Chapter Text
The brisk evening air bit at Y/n’s skin as they sat motionless on the bench, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Mesmerizing guitar strumming accompanying the soft, beautiful lilt of a familiar masculine voice drifted into their ears. Though, it was not a live performance, only that of a song recorded forever ago onto a disc. Their eyes trailed over to the sleek circular object spinning on top of the jukebox, the stains of soot and ash they had tried so hard to wash away still mocking them.
Even if they despised the deceased musician- their former best friend- with all their heart, they had to admit he was damn good at creating songs. After all this time, his music still filled them with an inexplicable, contradictory mixture of dread and tranquility. Only he could manage to make them feel that way, they supposed.
His unbridled beam came to mind- his sweet words flowing around in their head and turning their stomach to mush. Y/n missed that version of him, before the fall from grace and descent into madness. But he was long gone now, and they would never get the chance to see that lovely side of him ever again.
A few tears brimmed in their eyes. They hastily swiped them away, keeping the mournful sentiments at bay.
It was better off this way. His ghost was quite amiable and kind as well, even if he could never really be the same person. When they looked at the apparition, most of the similarities stopped at his appearance. Much of the memories had been expunged, leaving what felt like a former shell of the man they once knew. The phantom was quite fond of them, and as much as they enjoyed his company, it was never the same as it had been when he was still alive- time spent with him always left a bittersweet taste in their mouth. At least the ghoul friend was a better person than the living counterpart.
They sighed, attempting to ease the apprehension that still seemed to plague them after all this time. Listening to his music probably only worsened their state, but they always found themself craving the timbre of his voice and the sweet music that flowed from his fingers. An undeniable warmth that made them feel safe and at home. But that era was over, and Y/n was left with only the memory of a man long dead and gone, both metaphorically and literally.
“Y/n!” a voice the exact same as that of the disc’s musician shouted in the distance, causing the addressed one’s heart to cease beating.
Their eyes flickered to the disc turning on the jukebox, not having remembered that bit in the song. Perhaps they had managed to miss it every single time they listened, but that was incredibly improbable considering how often they played it. Seldom would he interrupt his music with background noise anyway, so it puzzled them even more.
They leaned closer, listening carefully for any other disruption. But the voice of the dead man kept on singing, the sorrow in every note thick and heavy as his hands danced across a set of strings.
Maybe in all their lonesome longing, they had simply imagined his calling. It would not be the first time.
“Y/n!” the voice came again, this time louder than the last.
The perturbed person screwed their eyes shut at the feeling of their throat tightening and the task of breathing became much more difficult. They curled up into a ball, hugging their knees to their chest and burying their face against them. It was another audio hallucination. They should have known the moment they heard his voice yelling their name.
“Y/n!” his voice was much closer this time and accompanied by that of racing footsteps thudding against the Prime Path.
He was running in their direction, right by Tommy’s strange dirt hut of a house. They could envision the wide grin on his face and the way his chocolate eyes shimmered in the sunlight. A breath of air was squeezed out from their lungs as they reminded themself it was not real.
To further convince themself that they were only hallucinating, they lifted their head and peered behind them. But the sight that met their eyes made their heart stall. Their breath hitched in their throat as they came face to face with a dead man sprinting towards them. Wilbur Soot.
“Y/n! Oh, you have no idea how glad I am to see you!” he greeted as he neared them, the new addition of a white chunk of hair bouncing along with the rest of his chocolate curls.
Y/n had never had a visual hallucination before, only auditory. The burn of bile rose in their throat as fear settled into the pit of their stomach. They were not imagining him. Wilbur was real. He was alive .
Disbelief clawed at their unsuspecting brain. No. He could not be real. Wilbur was dead . They watched Phil plunge a sword through his chest. The phantom feeling of his cold skin against their shaking hands sent a shiver down their spine.
“You’re… you’re not real,” they choked out, never taking their eyes off the figure as though he would disappear any moment the way he had that day amongst the chaos and explosions, leaving them behind once again.
The deceased man cackled, the wide grin on his face so demented it no longer resembled the person they had once loved dearly. It belonged to that of a monster- the person who had scarred them in more ways than one.
“Of course I am! Dream revived me,” he informed while still steadily making his way to the bench; he was almost there now, “Oh, Dream, my hero!”
