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“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, won't you look down upon me from your tall tower? To show me that you are not just a figment of my Dream?”
Wilbur stands with his arms outstretched. The water reaches to his knees and his socks are absolutely drenched in his boots. He looks up at the sky, where the prison obscures the view of the sunset with a halo.
He continues to call out, “Does old, guarding Dame Gothel continue to hold you in your high cell, Rapunzel?” Wilbur tapers off with a laugh, cackles loudly like a firecracker, and holds the prison, feels the warm black brick under his callous. It soothes him to know that Dream could probably hear him, calms him when he pictures Dream leaning on his cell wall, closer to Wilbur. As close as they can be in these dire circumstances.
He presses his cheek to the rock and breathes in the cold earthy smell, like melting and sticky snow on cooling mud. Dream built this too, didn't he? His hero locked in the tower of his own creation?
But that's okay.
Wilbur can play hero for now, and Dream can play his princess, his green damsel in distress. They can play these parts for now, and that's okay. Dream will always be the hero, and Wilbur isn't in need of a Knight to save him anymore.
Wilbur moves away, never turning his back to the prison and always facing him. He runs a hand through his overgrown hair, panting with excitement as the sun sets again and the prison stands darker than the night sky, intimidating all creatures of the night away. The prison is Dream's creation; Pandora made to be a Frankenstein. It excites Wilbur. To touch something that wouldn't be alive if it weren't for Dream's capability, brought to life by his own dastardly mind.
It's how Wilbur can tolerate himself sometimes. Knowing that this body isn't entirely his anymore alleviates his constant migraine of self-loathe, to touch something so not his anymore and instead belongs to Dream.
He owes his love to Dream.
Wilbur catches sight of the flame of a torch reflecting on the large pool of water. He turns his back to the prison only when he knows he's leaving for the night.
On land, he ignores the squelch of his sopping wet shoes and the uncomfortable way his trousers cling to his legs with heavy water. Wilbur's hands move to his pockets to seek warmth, but he isn't wearing his coat anymore. His dad still has it, begged Wilbur to let him wash and repair his clothes while Wilbur went away again.
Wilbur could've worn the trench coat he died in but decided against that. Too old. Too somebody else and too ‘Wilbur’ as an adjective and not so much as a noun, you know?
Wilbur has half a mind to venture out and search for some of Dream's old clothes. A green cloak, or the grey sweatpants he slept in, or one of his more baggier blouses that might fit Wilbur, or the high-waisted white pants he wore into battle. Perhaps there are still some at George's place or the mines with old lava pools that Dream would go down for days at a time to accumulate more of the black brick. Surely, he must've had some sort of shelter or storage unit down there, deep in the planet's tunnels.
But the rails and the mines still freak Wilbur out. The sound of metal screeching to a halt, the constant gears accelerating and speeding past in circles, and the bellow of steam erupting from somewhere he could never see.
The minecarts aren't trains, Wilbur knows that, and the tracks here are thinner and smaller, too small to carry anything more than barely two people. A bucket compared to a cargo ship. He tries to rationalize how irrational his fear is, but the trauma sticks like sour sweat to his body, and Wilbur just decides to avoid the rails and the mines altogether. It's better this way.
He doesn't know how to kill time, which is what he's doing. Stalling. Waiting. Lurking. Hunting. But mostly killing time. Not yet, Wilbur tells himself, keeping a watchful eye out on the black spot in the sky, the new moon almost blending in with the surrounding darkness. The new moon is the only thing as black as the prison at night.
Wilbur takes his stand in Tommy's tower, an abandoned idea from when the young lad was planning on breaking into the prison and not sneaking in. Wise decision, Wilbur thinks of fondly as he climbs up the ladders.
Still, despite the tower idea being thought over of, it's not a total waste of space. Wilbur has a nice view of the prison and can imagine the layout, using the memories that aren't his to piece it together and eyeballing the rest.
