Work Text:
Tommy is there when Dream dies. Well, saying that is a bit of an understatement. Like every shit thing that’s ruined this world, Tommy is right in the thick of things. It’s a war and it ends as all wars do, with death and blood and regret running freely.
It is the most terrible war so far. Before, wars destroyed cities, yeah, but not all of them at once. This war touches every part of the world. A part of him wants to smile at everyone finally understanding what it feels like to see your home bombed to nothing. That part is overshadowed by his weariness that runs so deep he can’t even celebrate. He barely even knows who the good guys in that last fight were because Wilbur and Quackity were trying to kill each other just a fortnight ago and now they’re drinking under the lights, toasting to Dream’s death.
Tommy makes his appearances, pissing everyone off as casually as he breathes because that’s what is expected of him. He is crass and belligerent and by the time he slips away after looting Dream’s corpse, everyone is too annoyed with him to even care. Besides, if anyone’s earned the right to steal from Dream it’s Tommy.
When he is out of sight, when he can’t hear the fireworks that still make him flinch even now, when he’s certain no one will witness him, Tommy lets his shoulders slouch and lets his feet drag. Exhaustion has followed him daily for weeks now ever since the war started up and he’s fought in every battle.
Every part of him aches as he stumbles into the shrine he carved out for Her in the untouched mountains. It is built from cobblestone as all his structures are. No one understands that it isn’t a lack of imagination that drives him to the material but that it was with cobblestone that he laid his very first brick along the Prime path a lifetime ago. That moment drenched in gold stays with him for he heard Her voice in the wind and felt Her warm hand in the sun.
His faith in her is large and bellicose, Church Prime and its Holy Land screaming the nature of his faith for all to hear. This shrine is the start of a new Holy Land, and it greets him gently as he enters the shrine, grimacing at the dust that’s built up in the time he’s been gone. Tired as he is, Tommy makes sure to polish the cobblestone floors and wipe down the altar, cleaning the stained windows that took far too long to make and stocking the burner. When that is done, he kneels before the simple altar and uncaps the aspergillum with holy water.
There was a time after the prison but before this most recent war when he and Dream spoke without violence. It was in Her Home, beneath the crystal ceilings of Church Prime. It had been snowing and Tommy’s fingers were blue—not blue like Ghostbur, never like Ghostbur who did nothing wrong and suffered for it—from the chill seeping through the glass.
Dream had been there, kneeling in front of the altar. Tommy had considered running but fleeing in Her warm embrace is the kind of cowardice he won’t accept. So, he’d marched on down past the pews and spitefully sat next to Dream. He’d closed his eyes and felt Her presence, doing his absolute best to ignore the fucker next to him.
“Not even a greeting,” Dream says just when Tommy’s put him out of thought. It’s not the pettiest thing Dream’s done.
“I’m busy here, can’t you see.” But his concentration is broken so he opens his eyes and looks at Dream’s mask. “You don’t deserve a greeting.”
“That’s not very nice. We’re friends, aren’t we? Brothers even.”
Dream tilts his hand, revealing the silvery scar from when they laid the foundation of the Church. Tommy has a matching scar on his hand, untouched by the terrible burn scar that seemed to snake around Her mark. They’d shed blood when they placed the cornerstone and sanctified the land with prayer.
“How many other gods are you promised to?” Tommy asks. “You have no real faith. You only believe in the gods that give you power over people. Fuck you, yeah.”
“Profanity in Her halls? How far you’ve fallen in your faith.”
“Bitch, you think She cares? You only ever memorised scripture, but you never practised faith. Fuck you Dream and fuck all that you stand for.”
“Tommy,” he warns in a voice that a year ago would have had Tommy shaking.
“That won’t work. I’m not that kid you controlled. Get over yourself Dream. You’re a little man grasping for power you lost a long time ago. It’s pathetic, really. You’re no one and nothing. You belong to nothing, and nothing belongs to you.”
