Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilbur had always hated his city.

Well, in the grand scheme of things, it certainly wasn't the worst place to live. He could have been born (and then abandoned) in a poor, tiny village, one with only rickety walls for protection against the Fae, and barely enough Iron to fend off a leprechaun.

Or worse, he could have been born with one of those nomadic clan, who lived on the road, in direct view of the Elder’s lands, with no walls at all, and only a few worn-out charms to keep the monsters at bay. The ones the government loved brining up when taxes were high, and whose blurry videos of supposed "attacks" went viral every other week.

No, ultimately, Wilbur was fortunate to be a citizen of a prosperous, heavily walled city, even if it had never felt like home. Lucky to have grown up in the gray shadow of its walls, never seeing the outside world, like so many others. The guards might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but at least they took away the worry of waking up at the mercy of cruel Fae.

Or at least, that's what Wilbur kept telling himself this morning, as he went through the familiar motions of preparing the Café for opening. A new merchant convoy had arrived through the Eastern Gate last night, right before it was closed for the night, and a familiar temptation clouded his mind.

“Hey Soot, still dreaming of leaving?”

Wilbur gritted his teeth, and it was a real tribute to all his customer service experience that his voice sounded almost sincere as he replied: “No, sir.”

His boss’s husband chuckled.

“We all have dreams, kid. The important thing is to wake up before it's too late.”

“Young people these days..." muttered the owner. “They're born in the most heavily fortified city this side of Saervur and all they think about is going cloud chasing.”

Wilbur stifled a coughing fit in his elbow.

“Don't worry, ma'am. I know it wouldn't be better anywhere else.”

And that, at least, was the truth.

He heard them when he was taking the garbage out the back door.

“Hurry up!”

“Watch out, it got some sick claws!”

“Going left!”

Appearing at the end of the alley like a golden cannonball, a small cat ran towards him, a mismatched bunch of kids on its heels. Without giving himself time to think, Wilbur dropped the garbage bag, stepped forward and snatched the animal out of the air as it passed by.

He turned his head to the side, shielding his face, and waited to feel claws digging into his skin.

Ouch.

But strangely, the animal quickly stopped struggling (and scratching his arms) and froze. Wilbur cautiously turned his head, meeting an incredibly blue gaze. Distantly, Wilbur wondered if the sky looked like that, above all the smog.

Wilbur and the cat stared at each other for a few seconds, equally surprised, until-

“Hey!”

“Woah!”

The kids gathered around Wilbur, reaching out towards fur with curious fingers. The cat shook itself out of his daze, quickly disengaged himself from Wilbur's arms, and zipped up onto his shoulder. Given how tall he was, this put him well out of the kids' reach.

“What are you guys doing, exactly?" he asked, bringing out his special ‘the youngest orphans are up to no good’ voice.

“We weren't going to hurt him," a little girl promised.

“Maybe you didn’t mean to," Wil conceded, "but handling a wild animal can be very dangerous, both for you and for him.”

Saying this, he made sure to remain as still as possible, even though the cat was holding on tightly to his perch, and not showing any signs of fear.

“I’ve got gloves!”

“He could still make you sick.”

“You could make us sick," said one of the boys.

Wilbur opened and closed his mouth, dumbfounded. On the one hand, yes, he didn’t look like the picture of health. He had always been pale and thin, his cheeks hollowed out by the lack of funding for the orphanage, but over the years it had gotten worse.

An almost grayish complexion. Thick, dark circles under his eyes. Shaky hands, on which coffee burns took weeks to heal. Heavy, painful joints and permanently achy muscles.

But people didn't tend to point it out in such a direct way. Wilbur was used to the sidelong glances and comments from his bosses ("we wouldn't want to scare the customers away" and “try and look alive for a moment”).

Luckily, the conversation kept on without him having time to think of a response.

“Can we at least pet him?" another girl asked, while holding her brother back from jumping on Wilbur and climbing him like a tree.

Fortunately, the cat chose that moment to hiss, after which Wilbur had little trouble convincing the little gang to go back in search of adventure. He even informed them that there was a discount on the chocolatines at the Café (thought they all looked pretty spooked after the cat hissed, stunned glanced directed above Wilbur’s shoulder).

When the children's murmured complaints had faded and the alleyway was quiet again, a soft mewl came from beside Wilbur’s ear.

“Hello, you," he whispered happily. He opened his arms, and the cat slid right in.

And rubbed his little head against his shoulder.

Wilbur gasped. Wide-eyed, he stilled, as if the slightest movement could make the moment explode into a thousand shards. The orange cat let out a happy little "mrow” and curled up further against him.

It was stupid, pathetic even, but Wilbur felt tears well up in his eyes. He clearly remembered the last time someone had shown him that kind of affection, and it was the day he had been kicked out of the orphanage. The twins had hugged him at the door. That was years ago.

And now he had a little bundle of fur, warm and soft, purring up a storm in his arms, looking at his face with intelligent eyes that almost looked like they-

“WILBUR!”

The employee startled violently, and so did the cat, almost hiding under his apron.

“I- I'm coming!”

With more regret than he would have thought possible, he cautiously deposited the cat on a window ledge. The corner of his mouth twitched downward as the animal let out a plaintive meow, clutching his sleeve and leaning toward him.

“I know, Sunshine. If you stay here until my shift is over, I'll bring some chicken for you, okay?”

Despite his words, he didn't think the cat would stay there much longer. After all, it was a dirty, collarless alley cat (though not too skinny. Great, even the strays were in better shape than him).

Wilbur returned to his coffee, heavy-limbed and his hands still filled with warmth. Leaving, alone in the alley, the golden ‘cat.’

Who jumped around in excitement for a few minutes, before positioning himself, whiskers quivering and thoughts swirling, in perfect view of the back door.

The others weren’t going to fucking believe it!

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Against all odds, hope and logic, Wilbur saw Sunshine again that night. A few blocks from the Café, the cat zipped between his legs like a little missile. Meowing and scampering around, he followed his every step.

At some point, Wilbur tried to pick him up (the memory of his little body pressed against his chest had accompanied him throughout his shift, the affection foreign on his skin), but the cat nimbly dodged his hands.

Even then, the idea of touching this little creature, the brightest thing in this cursed city, with his skinny hands, all bitten nails, dry skin, burns and scrapes (his boss had a metal ruler and was not afraid to use it) seemed almost wrong.

Still, when Sunshine climbed onto a windowsill and allowed himself to be pet, Wilbur didn't hesitate. He even turned on his old phone to take a video of his new friend.

But when Wilbur turned around after unlocking the door to his apartment, the cat was gone. One of his roommates yelled at him not to let the cold in.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Sunshine did not return to see Wilbur the next day. But he was there the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that again. Wilbur couldn't help but think of it as a quiet sort of miracle.

Paying his share of the rent came at the price of working long hours, from which he emerged tired and aching, with barely enough energy to go buy something to eat and listen, from his last functional earbud, to one of the president’s approved movies. But Sunshine easily slotted himself in his routine, as well as in his heart. Wilbur now traveled with a small companion (Sunshine wasn't quite a kitten anymore, but he was still a long way from adult size), who would curl up on his lap or in his hood, paw at his phone and nibble on his fingers.

In some ways, he was behaving strangely for an alley cat. He always found Wilbur, and while he didn't refuse food, he never asked for it.

(Somewhere deep down, Wilbur worried that he had an owner waiting for him.)

(Part of him felt guilty for thinking that.)

(The other was too tired and depressed to feel bad.)

After their memorable meeting, Wilbur had some worries about his new friend. But Sunshine steadfastly refused to enter his apartment, which was probably for the best. His roommates would have strongly protested the cat's presence. And knowing that Wilbur regularly found himself too sore or exhausted to do his share of chores, they probably would have been right.

“You should find someone else to take care of you, Sunshine," he eventually told the cat.

