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He was cold.
He was cold - no, scratch that, he was freezing, the icy wind chilling him to the very bone - and he had lost one of his shoes hours (minutes?) prior, and his torn shirt and flimsy jeans barely did anything to shield his bruised and burnt body from the unforgiving weather as he painfully trudged through the snow, the crudely crafted stone sword he held dragging his arms down, the rough wood of the handle carving into his skin, leaving behind splinters, as his grip on it faltered.
He could barely see in front of him, thick clumps of snow falling from the sky obscuring his view - and the way his breath puffed up wasn’t helping him, either - because, of course, it was storming the right on the day he he decided to forcibly escape his exile after Dream’s last power-induced fit.
His head screamed at him with every step, begging him to stop and to rest - to eat, to drink, to sleep - but even through the haze of what was certainly an upcoming fever, he knew better. He couldn’t stop.
He simply couldn't stop. He knew that Dream was after him, one way or another, even though he had said that he was leaving and he knew that if he stopped moving he would definitely catch up to him, and he really didn't want to think about what he would do to him if he did. (He quietly hoped that it would be painless) (He knew that it wouldn't be).
He was glad that he escaped, though, even as bruised and battered as he was, even though Dream was still his friend, in a way. (Moments of him being comforted after losing more hours of his hard work to a pit overfilled with dynamite flashed behind his eyes. He pushed them away.)
The reflection of the sun on the pure white ice he stepped through was blinding, even through the moody haze of the storm. His head ached, and he could hear the low rumble of his own blood rushing around his body. He took in a deep, painfully dragged breath, trying to make it all go away, or at the very least subdue it slightly.
It was in vain.
He just needed to find Techno’s house, steal some of his stuff, maybe rest for a bit. and then run to somewhere far, far away. It would be easy. (if he didn’t freeze to death, that is) (maybe freezing to death was better than facing him) (who was he kidding, it definitely was)
He was shivering, and shaking, his clothing soaking wet from when he had plunged himself into the water after jumping off his stupid man made pillar back on the sandy shores of the beach where he had been exiled and from the snow that had melted on him and stuck itself in his hair and on his face.
Techno was right, in the end, wasn’t he? About L’manberg, about power, about government, about his friends, about everything. Just like he had always been right when they had been kids, when Techno had been younger, softer, a kid with round, golden glasses and bright pink curly hair that covered his eyes and strong ideals and his nose always stuck in some greek mythology book, a kid way too wise and way too smart for his own good and Tommy was nothing but a hurricane of a scrappy kid, all gangly limbs and youthfully puffy cheeks and shouting and bright red clothing.
He was wrong about one thing, though. Tommy wouldn’t die a hero. He wouldn’t die in a theatrical way, he wouldn’t go out with a bang (whether that be a metaphorical or an actual one) (the memory of one of Tubbo’s last moments flashed behind his eyes, and he pretended not to feel the way his stomach flipped at the image of a bloody, dead brother, and the image of a gore covered, alive one, still holding a loaded weapon). He simply wouldn't. He would go out alone and slowly, whether that be by killing himself or by freezing in this stupid snowstorm. He would die in the complete opposite way he had lived, and somehow, that fit him. (After all, he wasn’t even sure who this supposed alive version of him even was anymore).
He would die an outcast, exiled by his best friends, the people he called his family. He pretended not to get choked up at the thought of his own exile,
The memory of the exiling process itself is nothing but a hazy blur in his mind, the event itself overshadowed by the mind numbing, violent routine of the days following it. Wake up, work until noon, eat something (if you're lucky, if Dream feels like you deserve it), work until dusk, get your stuff taken away - sometimes, if he was very lucky, Dream let him keep something, if he was in a good mood, if he felt sympathy for him. (most days he was not, and he really didn’t want to think about those days) - then sleep, and repeat.
Looking back, he now knew that the routine had been designed to break him, to make him obedient, to manipulate him into the perfect little guy, but he didn’t want to think about it, because Dream was still his friend, right? Maybe breaking him was what was best for him and for the server, because he knew better, right? He just wanted to take care of him, actually wanted to talk to him, actually cared about the words that spilled from his mouth - so what if he got hit sometimes?
He deserved it, didn’t he? He was always going around getting in trouble, pissing people off, starting wars for stupid little countries and useless little things with his “brother” - who wasn’t really his brother anymore, both because he was dead, and because he decided to disappear, and take all of his blue with him.
(Tommy had been a lot sadder without it, but he would never tell a soul)
He pretended not to be worried about him. He pretended not to feel a pang of sadness in his chest as he remembered what they used to have. He pretended not to think about their father, and their brother, and he pretended that a small, quiet part of him didn't crave Dream's presence, Dream's touch, no matter how harsh.
He focused on the present, instead, on the pain in his limbs, the cuts on his sloppily bandaged arms, the blood that had dried under his nose (was it broken? He didn’t know, but he knew that Dream could pack a mean punch when he wanted to) (the bruises on his torso and the way that he hadn't been able to breathe without pain in weeks were also proof of that, and he pretended that he didn't linger on the awful feeling) his split lip, the burns on his legs and back, the scrapes on his knees and face, and this, and that, and he made a mental note of every injury he had on his body, from paper cuts to stab wounds, from accidental to self inflicted. from raw and bleeding to silvery, faded, childhood scars (and if the cuts under the bandages on his arms and his upper left thigh started itching to be opened again by his own hands, that was only for him to know) (it's not like anyone ever cared enough to check on him about that, not even Dream, who definitely knew about them)
His knees weakened beneath him, slowing down his already sluggish pace. He was hungry - he hadn’t eaten in a while - Dream didn’t like him when he got his own food, whether it be by hunting or farming, and there was very little he could get outside the small portions of food Dream himself gave him without him noticing, and the stew he could get from mushroom henry was barely enough to keep him going everyday, nevermind support him through hours of walking through a snowstorm.