“I’m Hers,” Dream says softly, so softly Tommy almost misses it between the chimes of the bells and the gentle harmony of the windchimes. “I’ve always been Hers.”
“I’m not naïve enough to believe you anymore.”
“Then why’d you sit here? In a place this large you picked right here.”
“I wanted to see how much of a shithead you were. I’m more disappointed than anything. Seeing you here is like seeing any clout chaser. Fucking pathetic.”
Silence fills the church for a long moment as Tommy glares at Dream, wishing they were outside the Holy Lands so he could stab the arsehole a few times. Maybe steal all the shit from his house and burn it down. He’d gone and done that later.
“You know, when you died—”
“When you beat me death, yes. Use the active voice, not the passive you manipulative asshole.”
“You’re spending too much time with Wilbur if you know those words.”
Like always, Dream knows just how to target Tommy’s weaknesses. It makes him pause, struggling to find some stability because of course, Wilbur can affect him even when he’s not around. “Get to you damned point.”
“Like I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, after you died I did pray for your soul.”
“Bullshit.”
“I did. I asked Her to guide you to Her side. I begged her to take you so you would be at peace.” Very deliberately, Dream tilts his mask. “I waited two whole days to see if you would make it to Her.”
“So what, I’m unworthy or some shit? That’s what you’re trying to say? Well, I don’t believe you. I never will.”
“Nothing I say will convince you.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Would you pray for me?”
“Worried you’re gonna die? The most mercy you’ll be shown is a quick death. I hope they bury you.”
“Would you pray for me as I did for you, Tommy? Or is your faith situational instead of honest?”
“You know Dream, fuck you.”
Tommy turned back to Her and prayed spitefully, utterly ignoring the green bastard.
They prayed, not together, not in unison, but they prayed regardless to Her. Tommy doesn’t believe Dream’s mumbled words are said with any sincerity but on the minuscule chance they are he won’t disturb someone’s communion with Her.
That was back when Church Prime still stood proudly.
Church Prime is gone now, destroyed in nuclear fire like so many other monuments. Tommy built this shrine away from the taint of everything that came before, carved out a new Holy land in the frigid mountains. It’s a small and unworthy thing, but Tommy’s getting there one block at a time. It might not be glorious, but it’ll be honest. Hopefully, that will be enough to appease Her.
Now that Dream is dead, he’s forced to challenge just how far his faith goes. He could refuse to vouch for Dream and prove his faith fickle, but doing so would aid Dream. No matter what he chose, Dream would win. There is only one option that wouldn’t harm his faith.
“Lady, guide his soul to your side,” Tommy will say, voice hoarse from a lifetime of screaming out for things to be better and living with the bitter disappointment that they will only get worse. “Lady, guide his heart to rest. Lady, guide his body to peace.”
For all that Tommy will always hate Dream till his final breath, he will still light a candle and slice his hand, letting blood flow freely into the water, crimson mixing with water. It feels like a betrayal to do this, to vouch for Dream’s soul, to beg Her to be merciful and grant him passage. It is an insult to everything Tommy suffered under Dream and every fibre of his being begs him to stop.
He does it anyway.
For all that Dream is a vile piece of shit undeserving of forgiveness or a shred of kindness, he still helped build the Church to Her Holy Prime brick by blood bricky beside Tommy. Even when they were on different sides, Dream spoke her prayers with ardent worship. Dream might be Tommy’s greatest enemy but maybe if Tommy does this then Dream will find his way to Her. If a man who can break oaths of brotherhood, who can worship and discard other gods to manipulate his people, who killed and never regretted it once, if someone like that can make it to Her then it means Tommy will get there.
He has to make it there. He needs to. If he can’t then his whole life would have been a waste.
Tommy sets Dream’s mask on the brazier alongside the discs that started the first war that never really ended. Chasing them never brought peace. Having them only brought temporary respite. They were symbols, terrible ones, and they represent parts of himself that maybe should die.
