Chapter Text
wilbur could never lie to his father. there was a sort of knowingness that the man had, a way he could look through your entire being and see exactly what you knew, exactly what you thought, exactly what you desired. maybe this is why wilbur slowly stopped picking up the pen, stopped drafting letters sent on winds that always led to the man who had seen all of him. maybe he was scared to be found out, scared to be caught in the lies he had woven to the whole world.
(maybe he was scared of getting away with it.)
a lie of omission though, is still a lie, silence is just as incriminating as the truth, and so maybe that is why when wilbur sees the crows that sit in the trees, that peer at him a little too closely on the morning of their attack he lifts his collar a little higher. perhaps there is a part of him that knows the black feathers glinting in the wind aren't just the messengers of the death he has planned, but maybe the harbinger of something else.
(still death, though, always death. wilbur knows his father, knows the trade for the wings that pierce through his back, the price of the life that springs from his hands - there is a sacrifice for every moment, for every drop of blood. there is a reason the birds that are his fathers shadows are called a murder.)
but there is peace in ignorance, and wilbur has mastered the art of ignorance when it benefits him, the perfect balance of constant paranoia and intentional oblivion. conspiracy is an art, and wilbur has crafted one so complex that it has become reality. and so the birds will watch, and wilbur will wash away all his problems.
the battle is a blur, and perhaps, not really a battle.
a battle is fighting for something, it has two sides that want something, supposedly opposing, but oftentimes the same thing in slightly different lettering. so this... skirmish, with two groups of people, two leaders, and perhaps wilbur is the only one who realizes that this is not a battle. this is a funeral.
at the end, wilbur sees the joy on these people's faces, the wide grins and the shouts of victory, and he feels a kind of sadistic joy in their happiness. he wonders how they will feel in the months to come, wonders if they will see the irony in the celebration moments before their doom. as he announces tommy, and sees the disbelief on his protege's face he wonders if this will break him. he wonders if this will finally tear away that obnoxious naivety that he has never been able to pry from tommy's grasp.
he wonders, he wonders, if this will make them hate him.
(he hopes it will.)
he slips away to the room he made, remembers the other room, the one where he was betrayed. he remembers the flash of fear and the burn of hatred. he wonders if this will be his own fate. he wonders as he stares at the button, speaks to the nonexistent audience in his mind. and he wonders, as he laments the loss of the nation he once loved, he wonders if he will be loved.
(he hopes, despite everything, that he will be.)
and he reaches, he is moments from victory, moments from, from -
"what are you doing."
wilbur has heard stories of voices. he knows the power of the words they speak, the power of the voices they take. he knows, he knows that it can't be, it can't be because he said it wouldn't be, because he hadn't, because why would he when for so many months, why would it be --
"phil?"
that name is... wrong in his mouth but he pushes past it his forehead against the cold stone that he can make hot, hot, hot, hotter than the fires of hell, if only he --
"what are you doing, wilbur."
and there it is again! there is the voice of the one person he said couldn't come, who he had told himself wouldn't be here, wouldn't witness what he was.
"where are you phil?"
in the place of where a laugh should be (because there should be, in every memory, in every instance of the utterance of these words, there had been laughter, there had been soft cushions and laughter and the warm sun and there had been joy) there is a solemn silence, and then -- "i'm joining the server."
wilbur is quiet, and then he feels a rush of anger at the impossible, and "no -- no! you, it's that's impossible you can't just --"
"i'm hacking in."
frantic energy fuels wilbur and he claws and hits the walls, as he forces his voice to steady, forces himself to lie. it should be easy, he has done it every time before, and really, if he can't look at him, he can't see through him, right?
and so he barters, "phil, philza, i, well, really there's no need! we -- we just freed ourselves and i'm not even president, so it's, it's --"
phil hums and wilbur can feel the battle slipping from his hands (yes, yes this is the battle now, not the theatrics of a war they showed outside, but this, the private struggles of a liar and his father, and wilbur is losing.)
"where are you wilbur?" there is irony in the repetition, an irony that wilbur can't muster the energy to laugh at.
"l'manberg, though really i suppose its it's, well it's not as straightforward as that, because i'm --"
there is a soft blip, one that wilbur has heard thousands of times in his time on this server and he turns around wildly, and then.
there he is.
he is mostly as wilbur remembers -- his hair long, a single braid tucked behind his ear, the green broad brimmed hat wilbur had gifted him years ago, faded by the sun and patched in places, the green cloak draped over his shoulders, and dark wings tucked neatly behind his back. his eyes are tired though, and the smile wilbur remembered was missing, replaced with a scowl that makes wilbur remember every time he disobeyed as a child.