These days, it was the only creature he said anything to that wasn’t "hello," "goodbye," "okay," "sorry," or "your total will be..."

Sunshine growled in response, pawing at him. The more he got used to Wilbur, the more mischievous he became, hiding in the shades to jump out and startle him, stealing his gloves, or refusing to budge from his knees when the human was ready to leave. Wilbur didn't even pretend to be mad at him.

“It's true,” he insisted, resting his head against the grimy picnic table where he'd settled. “Someone with a nice, big, warm house where you could sleep. With enough money to spoil you, and the time and energy to play with you.”

As if sensing his distress, Sunshine pressed himself against his chest and purred softly. Wilbur smiled his gray smile and sat up (he was hurting enough all over without attempting these kinds of stretches anyway).

“You're a clever one, you know that?”

He closed his eyes, dreams behind his eyelids that he didn't have the colors to imagine.

“I don't deserve you.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“He's so nice! And he makes the best jokes, and he's always all sweet, and sometimes he hums and-”

“Yeah, we know-”

“Just like a siren! No, better!”

“It's okay, you can stop bragging.”

“Boys...”

“What? That he likes me more than you?”

“That- Wait till he learns what a chatterbox you are, then we'll see who he likes better!”

“Boys!”

“When? When, Phil? When, huh?”

“...”

“Phil?”

“Soon.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“Wilbur!”

“Wilbur!”

“Wilbur!”

He awoke slowly and painfully. After managing to peel his eyelids apart, he came upon the half-annoyed, half-worried face of one of his roommates.

“Your alarm clock has been ringing for like, ten minutes,” she told him.

“Oh... sorry.”

The hoarse whisper that came out of his mouth made them both wince. Wilbur sat up in his bed, slowly and cautiously, and a wet cough greeted him almost immediately.

“I have to leave in ten minutes," she said, apologetic.

Which still didn't stop her from slipping out of the room they shared.

Wilbur took the time to text his boss, the light from his phone almost blinding him, drank what was left of his water bottle, and went back to sleep.

A cool breeze woke him up, as did a familiar weight on his chest.

“How’d ya get th’window open?" he asked his cat.

Sunshine meowed a reply. The glass of water and applesauce on the floor next to his mattress hadn't been there before, but his head was spinning too much for Wilbur to really question anything. He went back to sleep with a warm, purring weight on his chest, and dreamed of fields of flowers, huge trees, and pure blue skies.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

When he was finally able to drag himself out of bed (and endure the wrath of his employers), Wilbur noticed a strange person at the Café counter.

She had pink hair.

He had a strange feeling about her, a little flame in his chest, so he shoved his colleague to get to her first.

“What can I get you?" he asked.

His voice remained hoarse, and him, not yet recovered from his flu. But the young stranger offered him a sparkling smile, that felt somehow wrong directed at him.

“I’m not sure, got any suggestion?” Even her voice was soft.

“Oh, the uh... matcha is pretty good? If not, white chocolate hot chocolate.”

“Ooh, that's a good idea. I've already tasted spiced hot chocolate, I have to try them all!”

“Spiced?” Wilbur asked curiously.

“Mhm, it's a drink for new moon nights and solstices, you'll try it someday. Oh, and two slices of pain au chocolat, with this, please.”

Wilbur hurried to prepare the order, despite feeling slightly stunned. He ignored his coworkers’ "She looked... weird" and soon brought the food to a small table in the corner of the establishment.

“Oh, thanks Wilbur! I'm Niki, by the way.”

Part of Wilbur was burning to ask her what she had meant by her cryptic remark, but chickened out at the last second.

“Hello, Niki," he said pitifully. “I, uh, your hair is very nice. It's a pretty color, I mean.”

Hopefully she wouldn’t think he was flirting or something.

“Oh, thanks! The dye is made from cardinal lobelia, which is a kind of swamp flower.”

“A what flower?”

Niki didn't say anything mysterious or strange again. Nor did she mention his gray complexion, gaunt face, or even the few coughing fits that he had while they were talking. When Wilbur sat down next to her, he tried to do so casually, and not like his legs had been ready to give out. (He normally would never neglect his work like that, but there was something about Niki that made the weight on his shoulders just a little more bearable) She didn't even mention the travelers or the thickness of the smog, the two topics of conversation that the townspeople didn't seem able to ignore.

In fact, the more she talked about "home," the more Wilbur suspected that she wasn't from her neighborhood, and maybe not even from the city as a whole. She spoke of games and foods, songs and events unlike anything he ever heard of. And Wilbur soon found himself caught up in the images her words painted in his head, fascinated and closer to jealous that he’d ever been. Until...

“You know, Wil, you look an awful lot like one of my cousins...”

“Really? That would be strange, I've always lived here, and I’m assuming you don’t, since you-.”

“… Always?”

Wilbur's full attention was already focused on Niki, but something in her tone of voice made him hold his breath.

“I mean, I-I don't remember-”

“SOOT!”

With an apprehensive grimace and a more than sincere apology, he ducked away.

“Uh, goodbye Niki... thanks for... uhm...”

“WILBUR SOOT!”

And off he went.

That evening, a few blows of the ruler on his fingers later, Wilbur found seven small bags of herbal tea, surrounded by a scent he couldn't identify, in a pocket of his bag.

“Did you hear? People are saying that one of the protection charms fell off the little West Door last night.”

“Mhm,” he said absentmindedly.

Seven days and seven little teabags later, one of his roommates asked him how the hell he had managed to afford medicine.

“Uh, a, friend.”

“Oh. That's cool," he replied, surprised but sincere.

“Yeah, it is.”

Some nights, his little golden cat would slip through the window to come sleep, curled up under his chin.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“But Dad...”

“It's safer this way, you know that.”

“...He's not well.”

“I know. It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

“...”

“Keep it up, okay? You're doing great. And you won't have to go there much longer. Neither of you”

“You promise?”

“On my life.”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

The summer solstice was the longest day of the year.

And the worst night.

From sunset to dawn, the Fae were on the rampage. Convoys would camp up a week early, nomadic groups were seeking asylum in large numbers, and city dwellers would light candles and hole up in their homes. In Wilbur's apartment, his roommates had a tradition of telling horror stories, convincing each other that the sounds of the Fae festivities could reach them from far away. In reality, the factory just around the corner was covering all the sounds (as well as the sky, and the inside of Wilbur's lungs).

According to the oldest of their group, the Fae had become much more... active about 15 years earlier, solstice nights included. One theory was that they were looking for something that had been stolen from them. Another, that they were running out of blood for their rituals to the Goddess of Death, but the young man who told that one always did so with a hallucinatory air that made it (and him) seem hardly credible.

One of his roommates had gone so far as to say that the president at the time had held a council with the Fae to try and reach an agreement, but that she had failed.

But that was just gossip. The important thing was that everyone knew about the summer solstice. Although not everyone seemed to understand its implications.

“But it’s written! Right there on your menu!”

“Sir," Wilbur repeated, fighting the dizziness that was overtaking him.

“Are you blind?" the customer retorted. He was bald. And his glasses, with lenses of two different colors, accentuated Wilbur's headache. He needed a nap.

“Sir, because of the solstice, our regular oat milk delivery company unfortunately cannot-”

“Oh, and how would the world look if everyone used the solstice as an excuse to-”

But Wilbur didn't hear the rest. The customer's voice wavered and blurred, becoming more and more distant, and suddenly Wilbur was falling to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach into the trash can under the counter.

When the vomiting finally stopped, a few seconds or an eternity later, he fell back on his heels, panting and covered in cold sweat, to the sound of the client continuing to complain. However, the situation had just improved significantly: the complaints were no longer directed at him.

“No, but what is wrong with you? Making your employees work when they're unwell?”

“Sir...”

“Are you trying to make everyone here sick? And in an establishment that serves food! It's a violation of labor standards, as well as a danger to his health and ours! I should report you!”