“Meet me there,” he pleads, he prays, he promises, hoping against all hope that there is something to faith, “so I can break your face in.”
Dream’s mask burns in the fire alongside the discs. Tommy does not forgive Dream, but he can let his hate burn to ash and watch as the wind carries those ashes away to an uncertain future.
*****
He fights Technoblade at dawn on an unremarkable day.
For once, there is no enmity between them. The gladiatorial pits were made in hopes to vent off violence and frustration without consequence. It is a blood sport without the hate. It is something uniquely Technoblade.
“You gotta win this Tommy,” Wilbur says, leaning heavily on Tommy’s shoulders in the dingy waiting room before the final battle. “If you win this then there isn’t anyone who can oppose us.”
“That right?”
“Don’t be an idiot. He’s the last threat. I made you into a soldier. I made you a warrior better than everyone else. You’ll win.” Wilbur squeezes with the terrible strength he’s always hidden. It hurts, but everything about Wilbur hurts. “You’ll win. You don’t want to disappoint me, right?”
“And if I lose?”
“You won’t because I made you.”
Tommy wants to say more, to reject the idea that he was built from the ground up by Wilbur’s ruinous hands. But what can he say when Wilbur’s actions, Wilbur’s nation, and Wilbur’s destruction were the fires that tempered Tommy into the person he is now?
Even if he wanted to say something, the gates groan open, heavy chains clanking and ushering Tommy towards the light of the arena. Tommy walks stiffly like a puppet to the roar of a crowd demanding blood spilt.
Across from him is Technoblade, resplendent in red and wielding his favoured trident. hi
More oft than not, Tommy wonders why it has to be this god walking the Earth and not His Holy Lady. Would her soothing waters have calmed the rage of this land? Would the warmth of Her bonfire comfort those lost and in need, give them a place to gather and rest and maybe, just maybe, form bonds that wouldn’t break over such petty issues?
But such thoughts have no place before a duel.
It will be the first to ten. No question as to the winner after that. They’d both fought through each bracket—and hadn’t it been just lovely to finally vent his frustrations over Sam’s bullshit with the prison, to prove that Sam’s threats against him were baseless—till it’s just the two of them once more.
Technoblade spreads his arms wide, cape fluttering in the wind. His grin is violent and joyous. “Ready to lose, Theseus?”
Tommy grimaces in return. “I’m no hero. I’m just Tommy.”
Everyone looks at Tommy and sees brash confidence—baseless confidence they’d say—but most seem to forget he was fighting long before this server was a dream and he’s fought since the very beginning in every conflict. He’s been the frontline fighter and the last-ditch hope more times than he can count. Maybe he doesn’t have the experience of the older members, but his experience was honed as a child. When he thinks of his childhood all he remembers is fighting. It’s probably not true but he can make swinging a sword look like art where he can barely write with a quill.
Their battle will be sung for generations to come. Technoblade is the perfect fighter, strong enough to leave Tommy’s bones ringing, fast enough to dodge arrows, and resilient enough to ignore every lucky hit. Tommy, however, is tenacious. He fights like it’s his last fight, his last chance to survive, and lets instinct honed since he picked up a dagger at three years old guide him.
Techno slashes and Tommy dodges. One wide swing flows into a sudden thrust becomes a hop back and a frantic deflection. Sometimes it seems less a battle and more a dance. Some rounds are frenetic spectacles filled with close calls and closer victories. Others are silent, the two of them evaluating weaknesses until that first move decides the entire round. One round bleeds into five bleed into fifteen until there is one left.
One battle to finally decide it all. One final chance for Tommy to make his legend. He gives it everything he has, ignoring his tiredness and battling through bruised ribs and deep cuts and an eye swollen shut. Techno’s in similar condition. Years back he’d be screaming to the Lady that he’d made Technoblade bleed. Now, it’s nothing special. Funny how special things lose meaning eventually.