Y/n frantically held their face in their hands, forcing air to circulate throughout them so they could properly breathe. Their chest heaved while it tried its best to fill their deprived lungs with air.
He must have been brought back by the same book that had been used to revive Tommy… They knew the possibility of Dream doing such a thing was there, but always chose to ignore it so as to not ignite their own anxieties. But their worst fear had come true.
They simply could not accept the truth. Not after everything that had happened. Wilbur was supposed to be dead . Far away and no longer able to hurt them.
“No, no, no,” frenetic whimpers fell from their mouth, their body rocking back and forth on the bench, “No, you can’t be.”
The suffocating smell of smoke filled their nostrils and throat, choking them out. The deafening blasts of explosives left their ears ringing for days on end. The bitter flavor of ash slipped into their mouth and scorched their tongue. The overbearing blazing heat of sizzling embers engulfed their skin, making them wish they could jump out of it for some much-needed respite. The flittering specks of ash and sparks, the swells of brilliant flames, and the smoggy smoke billowing out from the blackened crater that had once been their home- their cherished haven.
The cries of their best friend begging for his father to kill him. Their own hoarse screeches of protest, bargaining to keep him around because they could hardly bear the thought of releasing him into the unknown where they could never reach him. The sickly moist stab and the fountain of crimson his chest became. And then the silence afterward, the lack of voice and breath and life that utterly broke them.
Y/n had not even had the chance to hold their best friend in his last moments. The only thing they got to hold that day was the abundant amount of burns that littered their skin like markings of his final decree, “It was never meant to be!”
They had witnessed his fall firsthand. Wilbur was dead. It was the cold, hard truth.
Y/n sucked in a breath, peering at the man now standing in front of them with a manic smirk. Just a visual hallucination, they deemed- their mind playing tricks on them in a new, shocking form. There is a first time for everything, after all.
Maybe they should put his discs to rest, stored up in untouched boxes in their cobweb and dust-coated attic. Letting go was always the most difficult part, but it would do wonders for their mental state.
“God, it’s good to be back. And it’s nice to know you still listen to my music,” the hallucination motioned to the disc playing before focusing his penetrating gaze on them, “I’ve missed you a lot, you know. Thirteen and a half years without you…”
Y/n unfurled from themself, sitting up straight. If he was not real, he could not harm them. They stared him down as they tried to figure out how to get rid of him. Tension still resided in their stiff posture, but their breathing was more at ease.
Against their better judgment, they responded to him. Deep down, they still yearned for him, so where was the harm in pretending he was really there and interacting with them. They knew it was all made pretend, but it filled an unsatiated hole in their heart.
“Thirteen and a half years?” they questioned as they tilted their head, “What do you mean?”
The fake man’s hands moved around as he rambled nonsense in return.
“In my own personal limbo! A train platform, all alone. Basically Hell! But I’m back now!” Wilbur announced joyfully as he crouched down, his hands latching onto Y/n’s shoulders.
The sudden contact caused Y/n to jump. In addition, now that he was close enough, they could smell the foul stench of ash and soot emitting from him. The vile odor made their nose scrunch up in revulsion.
Y/n did not want to believe his words to be true, but their hallucinations never presented themselves so fully. Nor did any of the information he spew line up with his usual falsified babbling in their mind.
He was not a hallucination after all. He was real. Dream had actually revived him. Wilbur was alive again. And he was standing directly in front of them, awaiting a response.
Y/n was devastated by the revelation, their palms clenching at their sides.
“Don’t touch me!” they screamed, shoving him away as though his touch seared their skin the same way his TNT had all that time ago.
Wilbur looked mildly hurt at their refusal to be touched by him. They had always been so physically affectionate, dealing out their own variety of physical contact and leaning into his touch any chance they got. Concern was written all over his face as he asked,
“Y/n? What’s wrong?”
Y/n growled, the animalistic noise rumbling deep in their throat as they glared at the man who they once viewed as their closest companion. For good measure, they had scooched across the bench, out of his reach.
His crazed stare and the shrill of his laughter over the ruckus of explosions haunted them every day of their life. And now here he was, acting as though everything was just fine while holding that same deranged look in his eyes. It made them sick to their stomach.