The conversation continued to stagnate for a few minutes. Wilbur only came out of his daze when a light kick picked him up in the side.

“Wilbur, go home," said his boss’ husband, whose anger was well-hidden under a mask of not-looking-completely-evil-while-the-customers-were-there. “And next time, do tell me if you're sick. Okay?”

Too exhausted to protest, Wilbur got up and staggered back to the staff room, away from the sharp-eyed customer and his disgruntled boss. He was picking up his bag, when the owner took him by the arm.

“We're short-staffed, so you go out, splash some water on your face or whatever, and come back in twenty minutes, max. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Twenty minutes wasn't bad, even considering the unpleasant taste that remained in his mouth.

“And try to look a little less like a corpse!” she yelled as he turned towards the backdoor.

Wilbur was wondering whether Sunshine would be there waiting for him, or off doing cat things. When the shouting came.

“Sir, you can’t-”

“Let us through!”

He was so close. Almost at the door. He just wanted to escape the noise, sit down for a few minutes, to rest his eyes and snuggle with Sunshine. Wilbur just wanted a chance to push down the exhaustion weighting on his shoulders, please…

The doorknob was cold on his skin. But there was a hand on his shoulder.

Wilbur was dragged away.

He didn’t even pretend to resist. Wilbur, as he was dragged toward the front of the shop, as he passed by his angry boss and the confused customers, couldn’t muster even half an emotion.

He felt empty. Drained of sorrow and joy alike.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his boss’ husband asked, looking rather like he was nearing the extreme limits of his patience (Wilbur wondered idly if he was going to try and tear away part of his mustache, again. That had been funny).

“He’s getting arrested,” one of the guards said over his shoulder.

“Wilbur?”

“And for what, exactly?” his wife exclaimed.

The one of the guards that seemed to be in charge turned to face the room. Quiet and troubled, the customers weren’t missing a second of this. The guard’s hand was digging unnecessarily in Wilbur’s bicep.

“He’s been accused of being a Fae spy.”

Gasps all around.

“That’s impossible!” a small lady protested. “The city is warded!”

“It’s not common, but some find ways.”

The last thing Wilbur saw before being dragged away was the angry customer he’d just been dealing with. Wide-eyed and almost wincing.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, you lost him??!”

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Wilbur was dropped rather unceremoniously on the ground, at the feet of a tall, young-looking guard. The green of his armour reminded him of vomit.

“That’s the Changeling?” he asked in disbelieve.

I know, right? Wilbur thought sarcastically.

“I’m honestly starting to doubt it,” one of the other recruits said. “He didn’t even scream when we put on the iron shackles.”

Behind his back, Wilbur’s hands twitched uncomfortably. The iron didn’t exactly hurt, it just felt. Cold.

Not only the absence of warmth, either. Cold like a deep void of nothingness. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. Simply, Wilbur was used to hurting.

He looked up blankly at the head-guard.

“I was kinda hoping for… Like, not a High-Fae, but at least someone. This one’s already half-dead.”

“Dream,” an older guard said tiredly. “You know you shouldn’t try and fight the Bloody One again.”

“But it’s my honor!”

“He could’ve easily killed you last time.”

Tuning them out (with his roommates, he had lots of practice), Wilbur examined the room.

Huh. One of the watchtowers.

He wondered if you could see outside the walls from those windows. He kinda wanted to see it before he died.

The knowledge that his life was about to be cut short came easily. It felt like some part of him had always known. The only regret he’d have would be…

“Meow?”

Wilbur turned around so fast he would’ve hurt his neck, if it wasn’t already achy.

“How’d this stray get in?”

And, there it was. Wilbur didn’t think he’d ever feel this rush of life again, tingling up his legs and heating up something inside his ribcage, but seeing one of the guards advance towards Sunshine, his Sunshine, his tiny, puffed out cat, was enough to bring some color back into him.

“Don’t-” he rasped out. Luckily, he wasn’t heard.

Because the tiny orange cat had jumped directly into Dream’s face.

The scream he let out was probably one of the funniest noise Wilbur had ever heard. Dream staggered, trying as he might to pry his assailant away, but the fur slipped between the stiff fingers of his gloves like water between stepping-stones.

… dow!

A faint sound.

Window!

Right there, close.

Go to the window!

In Wilbur’s head.

Head that snapped towards the ledges that he was eying earlier. There was no time, or energy, to think. Awkwardly, painfully, the man dragged himself towards the light.

No one even noticed him, which seemed unlikely, even with the cat-induced commotion. But at the moment, Wilbur himself felt blank and carved out, empty of anything except worry and spite, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d somehow turned invisible.

(Somewhere within the murky depths of his mind, pieces were shifting, assembling in some form of answer. But he wasn’t ready to face what he had found.)

He was leaning on the window ledge, when one of the guards finally managed to connect two consecutive braincells and proceeded to dump and entire bucket of water on his superior’s head.

Sunshine jumped away, puffed out and yowling, but Dream’s eyes weren’t on him.

To say Wilbur would’ve rather be somewhere else would be an understatement.

“This is your fault,” the guard snarled. “I don’t know how you’re doing this…” He walked up to Wilbur, who curled on himself. “… But I’ll teach you how things work here!”

A kick in his side slammed Wilbur on the wall behind him. He couldn’t contain the whine that escaped his chapped lips. This hurt.

“I’m doing you a favor, you know.” Another kick. “Can’t feel good, being abandoned here to die of Iron sickness. Without anyone even caring.”

This hurt more.

But then, in a flash, there was something between the two of them.

No.

Someone.

Standing in the window’s light, a teenager with a mop of golden hair, clothed in greens and reds.

A teenager who was soaking wet.

“Back the fuck off!”

A scream, then another. The tower shook. Wilbur shifted around, until he could clearly see the boy’s eyes.

As blue as he remembered.

More screams. Mustering every last force he had, Wilbur stood up. He could not- he would not let Sunshine face this alone. But he was tired, and gravity pulled him to the side. Or maybe that was the tower. More yells. Broken glass behind them.

But everything faded when warm hands found his arms.

“Sunshine…” Wilbur slurred.

“Hang on, Wil, okay?” the teenager asked quickly, helping him balance himself. Despite the chaos unfolding around them, he stopped to look at him when Wilbur leaned in his direction.

“M’glad you’r ‘ere,” Wilbur said. There was so much more he wanted to say, but any and all thoughts slipped through his mind without catching. If he could’ve, he would have told Tommy about the great emptiness inside him, and the small but sun-bright flame that he ignited in the very center of his being. Instead, he dropped his forehead onto the teen’s shoulder when his arms embraced him, carefully avoiding the Iron manacles. And it was almost as nice.

“Me too.”

And then they were falling.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Pain was what woke Wilbur up.

Down his legs and up his arms, twitching fingers and twirling minds and cracking his eyes open like ice cracks concreate.

But he struggled up anyway, pushing on his still-bound hands and forcing his spine to unfold, because that was Wilbur’s pain. The one that greeted him every morning and curled around him late at night, that made his fingers tremble around cups of coffee and his lips press against each other.

Wilbur was used to waking up in pain. What he wasn’t used to, was waking up hanging in a net of stems and leaves.

He blinked owlishly at the ground under him, then at the vines carefully wrapped up around his torso, almost hiding him in their leaves. A small golden flower bloomed near his face.

“Wilbur! Wil! You okay?”

Then twigs and roots were wrapping around his bindings, and inside, pressing up against the death-like cold of the iron until it bended under their pressure, until it crackled and broke.

Then, time snapped back to its usual speed.

There was a tower-shaped hole in the Great Eastern wall. Said tower laid on the ground around them, in piles to ash-covered bricks, as well as a few people. And, of course, the vegetal net that caught Wilbur.

He flailed around between the well-meaning stems, only to stop when he located his teenager near the ground. He looked even more impressive in the sunlight, curls like molten gold and clothes bright. He looked real, and healthy, and solid, and everything Wilbur wasn’t.