There comes a moment that destiny hinges on. Tommy parries Techno’s trident, letting the ruinous weapon slide against his blade as he pirouettes halfway through. There, in that moment, Techno is unbalanced, and Tommy is free to strike, free to let his blade sing his victory over the unbeatable Blood God.
He hears Wilbur’s shout of triumph past the din of the crowd and the blood rushing in his ears. Even now, Wilbur demands all his attention. If he wins then it will be Wilbur’s victory as well.
Tommy hesitates just a fraction, and then intentionally hesitates a fraction longer. When he swings his sword, Techno has recovered, stepping into Tommy’s guard, and punching him right in the throat.
Of course, Technoblade wins. He’s fucking Technoblade the undying, the damned Blood God, and this is his arena. Technoblade never dies, never loses. That’s the story, the legend that can’t be broken. Some stupid kid can’t break through that legend.
Technoblade stands over him, a trident to his throat. He could end it and take Tommy’s life. People might grieve but death was always a threat in these pits. You risked everything and hoped you came out the winner. The threat passes as Techno retracts his trident and forces Tommy up.
Over the roar of the crowd, no one can hear their words.
“You threw that fight,” Techno growls incensed and, startlingly enough, betrayed. “Why?”
He can feel Wilbur’s glare behind him burning hotter than the sun overhead. It cuts and pierces and makes Tommy want to curl up and hide. It frees him as well to defy the looming spectre that is Wilbur Soot.
“It was never meant to be.”
Only the two of them will ever know the truth of this day.
*****
It is Tommy who takes Wilbur’s final life.
He’d like to pretend he isn’t surprised that it happens, but Wilbur never changes, no really. It’s always another mad plot. Another bloody war. Another set of betrayals. Another round of using Tommy like a tool.
So yeah, he isn’t surprised when he listens to Wilbur rant about his latest plot to seize control, not just over a single country but an entire world. It sounds like history repeating to Tommy and he watches the future unfurl, sees the same destruction and hatred and bitterness that will come from Wilbur Soot being Wilbur-goddess-damned-Soot.
For fuck’s sake, they’re even back in a dark hovel without light. It’s the same shit with different set dressing. Doesn’t matter that the cave is dressed up and Wilbur is far more charismatic, pulling people into his web with idealism and promises for something more.
And Tommy just won’t let it happen again.
“We’ll finally be in control,” Wilbur says fervently when the others are gone, his thin veneer of sanity faded away now that they’re alone. “I’ve waited so many years for this.”
“Right, and when are you planning on telling everyone else how you plan on winning?”
Wilbur grins. “They don’t need to know just yet. That’s only for us to know.”
“And what makes me so special?”
“Because you’re a follower, Tommy. The best kind. You don’t have a disloyal bone in your body.” His smile once would have filled Tommy with pride. Now it only fills him with disgust. “Following me was the only option you ever really had.”
Tommy’s rage is incandescent, but he hides it as best he can, staring at Wilbur. “I’m a big man.”
Wilbur pats him on the cheek. “Sure, you are.”
“And what happens if people refuse you?”
“Then they can die.”
He says it casually as if everyone dying is nothing important. He’s even twiddling that stupid lock of white hair. It is then that Tommy makes his decision because he refuses to be part of this any longer. Wilbur’s madness is a malignant illness and sometimes you have to amputate a limb to survive the body.
He summons his sword faster than Wilbur can react, hating himself, hating Wilbur, hating everything, but knowing it must be done. Before Wilbur can process it, there’s a Netherite sword in his body.
“Oh,” Wilbur says simply, slumping forward. He’s so tall but weighs almost nothing, almost like he’s not truly here. Maybe something got lost in the revival, some mass, some bit of Wilbur that could have kept him from this path, but that’s a lie and Tommy is sick of lies.
Tommy brings him down gently, cradling his head. It is the last kindness he can offer. Wilbur stares at his hand slick with his own blood.