Six meters across, he remembers the cell's width, unsure of the exact length of the cell. Maybe it's eight or nine meters? If so, Dream's cell is six by eight/nine (?) by three meters.
Wilbur can almost see through the prison's thick walls and imagine the space where Dream is, where he lives and dwells, the only space Dream has known for so long. Poor thing. His bathroom, bedroom, and living room all in one space. One cube.
Wilbur doesn't mind the wait. It gives him time to imagine Dream and daydream about their conversations together. He sometimes tells himself that Dream can hear his thoughts, that the man lives rent-free in his head and is cozy in there, preferring to reside in Wilbur's mind over that black cube. He convinces himself that Dream can telepathically communicate with him and that when he sees Dream, the two can resume their previous conversations.
It's a daydream orchestrated to hurt. That's impossible, and to set one's expectations too outlandishly high like that will only disappoint. It will be disappointing when Wilbur has definitive proof that, no, Dream cannot read his mind and the two are not actually talking right now, and Dream doesn't know what Wilbur is thinking every second of every day. Still. Dream did the impossible once, and it is selfish, but Wilbur wants him to do it again. Over and over, until Dream only ever exists in the world of the impossible, each step and every breath he takes being more extraordinary than the last. To always defy everyone's expectations until he can't, and he becomes more than a god.
He's already Wilbur's, but even this devout worshiper wants more for Dream. Beyond a church, or a statue, or a nation. He wants to give Dream everything.
Wilbur's prayers are interrupted when he hears the creak of the ladder beside him, and he steps further inside, not wanting to invade anyone's space.
Ranboo stands at a staggering height, having to slouch in the tower's short room, and Wilbur smiles at the glazed-over purple hue of his eyes. He played the part of the arrogant arsehole easily enough when they first formally met.
The teenager was acting very annoying at the museum, his reasons and excuses contradictory and boring. But Wilbur can't exactly hold the kid's annoyance against him. It's not Ranboo's fault that his mind is shattered, instincts and morals constantly at odds, the savage and the enderman never agreeing, and his psyche having to pay the price.
Wilbur thinks of God and knows that Ranboo can feel it at times. He can feel Dream's lure too.
It started when Ranboo, dazed and sluggish with his words and Wilbur's new neighbor, began to talk about his dreams.
Purple flames. Dream's voice. A secret syndicate. A gaping hole into nothingness. Not black and not dark. Nothing. An abyss. The end.
The boy was full of secrets, and they were stitched so painfully close to Ranboo that all it really took was sleep deprivation and a coaxing siren song to unwind it all. Ranboo didn't stop either. He was eager to please subconsciously and would answer when comforted and asked to.
He led Wilbur to places that the undead man didn't even know existed. A country in the tundra, a lava pool with no bottom, a homely attic, a black cell of his own. Wilbur was almost envious. Oh, how close to Dream Ranboo must feel. Ranboo feels it so intimately that he thinks he hates Dream.
He hates Dream's past actions, and yeah, sure. If Wilbur thinks about it hard enough and entirely objectively, he didn't like Dream's past actions either. Now, of course, he loves the guy, but before the resurrection and before he met God, Wilbur did not understand.
But Ranboo understands. Deep down. And it terrifies him.
Wilbur is simply playing the Knight in shining armor here, but Ranboo is the fire-breathing dragon bound to protect Dream. He feels it. Under his black and white scales and deep in his bones, twisting around his marrow, the instinct to maul any threat looms inside of Ranboo, knotted up and bursting at the seams.
It's funny. Ranboo, a creature bound to protect Dream as his birthright, and Wilbur, hopelessly in love with Dream. Both dangerous and eager to please both Rapunzel and God. Both feel like they would die for Dream but for entirely different reasons.
Ranboo wears a three-piece suit beneath his netherite armor; an attempt to come off as more of a control freak and less like his life is constantly spiraling out of his control. It's an attempt that Wilbur and many others see pass. Ranboo's twitchy and meek demeanor contradicts his attempts to have an upkept appearance.