Wilbur was gray and worn-out and thin like an old newspaper. By all account, he should stay away. Refrain from tarnishing the young teen. But Wilbur was tired and selfish, and when the vines deposited him carefully on the ground, he rushed towards him. And maybe, since the teenager did the same, it was okay.

“STOP THEM!”

Or, you know. Not.

“Dream, for the love of all muffins…”

Wilbur probably should’ve been at least a little embarrassed that a literal teenager was standing between him and the commander. But at the same time, there was something uncanny and terrifying about said teenager. Not that Dream seemed to be any close to realizing it.

“That’s a nice hole you got there,” sunshine said, looking ostensibly at the space-that-had-been-a-tower.

“Language?!”

“Would be a shame if we came back here tonight, at the height of the solstice, and strangled you in your bed!”

The only thing that stopped Dream from firing back some other threat/insult, was the arrow that landed right at his feet.

Fired right from… The walkway at the top of the wall?

“George! What the hell?” Dream shouted, momentarily stopping his approach to look back.

But George (or the archer Wilbur assumed was George) didn’t look like he was about to answer. Mainly because he was trying to fend off a small, living fire. He armed his bow again, but the firebeing easily deflected it.

“Jack!” Wilbur’s companion yelled happily. Right before catching himself, crossing his arms, forcefully scrunching his eyebrows and shouting again, this time affecting anger: “Jack!”

“Tommygetthehelloutofthere!!” came the reply, right from the fire-thing.

“Right.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

While most guards were busy, either rushing to help “George” up there, getting other people out of the ruble, or just plain panicking, Dream didn’t seem to have lost any of his initial spite. Axe in hand, he advanced towards them. In a flicker of his hands, Sunshine (Tommy?) summoned two sturdy-looking sticks and positioned himself between Wilbur and his assailant.

And that is the moment when a deep, deep growl resounded in the field, and everyone in it simultaneously thought ‘wait, hang on. Why did the tower fell, exactly?’

Out of the ruble and into the grass, came a beast.

Taller than a small house, tusks gleaming into the sunlight and obsidian-black eyes scrunched in anger, the thing that might’ve been a wild boar, a long time ago, stepped towards them.

Beside the two teens, Dream burst into a wild laugh, teetering on the edge of madness.

“The Bloody One! How we meet again!”

The guard spread his arms, as if to welcome an old friend, if not for the sharp axe he was clutching. Wilbur pulled on Tommy’s arm, moving him sharply out of the way of the beast, or trying to. Dream raised his weapon. Wilbur barely dared to breathe.

“Bruh.”

Where there once was an enormous boar, now stood a young man, dressed in fine clothes, with short brown hair and glasses. He calmly side-stepped Dream.

Wilbur stiffened when a hand was put on his shoulder, even though the touch was light and careful. The ‘Bloody One’ turned towards the small crowd and spoke.

“We will now bring this one back to our home, and any who would try to oppose us will suffer a fate worse than death.”

He had spoken no louder than necessary, his presence enough to draw complete attention out of everyone, as well as a healthy dose of fear.

“Yeah, you tell ‘em Tech!”

Or, almost everyone.

A horse (a regular horse as far as Wilbur could tell) then trotted calmly between the humans, making a beeline for their small group.

“But, you… Just fight me!”

“I have a life outside of you, Dream.”

Wilbur yelped as he was lifted and deposited on the horse’s back, though that was definitely for the best, as his legs might not have held his weight much longer.

The guard named Bad stepped towards them.

“I would like to apologize, on the behalf of the City, for holding one of your own. We are overjoyed that you have finally been able to find your Lost. We did not know how…”

“Your apologies are declined,” cut the Fae.

“At this point,” said Tommy, with a quiet sort of viciousness Wilbur wouldn’t have imagined coming from him, “all you can do is hope we don’t consider any of you responsible for this.”

Bad nodded, still and solemn. The taller Fae mounted his horse, behind Wilbur, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He was just starting to relax, tension leaving his muscles, when a screamed echoed.

Dream was a lot closer to the horse that Wilbur remembered. He was also considerably more on fire.

The fire elemental (?) stood between them, looking considerably annoyed.

“Just go, your majesties” he told the tall Fae.

Just as the horse started trotting forward, Wilbur caught a glimpse of his face. But the fire must’ve messed with his vision, because there was no way that Fae resembled the angry customer at the Café.

(Where his dual-colored gasses had hidden his eyes, two empty, bony orbits gazed at them).

As the horse accelerated into a galop, Wilbur jolted, looking for-

Before he had any time to worry, a reassuring mewling came in his ear.

“Tommy, get your claws off my arm," the rider muttered.

Okay, but what about… Wilbur squinted toward the wreckage, leaning as far as the arm across his chest and the horse's movements would allow.

“Shouldn't we..." Wilbur hesitated, reaching for Sunshine/Tommy's reassuring fur with one hand.

“Don't worry about Jack,” replied the rider.

And just then, the teenager was almost blinded when a burst of flame engulfed the person. Through the spots dancing across his retina, he thought he saw a winged form take off, but their small group quickly sank between the branches, obscuring the scene from him.

“See?” said the rider. He hesitated for a moment, before hugging Wilbur with a surprising amount of softness. The cat made a sound that was suspiciously close to "awwwww".

“Shut up, Tommy," he muttered. “I'm Techno, by the way. And the scratching cat’s name is Timothy.” An indignant meow instantly answered him.

Confusion kept Wilbur from enjoying the affection for all it was worth, but he still left himself soak in its warmth. The desire to hide, to borrow himself in the softness, was overwhelming. “What is going on?" he gasped, almost pleaded.

Now that the chaos, the fighting, and the danger were far and getting farther, he could finally take the time to actually look.

Outside the Wall was a field. A full, immense field of soft grass and more wildflowers that there were chimneys in the city. Wilbur felt like he’d been colorblind his whole life. No pavement anywhere, no ash, and enough space to just run, without ever having to stop…

But as mind-blowingly vast as it was, the meadow wasn’t infinite, since they were headed towards

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“WILBUR!”

Wilbur startled. What- They had just been riding, and…

His eyes snapped up.

“T- Tommy?”

“I know this is ‘pog,’ as Tommy would say,” Techno spoke, “but you might want to keep your eyes closed, since-”

They were still going. The field was so big it looked nearly infinite, Wilbur could see so far in all directions, but it couldn’t be, because at the end, nestled in shadows, stood a fo

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Wilbur face-planted right into the stranger’s shoulder.

He could hear Sunshine- Tommy’s worried meows, as well as the horse’s powerful, steady footsteps under them, but there was. Before them, was, a-

“Just…” and oh, Tommy was human again. “Okay, don’t look at the Forest yet, big dubs. Dad did say that too much magic at once would kinda…”

“Reboot me?”

“Re-what?”

“Turn me off and then back on?”

“Turn you what?” asked Techno.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

Closing his eyes ended up being a lot easier that Wilbur anticipated. Yes, each jolt of the horse made his anxiety spike, but the exhaustion that ate away at him was much stronger. Exhaustion that was only magnified by how weirdly good he felt. No nausea despite the constant movement, no achy legs despite his position. Ever since he’d stepped foot in the Tower, his headache had been slowly but steadily remplaced by a sort of pression. Strange, but not painful.

Wilbur succumbed to that pression right as the shadows of the branches fell on him.

Chapter Text

To say that Tommy was upset would have been an understatement.

They had a plan! A smart, carefully laid out plan, approved by Mom and Dad! It was so simple that even Jack couldn't have screwed it up: first, annoy the two horrible Café owners until they let his brother go. At least that worked: apparently, even the most severe avarice was no match for a medium-lenght conversation with Jack.