“Oh,” Wilbur gasps again, reaching out with shaky hands for Tommy.
It feels like something perverse for Wilbur to touch his cheek like that, kindly, gently, as if he’s remembering that compassion is possible. And that’s not far because there is no redemption found in death. It’s the coward’s way out, choosing to avoid the hard work in proving you can be something other than a monster. Tommy hates Wilbur more just then for never trying, never putting in that effort.
“I never really saw you.”
Wilbur’s final smile will haunt him to his dying days. Tommy doesn’t cry. He refuses to give Wilbur that satisfaction.
They will find Tommy slumped in his chair. His feet are sticky with Wilbur’s dried blood, his shirt and face drenched in it. It is disgusting but he’s too tired to care, too hollowed out by grief and relief and more emotions than he can name.
“What did you do?” Ranboo asks when he finds him, staring in horror at the sight.
Tommy chuckles without any hint of humour. “I skipped all the destruction and got to the end.”
“You can’t just—”
“I did. I’d do it again. You gonna do something about me now?”
Ranboo will just stare at Tommy, weighing his options, and deciding an argument isn’t worth it.
Tommy doesn’t hide from what he did, and he waits as the days pass if anyone will tell him that he is the villain, that he is the traitor and kinslayer. He even tries goading Tubbo into saying it.
“You knew what he was like better than anyone,” Tubbo says, shrugging unrepentantly, and reminding Tommy that for all that Tubbo smiles kindly, he still built nukes to have the biggest stick on the server. It chills Tommy to the bone to see that casual disinterest.
Wilbur Soot’s funeral occurs three days after his murder—call it what it is. Tommy can see Fundy in the distance near the mound Wilbur will be buried in but he’s the only one. Tommy waits, wondering if this is really how Wilbur Soot will go, passing silently into the night.
“Hey mate.”
Tommy’s heart skips a beat because he knows that voice and the last time it sounded so ominous L’Manberg’s life expectancy shortened dramatically.
“You here to kill me?”
“I should. You killed my son.”
He turns and sees Philza Minecraft. Phil is every part the Angel of Death in this moment, imposing and terrible. There’s blood on his hands, a dead nation on his shoulders and a broken family in his blood. Just like his son.
Tommy’s so fucking tired of it all.
“You killed him first. The first thing you do when you see your son is to stab him when you didn’t even know what was going on. Pretty hypocritical to call me out.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“It’s the truth innit. I killed Wilbur Soot. You can either kill me back because you think it’s the right thing to do or you can stand aside and accept what everyone knows—that Wilbur Soot should never have come back.”
“He hadn’t done anything!”
“He planned on poisoning all the water sources,” Tommy screams back, relishing the way Phil reels back. “Except for one. One that he’d control with nukes. He’d watch everyone die of thirst if they didn’t bow to him. Tell me what I did was wrong, and I’ll end my life myself.”
“He needed help not a fucking execution.”
Tommy shrugs. “He didn’t want help and I don’t think you’d have done anything.”
“Don’t you start you little shit.”
“Fundy needs you,” Tommy says suddenly, implacably, buttressed in Her calming presence.
His words startle Phil who struggles to recover from the apparent tangent. “Fundy never needed me.”
“Because you never tried. Not with Wil. Not with Tubbo. Not with me.” Tommy shrugs. “Tried a lot with Ranboo, I’ll give you.” Tommy steps forward, right into Phil’s space. “You gonna try with Fundy? He’s right there.”
“Don’t test me, child.”
“I’ll be honest with you Phil,” Tommy says, uncaring, “if you walk over there then you have to put in the work. No more half-assed bullshit. He’s your responsibility. Not just till he’s an adult and you let him out the nest but every day after that. If you aren’t willing to do that then you should walk away.” He shrugs. “Everything that happened with Wilbur isn’t your fault but you staying away, you letting him sort his issues out alone didn’t help.”