“I don’t know if you exactly remember Wilbur, but you kinda betrayed everyone and blew up our home. So sorry if I’m not exactly thrilled to see you’re… alive,” they snapped, already in a defensive mode now that reality had crashed down onto their shoulders.
Their knuckles were strained by how tightly they were gripping the bench in them. They had half the mind to strike him right where he stood but restrained themself. As much as they desired to, especially after all this time being tormented by the rippling effects of his actions with no closure, they refused to stoop down to his level. They would remain civil.
“Look, I understand it must have hurt you a lot and I’m truly sorry about what I did,” he apologized with a frown, “But I’m back now and this is a new era!”
The unamused person scoffed at his irrational optimism. He really thought he could easily walk back into their life again after everything he had done- all the things he had blown to pieces the same way he had L’Manburg. ‘Sorry’ would not be enough to cut it.
The man currently in front of them was so much different than the one singing from the jukebox, a deteriorated maddened iteration of the man they once knew. They longed for that past version of Wilbur back, but such a silly little wish would be impossible. Both of them were completely different people, and Y/n refused to make the same mistake twice.
“That doesn’t change the fact that the trauma is still present with me every day of my life, you asshole,” they bit back, unwilling to submit to him the way they would have once upon a time.
However, Wilbur seemed amused by their resistance. His smile curled like that of a lunatic’s, cheer glinting in his eyes as he gazed fondly at them. The expression made them want to gag.
“Wow, when did you become so feisty, Y/n? It’s a good look on you, but what happened to the sweetheart I once knew?”
His words felt like a backhanded compliment. Y/n had forgotten what his validation felt like, but now that they had a taste of it again, they remembered just how bittersweet it was. A sweet and sour flavor that made their stomach churn in the worst way possible.
They bit their lip, annoyance rolling off them in waves.
“You blew them to bits right before you died.”
Wilbur visibly winced at the admission. A smidge of regret swirled in his dark eyes as he looked at them. Before he pressed the button, he should have told them to leave and do some unnecessary tasks to protect them. The last thing he wanted was their death, especially if the blood was on his hands.
His hands reached out to touch them before dejectedly falling to his sides when he remembered how they had acted before when he grazed them. They had no idea just how badly he wished to hold them again, and not being able to after thirteen and a half years in almost complete solitude away from them felt like another sword to the chest.
“Did you actually die that day I blew up L’Manburg?”
Y/n recoiled, having noticed his discontinued attempt to lay his hands on them. Their face contorted into a scowl.
They could care less for his apparent remorse as well. His actions spoke volumes of how much he actually cared about their well-being back then, and nothing could change the scars he left behind. They still throbbed from time to time.
“Physically, no but it was a close call. I was bedridden for at least two weeks afterward. Metaphorically, I’d say yeah considering how badly you fucked me up.”
Wilbur was majorly relieved to know that they had survived and not lost a life to his own hands. He forcefully suppressed any imagined visuals of how broken they must have looked in bed. So pathetic and dependent on others to be cared for. The unimaginable agony they must have been in. The guilt that latched onto his heart went ignored.
Instead, he focused on the second half of their statement, which he took offense to. The two had obviously not seen eye to eye on many things, and that disagreement created a divide between them. The clashing of ideals and morals was never a pretty sight, but neither would apologize for remaining true to themselves, even if it hurt the other. So perhaps in Wilbur’s mind, Y/n had in fact betrayed him as opposed to the other way around- but they were never entirely sure.
“Oh, don’t pin this on me. It’s not my fault you got your hopes up despite the inevitable,” the displeased man shot back, crossing his arms across his chest to keep himself from grabbing them; it was getting more difficult by the second with the temptation of being so close beckoning him.
Y/n loured at him for his choice of words. What he so-called “inevitable” was his betrayal of blowing up L’Manburg despite them agreeing that if Pogtopia had won the war, Wilbur would not press the button and the TNT would be left undetonated. But despite winning and reclaiming the land, the maniacal man had still gone through with pressing the button. The ensuing explosions obliterated the land, and Y/n, who had been caught in the crossfire, had nearly died.
“Yeah, the inevitability of you being a bastard I guess. Dealing with Technoblade after supposedly winning was enough, but you had to top it off with your completely unnecessary explosion mania,” they spouted off while waving their hands around, “Need I remind you, I nearly died.”