Next, Tommy was going to use his pickpocketing skills and steal Wilbur's phone. ‘How are you going to do that with paws instead of hands’ being the kind of dumb question only someone as unimaginative as Techno would think of asking. Since Wilbur was so fond of his metal rectangle (but not for much longer), he would easily follow Tommy through the city, all the way to one of its gates. One easy diversion later, they'd be out, and no guard would dare follow them out, not the day of the solstice.

Or at least, Tommy was supposed to do that.

Instead, Jack had run up to him, smoke pouring out of his ears, and told him what happened.

Maybe the presidents’ anti-mages had followed Niki's tracks to the Café. Maybe they'd picked up crumbs of power that Tommy had left on Wilbur in the form of a few stray hairs. Maybe some magic had begun to dance in his brother’s eyes after their interventions (which would’ve been unlikely for a normal Fae in a similar situation, not that there was anything normal about their particular family). Tommy didn't need to know.

All he had to do was imagine the city guards putting their filthy hands on his brother to be filled with a rage too great for his little body.

He'd take off between the dirty, sinister streets (everything Wilbur didn't deserve), too fast for Jack's hands to catch. What did it matter that he couldn't shapeshift in the Dark City? His claws and fangs would do.

...

And a little help from Techno.

(And a little help from Jack. Tommy couldn't forget his sidekick!)

By now, the anger had subsided. As if the trees around them had slipped their roots under his skin and filtered it out. Leaving behind only a thick layer of worry.

“... and you're sure that going into the forest too fast won't hurt him? Shock his system? Maybe we should go slower, let him get used to all the magic here, like when we climb the Roady Mountains, or when we swim very deep, to visit Niki and Minx.”

“If there was any potential danger, Dad would’ve warned us about it,” Techno reminded him for the umpteenth time. “He knows how those things work. Now, we just gotta take him back to the capital.”

Normally, his brother's insurmountable calm annoyed Tommy (he was almost impossible to get a rise out of him), but he had to admit that it could be rather reassuring. He needed it right now.

Wilbur's head was resting against Techno's shoulder. Carl had started to slow down from his gallop as they reached the edge of the forest, trotting, then walking, to spare the huddled form of his most vulnerable passenger.

Tommy didn't look up from his face until Jack gave a warning trill, his fire wings brushing the two of them as he dashed toward the two figures at the end of the trail. Two crowned figures.

“Dad!" Tommy yelled. “Mom!”

They joined in an instant, gravitating toward each other, and for the first time in fifteen long years, they were complete.

Techno slid off Carl's back, Wilbur's slender form clutched preciously to his chest, and not a moment later was Phil reaching him.

“Oh," he breathed, strangled, one hand hovering a few inches from his son's cheek.

Tommy understood his hesitation. When he'd first met Wilbur, he too had felt like even a light breeze would knock him over.

(Knowing that their first meeting had consisted of Tommy climbing him like a tree to escape a whole gaggle of children, that impression had obviously not lasted.)

Still, even after the weeks they'd spent together, Tommy wasn't used to looking at him. The cheek Phil had finally decided to stroke was hollow and devoid of color, other than an ashen gray, unpleasant reminder of the city they had just escaped from. The shadows under his eyes and his drawn features, a dark echo of the worries he had had to endure alone.

He appeared small in Techno's arms, narrow and bony, but also curling up, shying away. Always self-effacing, by choice, by obligation, or because it was the only thing he'd ever known.

Kristen took one of his hands in hers, caressing with her thumb one of the oblong scars that marbled it. Under her gentle touch, the marks left from the iron shackles faded away. (How many times had Tommy wished he could do the same? Curled up against his brother's hollow chest, imagining himself healing him of all sickness. But each time, he could only share a little of his warmth, of his magic, and most of all, a little of his hope).

Wilbur’s form shuddered at the feeling of the magic he’d been deprived of for so long. But as they were all too aware, he’d need a lot more than that to recover. A lot more time.

“He's way too cold," Kristen declared.

Thus breaking the trance that had taken the little family at the sight of their lost. With one last squeeze to his brother, Techno passed him to Phil, who quickly wrapped him in the dark plumage of his wings.

“Jack, honey, would you like a lift?" asked Kristen, whose eyes were already blackening with power.

In a trail of flames, the phoenix came to rest on Tommy's shoulder, who couldn't help but relax as the warmth chased away the stubborn cold that the Dark City had left in his bones.

Techno must have noticed, because he put an arm around his other shoulders as Kristen's smoke wafted around them. When it dissipated, all that remained of the Fae were shadows on the grass.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

Wilbur was floating.

Not in the mists of sleep, though he wasn't far from their embrace. Not in the water either, he was pretty sure. He had heard that water moved, one way and then the other. Wilbur wasn't moving, other than the swirling of his breath.

Opening his eyes was probably the right thing to do.

.

..

...

Did he have to, though?

But a soft, golden light awaited him invitingly on the other side of his eyelids, and curiosity overcame his fatigue.

First surprise: he wasn't floating.

Wilbur wouldn't have thought a bed so soft could exist. He could barely feel it underneath him, hollowed out in just the right places to accommodate the weight of his body, with no sharp springs in his back and minimal aches in his limbs. To reinforce the illusion, Wilbur was neither too cold nor too hot. A thick comforter, pleasantly warm and in shades of blue and gold, covered him completely.

He passed a hand between the sheets to convince himself that he was not dreaming, appreciating their softness in passing.

Then his hand met something that wasn’t fabric.

Second surprise.

“Sunshine?”

The fur slipped from under his fingers, and Wilbur tried to raise himself on one elbow to follow it, but his head was heavy, and a sudden pain in his arm made him fall limply back onto the mattress.

In a flash, he had a gangly teenager in his arms instead of a kitten.

“Are you okay? Sorry, did I- Are you sure you're okay?”

“... Tommy?”

Wilbur found himself unable to look the teenager in the eyes where he was tightly pressed against his chest, but he could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing back to normal.

He closed his eyes, squeezed as hard as he could, and enjoyed the warmth.

Eventually, they had to separate, but not to go far. Tommy lay down next to Wilbur on his side, an almost shy smile on his face.

“Ayup,” he said. “I, uh, the cat. I was the cat. This whole time.”

“I didn't understand much of what happened yesterday,” Wilbur admitted, melting back into the mattress, muscles soft and eyes softer. “But I did get that. You're an excellent cat.”

The boy puffed up his chest at these words. He jumped from one emotion to another with impressive ease. Wilbur himself could really only oscillate between tired-depressed, tired-annoyed and tired-tired.

“Of course, mum says I have all the qualities of a cat! They’re the best animals you know, with cows, spiders, and moths.”

“I don't think I've ever seen a cow, uh, in its natural habitat,” Wilbur said tactfully. “Or moths.”

He cowered a little, embarrassed by Tommy's stunned expression. He didn't know where he was, or what was going to happen to him, but it was far from the City, surely, and Wilbur already knew that finding himself ignorant was going to become a daily occurrence.

But as he opened his mouth (to apologize, perhaps), a huge smile stretched Tommy's. He sprang up from the sheets.

“Oh, you're going to love them, it's going to be great, I've got to introduce you to Clementine, and Henry, and Shroud, and-”

And the door opened.

First- There was a door? Third surprise? Wilbur straightened his head, realizing that the bed on which he was laying was itself in what might have been a huge bedroom, or perhaps a clearing in the woods. Intertwined branches made for the walls, light filtering through their leaves, culminating in a circular canopy (the glass roof one, not the leaves, or well, also the leaves) above his head, with large windows covered in airy white cloth, and a floor of soft green moss.

And, standing in the moss, was the Fae who had brought down the tower.

“Tommy,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, “why didn't you come and tell us he was awake?”

“Techno!" Tommy exclaimed, loud enough to rattle the leaves, "Wilbur's awake! Wilbur! It's Techno!”

“Ehm...”

The second Fae took a step forward, but stopped when Wilbur instinctively flinched.

... It’s just, he was, very tall. And a little scary.

“Not like that, Techno," scolded Tommy.