“What do you want from me?” Phil finally asks, his exhaustion barely a fraction of what Tommy feels every moment.
“Nothing personally. I just don’t want you giving him hope.”
“He’s my grandkid,” Phil says but there’s only defeat in his words.
“And if he needs you then he can find you.” Tommy smiles bitterly. “I won’t claim I treated him right, but I never disowned him. I’ve tried every day to protect him from Wilbur even after you told me he was harmless, even after you saw your son was mad and your grandson was breaking. I tried, Phil, and maybe I’ve failed before, and I’ll probably fail again, but I keep trying, you know. You’re a good man, a better friend, but I don’t think you’re a good dad.”
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this was ever fair.” Tommy turns on his heel and walks away. “Follow me if you want.”
Phil doesn’t, not that Tommy expected otherwise. It would have made him happier to be proven wrong, but he’s watched his hopes die too often to be surprised. He walks to Wilbur’s grave alone, feeling guilty but unrepentant.
The grave is Tommy’s final insult to Wilbur and perhaps the cruellest. The Lady is the Goddess of Life and of Change. Her first words were the crackles of fires, the howl of the wind, and the chorus of the seas. To bury someone in the Earth is to desecrate their soul, to sever their connection to Her. It is the greatest dishonour of those that walk the Prime Path. Wilbur never walked that Path. If he did, he hid it like most things. Tommy refuses to risk seeing Wilbur in the afterlife. There’s too high a chance he’d try to take over and ruin everything.
He finds Fundy standing at the edge of Wilbur’s grave, so close Tommy is worried he’ll try to join his father. Fundy’s ears flick at his footsteps, and Tommy observes as he inhales, scenting Tommy on the breeze.
“Didn’t think you’d come.”
“Not gonna leave you alone.”
“You’re the one who did this.” Fundy gestures futilely at the unimpressive hole in the dirt, the simple cross for a headstone where Wilbur’s coat flutters in the weak winds.
“Wilbur did this to himself. I wish it wasn’t true, but it is. I wish I could make myself the villain of this story. I wish everyone would call me the villain and tell me what I did was wrong.” Tommy swallows, wiping at his burning eyes. “But no one’s here, Fundy. No one cared enough to come but us.”
“He was my father.”
“He was my brother.”
Or the closest thing I had to one. Wilbur had picked Tommy out of the gutters years back, uplifted him and made something of street trash. Tommy had been grateful then, grateful enough to start a war and die and suffer so long as Wilbur gave the order. But faith is complicated and only a Goddess can demand such one-sided devotion. Wilbur, for all that he seemed more than human, was only ever a broken man at most.
“He wasn’t a good father,” Fundy says after a beat. The admission hurts him by the way his shoulders tremble, the way his fur bristles.
“No,” Tommy agrees. “Not much of a good brother as well.”
“He hurt me more than I deserved and then he kept hurting me. I think I spent more time as his enemy than his son. He could have loved me. He could have been kind. Why didn’t he?”
“Fundy, I—”
Fundy whirls with his father’s rage and unpredictability. There were times when Tommy couldn’t see Wilbur in Fundy—fuck was I glad for that—but right now, he only sees the ghost of Wilbur’s terrible presence.
“Don’t give me excuses. You were there with him from the beginning. Tell me why.”
Tommy remembers hearing about a special place where men could go and emancipate the brutality and tyranny of their rulers. That place was a lie, and the tyrant was always Wilbur from the very first moment they built that drug van till L’Manberg’s third and final death beneath a Blood God’s rage.
“The thing you gotta understand is that it wasn’t your fault. Not for a single moment. He might have made you feel that way, but it wasn’t your fault. Wilbur wanted tools and subjects to work towards his ends. I was with him because I was naïve enough to think I could save him from himself and that thinking led to all this shit. By the end, all he wanted was for the world to burn and I couldn’t let that happen.”
“I hate him,” Fundy says terribly. “I hate him I hate him I hate him. He should have stayed dead and never come back.”
