Chapter Text
Wilbur can feel the heat of the Archivist’s presence behind him before he even says a word.
“I can’t believe that you would willingly come to dear ol’ me.” Wilbur says out loud, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
“How did- how did you know I was here?” The Archivist asks. Rather pathetically honestly, if you asked Wilbur.
“I could feel your nervous heat from a mile away! But still, pleasure to meet you.” Wilbur turns around, a toothy smile on his face and a hand outstretched in the Archivist’s direction.
The Archivist barely spares it a glance. “No.”
“Aww,” Wilbur drops his hand. “You’re no fun. Nice shirt, by the way.”
“Well, some of us can’t…regulate their body temperature, or do whatever that is you’re doing.”
Wilbur spread out the tails of his trench coat flamboyantly. “It’s such a shame normal people can’t wear trench coats in the summer. Personally, I quite like the style.”
The Archivist clears his throat. “Well, I just have a few questions-”
Wilbur holds up his index finger, lights it on fire. “Not so fast, Archivist. First off, you didn’t even shake my hand! Why should I answer your questions? Secondly, you of all people should know that I don’t take questions lightly.”
“I’m not stupid , I’m not going to shake your hand-”
Wilbur snickered. “I’d argue otherwise.”
“-and I was under the impression that you knew Thomas Innes.”
Wilbur’s expression turns dark, a stark contrast to the bright summer sun. “Tommy’s not one of your little stories .” He glances away for the briefest moment. “He was my little brother. So don’t you dare ask about him again.”
“Duly noted. But I would like to know,” the Archivist starts cautiously, “how you knew that I was the Archivist.”
Wilbur chuckled. “That’s easy. Archivists are the ones to ask intrusive questions, and not wait for consent. And you’re well aware that I could kill you right now. I could put my hand through your chest and cook your heart in an instant. No one would even know. I could also burn this park down, just with the snap of my fingers.”
“But you won’t.”
“I’m not as merciful as Phil, Archivist. Don’t make careless assumptions.”
“I would also like to know if you burned down a section of Gwydir Forest last year.”
“That was all me, yes. Did it for Nikola, though.”
“And the reason was because…” the Archivist starts.
“Because it was fun?” Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I do that? Nikola offered a hefty reward too. She wanted it gone, and I was happy to help, y’know? I also got some info on the explosive effects of TNT on certain bits of infrastructure, which will be extremely useful in my future endeavours. It’s a win-win scenario.”
“Except for the people that you burned,” he points out.
“Who cares! I serve a god of carnage, it’s in my nature. And you serve a god of intrusive questions, that’s also in your nature.”
“The Lightless Flame. And the Ceaseless Watcher, I think.” He pauses for a beat. “What is it all about, really?”
Wilbur laughs, a full, genuine laugh. “You have no idea what is actually going on, do you?”
“So, tell me! Or kill me, as you’ve described so viscerally.”
At this point, Wilbur was laughing so hard that he was wiping away tears. “An Archivist pleading for knowledge! Now, that is satisfying and cathartic to see! But I will commend that last part about asking me to kill you, that does sound a bit like a real Archivist. Not quite like Gertrude, but close enough.”
He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it by holding the tip over his lit index finger. “I’m not killing you, no matter how much I want to. Give thanks to Elias, because he’s who I’m doing this favour for. Since he did kill Gertrude, and everyone wanted her dead, plus he wants you alive. Instead, I’m going to give you…let’s call it some advice. You can even record it on your little toy.”
“What-” The Archivist tamps down a scream as Wilbur grabs his left hand with surprising speed and firmly presses the lit end of the cigarette into the inside of his wrist and it’s burning far hotter than any cigarette has the right to-
“Ask me another question,” Wilbur hisses, “and I’ll burn your tongue out of your mouth. You understand?”
The Archivist nods rapidly, and Wilbur drops the cigarette onto the pavement, quelling the fire with a flick of his wrist as the Archivist takes deep, shuddering breaths.
“Now you’re scared. Now you understand the scope of all of this. See, there’s no safety in just simply watching from the wings.” Wilbur smirks.
The Archivist huffs. “I know that. I’m not an idiot.”
“Sure. Fine, how about I tell you a story? Like those statements your Institute takes. So that you truly know what’s going on and aren’t just a stumbling fool in the dark.”
Wilbur tucks his hands back into his pockets while the Archivist takes out his tape recorder.