He leapt out of bed (more cat-like than human), slipping easily under the other Fae's arm, and whispered something in his ear. Trying to get a better angle, Wilbur attempted to sit up against his pillows again, but once more, his weak arms slipped on the silky sheets. His head was spinning anyway.

“Tada!”

Tommy ceremoniously placed a tiny, pink piglet on Wilbur's chest.

Wilbur blinked.

The piglet tentatively rubbed his nose against his pajamas.

“Oookay," Wilbur said, raising a hand to gently rub between two small ears. “Nice to make you acquaintance...?”

When a polite rumble answered him, and no teeth came to lodge themselves in his wrist, he relaxed. To be fair, it was difficult to stay tense in a room like this. And Wilbur didn't exactly have the energy for it yet.

Speaking of...

“How long did I sleep?" he asked.

“Six days," Tommy replied simply.

“You'd think I'd be less tired," Wilbur muttered.

“I'm afraid," said a new voice, "it's going to take a little longer than six days…”

 “Niki!" exclaimed Wilbur.

He tried to sit up again, struggling with his blankets, but the oval, smiling face of the pink-haired girl leaned over him before he had the chance.

“Hello," she greeted him.

“Hello! I, uh, didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

“Oh, I never doubted it,” she said. “And you still have to try that spicy hot chocolate, don't you?”

“I suppose so.”

And that idea, of being able to share a bit of the incredible world Niki had told him about that day in the Café, when he was still wearing his gray uniform, seemed almost false before Wilbur's eyes, like a mirage. But perhaps, with a little practice, he would come to believe it.

“Oh, I have to introduce you to my brother!”

Niki turned toward the door, but Wilbur was distracted by Techno, who shook off his arms and jumped off from his chest just in time to revert to a humanoid form. Tommy hissed in response when he was abruptly displaced by the transformation, but the other paid him no mind, instead helping Wilbur to sit up. He arranged the many (many) pillows behind him very gently, then transformed back into a flash.

Wilbur silently took him back into his arms.

“He's been super worried about you," Tommy informed him. At his obvious surprise, he continued: “I came back to the forest almost every night, to recharge my magic you know, and he always wanted to know how you were. Even though I had almost no new details. And after we got back, he wouldn't let you go.”

“But-”

Why? Wilbur wanted to ask. Why me? But then Niki was coming back, and wow, Wilbur hadn't gotten a good look at her before, but she had gills, and tiny pink and turquoise scales at the corners of her lips, and membranes instead of ears, and- Was that a second pair of eyes?

Wilbur would have had a few questions to ask, if not for the fact that the creature she was dragging behind her didn't have even a hint of a human feature, and Wilbur didn't feel up to that particular conversation. Better just accept everything and hope he got it later.

The creature hesitated, rubbing the fur of their arm, their eyes (one red and one green, with diamond-shaped pupils) lowered, a long tail flapping nervously behind them.

“Uuh, hey, I'm... Ranboo?”

“R-RAN-BOO! RAAN-BOOO!”

A golden-skinned, viridian-eyed creature that appeared to be dressed in a large shark onesie (?) appeared next to Ranboo, almost knocking him over in surprise. He bounced up and down like a rubber toy, and his voice seemed set on using the entire human hearing spectrum.

“Hey, Foolish," Niki greeted him, amused. “Oh, hello Fundy.”

“RANBOO! I finished the chan-de-lier! You have to come and see! Oh, and I've made arches, I’ve designed those-”

His tirade stopped so abruptly that Wilbur flinched back. The golden person stared back at him. Silence stretched across the small room, only disturbed by Techno's warning growl.

The creature (Foolish? Or was that like, a description?) turned to Niki and asked, his voice slightly more normal: “Is that him, then? The stolen prince?”

The who? thought Wilbur.

“Foolish," muttered a new voice. “We should go.”

A short person, who seemed to be wrapped in a large red fur coat, led him back toward the door. Niki's brother waved at them before following in their wake.

“Oh, before I forget," he said from the doorway, "Tommy, Tubbo's giving you an hour to come and see him and then he's, well. Coming for you.”

“Good to know," Tommy muttered. “Say ya, Boo!”

“What just-” Wilbur started.

“Tubbo’s not the only one looking for you," said Niki.

Beside him on the bed, Tommy shuffled around. Techno huffed. Wilbur looked up.

A dark shape in the window, unmistakable against the wispy white of the curtains. It swayed gently, as if caught in a breeze, before moving past the frame and into the room.

And growing.

Wings folded, a body expanded, and suddenly (but also very softly) there was a man standing in the room. Or maybe there was only a man standing, and everything else, the room as well as them, were simply orbiting him.

Wilbur barely noticed when Niki quietly left the room, unable to take him eyes off the figure.

Then, the man stepped closer. And he suddenly appeared much simpler.

There was a man standing in the room. And that man was Wilbur's father.

This information was so simple, and obvious, that Wilbur did not even question it. He just leaned forward, one hand against the cool sheets, the other holding Techno against him, eyes huge and head buzzing.

“Wilbur,” the man breathed.

Two big steps forward (or maybe the room folded in half, to let him get closer?) and he was perched on the edge of the bed, one hand soft against Wilbur's cheek.

“My son.”

And in the white afternoon light, a little ginger cat crept in the middle of two close bodies, joining in their embrace of his father and brothers.

Chapter Text

After that, everything happened both slowly and quickly.

Slowly because Wilbur was, in Tommy's words, “kinda a lot messed up.” In official (the Fae’s medic, Ponk’s) terms, he was “suffering from a severe and prolonged lack of magical energy.”

“Every Fae needs magic to live," he explained. “From the smallest to the most powerful.”

“And where does it all come from?" Wilbur asked, playing with the edge of one of his sheets. He had realized that Ponk never got annoyed by question, and actually quite enjoyed them, so he was making the most of it.

“Most of it originates from the primal forces of nature. Although some elements are incompatible with it.”

“Iron,” Wilbur guessed.

“Fucking Iron,” Tommy muttered sleepily, from somewhere under the covers.

Wilbur rubbed between his ears, and an invisible smile creased Ponk’s eyes.

“For example," he continued, "when Tommy started visiting the Dark City consistently, after he managed to find you, I made sure to check on his level of magic every night, in case it got too low. There are certain supplements, concentrated forms of magic, that can increase it in a pinch. Do you understand?”

“I think so, yes,” Wilbur said.

He thought of a sincere smile and of seven little scented teabags.

“But then, how did I survive?” he couldn't help but ask.

A part of him almost held him back. Wanting to pretend that the last fifteen years were already far behind him, that they barely mattered anymore. It almost hurt more, to know that he had suffered so much, for nothing at all. That he had suffered so much, when he could have been happy elsewhere.

But Wilbur had always been too curious for his own good. And now, there were people who could really answer his questions.

“You're no ordinary Fae, Wilbur of the Ashes,” Ponk said, his eyes glinting over his mask.

Tommy's head popped up from between the sheets, eyelids heavy, a sleepy smile directed at his brother, and on a nest of tousled curls, a golden circlet.

Wilbur knew that a similar one, only with opals instead of garnets, was waiting for him, resting in a box in the darkness of an empty closet.

“Yes, I'm getting used to the idea," he murmured.

The good news, then, was that the chronic lack of magic hadn't killed him. The bad news, however...

“Breathe, Wilbur. Take a deep breath. You're going to be fine.”

At least now he had people to rub his back during his coughing fits.

“The people at the orphanage said it was-” he cleared his throat, “that it was asthma.”

“Call it what you will," Technoblade grumbled, “I always knew those enormous clouds of ash and smoke couldn't be good for anyone. The air here is pure, it’ll do you good.”

Wilbur let a second pass, keeping his forehead pressed against his brother's shoulder.

“... And what if it doesn't?”

He didn't need to say more to feel arms closing around him in a hug. He still hadn't gotten used to how easy it was to get one, here.