The peeved person heaved out a breath before pulling up the long sleeves of their top. They were not particularly fond of exposing their arms for the public eye to see, but they wanted Wilbur to see the lasting effects of his decision to blow up L’Manburg. To see the unremovable damage he had dealt to them.
Wilbur’s eyes gravitated towards the exposed skin, examining it. His eyes widened instantly. Lining their arms in a sporadic pattern of chaos were a plethora of burn scars, varying in shape and size. The original burn wounds were gone, having healed quite well by now, but the flesh was left permanently deformed. Just one look was enough to know they must have experienced Hell on Earth during that explosion and for a short period of time afterward.
The guilt increased, weighing his chest down and making it more difficult to simply ignore. Wilbur had never meant to physically harm the person he held dearest.
“God, I’m so sor-” he began to apologize, only to be cut off by Y/n coldly interjecting,
“Save it. I don’t want your apology.”
Y/n continued wistfully staring at their arms, a sense of forlornness radiating from them. They slowly rotated them, inspecting the intricate designs of utter pain for the millionth time since they appeared. Each splatter and splotch was another scornful scripture sprawled against their skin by the one they had trusted most. They usually preferred to not look at them as they served as a reminder of everything that had gone wrong and the beloved man they had lost, but at the moment, they could not help their wandering eyes and reminiscent thoughts.
The heart-wrenching sight continued to add to Wilbur’s personal penitence. This was the complete opposite state he wanted to find Y/n in, broken down and desolate from his own wrongdoings. He missed their jovial attitude and the warmth in their bright eyes when they gazed at the world around them- especially at him specifically.
“The doctor said that if I hadn’t used my arms to protect my head, it would have gotten the brunt of the blow and been much worse,” they sighed, thoughts of a certain young brown-haired boy coming to mind, “I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been when Technoblade shot Tubbo with a firework. He got hit almost directly in the face.”
“Then let me make it up to you, Y/n. Like the good old days- you remember those? We can live like that again,” Wilbur offered, clasping his hands together in a begging position- once again to restrain himself from pulling them into his arms as well as kissing the scars along their arms.
Y/n’s head shot up, glaring daggers at him. The flames that danced in those beautiful eyes reminded him of the day he blew up L’Manburg, and Wilbur gulped. That feverish fire within them had no doubt been lit by him and it did not look like it would be extinguished any time soon.
“After you used me- you manipulated me? Yeah right,” they spat with a grimace, “You’re not the same Wilbur I knew back during that time.”
Their loathing for him was clearer than glass, but Wilbur refused to give up. He had not spent thirteen and a half years longing for their embrace only to be turned away when he finally returned and had the chance to hold them again. In his death, they had been his one only regret. Leaving them behind was more agonizing than decimating his own country with his own two hands.
“Y/n, please,” he pleaded while leaning forward towards them, being sure to not make any contact, “Give me a second chance.”
Y/n clicked their tongue in annoyance. Their body instinctively leaned backward, further away from him. They leveled their eyes with his as they pulled their sleeves back down to their wrist, effectively covering the scars again.
“And why would I do that? So I can let you hurt me again?” they questioned sarcastically, bitterness lacing their voice, “I’m not an idiot, Wilbur.”
Their difficulty was beginning to irritate Wilbur. Before his death, they had been much more obedient and usually followed his orders without question. He disliked this new side of them because it stood in the way of being with them again. More pressure was necessary to make them abide by him.
“How can you be so sure about that? You’re nothing without me, Y/n,” Wilbur ridiculed pointedly, “I’m the one who brought you into L’Manburg and helped you adjust and make friends. You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing,” they refuted, briefly glancing at the darkening sunset and feeling a wave of dreariness set in, “And don’t you dare belittle me.”
When they looked back at Wilbur, he was grinning at them.
“Awww, is your ego hurt?” he cooed in a babyish voice, taunting them.
The moment would have been reminiscent of the good old times if it was not for the genuine maliciousness behind his every word. Any semblance of joking jabs had dissolved into scalding insults. Y/n huffed at his disrespectful jeering.
“No, I just prefer being treated like an actual human being instead of some puppet you can use and control. After your death, I was able to think clearly for myself again. And in those first moments of clarity, I realized just how awful you had been,” their voice began to quiver and they hunched forward, briefly cupping their face for comfort, “God, I can’t believe you’re really back.”