“Hello, Ranboo.” Wilbur greets. He keeps his voice smooth and easy, coaxing. Similar to his politician's voice. Similar to when he could get his wannabe little brothers to do whatever he wanted them to.
The young creature's thin head quirks to the side, hearing Wilbur's voice and recognizing it but not yet understanding.
“Did you bring Dream's TNT from last time?” Wilbur asks, eyeing the duffel bag slung over Ranboo's shoulders.
Eagerly, he offers the black bag to Wilbur, holding it gently with extended arms. Wilbur notices the teenager's tail is wagging, and his frozen heartstrings are pulled taut for a moment when he's reminded of Fundy, his son. His little champion.
Tommy didn't change much from when he was dead to when Wilbur wasn't dead. Still the eternally young, flightless, annoying little brother. Tubbo pretends he's calmer now, but he's just more calculated with his unhinged thoughts, more scared now that he knows what loss feels like. His dad was predictable enough in his mourning, easy to confuse and persuade. Wilbur loves Philza, he does, but this feeling of purpose he loves more. Philza is just so… easy to predict. Technoblade knows it, and it is an endearing quality for a friend and comrade. But it's not endearing for a father or anyone Wilbur can actually look up to.
His dad is pleasant to be around when Wilbur needs to be grounded, and Phil is as good as bedrock, always reliable, and always there for him.
But Wilbur needs a constant challenge, a constant pursuit, and his dad isn't that.
Techno was decent enough company when Wilbur was last alive. However, that creature is still hibernating, has been for a few months apparently, and only wakes briefly before his own instinct lulls him back to self-preserving sleep.
Everyone was the same, treated Wilbur either just as he predicted or the same as when he last saw them.
So why was it so hard to see Fundy? His little one, his wild child of the woods, the fox who would yip at night when the thunder roared too profoundly.
Wilbur was a very young teenager when he, human enough, seduced the siren with his song. One of his past life's greatest achievements. A beautiful and dangerous sea nymph who came to freshwaters in search of a mate and found young Wilbur. By next Autumn, she came back with a pup, and Wilbur was all too happy to take Fundy, who unfortunately couldn't breathe underwater like his mother.
He made sure to visit Sally often, so Fundy grew up knowing both his parents loved him deeply.
He was different now. Something changed in Fundy, and Wilbur couldn't predict him anymore.
He remembers holding Fundy to his chest, asking Philza how to change nappies and how to make formula, remembers not knowing if Fundy wouldn't be able to speak words like his mother couldn't and quickly wiping away tears when Fundy said his first words that weren't baby babbles and cries.
Wilbur blinks at the sudden hotness in his eyes and quickly adverts his glaring away from Ranboo's excited tail and instead takes the duffel bag he offers.
He has to remind himself that he cooked and ate the siren, lied to Fundy, and told him his mother was an accountant and not a living monster who killed more often than she ate. She was ruthless, and when the idea of domesticating her grew boring, Wilbur cursed her to the body of a salmon when she came to visit her only son on land. He kept her in a fishbowl, and when his memories were hazy and ignorantly blissful, he consumed her. Roasted her with lemon and onion, and ate her as he sat next to the fire pit with the blue sheep. He is a terrible father. Wilbur feels his heartstrings growing cold under the heat.
Ranboo, in his inebriated state, doesn't notice Wilbur's sudden silence and stands still as well.
With the air still warm from the daylight, butterflies have yet to sleep in the foliage.
Wilbur eyes the creature, its wings drooped low and flapping lazily, a deep midnight blue fading down into a turquoise.
The insect smells undead flesh and is drawn towards him. He raises a crooked finger to it. The butterfly is all too eager and lands, stills, enjoying the taste of rot.
With a belly full of warmth, the butterfly is too blissful in it's gluttony to notice Ranboo's lumbering presence or his rough attempt to pet the beckoning blue and black wings.
The butterfly moves further up Wilbur's arm and continues to eat.