Chapter Text
Maybe there’d been something before this. Surely there was another him, one with another life, perhaps with a loving father and mother, and two younger brothers who always argued with him but never intended to upset him. But it had been so long, too long, since he’d had a life that was filled with this endearing kindness and subtle, poetic beauty, and now he was trapped here in the same harsh landscape, the same audio clip played on repeat on a broken record player, every rotation of the vinyl disc scratching it more and more until the music was no less than a jumbled mess of static and half-tangible orchestral parts.
But the only story he knew was his current one, the tale of a prince running through fields of waving dry grass barefoot, a story of a broken boy who had to run away from his fears every night. He only knew his story.
Once again, the prince slipped out of his bed, quietly getting dressed. Now that he was out of his bed, he could see how the silvery beams of moonlight danced around in the room, a shadow passing through the fish-tails of light occasionally as the prince shifted the curtains little by little, toying with the rippling fabric to calm his nerves.
Why was he so scared? His anxiety was bordering on irrational; he hadn’t had a proper good-night’s sleep in who knows how long, and he was scared. Scared of exactly what he didn’t know, but scared. His room in the palace was stifling, and the prince knew he had to escape. Unlatching the bronze lock on the window with a soft clack, he slipped out of the palace and leapt down the two metres or so onto the soft grass below. He’d done this so many times that he could probably repeat the entire procedure blinded and deafened, as well as abstaining from feeling around.
As expected, he landed safely, bare feet tiptoeing in the waving grass of the palace gardens, and ran past the ornate fountains and marble statues. His feet hurt from running along the rough ground but he didn’t care, he really didn’t, and he kept running from the palace until the rough pulse of his heartbeat slowed and the fear in his stomach faded. The prince was free, truly free here.
It wasn’t long until he’d reached the edge of the cliff where the palace had been built, and underneath the little ledge he stood on was the kingdom, bright and twinkling with the warm lights of a hundred different buildings. It was surprising that even in the middle of the night the street lamps were still on, although he already knew, having been here every night prior for months, even years. His hands shook slightly as he took another step closer to the edge, peering down at the thriving kingdom.
It seemed so peaceful.
If he fell, would he land there, broken beyond repair but just as peaceful as the kingdom itself? The prince didn’t want to face the anxiety he did when he was in the palace. He didn’t want to have the responsibility of being a prince. He didn’t want to live the same life that he did, or rather, live at all. He wouldn’t be found. Where the cliff ended was a clearing with shrubbery surrounding it, thick vegetation long overgrown covering where he would land.
But before he could make his decision, the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and at once he was pushed off the edge of the cliff by a seemingly invisible force, a twenty-five metre or so fall down the cliff onto a rocky outcrop next to the river which marked the greater kingdom’s boundaries. His hair was blown into a mess of brunet curls, and there was barely enough time for Wilbur to think as he fell, a dead weight before he could think to save himself. If he landed there, the vegetation would cover his body, and he wouldn’t be found for days. It was unlikely that he would survive the fall, much less without severe injuries at least, and just like that the royal prince Wilbur was free.
On his body the smallest slits of moonlight danced, twinkling stars oblivious to the death of the prince. He had lived his twenty or so years to their fullest, until his one life split into two, a separate timeline where the second Wilbur was plagued with fear. Perhaps this would have never happened had he chose something else. Perhaps had a universe split the other way, he would have lived.
But as fate goes, he was stuck in this fatal, bloody game, forced to face something which was irrational. In the midst of the night, he looked at peace, skin pale and cheeks brushed with the lightest of pinks and his lips still red, the blood slowly draining from his face as time passed. Night turned into morning, slowly, and the rosy glow of the sunrise danced across Wilbur’s pallid blue-tinted face, leaving a slight reddish tint around where he lay. His hands were splayed slightly across his chest as if he were holding a guitar, and the only shape they found was the gentle curves of his beloved instrument.
The sun was now fully risen, and beams of light filtered through the dense foliage of the trees covering the little ledge below which his body lay, and speckles of golden-warm sunlight danced across his face, shining on the oxidised blood trickling slowly from his lip. Lying down, head rested on shoulder and arms crossed on his chest, any bypasser would have thought Wilbur was sleeping at a first glance. Indeed he was; sleeping; in the sense that he was at rest and his mind was sorting itself out.
The prince slept for what seemed like an eternity to the songbirds, the berry-bushes’ flowers slowly creeping through the stages of their lives, growing as the prince slept on.
“F-Father! Why didn’t you tell me? I could- I could have saved him!” Fire blazed in Tommy’s crystal-blue eyes, an anger he’s never tapped into before shining as he yelled, screamed at his father Philza, who was also the king. Phil’s eyes were laden with a emotion that could only be described as resignation, a soft despair inside them.
“Tommy, Tommy my dear son. Listen to me,” the king spoke quietly, sombrely, as if he knew that Tommy wouldn’t listen, but he was speaking the words to get them off his chest. “Your brother couldn’t have been saved.” Phil waited for Tommy to scream at him, pull at his hair, tug on his robe and shatter some form of valuable object, letting sharp shards of ceramic scatter across the floor. But none of that happened. The golden-haired boy simply stood, hands trembling slightly, and walked away. It was much less dramatic than Philza had expected, but terrifying in its own calm, quiet way.