He could let himself fall back into the snow. It would be nice for him to just curl up there, on the rock solid soil, hiding from the world. He would be happier there, maybe. He would taste pure, unfiltered victory, for once in his seventeen years of life.
He would finally choose something for himself, instead of blindly following.
He knew that he would die if he stopped, but after all, how painful could the mere happening of his last physical death be? He didn’t think it would hurt that much, and even if it did, he would welcome the pain with open arms, as one last good thing before exhaling his last breath.
He smiled at the thought, a small fit of horrible, bubbling laughter spilling from his dry mouth - and maybe he was just delirious, or maybe he was just fucked in the head, but death sounded like the best thing in his mind at that moment, a holy grail or some sort, the solution to all of his problems. He had been hurt so many times a little physical pain couldn’t stop him from actually going through with it.
He kept walking.
He kept walking, and he walked, and he walked, until his legs couldn’t support him anymore, and then he walked some more, the house he was looking for nowhere in sight. Maybe that was okay though, it definitely saved him from an awkward conversation or two and potentially death if Technoblade did, somehow, catch him sneaking into his house.
So he kept moving, using all of his concentration into putting one foot in front of the other and trying to stay upright. (If his past self could see him now, he would have laughed at the way he stumbled multiple times, almost falling face first into the thick layer of snow at his feet)
In his delirium, though, he had failed to notice that the sun had almost completely dipped below the horizon, and the swiftly darkening sky. Night had come, and he was standing in the middle of nowhere, with no shelter in sight.
He hadn’t thought about that. He seriously hadn’t - and holy shit, mobs were coming out of the woodworks to harm him, and he needed to hide, to do something - and the sword in his hands felt even heavier as he not-so-menacingly lifted it and put himself into a more active fighting stance, in a vague attempt to keep himself safe. (or at least fool himself into thinking that he still wanted to live, to tell himself that despite everything, he still had some fight left in his too-long limbs and some courage in his battered heart)
He could barely focus on the forest in front of him, his vision clouded by the thick snow and the darkness that slowly but surely encased his surroundings, and if it hadn’t been for that he probably would’ve seen the skeleton lurking in the shadows to his left, and he would’ve at least made a useless attempt at saving himself - but it was too late, and now an arrow had lodged itself square in the middle of his shoulder.
He fell into the snow face first, his head hitting the frozen ground beneath the snow with a loud thump, the wounds on his face opening up again, his probably broken nose crunching sickeningly under his body weight. He wasn’t sure if he was bleeding heavily or not, but he knew that it fucking hurt, even worse than any of his other wounds, the white-hot, overwhelming pain taking over his entirety, making his sight go spotty and unfocused - and in that moment, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to get up.
He curled up on his side, trying to take weight off his injured side, moving slowly, oh so slowly, and if he had to guess, he had been shot with a slowness arrow - not that it mattered, he was going to die anyway, right there, bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere. (And he minded less about that than what he outwardly showed, still trying to fool himself into fighting for his life).
The snow was stained a deep red. (It used to be his favorite color, before all the wars. Now, his stomach dropped at the sight, snapshots of death and injuries permanently etched behind his eyelids)
He had never seen so much blood in his entire life (except for when Wilbur died, and for when he had died, and from when Tubbo had died, a small part of him said) (it was right, but he pretended not to hear it) and if he hadn’t been on the verge of death he would’ve probably gagged at the sight.
He wondered if anyone would find his body - if his family would have someone to bury, or if his body would just get frozen underneath the ice, forever. He wondered whether or not he would, too, get stuck as a ghost, wandering around aimlessly, nothing but a shell of his past self, sharing words with his older brother. Maybe people would actually like him, as a ghost. Dream would stop chasing after him, he would get to hang out with Tubbo all the time, simultaneously there and not there, no longer a nuisance.
Thinking made his head hurt, though, so he tried to push it all away. (He wanted his last moments to be peaceful, after all he’d been through). He knew he didn’t have a lot of time left, with the way his shoulder was bleeding and how even blinking hurt like a bitch; so, with the last bit of strength left in his body, he looked up at the night sky, blood pouring down his face.
It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Thousands of glittering stars shared their life in that weird green-blue light thing he’d read about in books once, but never really cared to learn the name of. (Excuse me, Will, I'm a big man. Big men don’t need to know about shit antarctic lights, he had said).
For the first time in a while, he felt loved.
He breathed in deeply, his ribcage protesting the force he put behind the action, another sharp wave of pain running through him. His eyes fluttered closed slowly, and he didn’t fight it, the icy hot feeling running through his veins like high voltage electricity lulling him into a sense of security, snow already thinly coating what would soon become his corpse.
Whoever might be out there, take care of my friends. Tubbo, and Big Q, and Jack and Niki, and Eret, and Ranboo, and everyone else. Look after my father, and my brother, and Fundy, and please, don’t come for their souls too soon, meeting them in the afterlife would be too awkward. I hope they can forgive me for being who I was.
With that last prayer, Tommy was out, air catching in his dry throat for the last time ever.
He wasn’t cold anymore. .