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To be, or not to be, that is the question :
Wilbur is five when he meets Death for the first time.
It doesn’t seem scary, not back then. Death means stiff, black collars and the promise of biscuits after standing for a long time. Death means one person going to sleep and everyone else crying.
Death is a temporary thing when Wilbur is five. It flits in and out of his life, his mind, in the blink of an eye.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Wilbur is nine when he begins to resent Death.
There is a young maid called Delia who gives out smiles as freely as she gives out boiled sweets to the young princes. She is young and beautiful and kind and, more recently, in love. There is a spring in her step and a blush dusted across her cheeks whenever the new knight-in-training walks into the room. She can't seem to stop humming songs about wedding bells and Cupid’s arrows.
Then came the pallor and the slouch and the tear-stained cheeks, hastily wiped at the sight of the young prince. He asks her what's wrong, half-heartedly threatens the knight with execution, and hugs her like she's a breath away from falling apart.
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.
She's dead within the week.
In his head, she’s still here. In his head, she’s still waiting around the corner with a sweet that tastes of marigolds in her pocket.
Something akin to hatred begins to unfurl in his gut.
It’s a year later he meets his littlest brother for the first time.
The baby is crying, screaming, but they settle when placed into Wilbur’s arms. He looks into bright blue eyes and promises then that his littlest brother will never have to endure the pain she must’ve felt.
To die—to sleep,
Wilbur is sixteen when Death first visits his family.
It comes in the form of a small cough and spots of blood.
She slept so much in those final days he— he didn’t even notice she was gone until an hour had passed.
Wilbur is sixteen the first time he swears an oath of vengeance.
It’s written with a shaking hand and sealed in blood.
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache
He’ll regret it later on.
Once clarity has unblurred his vision, but it’s too late by then.
He’s always too fucking late.
and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to:
Electricity crackles in the air around him in the years that follow. Wilbur had always been a tempestuous child but this was unnatural. His mind was caught in extremes, rushing from euphoria to misery and back again like a wild bird caught in a cage.
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
It’s inevitable. Wilbur poisons everything he touches eventually.
It still hurts, to see the pain in those once bright, blue eyes.
It still fills him with a guilty satisfaction to have someone to blame, someone to hold responsible for her death… other than himself.
To die,
He doesn’t even remember the first part of what he said, but the reactions are burned into his brain like a constant nightmare…
to sleep
‘Mum would be so disappointed.’
To sleep,
‘I hate you.’
perchance to dream—
Flowers. Blood. Tears. All over the courtroom floor.
ay, there's the rub:
His brother.
His little brother is dying.
And it’s his fault.
Again.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Long ago, before Death had reached it’s grasping, choking fingers around his family, Wilbur had dreamt of running through fields of amaranth, under golden sunshine with a permanent rainbow carved into the sky. He had dreamt of creating something that would last forever, a legacy… but not like this.
Dear God, not like this.
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
When Death comes for his brother it comes in a new form, dressed in a kind smile and a familiar face.
So short a life. Oh god, Theseus is dead. His brother is dead.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this , he screams, it wasn’t su -
He breaks off into choked sobs.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this , he whispers.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
He’d been so hurt, so grief-struck, he’d lashed out at his dearest sunshine. And now they were gone, dragged away by Death with madness in their eyes.
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The only remembrance was a wilted fennel flower on his dresser and a bloodstained one in his hand.
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
Wilbur had felt grief before, had felt guilt, but nothing like this hulking monster which hid inside his chest.
When he himself might his quietus make
His grief, his guilt, drags him to a shop on the east side of the kingdom. There, he buys a dagger. It is small and silver and perfect.
With a bare bodkin?
When Death comes to visit, it is with sad eyes and open hands.
But she does not reach for him; she reaches for the dagger. She encloses it within her cloak and asks him to ‘draw breath a little while longer’ for there is still so much for him to do.
He screams at her, curses her, begs her...
But she stands resolute and gives no reprieve.
Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
Death leaves him alone for a while. Wilbur wanders aimless and looks for something, somewhere, someone to call home.
Ranboo is the one to suggest it — a trip to a neighbouring kingdom in the South — under the impression that the fresh air might unburden his soul and that he can collect testimonies to help with Tommy’s dying request.
Royal duties had stalled, the Antartic Kingdom was bleak and mourning. Wilbur felt he needed to do something to try to make amends. So, he packed his bag with supplies for the journey, strapped his guitar to his back, and tucked a drawing of Tommy in his breast pocket.
And then began the two days ride to Bradan.
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,
Dear Ranboo,
I thank you for your guidance, for in visiting the neighbouring kingdom of Bradan I have met the most wonderful of women. Her name is Sally. She has been ever so accommodating and provided an in-depth tour of Bradan’s history as well as introducing me to people that might have met our littlest Prince.
Enclosed are a multitude of short passages written by the royal family and the people of Bradan, expressing their admiration of Theseus Tommy. Truly, I hope they are fit to your desire.
I fear I will not be returning home to the Antarctic any time soon. The people of Bradan have recently suffered severe droughts and I feel there is much I can do to help here. I have much to atone for.
So, dear friend, I wish you all the best in your endeavours.
Cordially,
Wilbur Soot
Second Prince of The Antarctic Kingdom
puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
History has its eyes on him and Wilbur will not disappoint. Not anymore.
The garden and Tommy’s story are in capable hands. It’s time he began a story of his own.
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
Wilbur is twenty when he swears an oath to Death.
He promises to draw breath until his lungs cease to work, to be a coward no longer. He swears that he will seize life as it comes and use his time wisely.
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
There is an hourglass in the back of his head and he becomes accustomed to the sound of falling sand. He starts to write about his experiences; Sally supplies him with cups of coffee and ink for his quill.
He writes about hanahaki, about Tommy, and the grief lessens. He writes about the droughts, about the economy, about Sally and his love for Bradan grows. He writes until his wrist aches and the words smudge on the page.
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
It’s two years later that he meets his son for the first time.
The baby is crying, screaming, but they settle when placed into Wilbur’s arms. He looks into bright brown eyes and promises then that history will never repeat itself.
And lose the name of action.
Wilbur is seventy-six when he greets Death as an old friend.
He has regrets, it’s true, but history smiles on him and his people will too. He walks with Death through a garden of fennel and daffodils; he sits with Death by a grave and thanks them for his time; he lies with Death in a warm room — a family at his side — and finally rests.
All stories end in death eventually, but that loss does not erase what they gave to us.