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1
Fundy comes into the world a stillborn. Wilbur doesn’t notice this immediately, too caught up with holding his child. In the softness of newborn fur, the pale pink of their nose. When he does notice that their chest is still, he hugs them tighter and cries. Cries and cries and cries. He stays like this for minutes, mourning what he barely had time to love.
Then. A cry. Soft, pathetic. But audible. Wilbur looks down and sees his child breathing.
“Oh,” he says softly, kissing the white streaks on their forehead. Had those always been there? “Oh, my champion. My little champion. You’ve come back to me. My little fighter.”
(Years later, Wilbur will die by his father’s sword. And when he wakes up, his mother will be there to greet him, and she will apologise. I just wanted to hold him once, she’ll say. Is that too much for a grandmother to ask?)
2
Fundy learns to fight at three years old. Three is pretty old for a fox; Fundy did his research, and most only live to four years. Fifteen in captivity. That’s what he tells his father, the sword he stole from Tommy tucked under his arm. He learnt to walk at four months, to talk in full sentences at one year. It was only natural that he learn to fight now, instead of at ten years or whenever humans are meant to.
He can tell his father is resistant to the idea. He hates weapons and armour, preferring words. But his father also worries and frets, day in and day out, staring out into the distance. He knows war is coming. They all do.
So. Fundy learns to fight at three years old.
Fundy has no natural talent, except perhaps his drive to learn. Even his father – and he knows his father is bad at fighting – can disarm him with ease. Fundy’s size might have something to do with that – even Tubbo still towers over him, let alone his giant of a father – but for the most part it is a matter of skill.
His defeats are fine though, because every time he gets something right, every time he gets up and brushes himself, there’s Wilbur, to call him his champion.
One day, after training, Wilbur takes him aside and tells him, “You’re going to be L’manberg’s greatest champion. I can just tell.”
3
Fundy is seven and is at war. It's nothing like he ever imagined.
Like right now. In his fantasies of war, of being L’manberg’s greatest champion, he was never hit with an arrow. Or, rather, he was, but pulled it out heroically and kept fighting, and it had hurt but Fundy had grit his teeth and kept going. But here, in reality, it was taking Fundy all his strength to stop himself from screaming as Eret pulls out the arrowhead.
“Come on, Fundy,” says Wilbur, gripping his hand. If he’s hurt by the claws digging into his flesh, he doesn’t say anything. “My little champion. You’re doing so well.”
Fundy lets the words wash over him, imagines them drowning the hurt. I’m Wilbur’s champion, he tells himself. Don’t be a baby. You’re his champion. Babies can’t be champions.
Then the arrow is free and a healing potion is being put into his hands and Tommy is screaming, go, go, go.
4
Fundy is a man and L’manberg is free. He does his best not to think of the cost.
It’s hard, though, when his father is in front of him, collapsed in on himself. Fundy aged faster, but Wilbur has somehow outpaced him. He looks old, threadbare. Like he could unravel at any second. The circles under his eyes have darkened and deepened, until they seem tattooed into his flesh.
Fundy sits down next to Wilbur and hugs him, a shaky pastiche of how his father used to comfort him. Wilbur hugs him back.
“Fundy, my champion,” whispers Wilbur in his ear. “My precious son. You won’t betray me, will you?”
Fundy shakes his head. "No, of course not," he says. "I’m your champion."
5
Fundy is still a man, but L’manberg is no longer free.
The walls of Pogtopia feel claustrophobic. Fundy finds it funny. This should be a perfect place for a fox. A proper den. He should feel right at home. But he doesn’t.
One night, he passes by an alcove and hears voices. He pauses and listens. It’s instinct now; he’s been a spy for so long.
“You’re L’manberg’s champion,” Wilbur is saying to Tommy, and Fundy almost growls. He wants to barge in, to snap that he’s L’manberg’s champion.
But, of course, he isn’t. Not any longer. He had betrayed Wilbur. Even if he hadn’t set out to do so, there had been moments where his heart had wavered. Moments where he had thought he wanted to be Schlatt’s champion. He had never gone through with it, but did that matter?
His father had made it clear that he was no longer his champion. And that meant he was no longer L’manberg’s champion.
(Only days later, his father would be killed by his father, and he would know that he would never hear the word ‘champion’ from Wilbur’s lips again.
Of course, months after that, he would know that that had been complete and utter bullshit. Death, after all, had little meaning when you had a revive book.)
+1
“Dad! Dad!”
Fundy looks up and sees Yogurt running to him. His white fur shines in the sun.
“Yes?” he asks.
“I want to learn how to fight!” he declares jumping up and down. “So I can protect Las Nevadas!”
Fundy freezes under the desert sun, and looks at his son. For a second, he sees a young red fox, a stolen sword tucked under his arm, and he feels like someone else, a young general made old by war.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, my little champion. You don’t have to worry about that.” In his head, he thinks, you are too young to fight and die for a country. You’re no one’s champion but mine, and that means the only thing you need to protect is yourself. Because that’s the only way to protect my heart.
When there is fighting, Fundy will tell Yogurt to run, and that will have to be enough. Better than to fill his head with imaginings of war and glory.
Yogurt whines and huffs and begs, but Fundy distracts him with redstone and levers and promises to teach him how to do all kinds of magic.
Across the river, his father watches them. But they don’t notice him, and even if they did… well, Fundy stopped being his champion a long time ago.