"l'manberg, huh." phil steps forward, and wilbur steps back. "it's smaller than i expected."
wilbur laughs nervously, and steps back again, raises his arms to display the room.
"well, it is this is, well -- i will admit that maybe...." he pauses, and spins, striding towards the button, "do you know what this is?"
phil nods sharply and wilbur resists wincing.
"well, well alright but, have, have you heard the song, my, my song? it, well, it tells about the special place, what, what once was this special place, here, but it's gone, now." he smiles softly at the button, "it's gone, now."
at that phil shifts forward, grabs wilburs arms, and he tries to pull away but the mans hold is tight.
"it's there wil!" he gestures to the entrance, "it's there, it's them! you just, you just got it you can't just, steal it from yourself, not now."
wilbur snatches his hand back, "i can phil! i - i have almost done it so many times! i've been here, near, near seven times, and this is the time! they, they don't deserve this - it's, it's too far gone, they're too far gone!"
phil's voice is soft, "and you want to blow them - it - up?"
"i do."
"you just fought for months - you fought for so long and you want to just --"
he's decided now, though. this was his choice. and so, and so --
he turns to the button.
"phil, there was a saying, from a traitor. i don't remember if i told you about him -- eret, he said something once. and i wonder, i wonder if maybe..." wilbur smiles again, back turned to his father, "he said, philza, he said --"
and he presses the button.
"it was never meant to be."
(that saying echoes through history, it echoes through time, and space, and memory. it reverberates to a man in a crown, to a field universes away, to a woman with a match, to a man with hope, to a child in red, to a warrior angry at betrayal, to an ocean leagues away, to a country, still young, and hopeful and living.)
and the world is bright and loud, and wilbur can see his final stroke.
he turns around, his eyes wild, and there is his father, his wings spread wide as his terrified eyes, and he laughs.
"this -- this is my l'manberg! my unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!" there is screaming in the distance and he turns to address the crowd he knows is watching. he looks into the eyes of the people who hate him.
and then he turns back to his father. this was his purpose, finished, and now, now he can rest. he draws his sword.
phil steps back, "no, wilbur you don't want to --"
"kill me, phil. kill me." he throws the sword, and it skids across the stone, "do it, they, they all want you to, phil."
he turns to the crowd, looks at their faces knotted in disgust and fear, and he smiles. he doesn't blame them.
"i -- i can't wil, you're -- you're my --"
" kill me philza! stab me with the sword, murder me, do it!" he steps towards the man, trembling now, sobs wracking his body. "i deserve it, don't i? i've just, just killed an entire nation, and yet you won't kill me? need i not pay penance for my crimes, philza?"
his father's head is in his hands, and he shakes his head, "it doesn't matter wilbur i, i can't, you're my fucking son i can't just fucking murder you!"
"oh, oh thats rich ! philza minecraft, my father can't kill me! the literal fucking --" he spits at phil's feet, "the fucking god of death can't kill." he gestures wildly at the birds who cover every cranny of the room, "what are these philza minecraft? your fucking pets? "
there is anger in the mans eyes when he looks back at wilbur and he grins, yes, yes, this is what he wanted this is exactly what he --
"i won't kill you."
his smile drops.
"you, you will. or, or else i'll, i'll --"
his father tilts his head, "you'll what? blow up another nation? kill me?"
wilbur snarls, "i'll do this"
the edge of the crater is only a few feet away but still he sprints, diving into the open air as his father once taught him into the cool ocean that once bordered their home.
(the feeling of falling is spectacular, a rush of adrenaline and freedom. he has not felt this weightless in years, not since he sat on the counter of a caravan and laughed with a blonde haired boy at the masked man who threatened them with war.)
he falls and he falls and he falls and he - is caught.
his eyes open, and there, above him is the gritted teeth of his father.
"i," a wing beat, "won't," and another, "kill you."
and they are back on solid ground, but now, now they are in the very place wilbur just destroyed. and now the faces he had just seen from so high above, the faces he had never expected to confront again, now those faces were oh so close.
there is silence, and then there is a sob and wilbur is knocked to the ground by the very boy who once made him weightless. wilbur expects pain, expects nails clawing at him, expects screaming, expects a knife, expects pain and punishment, and he accepts it.
tommy hugs him.
(tommy forgives him.)
and he cries.
(wilbur has not heard tommy cry in a very long time.)