“That’s the problem innit. Wilbur never did what he should have.”
Fundy’s anger dies, leaving behind an exhausted child still processing their grief. He’s too young, Tommy thinks. Barely a child.
“He was my father.”
“I’m sorry,” he says because it’s true. No one deserved Wilbur as a father. Or a friend. Or a lover. No one deserved to suffer Wilbur Soot.
“I miss him.”
“You’re allowed to miss him.”
“I don’t want to miss him. I just want to forget about him and move on.”
Tommy’s laugh is pained and haunted. “You don’t forget Wilbur. He grabs his hooks and sinks them into you. Once he’s got you, he’s there to stay. Even if you rip them out the scars remain. He marks you against your will and doesn’t let you hide those marks.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Wilbur was never fair.”
Fundy cries then, hacking sobs that had been trapped by a lifetime of being Wilbur Soot’s son, of living under those impossible expectations, of being cast aside the moment he chose to be his own person, and the grief of being hated by your father. Tommy pulls him close, his own eyes painfully dry. He ran out of tears for Wilbur long ago and he won’t give Wil the satisfaction of seeing him cry.
“Should we… he would have wanted us to sing for L’Manberg.”
Tommy thinks then the words Wilbur spoke after his resurrection, the cruel disregard of the nation he destroyed, the callous denial of all it stood for. Looking back, nothing Tommy did was good back then. It wasn’t as terrible as Wilbur but that isn’t saying much. The only thing that’d kept Tommy going was faith in Wilbur who seemed so much greater than a man. The old Wilbur, the one before the election rigging, would have wanted it sung, would have demanded it with every fibre of his being.
That Wilbur died in truth long before L’Manburg gained its independence.
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Fundy nods tiredly and grabs the shovel.
They cover his coffin in dirt, the two of them. It isn’t easy work with just four hands but being with Wilbur wasn’t easy. Most people let go of him before he destroys all that they are. Smart people do but love makes idiots out of everyone. Loving a father who left and never truly came back from his madness. Loving a brother that sent you to your death with a smile and manipulated you every moment of every day in life, and every day afterwards.
Loving Will is like jumping into a wildfire and loving it even as it burns you to ash. There is no kindness there and even if you escape with your life, the burns will always stay.
“Your symphony is finally over,” Tommy offers. “It’s more than you deserve, but the Earth will sing L’Manberg for you. Take care, Wilby.”
When it is done, Tommy takes Fundy with him. They will mourn for a time, he knows, but eventually, something will come up. Some new threat. Some new mistake. And when that happens, they’ll forget Wilbur for a time. And no matter what, Tommy won’t let Fundy face it alone. It isn’t his obligation to worry for Fundy, but he’s made it his responsibility with each day he’s come back.
*****
Life finds a way and Tommy keeps moving forward, walking down Her Path with every action. There are fights and battles and more bitterness. Some break, some leave, and some just give up. Not Tommy though. Moving forward is all he has. But, sometimes it’s a good thing to take a break.
“Can’t believe it’s this bloody hot,” Tubbo mutters.
It feels like years since they last spoke but that’s just the nature of things. The sun is setting on this broken and bloody land. They’ll watch the sunset together as they always have.
“How’s the heterosexual life partner doing?”
“Ranboo’s got Michael for a bit. He kinda forgot his shoes and went out in the snow, so he gets to stay inside till he’s healed up.”
Tommy laughs because of course, Ranboo would do that. He laughs so hard he falls off the bench and keeps laughing even after Tubbo helps him up.
“It’s not that funny.”
“It’s even funnier.”
Tubbo shoves him playfully. “You look weird when you do that.”
Tommy tilts his head. “Do I?”
“Well, not weird, but you know when the fight’s over and you calm down for a bit? Just before you’re stressing over the next fight but after you’ve dealt with the first crash and whatever baggage you picked up?”