“Statement of Wilbur Soot, regarding…some advice. Recorded direct from subject, April 24th, 2020. Statement begins.”
And so Wilbur speaks.
“If you smother a flame, it dies. The only way to keep it alive and roaring is by feeding it. Adding more fuel. For explosions, while they can’t be stopped, the range of their blast is massively limited by how much explosive you have in the first place. In both cases, you need to feed the force for it to flourish. This can only be done by…not giving a fuck. If you constantly fret and worry over its damage you’ll achieve nothing, and eventually, you’ll die as surely as any candle or fuse.
It would be hard to adequately describe the liberation and sensational pain one would get from fire or explosives. Granted, I work more in the explosive side of things but I would assume fire is similar. In both of them, you are fully aware of your flesh cooking, both on the inside and the outside. It changes texture and shape, all to feed the ever-consuming destruction. Even better if you’re the one who set it off in the first place. Knowing that this masterpiece of carnage was nudged to life by your own two hands, gods…so liberating.
At least, that’s how it’s like for me. I wouldn’t know what it’s like for you. Point is, you need to feed your patron to grow stronger. Otherwise it will consume you.
I was always passionate for anything that caught my attention. Suppose that’s why my flame has been burning since the start. Those around me similarly got caught up in the whirlwind, though they could never adequately fuel the fire. Theatre, music, even academia at some point. Especially music. All it took was that initial spark of inspiration for my next song and I was hightailing in the wake of that creative rush.
Though the next fuel for my fire came in the form of politics. I was the leader — president, whatever – for a small town called L’manburg. You wouldn’t know it, it’s long gone. I will neither confirm nor deny my involvement in ah, getting rid of it . Point is, I was probably more passionate for it than I had been for any of my previous ventures. It burned through me as much as I burned through it. Leading a city was hard, and drugs and smoking would later become my best friend. People around me, my colleagues, would notice this, and I would slowly, very slowly, get nudged out of my role as leader. Keep in mind, politics was still my greatest passion, so when the bombshell dropped and I was informed that I was to be relieved of my duties I flew into a rage. I was at the bottom of the pit of despair, and at the ends of my sanity.
But then, my igniting spark came in the form of Tommy. Gods, Tommy . So bright and lively, a star . I remember meeting him in a café along the edges of the town, one day, when I wasn’t spiralling into madness. He worked there, with his friend Tubbo. Didn’t know at that time why he decided to serve me a cup of scalding hot tea and proceed to sit opposite me in the booth, but nonetheless looking at him filled me with a sense of boundless love. Not love in the romantic kind, oh, definitely not. He was probably only 16, I think? No, I mean that kind of familial love, that sense that you needed to protect this person with your life, kinda like a little brother. We talked about trivial things at first, school, work, which slowly morphed into politics, like he somehow knew what was really on my mind.
He pushed me gently, asking about my situation, and then the slow burn turned into a raging inferno. To give you some context, my successor was a pompous idiot going by the name Schlatt. This whole time, I felt that he didn’t deserve to be the leader, but yet I was too out of my mind to take my rightful spot. I wasn’t suitable, but yet here I was trying to take back the throne. I felt like the bad guy. The villain. And around this point Tommy said that L’manburg was far behind me now. And I had the revelation that if I couldn’t have this town, well, no one should, right? And my sweet, sweet Tommy aided me every step of the way. He suggested fire at first, but we settled on TNT, all in that tiny café.
I made sure everyone could see me when I pressed the button. And as the wind shredded my skin and the flames melted my bones, all I heard was the loving exhalation for my god, for Tommy, and for the lightless inferno of desolation, pain and destruction.
And that’s that. I suppose you did compel me, after all.”
“So, uh…is there anything else you could tell me?”
“Nope, I’m all dead ends. But, hm. There is something.” Wilbur says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
The Archivist raises his eyebrow inquisitively.
“If you truly want to meet more people who can kill you, I know a guy who can tell you more. Phil.”
“Has a scar, sheds…”
“Feathers? Sometimes.”
“Philza Watson.” The Archivist breathes.
“Yep,” Wilbur says, popping the ‘p’. “Shake my hand, and I’ll give you his address.”
“What?”
“Shake my hand,” Wilbur says slowly. “And I’ll tell you where to find your next lead. It won’t hurt, trust me. It’s the least you could do, since you were so rude just now.”
The Archivist takes a long, deep inhale. He extends his hand, shakes Wilbur’s hand-
Wilbur laughs. “I lied.”
-and he screams .