Wilbur sneered at their statement. Before his death, they had been under his thumb, so clueless and easy to manipulate. In his absence, they had grown a spine and subsequently undermined his dubious ways. Now it seemed Y/n was not the only one longing for a past version of a loved one.
“You know, I thought you’d be happy to see me again considering how close we had been before,” he pointed out with a disappointed frown.
Y/n made direct eye contact as they nonchalantly replied,
“You were mistaken.”
There was a brief silence as both mulled over what to say next. They were at odds with one another, neither wanting to budge from their personal beliefs and goals. Two beings within feet of each other, one unwilling to give in to the other’s demands and the other persistent in their failing reparation.
Y/n took the moment to truly ponder the implications of Wilbur’s revival. It had been such a sudden reveal, and they had no idea what the circumstances leading up to it were. A strangled gasp broke from their lips when a sudden realization dawned on them.
“Oh dear, if you’re back then… Ghostbur is gone,” their eyes glossed over as they recalled the details of Wilbur’s ‘personal limbo’ in the afterlife.
The mention of the friendly ghost seemed to make Wilbur smile, albeit a sick, twisted smile.
“Oh yeah, I know of him.”
That declaration had Y/n staring at him curiously, shock apparent on their face. They could not grasp how he could possibly have known about his ghostly counterpart, being that the two were completely separate entities on two different planes. By the sounds of it, Ghostbur had never personally interacted with Wilbur before and even strived to ignore his existence as a whole.
“You… you do?” their voice was meek, the pressure in their eyes building as the want to cry became stronger.
“While in limbo, the last thing I saw was a train pulling in. And there were two people on that train. One man- a desaturated me, came rolling into town- came rolling into my limbo, he’s in my limbo! He came rolling in. His face was steaming with tears. They looked like they were burning him... I don’t know- but anyway, the one conducting the train was obviously Dream, being that he was the one who revived me.”
The cogs in Y/n’s head turned as they processed the story. Mere seconds later, the gravity of Wilbur’s words sunk in as the worst realization came to light. Though they still did not know how Ghostbur departed from the world, he arrived at Wilbur's personal limbo in a distraught state- tears streaming down his face and burning its ghastly surface. After swapping positions with Wilbur, he was left there all alone on the train platform. Powerlessly watching as the train pulled away and vanished down the tube line. Condemned to the same eternal solitude- the literal Hell it seemed- that Wilbur had been stuck in for thirteen and a half years.
A hoarse cry ripped from their throat at the despair that welled inside their chest. They had been holding back the waterworks until now, but they began to overflow at the thought of Ghostbur’s undeserved fate. At the unfair swap and the consequences it has on both parties, a despicable man of flesh and his wonderfully charming specter. It almost felt like losing Wilbur for a second time, the same bittersweet treachery that was his everlasting legacy imprinted on them. Y/n could not bear the weight of it all.
“Shit… I want him back,” they mewled while wiping a hand across their damp cheeks, “He was so much better than you’ll ever be. He doesn’t deserve to be there all alone…”
Wilbur felt downright aggravated by their grief for the loss of Ghostbur. Even a bit jealous, considering their reaction to his resurrection was one much more cemented in being appalled. He was standing right there, alive and in the flesh, and they were grieving his literal ghost. Some completely different person who never shared the same bond that he once had with them. It was unfair beyond belief to him.
“How could you say that?” he asked incredulously, “He doesn’t even matter; he’s not me .”
Y/n tilted their head upwards, glaring at Wilbur through their wet lashes. Their saddened expression was replaced by one of pure detestation.
“Yeah, that’s the point, Moron. Ghostbur was kind-hearted and wonderful to be around, unlike you.”
The insulted man’s hands clenched into fists, fighting back his urge to grab onto them again- this time out of rage instead of affection.
He had dreamed of their reunion for thirteen and a half years, and instead found the one he yearned for most not only mourning the death of his ghost, but being so adverse to his mere presence due to the despise embedded inside their heart- the same heart that once beat with glee for him.
His whole world seemed to shatter the same way their posture had as they hunched in on themself and sobbed. Both were miserable, but for two very different reasons.
“You used to love being around me! Practically begged to spend time with me even though I was busy so often,” Wilbur hopelessly voiced their past relations aloud in hopes it would stir something within them, “Where did all that fondness go?”
