Chapter Text
Just beyond the southern hills, flowered plains carry a quaint village. A home for very few, but still a home regardless; where mothers are carefree of their children that play outside, where brothers and sisters play with all of their imagination.
Where two brothers, in fact, weave their dandelion crowns and bring food to each other’s plates. Even in the absence of a mother or father, where two brothers sleep in one bed and stay closely knit together on the town’s streets.
A quaint village where two brothers live.
“No, Tommy, get the fuck off me.”
“But Wil, it’s so damn boring out here!!
Tommy lays on his back, sprawled out on top of Wilbur. The grass beneath them both is soft, slightly mossy, enough to hold the two like a pillow if you ignore the pebbles hidden underneath. A small basket of apples and mushrooms lay to the side, not filled very much. In the distance, the sounds of the village fill the plains with a calm ambience.
“I took you out here to forage with me, not fucking spar! I told you it’d be boring but you didn’t care!!”
“Right, but I brought my dagger and everything but you won’t even let me cut up an apple or some shit!”
“Because cutting it will rot it quicker,” Wilbur sits back on his elbows, attempting to nudge Tommy off of his torso. “And also because I don’t trust you with a knife at all.”
The younger huffs, disguising it as blowing hair out of his eyes, before pulling out said dagger from its sheath and inspecting it closely. The metal, presumably iron, is worn and lightly rusted- the edges are jagged and the tip is blunt to the touch. The grip of the dagger is wrapped in a dirty red cloth from Tommy’s ripped childhood blanket that he refused to trash until he was thirteen.
It’s worn, used, and barely functional for cutting food; but it’s Tommy’s dagger.
“It’s not just a knife, Wil. It’s my dagger.”
“I know, and I’m not letting you spar against me with that. We use wooden tools, remember?”
Wilbur fiddles with a few strands of the blonde’s hair before Tommy sits up, releasing Wilbur from his personal ground prison. Wilbur pulls himself up from the ground, towering over Tommy.
He remembers the last time he allowed Tommy to use any weapons other than some rickety wooden ones; he was eleven years old, yes, but Tommy still managed to leave a bit of a gash on Wilbur’s right leg with an old iron sword. Wilbur had a slight limp and some bandages, but was fine- Tommy, however, continuously cried for the next three days upon seeing the bandage. He remembers how Tommy refused to stop saying sorry despite the immense amount of times Wilbur had forgiven him.
“C’mon. Help me find some last few apples-“
The younger begins to whine.
“But Wiiilll,-“
“I’ll let you pick flowers too or something, okay? You’re sixteen man, not four.”
“Whatever, bitch.”
Wilbur reaches his hand out for Tommy to take, which he does so reluctantly. Sheathing his dagger once more, the brothers venture back towards the nearby woods for their next meal.
Somewhere in the next few towns over, a god awakens.
~
The rest of the day is spent in the woods. Foraging for food was long finished before the boys cleaned up in a pond-albeit trying to drown each other for fun in the middle of it- and took a scenic detour from their normal path home.
Tommy concentrates on weaving a dandelion crown in the night’s darkness while walking alongside Wilbur, who carries the basket and watches Tommy intently out the corner of his eye. The basket itself, now full of fruits and small mushrooms, also delicately carries a bundle of flowers the blonde had picked on the way home. The walk back is quietly peaceful, the air filled with the ambience of the forest, the occasional crow shrieking out from the trees-
Until one crow becomes two, then three, then five- a murder of crows, crying out from the forest all around the boys.
Wilbur stops in his tracks, Tommy lightly bumping his shoulder and staring up from his crown in confusion.
“Wha-“
“Tommy, Tommy- the village!”
Wilbur grabs Tommy’s arm, staring at the path up ahead- the village is in view, smoke billowing out from multiple houses, faint screams being heard. The orange glow of fire rages from the town.
The same town that the boys grew up in, the same town where they laughed, chased each other throughout the streets, or scraped together just enough coins for a fresh loaf of bread at the bakery.
The same town that carries their home; where they slept, ate, and held each other in the cold during the harsher winters.
The same town that screams and cries, burning to ashes before their eyes.
The flower crown drops from Tommy’s hands onto the ground. Wilbur is fixated onto the village, eyes wide and grip firmly on Tommy’s arm.
“Holy… Holy shit. Wil, we gotta go-“
“N-No, Tommy, stay here. I need to help them.”
Wilbur lays the basket on the ground and turns to run into the village, letting go of Tommy before promptly being pulled back by the cloak.
“Wilbur you fuckin’ idiot! Are you serious?! We have to RUN!-“
“NO, Tommy you stay the fuck right here! Don’t go anywhere or I swear to god- Stay here,”
“WIL NO!-“
“-I’ll be right back!!”
Wilbur sprints down the gravel path to the village.
Tommy, eyes locked onto Wilbur, tightens his grip on his dagger’s sheath. Waiting until Wilbur is out of sight, he darts after him into the burning town, leaving their belongings behind at the lip of the forest.
Inside of the town, a god rages on.