Tommy cocks his head. “Not in as many words but sure.”
“Well, you look like that but ten times better.”
“Tubbo, I think that’s the definition of happy.”
“No way. Happiness isn’t a thing we get.”
“Well, that’s depressing, innit.” He cocks his head. “Wait a minute, I’m the cynic. You’re supposed to be the happy one.”
Tubbo’s shoulders shake with a tiny laugh. “Maybe I’m changing.”
“Well, the Lady’d be happy with you even if I’m not with you stealing my bit and all.”
“I never got how you could keep believing a Goddess that let bad things happen.”
They’ve had this discussion before, but Tommy is willing to have it a dozen times more.
“Because we’re meant to live our lives freely to the fullest. The Lady doesn’t take away our choices. She stays with us when we make those choices. When they’re good, she rejoices with us. And when they’re terrible things we regret, we wish we never did, She mourns beside us and forgives us anyway.
“But the bad things still happen.”
“Yeah. It’d be boring if only good things happened.”
That startles a small laugh out of Tubbo. “It’d be nice for good things to happen.”
“They do, we just don’t pay attention to em. Found some allium flowers that were blooming today. Weather’s good. Added a new wing to Her shrine. Spent time with my best friend. Small things, yeah, but good things. It’s in the small things that I hear Her words. It is in small acts that I see Her presence most clearly. It’d be easy to break after all I went through, but I remember Her and it gives me hope.”
Tommy grins because Tubbo’s right, he is happy, and his faith is part of that, but most of it is from the choices he’s made.
“My Goddess isn’t a greedy Goddess. She asks that you live, that you change, and that’s it. Pretty easy things. In return, She stands by you, guides you when it’s dark, and forgives you when you can’t forgive yourself. And with each decision, we take another road down the Prime Path. All roads lead to Her eventually, you know.
“Then don’t all people worship Her by extension?”
Tommy flinches away. “No,” he says sharply. “Never. That’s the opposite of it. You need to choose Her. She doesn’t accept people who don’t make that choice. That would be cruel, and She is never cruel. That’s why we don’t have missionaries or Holy wars or Crusades. You need to willingly make the choice and not because some arsehole put a blade at your throat.”
“What about people who don’t hear about her even if they’d like her?”
“She finds you anyway because you’d be searching for Her even without knowing Her name. Gives you that choice. You’d still know Her even if it isn’t the same way I know the Lady. Ignorance isn’t some sin that can’t be forgiven. If it was, I’d be damned a million times over.”
Tubbo nudges his shoulder. “You’re a good guy. I think she’d like you anyway. Sing me a hymn of hers then.”
“A hymn?” he asks curiously.
Tubbo’s never cared for Tommy’s faith—no, that’s wrong. Tubbo accepted it as he accepted all the ugly and broken pieces that make up Tommy, loved and cherished them with a gentleness that bordered on holy. His thoughts border on blasphemy but the Lady is not a selfish Goddess. Tubbo isn’t perfect, no one is, but betrayal and war haven’t taken away the compassion and quiet love that make up the atoms of him.
“You know, Holy songs. Church’s have those, right?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t no man of the cloth. Never bothered memorising those songs. Faith should be in the living, not the scripture. Don’t need a special song to sing Her name, just gotta mean it when you say Her name.”
“I think,” Tubbo mumbles, looking away, his words falling with the setting sun. “I think I need some faith.”
Tommy understands then what Tubbo needs. Not faith in the Lady but faith in faith itself. A subtle difference but the kind that can start and end wars. Tommy was never much of a good singer but there are words he sung with ruinous resolve; words carved into the very marrow of him. Words that he shifts and changes till they are something new, something brilliant and worthy of standing in the sun.
“With open hands
And unbent knees
Our faith rose like the phoenix
Till it filled hearts and souls with Her Grace
With sweat and tears we walked the Path,
We laid foundations for our faith,
And from every lip from here up to infinity
Sing Holy Prime.”