He was startled when Y/n suddenly shot up from the bench, the tears still cascading down their face. They fixed their soul penetrating stare on him, the heat in the glare making them look just about ready to punch something. Such an odd mix of wrath and sorrow swirled into some distressed, mangled form that riddled their whole body with trembles and overflowing tears.
“I’m not going to waste my time reiterating what I’ve already explained to you,” their words were warbled by their weeping but they did not care, too busy focusing on the conversation, “In fact, I’m done talking to you. Bye Wilbur. I hope I never see you again.”
Their words were curt, a final goodbye to the man they once loved with all their heart- to the man who ruined their life. They were ready to move on. Not even his revival could stop them as they tread down the path of healing. L’Manburg may be long gone now, and even Ghostbur it seemed, but Y/n surely was not. They would continue living on- for those they cherished, and most of all, for themself.
Wilbur reached out, attempting to clasp a hand down on their shoulder. He missed, catching thin air instead as they moved out of reach and began marching down the Prime Path next to Tommy’s house. His heart rate picked up, not wanting to let go of them again. Especially not in such a despondent fashion.
“Hey, don’t walk away. We’re not done here yet,” he tried to keep his voice cool and steady, desperate to not let them slip through his fingers like sand.
The pissed person did not even bother looking back at him. Instead, they raised a hand and waved it dismissively at their side. The other was used to wipe away the remainder of their tears.
“No, I’m done. I’ve been done since the day you died,” their voice dripped with venom, stinging him without hesitation, “And I’ll be on my merry way to learning how to truly live again.”
A sigh fell from Wilbur’s lips. Then he straightened his posture and cleared his throat. He had been hoping to avoid his last resort, but their difficulty proved persistent. It left him with no other option.
“Get back here now. That is an order, Y/n,” he commanded sternly, the same tone of voice he used on them back in Pogtopia in the few times they were unusually unruly; it had worked like a charm since they always caved in at the sound of it.
To his confusion, Y/n whipped around to face him and began laughing hysterically. Their shoulders bounced with every dry, humorless cackle. The fitful guffaw was a stark contrast to the tears rolling down their face. That same glimmer of sparks sweltered in their eyes like the long tendrils of the fires that engulfed poor old L’Manburg on multiple occasions. They may have destroyed L’Manburg for good in the end, but they seemed to simmer inside Y/n and encourage them to thrive.
“What? What’s so funny?” Wilbur asked, at a complete loss in terms of understanding.
“You…” the timbre of their voice wobbled at first, weak from the lack of air instead supplied to their unhinged laughter before inhaling, “You really have the nerve to order me around after all this time- after everything I just told you. Don’t you understand?”
Wilbur tilted his head, not getting the memo. He had no clue what they were alluding to. Frankly, their sudden outburst of disturbed giggles had startled him. Up until then, they had been so melancholic and grave with a bit of fury. The strange action was out of line for them.
“Understand what?” he questioned while he watched them hastily make their way back in front of him.
The moment they were in front of him, their arms outstretched in the blink of an eye. Wilbur jumped in startlement when they grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down to eye level. The look in Y/n’s eyes was one of dead seriousness set on hot coals, and he could practically feel the heat scathing him.
Their mouth opened, firmly delivering the final blow,
“You may be alive and back, Wilbur, but to me, you’re still dead.”
His eyes were wide and mouth agape at the brutal answer. There was not even a second to utter a response to their face, as Y/n had already turned away and began storming off back down the path. The disc that harbored their favorite song of Wilbur’s was left forgotten and abandoned, still humming softly from the jukebox. The ancient music of a man long gone, never to be seen again.
Wilbur peered down at his gloved hands. Blood flowed through them. Air rushed to fill his lungs with every breath. The sweet scent of nearby flowers filled his nostrils. Tears ran down his face, not burning his skin in the slightest. Yet, he was almost convinced that he had never been revived at all. That this was his own personal limbo, an eternity without the one he loved by his side.
Y/n kept walking with certainty in their stride, not bothering to turn back for one last glance. They did not need one. Their eyes stayed focused ahead of them- on returning home and the approaching future to come. The exciting journeys they would embark on and the healing they would continue to experience. Leaving Wilbur behind in the ashen ruins of an agonizing past now laid to rest within their mind.