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There was a spear in his chest.
Shattered wings beating furtively, trying to stay that tiny bit higher, Tommy glanced around. Rain smashed into his back. All around him, the wind yanked at him. Buffered his wings out and flattened them. Fought to throw him into the trees.
Gritting his teeth, Tommy fought harder. His eyes kept threatening to close. He just wanted to sleep… No. No stop it. You need to get help. Glancing down at the compass strung to his bloodied, broken wrist, Tommy sucked in another growl of a breath. As he stared down at his own wrist, his vision blurred. He couldn’t see where he was going. His eyes were getting harder to open.
Something clipped his foot.
The horizon flipped. Hard earth slammed into him. Rolling, he went limp. Something smashed into his gut. Gasping, Tommy threw his wings out. As he did, the spear pushed deeper.
Yeah, he screamed. He had a spear in his chest . Of course he would scream. It hurt , like nothing he had ever seen or felt before.
For a while afterwards, he laid there. Panting and gasping and for all the world wishing he could just stay there. That he could message Wilbur or Techno or Phil to come help him. That they would just come walking down the closest path, run over and wrap him in a hug or their wings or a cloak. Pick him up and carry him back home so they could just sit there and pretend things were okay.
Shoulders wracking with a cough, Tommy sucked in a breath, opened his eyes. Pressed a hand to the stab wound in his chest. You can’t do that. They’re gone. Sobbing, he closed his eyes for a moment. Rubbed at his nose with his broken wrist. It didn’t really hurt anymore. Honest.
Come on, Tommy. Big Men get help. Big Men save their families. Slowly, he pulled himself upright. Pain shot through his injuries. Pressing his forehead to the ground, he screamed again. Sucked in a breath and pushed himself upright, holding onto the spear wound. Taking a shaky step, he unfolded his wings, tried to beat them. Instead, he dropped to the ground again.
“Come on!” He wanted Wilbur. He wanted his brothers, his dad. Tubbo and Ranboo. He wanted his family back.
Punching the ground, he shoved himself up. Glared at the unforgiving sky and gritted his teeth. Come on, Tommy. You can do this.
You have to.
You have to save everyone else.
Closing his eyes, he kept walking. Under his feet, everything blurred. He wasn’t sure if he was even walking or just stumbling along inches at a time. All he knew was he had to follow the compass.
Stretching out his wings again, he started beating them as hard as he could. Then, he stumbled along, tried running. Stabs of pain flooded through his ankle and knee as he moved. Still, he managed to take off, wings clipping the trees. It didn’t hurt.
A lot of things didn’t hurt.
Continuing to fly on, he got just above the trees. He couldn’t get any higher. Coughing, he tried to ignore the pain raking his throat at the movement. ‘m so tired, he mused, glancing around. If he was right, he swore it was almost morning. Early morning, too. He was leaving the storm behind him. Thank the End.
Either he was going into shock (which wouldn’t surprise him), or he dissociated or something. As he flew on, he couldn’t focus somehow. As the sun started rising, he blinked and felt more and more of a weird darkness around him.
Blinking, he sniffed and coughed again. Tried to ignore the fuzziness. He was so close, he had to be. He had to find help.
He hit a tree.
Pitching forwards, feeling the branches and leaves clawing at his stomach, Tommy sucked in a gasp. There was a sickening snap , he felt the spear being pushed deeper into his stomach. All around him, birds scattered into the air as he and the top of the tree crashed to the ground.
Something cracked against his head. For a long while, he laid there. Unable to move, barely able to breathe. Covered in blood and dirt, too. Ow. Heat swelled up in his eyes and cheeks. Cracking his eyes open, he tugged himself forwards with scraped fingers and palms. Someone help.
Except he knew there was no one coming. No one. He was trying to find the only people who were going to be able to help. There wasn’t anyone in L’manberg. They were all gone. He was the only one who could help and he had failed.
Curling up slightly, he sucked in a breath. I’m sorry. I couldn’t make it, I’m sorry. He was too tired to cry.
Above him, there was movement.
He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head or open his eyes. He could hear, though. “Fundy?” Pebbles skittered down to his nose and cheeks. “Who is it?”
Then, there was a choked noise. “Tommy.” That was Fundy’s voice. Struggling, Tommy sucked in a breath. Then, Fundy was beside him, touching his face. “Oh my gosh. Tommy? Tommy, hey, hey,” slipping a hand under Tommy’s head, Fundy kept talking, “Dream, hand me that water bottle. Hey, Tommy, Toms, stay with us. Oh gosh, there’s a spear, Dream.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Dream said, voice getting closer. The water was held to Tommy’s mouth, and he did drink. Was it poison? He didn’t care. If he died, then he probably deserved it anyways. For what they did. For failing the others. “Toms, this isn’t your fault. This isn’t your fault at all.”
Fundy gently cradled him closer, and there was just…warmth. When Tommy managed to crack his eyes open and looked up at him. Smiling, Fundy petted his hair back, helped him drink more water as Dream did…something. “Hey, Toms. You’re going to be fine.”
“They need your help.” Tommy whispered. It didn’t hurt anymore. Wasn’t that a bad thing? I’m running out of time. Panicking, he grabbed onto Fundy’s arms, jostling himself. Both Dream and Fundy tried to hush him, to calm him down. Still, he stared at them both. “L’manberg. Someone attacked, we didn’t have any way to defend ourselves—they took Tubbo and Ranboo and Michael—“
“Hey, hey, it’ll be okay. We’ll help, we’ll help.” Fundy swore, holding onto his hand. Swallowing, Tommy stared at his gaze. “Dream, he stable enough to move?”
“Don’t leave. Please?” Tommy asked. His voice sounded so tiny. Cracked on the vowels. Looking down at him, Fundy swallowed.
“We’re not leaving you, Toms. Not again.” Leaning in, Fundy gently pulled Tommy’s head up and kissed his forehead. “We’re going to be fine, Toms. Promise.”
After that, Tommy must have blacked out.
He had a few thin, gossamer-delicate memories. Of Dream carrying him, Fundy leading the way. Of being settled in a warm room, wrapped in a blanket. At some point, before they started moving, the spear had been removed. Maybe that was what Dream had been doing earlier.
When he did come to, he was lying on a bed. Not a couch, an actual bed. In a completely different room. On the other side of the room, Fundy and Dream were curled up on the same twin bed. Fundy was asleep, two or three baby badgers curled on his chest and stomach with an arm curled around them and a tabby cat curled under his neck. Dream, meanwhile, was completely awake. In his arms, he was cradling another baby badger, bottle-feeding it. A torbie and white cat was perched on his head, and he was smiling down at the little thing.
His eyes flicked up to meet Tommy’s. Smiling, Dream spoke, softly, “Hey, Tommy. Want me to make you breakfast?” Numbly, Tommy nodded. Then, Dream gently woke Fundy, nodded to Tommy, and settled the badger in Fundy’s arms to get up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
There was a long moment of silence.
Then, Fundy slowly sat up. Moved the cats and the baby badgers. Tommy was sitting up by this point. His chest still hurt like a bitch, probably would for a while. “Tommy?” Fundy asked, looking up to meet his gaze. There was a particular look on his face. Then, he asked another, very quiet question. One that made Tommy’s heart and gaze drop to the blankets on his legs.
“Why did you come here?”