“I know it's slow progress. We all want it to go faster. Tommy and Niki have an endless list of places they want to show you, things they want to do with you. But Ponk, and Mom and Dad, all say it's going to get better and better, faster and faster. You're healing, Wilbur. You really are.”

And he was indeed healing. That first afternoon, six days after the summer solstice (after accidentally ruining the summer solstice celebrations, but thankfully no one was angry at him for it), he had managed to stay conscious for all of 18 minutes before falling right back to sleep, still surrounded by Phil, Tommy and Techno. Now, he could stay awake for a few hours, eating some of the deliciously strange food that never seemed to run out, drinking some water, practicing his breathing exercises, and conversing with whoever was inevitably at his bedside when he woke up.

So, yes, on the one hand, everything was going quite slowly for him. Wilbur stayed in the bed that was lent to him, slept a lot, and watched as his aches and pains grew fainter with each passing day.

And at the same time, after all these years of doing the same job and chores day after day, these waking moments seemed incredibly full.

Niki would bring him curious little pastries, which didn't come from a factory, because she made them herself (!). Tommy would demonstrate magic, changing from one form to another as easily as if he were simply swapping gloves, and Techno would tell him fantastic stories, which he knew so well that he didn't even need to refer to a book anymore, and could answer any question Wilbur had. (The Fae had worried about intimidating him at first, but Wilbur had been quick to reassure him. There was something warm in Techno's eyes when he looked at him, something that promised safety.)

Sometimes, though more rarely, he would wake up to meet the loving gaze of Phil.

His father.

...

Wilbur wasn't getting used to that concept.

He had been more than happy to learn that Tommy and Techno were his brothers. That was easy, he had practice with the kids at the orphanage. The other two had been delighted with his reaction, even if they showed it to various degrees. (Also, it would be harder for them to get rid of him if they were related, but he had decided not to tell them that).

But a father?

Which was why Wilbur was always happy to see him when he woke up. His father, his dad was there, he was going to take care of him, he was taking time for him.

It was also why he was always slightly scared.

Well, scared wasn't exactly the right word. Wilbur didn’t fear for his safety (after all the trouble they were going through to get him back on his feet), or worried he’d get yelled at. Mostly, he was shy.

Because, what was he doing to make those people, let alone his father, like him? Nothing at all.

What did he have to offer to such incredible beings as Fae royalty? Him? He was nobody. Less than nobody.

“You know,” he found himself saying one morning, “there was a lot of work to do at the orphanage.”

“Mmhm.”

Wilbur knew that even mentioning the place made Techno uncomfortable, Tommy angry, and Phil sad, but he couldn't keep the words from escaping.

“And the people in charge trusted me, and I helped them even when I was still small, barely eleven.”

“Wilbur...”

“And, and I started working at the Café when I was fifteen, and I know it's not a good job, or anything impressive, but I was really...”

He paused, as his eyes met his father's.

He didn't look happy.

Not satisfied, not proud. He just looked sad.

Bad bad bad bad bad, he chastised himself. Unconsciously, he cowered a little.

“Wilbur,” Phil asked calmly, though still with that look of deep sadness lingering around him, “what are you trying to tell me? Do you think you can put it into words?”

“I just want to-”

But it was hard.

“Are you... sure?”

“Sure of what, honey?”

“That I'm... that I'm really part of your family?”

Phil pulled away from him a little, his head cocked to the side. Wilbur wondered if it was a Fae thing.

“Of course, you are," he said softly.

“But- I didn't do anything to deserve this!”

Once the words started coming out, there was no hope of stopping them.

“Techno dropped a whole tower? To get me out of here? Which is crazy enough, and then there's this place, it's unbelievable, I'd probably need to work full time for months to be able to pay for even a week of living here, not even counting the food and the doctor, and, I just feel like, I don’t deserve it!”

The last part came out in a shout, which Wilbur immediately regretted. He immediately shrank back in on himself. He didn't think Phil would hit him, it wasn't like him, but at the same time, he was the king of the Summer Fae, he had to have it in him, didn't he?

However, when Wilbur looked up hesitantly at his father, blinking back tears, it looked more like Wilbur had been the one to hit him.

“Wil,” he breathed, his eyes so sad that a pang of guilt lodged itself in his son's heart. He could never do anything right, could he? Not that he lied, but... “Wil, sweetheart, you don't have to do anything. Not the tiniest little task. Our love, my love, is unconditional. You never have to deserve or earn it. It’s yours, forever and always.”

Wilbur... didn't know what to say to that. So he hiccupped his default answer.

“I'm just... sorry.” And just like that, he was getting hugged. He nuzzled in his father’s shoulder.

“No. No, Wil, I'm sorry. You should never have gone through all this. If only…”

The young man straightened up a little in the embrace. He had asked Tommy about the circumstances surrounding his childhood, then Techno, when he had warmed up to him. But they had offered him the same answer: that it was up to Phil to explain everything.

And it seemed that the time had come.

Not that Wilbur dared ask directly, but he knew that his eyes spoke for him when Phil sighed softly and sat back down. He nestled against his pillows and waited.

“Kristen and I had our first child during the hottest summer in over a century. The whole kingdom celebrated their new heir for a whole week, but the two of us, oh, we were just so happy to have you.”

“Wait, I'm the oldest?" Wilbur exclaimed.

 “Oh, your brothers left that part out, didn't they?" Phil laughed, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, dear. You're our oldest, but... That put you in danger.”

“Someone took me,” Wilbur said, because it was easier than looking at the pain in his father's gaze.

He nodded. “By the time we found the culprits, you were long gone. Lost. They hid you in the human world, where their terrible Iron would hide your magic’s imprint, until it was all but smothered.”

“And you couldn't find me,” he whispered.

And that was terrible thought, wasn't it? Blaming his dad? He hadn't done anything wrong, he'd loved Wilbur, but if he'd been just a little more careful, maybe...

No. No maybes. The past was done and gone, and resenting his father would make Wilbur a bad person. He had to be good, for them.

“We moved heaven and earth, sometimes literally,” Phil said, his voice insistent, like he was desperate to convince him. “We tried so hard, Wilbur. A terrible war broke out when the humans refused to give us information. Of course, eventually they had to give in, but at that point, even they didn't know where you were. And we thought we had lost you forever...”

Phil looked at Wilbur and breathed, forcefully relaxing his shoulders with the knowledge that his oldest son was there, a little beaten, a little hurt, but safely back in the nest. He mustered a small smile.

“Except for Tommy, of course. Our little beacon of hope. And for once, it turned out that he was right to brag.”

“Because then, he found me,” Wilbur said.

The words placed a calm veil over his mind, and he repeated them in a low voice.

He had been lost. Then found.

And it wasn't his fault.

“Okay," Wilbur said slowly. From the way Phil was looking at him, he must have known that Wilbur was accepting more than just this story, this explanation.

When he leaned in, Wilbur, who was slowly getting used to hugs, immediately reached back.

“In conclusion, we've waited fifteen years, let us spoil you a little,” Phil said.

“That's more than a little!” Wil exclaimed, looking once more at the large, bright room he would apparently be allowed to keep (!)

“Oh, honey,” Phil laughed softly.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Eventually, you'll realize how much we're trying not to overwhelm you.”

“... huh?”

“There are advantages to being a Fae prince,” Phil says mischievously. “And your mother, oh, Kristen...”

Wilbur had heard a lot about his mother. One of the first things Phil had told him that first day (after he'd managed to kinda let go of Wilbur) was that his mother desperately wanted to come and meet him but...

“In a way, the veil between Life and Death is... incomplete, around her. In this state, her getting too close to you would put you in danger, especially since she’s already had to, when we brought you here. It's safer for her to stay away for now, even though the wait is killing her.”

“She wants to come and see you so badly, she's going crazy,” Tommy said.

“We've waited fifteen years, she can wait a few more weeks,” Technoblade huffed.

