Archive of Our Own

The sound of feet marching on the ground echoed for miles, even in the loudness of battle. The somber tune the soldiers sang scratched at their throats, rubbing them raw from screaming in the midst of a war no one would win. The soldiers of the country destined to fail from the beginning.

Wilbur cried, oh gods he cried. For the little brother who existed solely in his memory, for the father who was no more than a face with a title, for the twin who tried but would never try enough.
He cried for his son who would and will continue to grow without a father, he cried for his wife, his beautiful, wonderful wife Sally who would come back from sea to find him gone, who would have to raise their son alone.
He cried for the friends he was leaving behind, Niki with the smile to light up a thousand dark rooms, Eret who ruled with a policy of kindness before anything else, Schlatt who used to be his closest and most trusted friend, for them and Quackity and Tubbo and Sapnap and Karl and Ranboo and Jack and every other goddamned person he kept in his life whom he adored so so much.
He cried for what he had lost, for what he would lose, for what he would never get to see, he cried for it all.

He mourned his life. His short twenty four year life in which he had gone through so much and wished for so little.
He spent his early years wishing to be a great warrior and soldier, like his father, a welcoming hero and saviour like his mother. Then he wished for Tommy to have the greatest life and he tried his damn best to make that happen.
When Tommy was gone and his baby was born he wished for the rest of his life to be as perfect as it was at that moment.
He wished the best for his nation and all its inhabitants. When his sanity started to slip he wished for it to stay, he so desperately wanted for himself to not lose the final string that held him together.
And then, in his final moments, he wished to be remembered.

Remembered as a son, a brother, a father, a husband, a friend.
A sane man who would go to the ends of the earth for those that he cherished the most.
The boy who played with his siblings before he played what he wanted.
The gangly, awkward teen who discovered his passion for music and spent his days playing guitar and piano and writing songs.
The young man who became his youngest brothers sole guardian and fought for them to have a good life.
The founder of a country that was doomed from the day it began but loved non the less.
He wanted to be remembered for the good and not the bad, although it was harder to do that towards the end.

Wilbur Soot was a man who was many things, but in his last moments, he simply became just that, a man.

And as the sword slid through his chest he smiled. He smiled because through all the suffering he had been through, this was the worst but also the last.
Despite the screams and the tears from the people around him, Wilbur Soot died at peace with himself and the world.

The funeral was small, many of the residents of L’manburg sat outside the church, all silent, but the inside was filled with a small crowd of his closest friends and allies.

He was buried beside his brother and his mother, all three with such lives ahead of them that were cruelly cut short by the sands of time.

His gravestone reads:

The date on the stone is so old it cannot be seen, it serves as a reminder of how long ago the era truly happened, how long ago the very earth it lies in was first claimed as a nation.

There is a memorial statue in the centre of the city that depicts Wilbur Soot in all his glory, it is kept shining all year round, scattered around are statues of his family, his wife, his son and his brother.
L’manburg memorial museum and old library keep his spirit and all the spirits of those around him alive,
The values their lives teach are cherished, the stories to tell of the time loved by all.
Believed by almost everyone.

Those who do not often venture to the edge of civilisation to find the only two who can truly confirm or deny if the events of Wilbur Soot’s life are true, for they were there to witness it.
Deep in the mountains of the far, far North, where no life exists, are two of the oldest beings alive, The Bloodgod and Angel of Death, who though retired have not yet faded from the minds of the people who walk the earth and as such cannot fade themselves.

If you reach them they will confirm for you and will advise that you do not speak ill of the dead, especially the ones that the two hold dear, even thousands of years after.

Wilbur Soot was many things but his name lives on as something loved by all.