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A gentle breeze fluttered over the SMP. The sun was just beginning to slip towards the horizon, the sky painted a dusty blue. The hum of rainbow beacons was the only sound permeating the late afternoon air, beams of light gently spinning up into infinity. On the stone parapets of their castle the king leaned, looking over the quiet, peaceful, ruined landscape.
Although — they considered — they weren’t really king anymore, were they? Was a royal resignation legitimate if the only one there to see it was a man who was dead not a month ago? Was it legitimate if the king themself had given up years before that?
Eret wondered if they were ever really king in the first place. For what did it mean to be a king who had no subjects, no army, no real power ? With a wry grimace, they thought of the multiple presidents that exercised power on the very land they were supposed to rule. They thought of Dream, who never truly stopped pulling the strings. During their own reign, ironically the longest lasting on the server, they weren’t sure if they ever really felt like they held actual control. Sure they had their castle and their throne and their crown, but upon reflection those really served more as shields and facsimile than anything else. And what need did they ever have for such things? Looking back, Eret wasn’t sure they were ever enough of an obstacle for anyone to warrant needing to protect themself.
It wasn’t like Eret had wanted to be anyone’s enemy. It had just felt like an inevitability that the other citizens of L’Manburg would seek revenge for their betrayal. It was a risk that Eret had been aware —even paranoid— of when they shook hands with Dream, when they had built the Final Control Room, and it was one they had been willing to take.
They never liked the L’Manburg uniforms anyway. Too scratchy.
At least, that’s what they had told themself, and now they stand alone atop their castle, draped in a comfortable mantle and silken finery.
As it were, their head was now much lighter with the crown gone. Eret almost didn’t want to think about it getting swallowed up by roots or water or debris. (Or blown to bits by explosives. They would be a fool to miss the way Wilbur danced around the promise to refrain from using them ever again, fingers clinging to the stock he had on hand with a hesitance born from desperation. The prospect of losing everything all over again didn’t terrify Eret as much as they would’ve expected) They, of course, would never do something so foolhardy as to go and get it back , they had worked far too hard to redeem themself, both in their own eyes and in those of others, but they couldn’t help but feel that their silhouette was almost unfamiliar without it.
With a jolt out of their thoughts and a stab of disappointment, Eret realized that the sunset was nearly over, the sky darkening and hostile mobs beginning to emerge below. Turning on their heel, they made their way down from the parapets, through the halls of the castle, and into the room that they had been using to plan out the museum. It was getting to be a bit late, but Eret already knew their mind was going a mile a minute from all that happened in the day and they would not be able to rest any time soon. And so they busied themself with studying half completed maps and manuscripts, pouring over blueprints and ideas for expansion. For a time their mind, while not necessarily clear, was blessedly focused on the future rather than the past.
It wasn’t long, however, for darker thoughts to return and drape over their shoulders like a blanket. For a time, they attempted to stave them off, trying to focus extra hard on outlining the most interesting way to arrange the maps, but it was as much a losing battle as it always was. With a resigned sigh they allowed themself to indulge, and welcomed the thoughts like an old friend.
This museum was a physical culmination of every ounce of regret, every unspoken apology, every moment that Eret had spent wondering ‘will this help anything?’ ‘will this be enough?’ ‘what else could I possibly do?’. It would be what one might call their pride and joy, except that any pride or joy they felt for it was, and likely would forever be, tailed by the complex emotions that came whenever they looked at the replica Camarvan for too long.
Eret told Wilbur that the reason they betrayed the rest of L’Manburg was to bring a quick end to a struggle they knew they could not win.
That wasn’t… entirely untrue. Eret did fully believe that it had been a losing battle from the beginning. The more quietly spoken truth was that Dream, while acting as the stick, had also offered a very convincing carrot: a crown and a promise of power.
Perhaps it was selfish, but Eret remembered imagining scenarios in which they took the crown and were able to appease everyone with a smile. No one else needed to get hurt, no one else needed to suffer.
Eret has never claimed to be an entirely selfless person.
