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Everything’s gone to hell in a handbasket. It was supposed to be over. Jschlatt's death was supposed to solve everything. But no, another fucking battle. He’s so fucking tired of fighting, of wars, of death. The signs were there, why didn’t he see the signs? He doesn’t even know what side anyone is on, what sides there even are. Pausing to catch his breath behind a pile of rubble, Fundy assesses his wounds. Every instinct in his body is blaring alarms. Just survive, that’s all. He can process what happened when he’s safe. Just survive. A chunk of his left ear is missing and both ears are still ringing from the blast, he has a myriad of bruises and shallow cuts all over his body, maybe a fractured wrist, definitely a broken rib or two, the shrapnel in his leg doesn’t look too deep, the fur on his tail is completely singed, and hopefully, his headache and blurry vision isn’t a concussion, but otherwise, he’s fine. Okay, he’s okay, He’ll live. And that’ll all he needs to do.
Ignoring the pain and gipping his neterite sword tighter, Fundy readjusts his matching armour for the millionth time, praying it keeps him alive. His ears swivelled right, and he springs out from the rubble in time to decapitate one of the withers’ heads. It screams and flies off to attack someone else. Fundy looks over the battlefield, people fighting left, right, and centre, but thankfully not each other, a common enemy can make all grudges disappear. Chaos wreaks the land, and his eyes catch something perched in the distance.
The crows are watching.
Fundy shivers under their stare.
He saw them before, sat on top of the Camarvan. He thought they were for Schlatt.
(don’t think about it, you’re not sad he’s dead, you’re not-)
Fundy didn’t notice that the crows, they didn’t caw when the tyrant died.
They weren’t there for the drunk.
The Blood God laughed from above, no one dared to go near him. No one was stupid enough to.
Gods aren’t real. They weren’t supposed to be anyway. They’re supposed to be like the boogeymen, a story told to naughty kids to stop them from acting out, things like “If you don’t eat your veggies, the Blood God will come and drink all your blood while you’re sleeping!”
Shaking his head of unnecessary thoughts, Fundy starts running towards the centre of the crater, where the explosion originated. He needs to know who set it off, needs to see it with his own two eyes, even though, deep down, Fundy already knows.
Well scratch that first thought, only one person was stupid enough to face a god.
Tommy screamed obscenities at Technoblade, that child was always picking fights he couldn’t win. The god loaded his crossbow with a lit firework and Fundy was sharply reminded of how similar this scene was to an event only a few days prior. Looking back, how did he ever think all this was ever close to being over. God, why couldn’t have it just been over?
Fundy heard a shout for Tommy behind him, looking over his shoulder, he saw Tubbo sprint towards his best friend, and throw himself in front of the firework rapidly approaching.
It hit them both.
And Fundy could only stand and stare in awe, at the bright colours raining down upon impact. Tubbo stared down at the man who had executed him and did it again all for his best friend.
Fundy was sharply reminded of how loneliness stung.
He didn’t run over to Tommy and Tubbo. They’ll be fine.
Survive, just survive.
He kept running.
After Schlatt died, both Wilbur and Tommy believed they weren’t fit to be the President of New L’Manburg. It’s stupid that it still hurts when Fundy thinks about who was called up to be president. Fundy doesn’t hate Tubbo, as much as he wants to. It’s hard to hate someone so kind, so funny, so willing to put others before himself, someone who’s nothing like Schlatt despite the visual similarities.
Someone who will be a much better president than Fundy will ever be.
It’s just stupid that he still had hope, that he thought his father would ever choose him.
Finally, he made it to where the TNT originally went off. Fundy recognized the voice long before he sees his father.
Wilbur stands in the ruins of a room above the crater, back turned to Fundy. There’s someone else with him that Fundy doesn’t recognize. He can’t hear what Wilbur’s saying over the ringing in his ears and the screams of the last of the withers being killed off. Wilbur suddenly turns to face his destruction, his ripped black trenchcoat whipping in the wind, his beanie still stubbornly hanging on, and Fundy can no longer see his father, but a madman, who went insane from the weight of his own ambitions. This is no longer his father who used to sing songs with him around the campfire; no longer his father who always messed up his hair under his cap by ruffling his head; no longer his father who made up that stupid story about fucking a fish to make him feel better about being abandoned by his birth parents; no longer his father who read him bedtime stories of far off lands; no longer his father who learned how to sew just so he could remake all the dresses and skirts into shirts and pants because they couldn’t afford to buy a whole new closet of clothes.
No longer his father who despite all his failings tried his best to give Fundy a good life.
Fundy wants to scream and cry. Just to ask why.
WHY.
WHY DOESN’T HE CARE ANYMORE?
But he won’t.
He won’t because his eyes are dry, his lungs are filled with smoke and rubble, his voice is rough and scratchy, and Wilbur hasn’t even noticed him.
Wilbur turns back to the mysterious figure and grabs a sword.
The figure steps into the light and Fundy suddenly can’t breathe.
The Winged Man.
The Angel of Death.
No. No no no no he’s not real!
HE CAN’T BE REAL.
But he is.
His black wings are torn to shreds, and his striped sun hat hides his expression.
And he is oh so real.
The crows are watching.
THE FUCKING CROWS.
The hilt of the sword hits The Keeper of the Crow’s chest, the point towards his father. The wind stills and the screams quiet, almost as if the universe wants Fundy to hear The Winged Man’s next words.
“I can’t kill you! You- you’re my SON!”
Fundy’s world shatters.
They aren’t stories, they never were just stories.
They’re tales.
Fundy refuses to hear his father’s screams back.
His pleas for death.
Fundy can’t stomach it.
Wilbur leans on The Winged Man and says something too quietly for Fundy to hear.
He must say something right because The Winged Man grips the sword offered to him.
“Dad?”
Wilbur smiles.
The sword pierces his trenchcoat.
Suddenly, thousands of crows start screaming all at once, taking to the skies in a whirlwind of feathers. They shoot past Fundy, obscuring his vision of the madman.
Of his father.
His dead father.
Fundy chokes back his tears, struggling to breathe. He’s on the floor before he realizes his legs have given out his lungs working overtime his pulse beating heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest he collapses to the dirt the birds scream they’re screaming for wilbur he’s dead he’s dead his ears ring and ring and ring he can’t hear anything other than the screams
the sky is black
“Hey, hey it’s okay! There’s no need to be scared! The crows won’t hurt you. They caw because they’re telling stories to each other! Yeah, I bet you didn't know that the crows are the ones who tell me all the stories that I tell you at bedtime. It’s true! Crows love to tell stories, that’s why a group of them is called a storytelling.”