The king was left standing in the hallways, absolute silence enveloping the room. Tommy was still in the hall, albeit close to the door, but neither spoke for long minutes, both lost in their intangible thoughts. Wilbur was merely missing, not dead yet, and there was still hope no matter how small that sliver was. The restless silence was soon broken, with Tommy’s voice slicing through the air.
“You know, I could have stopped him.”
Phil lifted his head up quietly from where it was resting on his closed fist, chin rising and eyes glancing at Tommy from where he spoke.
“I knew that he snuck out, every night. One time I tried to go with him, to find out where he went every night,” he confessed. “Wilbur let me. He was nice in that way, always firm and strict when something wasn’t right, but he let me do things I wished to do.” Phil listened intently, but he was still unsure of Tommy’s words.
“He brought me to the cliff’s edge. Where the first people who ever built this castle looked down upon the kingdom, and he told me that one day he wanted to be the person looking down at the kingdom. He said he wanted to fall off that edge, lie in the air forever, looking down at the kingdom because of how it reminded him of Mother. He said that he didn’t want to have to choose, to be in the palace or completely be stripped of his royalty by living in the main kingdom.”
Phil waited for Tommy to continue, but it was evidently the end of his tale, and the thick silence settled over the two again.
“I could have saved him, Father, I really could have. But it wasn’t my place to interfere.”
“You did the right thing, Tommy. You know Wilbur, you couldn’t have changed his mind. And he’s only missing, not dead. You never know with him.” Phil responded, trying to keep Tommy’s spirits up, but his sorrow was evident. Clearly he was trying to persuade himself too. And so he gave up his majestic facade, jet-black crow wings spreading wide and drooping slightly as he sat down in his throne.
Tommy knew that he couldn’t have saved Wilbur no matter what. But it was the thought that he might never see Wilbur again, never hear his raspy voice sing in harmony with his guitar ever again, that scared him. Tommy quietly exited the hall, leaving the king Philza to wallow in his own thoughts. It was ironically a wonderful day, sunlight shattering through the stained glass windows of the throne room, and in that moment it was just the king mourning over the loss of a son, or rather the probable passing of his son.
It had been two days since the king had announced his son missing, and Niki was getting concerned. The king Philza hadn’t announced of his returning, or if he’d been found, and as Niki kneaded through the dough of the last loaf of bread she thought to herself quietly. She’d heard that Tommy wasn’t doing too well, and Technoblade had just caught wind of the news from the expedition he had been sent to.
Niki placed the loaf of bread in the oven, brushing her hands on her apron as she finished making the last loaf for the day. It was a clear, warm day, and even in the bloody glow of the sunset, the landscape looked serene, at peace. Pink curls bounced upon her head as she all but skipped out of the bakery, glad that she was done for the day.
It would’ve been a waste of a perfect day had she not taken the opportunity; it had been weeks since she’d taken a break and allowed herself to enjoy the environment, putting her mind at rest and simply walking. The streets were mostly clear, so she set off, walking down grassy pathways and slipping through dimly-lit alleyways. Occasionally a stray cat darted past, tail raised and ears flicked backwards. A gentle, cool breeze settled over the kingdom, and Niki found herself wandering through the gardens at the riverbank mindlessly.
Pushing past a stray branch cautiously, a flash of red caught Niki’s eye. Royal red. It occurred to Niki that perhaps it could’ve been a different red, but she was near certain that it was royal red, and red wasn’t a colour she would have expected to see on a moonlight-lit walk through a kingdom, especially not near a cluster of bushes.
Niki stepped into the clearing under the cliff, brushing away leaves and plants as she walked in. The moon shone down eerily; a silver glow cast upon her face and reflecting around the clearing. It would’ve been a beautiful sight at any other time, had there been a less sombre air. Soon she was in the middle of the clearing, blossoms only visible from the inside swaying in the chilly wind and petals swirling around her every once in a while.
Surely this couldn’t be. Surely.
The body of the royal prince Wilbur lay in the middle of the grove, face tinted a pale blue and blood long oxidised lay encrusted on his lip. A single flower petal had landed just by his eye, the bright life of the petal now faded, the energy sucked away from it like Wilbur’s dead presence had affected it.
It was too much, too little. Death was such a big thing, life so insignificant in comparison to the eternal leviathan that was death. And here Niki was, seeing Death with a capital D, and she didn’t know what to do.
She screamed, a raw, guttural noise, choking on tears that shouldn’t have ever existed because she shouldn’t have found WIlbur’s body, shouldn’t have felt anything because that’s all Wilbur was now. A decomposing body, left to rot in the embrace of nature for eternity until his remains dissolved into the earth and fueled the growth, the life of new plants, an eternal cycle just as infinite as death.
But it was still death , and Niki couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. She retched- once, twice- dry heaves of her stomach, and panted, gasping for breath as her pallid cheeks turned red once more. Death was one thing to describe. But to experience it, feel the pull of a cold slimy force clawing at the life in her as she stood in the presence of a dead person, was a different thing.
She’d tell the king’s escorts tomorrow. Niki needed time to process what had just happened.