Eret also admitted to Wilbur that they had looked up to him. This was perhaps more true than Wilbur could realize. Eret remembered watching him hatch a plan to create a monopoly over the server, roping Tommy and Tubbo into it all and the three of them giggling together about selling ‘drugs’. Eret had also found it amusing, until it suddenly wasn’t and there was a crater in their home and the only one laughing was Dream. Wilbur had so easily found a way to establish himself as a leader, scrounging up power where it hadn’t existed before. He gathered people to him and got them to listen with a fervor that Eret couldn’t help but admire. Which is why it was all the more painful to realize that Wilbur, with all his bravery and charisma and wit, was slated to fall, same as the rest of them, before Dream. It would not be merciful, Eret had been certain. And so they had taken the deal, giving up more than they ever could have imagined, and in doing so failing to see the greatest difference between Wilbur and themself.
The fire in Wilbur’s eyes that Eret saw, in the brief time they saw him in Pogtopia, had shocked Eret to their core. There had been anger and hatred and betrayal, because of course there had been, but most prominently there had been resolve . A sheer unbending will to continue fighting and surviving against all odds, and if Eret was there to stand in the way then what’s one more obstacle? Eret doesn’t think that they’ll ever forget that fire, and has since attempted to channel a similar caliber of willpower of their own into fixing their mistakes. It has been hard, grueling work, with more than a few sleepless nights of self reflection and doubt and hatred at times, but when things got tough they could think back to Pogtopia and gain the strength to push forward.
If Eret was honest with themself, they almost couldn’t believe Wilbur from Pogtopia was the same man that they spoke with today.
Aside from looking many years older than when they had last seen him (eyes wide, shaking, a sword through his gut as the last thing he saw was his nation blown to pieces by his own hand), there was a certain weariness about him that betrayed the tiredness of a man who was plagued by regret. Eret knew that look, and they knew it well. They recognized the exhaustion and frustration that now took root in Wilbur’s eyes from their own reflection after Schlatt was elected, as they began to realize how grave of a mistake they had made. It hurt to look at Wilbur and feel as though they had almost traded places.
Eret wished that they could go to Wilbur and tell him that it would all be okay, that things would get better. They wished that they could admit to him that their betrayal had been largely founded in cowardice and wishful thinking and that Wilbur had been right to continue fighting. That the reason they continued to get out of bed everyday and try to be better is because they had Wilbur to look up to.
Unfortunately, Eret had decided to burn that bridge long ago. It wasn’t their place anymore to offer themself as a friend, and that hurt to admit almost more than anything else.
Eret allowed themself for a painful, painful moment to wonder where the other citizens of L’Manburg were. They hoped they were all doing well. They hoped that they were healing.
Eret really did hope that Wilbur talked to Fundy.
Eret hoped that everything would be okay and that, maybe one day, the others would come visit. It did get so lonely in the castle sometimes.
With a sigh, Eret came back to themself, blinking at the low light left by candles almost burnt to the saucers. Their head ached, normal after long periods spent reflecting like this, and as they rubbed at their temples they momentarily paused at the lack of familiar weight on their brow. Another sigh and they leaned back in their chair, succumbing to the idea that this will all take some getting used to. Frowning at the table, strewn with the same unchanged maps, manuscripts, and blueprints, Eret concluded that no more work would be done tonight and it was time to get some rest.
Before leaving the room, however, Eret took the book from their pocket and considered it, a little smile tugging at their lips.
“Open in 3 months’ time.”
That was what Wilbur had instructed before giving Eret the book and taking his leave, tired eyes lingering on the massive crater where L’Manburg once stood, then up to the obsidian grid overhead, before giving Eret one last complicated glance. (It didn’t have exactly the same resolve he once had, but it burned clearly with new intention as he asked for Niki’s whereabouts)
Looking down at the book and thumbing gently across the letters stamped into the cover, Eret found themself, with a quiet, hesitant eagerness, looking forward to the day when they will be able to display it in the museum, so that all may see the herald of a new era of growth, forgiveness, and closure.