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Despite the thick cloud of smoke that had formed, the sun still managed to beam down. Its rays hit the sword gripped tightly in his hands. Reflecting light revealed a worn-out face on the blade of the sword. Wilbur looked directly into the cold, dreary eyes that stared back at him. A man that was exactly like him but nothing like him at all. The reflection taunted him, grinning mockingly. Harsh words, laced with malevolent intent, escaped the reflections cracked lips;
“Do you remember me?
I killed your family
And now I’m going to kill you too”.
Glancing across the crater that had swallowed up the nation he had strived so hard to make, his gaze landed on his righthand man. Unkempt blonde hair, face coated in mud, his whole-body trembling, an open wound bleeding out on his shoulder, his shirt being stained crimson. Around them the nation that had once been so important to them was now reduced to nothing more than a pile of rubble. And the boy stood in the centre of it. A boy riddled with leadership and responsibility, forced to grow up too fast. A boy that let his naivety get the best of him. A boy now broken because of his own actions. The eyes that returned his gaze were no longer glistening with hope, instead they were sombre and filled with anguish, the blue glint now long gone.
Next to him, crumpled on the floor like a thrown away piece of paper, was the boys best friend. Another child who had his innocence ripped away from him due to the cycle of war and bloodshed. Scars littered his face, a constant reminder of the tragedy that was bestowed on him. Wilbur had just watched it all unfold; colours exploding across the stage, fireworks soaring through the sky, audience members letting out pained screams. He even attempted to stop the blonde from rushing to his best friend, the feel of a tattered t-shirt slipping through his fingers as the boy flew across to the stage.
That was when his plan had first failed. But now, now he had won. He looked out at the destroyed world, finally victorious. A broken nation caused by a broken man. It was almost poetic, the nation he had worked so hard to build taken away by the same hands that had created it. He had crushed everyone’s hope, he had destroyed everyone’s future, he had finished.
Watching the nation slowly fall apart had been bittersweet. He enjoyed to see the pain it had brought to so many people but it meant giving up completely on himself and everything he knew.
But giving up on yourself is a small price to pay for victory, right?
But the sadend expression painted on the blonde’s face made his non-existent heart break ever so slightly. He shifted his attention back to the cold blade resting in his hand. The same crazed expression looked back at him, dragging him back to reality. He shouldn’t feel sorry. This is all that he’s wanted for so long, he can’t feel empathy.
But a small voice attempted to reach out, begging him that this wasn’t the end, he could still salvage the mess he had created. He tried his hardest to shut out the persistent voice, shutting his eyes.
“I made your brother bleed
I made your father scream”.
His eyes shot back open. The reflection continued to smirk. It was a wicked smile that was plastered on the face of a man who had ruined everything. It made his stomach churn.
But the man he stared at wasn’t a stranger.
The reflection wasn’t a stranger.
It was him.
He was the reflection.
He had ruined everything.
He tried to shut out the voices that raged loudly in his ears. That echoed in his mind. He had hurt Tommy, a boy he considered his little brother, so many times. Wilbur wasn’t sure if he was disgusted at the small flicker of pride, he felt as he thought about the brotherly bond, or if he accepted it instead. Images of war flashed in his mind. Tommy always being at his side. Each time the blond’s face would appear, the smile it held would become smaller and smaller. His face becoming bloodier and bloodier.
Part of him wished he could relive the moments again. Part of him wanted to completely let go.
Swiftly he turned to look at Phil. A father that had come to save the day a little bit too late. A father who seemed to only care when his son had done something terribly wrong. A man who usually had a dauntless demeanour but now his eyes carried weariness and a maybe a glint of sadness too.
Wilbur knew that at this very moment he could easily manipulate the situation into whatever he wanted.
He lifted the sword up, handle pointing towards the winged man.
“Kill me, Phil. Phil, kill me. Phil, kill me!” He threw the weapon towards him, shakily his father caught it, “Phil, stab me with the sword, murder me now, kill me! Killza, Killza, do it! Kill me, Phil! Murder me! Look, they all want you to! Do it, Phil! Kill me! Phil, kill me!”
His mind raced as the words slipped out of his mouth before he could even comprehend what he was doing. Request after request rushing through his lips. Voices begging him to end it all, claiming that this was the last step in order to complete the plan.
Phil looked horrified, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the sword even harder. Shaking his head, he took a step back, “you’re my son!”
Wilbur almost flinched at the desperation that laced Phil’s plea. Almost. Instead, he forced himself to just laugh at the sight of his dad that all of a sudden cared about his wellbeing. Where had he been when they were exiled from L’Manberg? Where was he when the festival went completely wrong? Where was he when Wilbur teetered on the brink of insanity until he finally plummeted down into a void of crazy thoughts and a state of notoriety?
He refused to back down now. Any previous perturbed thoughts or feelings of guilt evaporated instantly. Now all he craved was pain. Pain inflicted on himself. Pain for his own father. Pain for all the onlookers, watching in agony. He stumbled forwards towards him.
“Phil, kill me!”
Phil opened him mouth, babbling protests. Making up excuses that this whole situation can be fixed. An obvious lie. Forcefully, he grabbed Phil’s trembling hand and pointed the blade towards the centre of his neck, “Phil, it's- look. Look! How much work went into this, and it's gone! Do it. Do it.”
“So, I looked into your eyes and I saw the reflection
Of a coward you and I both hate very much”.
He stared into Phil’s eyes and once again could see a glimpse of his face staring back. It once again mocked him. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he wasn’t brave enough to face the consequences of his own actions. Maybe he did hate the small feeling of hopelessness his body felt. It didn’t matter now though. Nothing mattered now.
All he wanted was to end it all.
He let go of Phil’s hand, signalling for his father to finally to do it.
Letting out a frustrated scream, Phil thrusted the tip forward, tearing through the skin. Blood spilt out, staining his jackets, splattering onto the stone below. Wilbur felt his mind get torn to shreds as everything around him shattered.
“And I got to thinking that
If I don’t go to hell when I die, I might go to heaven”.
Black spots danced across his vision. Darkness engulfed his whole being. The thought bounced around his empty skull. He had done what was best for the nation. It was his nation after all, he could choose what to do with it. Thinking about it all, it had been the right decision. No one would be able to take care of L’Manberg like he could, so the only reasonable action was to decimate it. Remove it completely for existence. Then remove himself completely from existence.
Wilbur grinned, maybe he would get into heaven. He genuinely believed that his actions were easily explainable. If he were still alive, he was sure the others would thank him. Yeah, they would thank him.
But then he couldn’t stop laughing. Cackling at the destruction he brought. He just didn’t care if the others were grateful or not. He didn’t care how much anguish they would be in. He didn’t care about the nightmares that were sure to plague his father. He didn’t care about any of them.
He didn’t care if he went to heaven or if God (which Wilbur was certain didn’t exist or they would have put a stop to his schemes a long time ago) abandoned him. He had abandoned everyone else, so why should it matter?
No remorse. No sympathy. No guilt.
Nothing, the only thing he felt was the bitter cold of the void he floated in.
“Might go to heaven
But probably not.”