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Resurrection really fucking sucked.
One moment there was nothing, honestly and truly nothing except for maybe a vague feeling of contentment lingering somewhere in the back of Wilbur’s mind and the next there was pouring rain, the boom of a thousand explosions tearing through his ears and an all consuming agony that ripped through Wilbur’s heart. For a second he thought he might be shattering. And then, just like that, it all faded, leaving him desperately panting on some cold stone floor, very much alive. What the fuck. He’d never asked to be resurrected.
“Wil?”
Oh. Oh no. Wilbur knew that voice. It meant consequences and responsibility. But mostly consequences.
“Jesus Christ Phil, why did you have to do that?”
“Oh my god, he’s actually alive.” That was Eret. Phil and Eret? Man, I really can’t catch a break. But Wilbur ignored them, instead choosing to open his eyes, to the sky far, far above him, fluffy clouds drifting past with a serenity that really didn’t match the backdrop that was the still-smoking crater.
“Did I do that? Nice.” The words slipped out before Wilbur really registered them, but hell, if that really was his work he honestly didn’t know whether to be gleeful or somber. L’Manberg. His unfinished symphony. And damn did it look unfinished. Phil cleared his throat behind him.
“Um, no, that was me. And Techno. And Dream.”
Now that was a shock. Dream was enough of a bastard to blow up a country out of something ridiculous like spite, but, really, Techno? Yes, the piglin hybrid assisted in Wilbur’s grand finale, but to mastermind a plan of his own was an entirely different thing. Honestly Wilbur was surprised he had the balls to even attempt that, let alone succeed.
Almost a million questions raced through Wilbur’s mind, namely why the hell did Tommy not mention any of this, before he clamped down on it hard. No. Questions meant curiosity and curiosity meant attachment. And attachment meant it would be harder to let go of this material plain and go back to being dead.
Wilbur was meant to go down with L’Manberg dammit! Not be remembered as a broken and crazed president-turned-terrorist now shivering above a crater of his own making. His death wasn’t noble, wasn’t a blaze of glory, wasn’t even good, but it was a death and it was a memorable one. It was a full stop at the end of Wilbur Soot’s short and tragic life.
What that full stop was not meant to be was a fucking comma.
But Phil and Eret were still staring at him.
“Why,” he asked finally, when the silence had stretched to breaking point. Phil’s expression flickered once, twice, before shattering.
“Because you’re my son!”
Wilbur failed to hold back a flinch at those familiar words, the razor sharp memory of a sword slicing through his chest rising to the surface before he had a chance to bite it back. Phil didn’t appear to notice, though his voice was softer as he continued.
“Because you are my son and you didn’t deserve to die like that. And because I love you.”
But I did though. Wilbur’s thoughts went unsaid, but by the way Eret’s eyes widened in sympathy, he was sure they were showing on his face. Eret. The monarch who had betrayed L’Manburg back when the country was still young and who Wilbur had blamed for the longest time. But he supposed that he and they were one of the same now - both traitors who had led to their country’s downfall, both traitors who were now hanging in a limbo of sorts, not truly belonging anywhere. A few drops of rain hit Wilbur’s skin as the sky began to boil with thunderclouds in earnest - he had always appreciated pathetic fallacy but this was something else. The air crackling in anticipation of a storm, the feeling of water running down his cheek was so real and he knew he was stupidly, hopelessly attached to this realm as soon as the first raindrop fell.
“Do you need a place to stay?” Phil asked as Wilbur hauled himself up onto shaky legs that hadn’t felt solid ground in thirteen years. Wilbur considered the question - a few minutes ago it had seemed so easy to imagine falling back into the void of the afterlife, but now it was undeniable how irresistible a tangible landscape was. Full of colour and noise and life - and Wilbur didn’t want to - couldn’t - go back. But that left only the alternative which was to stay. Sparing a single glance to the L’Manburg crater, Wilbur supposed that he could always crawl back to whatever remained of Pogtopia, but Phil looked so uncharacteristically hopeful that Wilbur suddenly didn’t find it in him to refuse. Anyway, he supposed he could probably do with the contact anyway.
Soft crimson velvet met his fingers as Eret unhooked her cloak and tossed it at him, somehow still managing to be graceful. Wilbur had half the mind to refuse out of something akin to spite after stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the monarch for so long, but logic eventually won out and he swung the heavy cloak over his shoulders. Warmth immediately enveloped him and WIlbur murmured a thank you to Eret despite himself.
Phil took a hesitant step forward, clasping Wilbur’s arm as he did so.
“Let’s go home.”
I don’t have a home. But, like so many other thoughts, they remained silent and unheard.