. They peter out slowly, Wilbur eventually slumping into the winged man’s lap as sleep drags him away. Eventually, the angel’s eyes slip shut too, and their soft breathing and the crackle of the flames are the only sounds in the little house as the faint beams of dawn crawl up over the horizon.
And the man’s heart that was blue sheds a little more of its blue away. One day, Friend thinks, the blue will be barely noticeable amidst the blur of other colors.