Phil flicked one of his wings on the back of his head, but he was laughing. “Easy for you to say, mate!”

And so Wilbur had waited, juggling excitement and a buried fear that there was another reason for Kristen's wait. But he still loved hearing all about her.

“Kristen...” he prompted his father, who had gotten lost in his thoughts.

“Ah, yes. Well, let's just say that if you think we're spoiling you right now, wait until your mom gets here!”

“Prime," Wilbur muttered, but his heart was light.

Phil put a hand on his knee.

“You deserve this, okay? You deserve everything we can give you and more.”

And Wilbur thought that every time hearing that got him a little closer to actually believing it.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

On one of the rare occasions when he was alone in his new room, Wilbur received a letter.

He was busy scribbling what might have been a poem, or perhaps the lyrics to a tune-orphaned song, or just the ramblings of someone with too much free time on his hands. At first, he was offered some reading material, but that avenue quickly proved to be a dead end: Wilbur could read common (human), but not feyric (not human).

He was promised a tutor when his recovery was more underway (though clearly, he and Phil disagreed on what being recovered entailed. Apparently, he had had “completely unreasonable and frankly dangerous work expectations put on him” in the past, which, okay, fair) and offered paper and pencils, and that was the end of the story.

All the more reasons for Wilbur to look at the raven perched on the carved windowsill, a scroll of parchment clutched in its beak, with surprise and wariness.

“Come in," he said.

The raven hopped around the room, and fluttered to his bedside table, where he deposited his burden with great care. Wilbur made sure to thank he (which he knew ravens loved) and offered some bread (which they loved even more). Then, curiosity and boredom getting the better of him, he turned to the letter.

My dear Wilbur

Okay, maybe that's a little formal.

Sweetheart,

First of all, you can't imagine how much it pains me to stay away.

At these words, his eyes automatically jumped to the signature at the bottom of the page, where he discovered a name that was starting to become familiar:

With the greatest of love,

Kristen, your mother

And a postscript:

P.-S. After a long and frustrating search, I found a lovely young man named Charlie who can write in common, and who agreed to translate this letter. He affirmed to me that he was ‘totally, 100%, very Human.’ I trust him.

Which, Wilbur thought, probably explained the... interesting? Calligraphy, though it was still legible. He wasn't sure it explained the few greenish, damp spots that dotted the paper, though.

The rest of the letter didn't tell him anything strictly new, but that didn't stop him from rereading it immediately, then rereading it again. The words, even though they came from the tip of someone else's quill, soothed the part of him that hesitated to believe the story about the veil of death. The part that still believed himself to be unlovable.

A letter from his mother.

He reread the signature, then carefully rolled up the parchment, and clutched it to his chest.

⋅ ⋅ ✧ ⋅ ⋅

“C’mon, we're almost there.”

Techno's quiet encouragement drew a tired smile from Wilbur, but didn't stop him from leaning against the wall, just long enough to catch his breath. Ignoring as best he could the little voice in his head chiding him for being so slow (and that sounded a lot like his old boss, and even a little like the orphanage handlers), he forced his muscles to relax and took a deep breath.

“Just a few seconds, okay?”

“Of course,” Techno agreed easily.

He leaned his elbows on the railing of the stairs, raising his gaze to the upper levels. As if in response to his attention, a trill echoed through the stone walls, and a small red projectile was swooping down from the top of the tower. Wilbur followed it with fond eyes as it whirled around him, brushed against Techno's head, then landed on his wrist.

“Is someone excited?" he asked, stroking the scarlet tanager's head with a knuckle.

Wilbur felt his heart swell when Tommy cooed in response, snuggling his little head into the palm his hand. Not that he was disappointed one bit when a teenager suddenly replaced the bird, sitting on the banister without a care in the world, a remnant of feathers and scales dusted in the corner of his eyes and dotting his golden curls.

“Of course, I'm excited!" he nearly yelled. “Oh, you're going to love the sunset, Wibbles, it's beautiful from the angel’s tower, especially right now, everyone knows that summer sunsets are the absolute best-”

“Stop it, you're going to give him too high expectations,” Techno lectured him, but there wasn’t even a hint of real animosity in his deep voice. It had taken Wilbur a while to realize that.

“I doubt it," he said, amused. “I'm going to be impressed, no matter what. I've never seen a sunset.”

In the silence that followed, he guessed that this might have been a bigger revelation than he had expected.

Fortunately, Tommy was... well, Tommy.

He leapt from the railing, as if seized with too much emotion for even his gangly body to contain. “Oh, it's-it's got to be perfect then I'm going to get Dad bye!” And he was gone.

“Gremlin," Wilbur muttered affectionately before the almost incoherent excitement of his littlest brother, before turning to Techno.

His nose ended up somewhere in the front of his tunic.

He only had time to realize that Techno was standing much closer to him than he had been a second earlier, before arms wrapped around him protectively.

“You're with us now," his brother whispered into his hair.

Wilbur embraced the promise and returned the hug, digging his fingers into the silky fabric of his shirt.

“I'm here, with you, and it's going to be okay,” he confirmed.

“Hey, I should be the one reassuring you!”

“And why is that?" Wilbur taunted him. “I heard through the grapevine that I have been blessed with two wittle bwothers.”

“... Time is relative?" Techno offered, stepping aside. Wilbur offered himself a silent pat on the back for having helped him through his moment of stress.

The two resumed their ascent. Through the tower's west-oriented windows (thin and crooked things), the air’s hedge was turning golden.

“I'm willing to compromise," Techno offered, all business-like.

“Oh, and what might that entail? “

“Twins.”

Wilbur let out a chuckle that turned into a cough. “Okay, I can get behind that.”

Wilbur was still physically weak, even weeks after his rescue. As much as he wanted to follow his new family and friends in their adventures, trembling limbs and a shortness of breath kept him within the summer castle for now.

That didn't stop him from reaching the top of the tower, though. After all, it was almost time for the sun to set on this story.

The last light of the day greeted them out of the staircase, adorning everything it touched with gold, as Midas in the old myths. Wilbur squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

If his room embodied a clear summer morning, softly warm, fragrant and green, this was the blazing of a late afternoon, the Summer at the height of its power, crowned in orange flames.

Wilbur felt the metal of his circlet warm against his hair.

Techno moved forward, toward the edge of the tower. From the outside, it appeared more like a gigantic tree, with bronze leaves over stone bark, branches like arms reaching for the great blue above.

At the sight of the sky (or at least, what he could see of it, between the fingers that still shielded his gaze), something twitched under his tunic.

Carefully bandaged, laid flat against the skin of his back, the outline of two small brown wings, speckled with black and gold, yearned for flight.

Phil's pupils had dilated at the sight of them, a croon torn from his lips. Wilbur had spent the next few hours snuggled up to his father, held in the shelter of his own wings, and he hadn't regretted a bit of it.

(When Tommy had asked him what had motivated him to develop wings, Wilbur had had only puzzlement to offer in response. But after some explanation about how Fae’s features came from their emotions, and a moment's reflection, he couldn't really deny that his desire to be accepted was not unrelated to this development).

Speaking of wings.

Phil landed at their side, as softly as if he had just stepped through a doorway. A feline form sprang from his arms, and a few leaps later, Wilbur had a purring ball of fur in his arms.

“Hello there, sunshine,” he breathed, with a little kiss between his brother's ears.

Then, with his brother (that he owed so much to) clutched to his heart, he finally lowered his hand.

The sunset held colors he had never even dreamed of, shining with otherworldly strength and brilliance.

But after a few seconds, Wilbur's gaze was drawn down.

All the way to the town that lay below them. Small stone houses, or tall buildings on stilts, connected by suspended walkways going around trees and leading to lush gardens. A city without walls, without ashes and without smoke.

The gray of his eyes absorbed the color, and maybe, with it, a little bit of peace.

Wilbur took a slow, deep breath.

Fin