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Never had the fighting been so horrible before.
The world was dark, and the air warm, yet stagnant. The only light that shone down onto the Earth was that of the rounded Moon and gemstone stars. The grass was lush and full on the rolling planes, and the trees and brush painting the distance were wild and beautiful.
It was too magnificent a Summer night, Tubbo thought, to be accented with such blood and death.
There was cheering all around the young boy, of such intensity it priced the sky and rumbled the soil, the sounds of celibration of L'Manberg's victory in the battle, but the noise didn't cover the sent of gunpowder, nor the sight of limp bodies and dark stains and steaming craters all around.
The War itself had been filled with conflict, and battles were not uncommon ground for the people of L'Manberg, though the majority of fighting was, thankfully, kept political. Yet, none of the previous battles had ever been so incredibly violent, caused so many to fall, from what Tubbo could tell of only the damages around him. In his bones, the young boy could feel a shift, a large, cracking spine that would bring about torn muscles and sliced insides, pointing directly at their nation. A looming omen of worse to come, like that of rolling, deep clouds before a monstrous storm, when the atmosphere would push down harshly, and the wild winds become brittle.
Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut, and wished he could do the same for his ears, as his kelt limply in the grass, no longer possessing the strength to will himself up.
He began to gag, then, never having felt so disgustingly nauseous in his life, and wanting nothing more than to empty everything inside of him out onto the ground where it would seep into the dirt.
The seething pulse in the young boys right thigh wasn't helping, either, and as the pain increased, he clutched his hands around the gaping wound while releasing a strangled sob.
As Tubbo's vision was enveloped by shinning stars, ones he would have sworn fell down from the sky above to dot his sight, his gaze fell onto his iron sword laying in the grass.
It was unbloodied, a little worn yet, but clean.
That knowledge alone was enough for an uncertain peace to pass through him, even as a few hot, messy tears trailed down his cheeks and flowed to his neck.
His body had become too heavy to keep up, even in a sitting position, and the young boy distantly felt as he hit the ground in an unceremonious heap, still clutching his thigh as his hands become warm and sticky and coated. In that moment, Tubbo's insides finally gave into the destorted feeling rolling through him, and vomited up any trace of food mixed with bile that burned his throat and caused more tears to stream down his face.
The young boy wasn't scared, though, due to the unusual, unstable serenity staying with him, and he closed his eyes once more. Not squeezed them, but closed.
Allowing himself to become a part of the night, Tubbo distantly hoped his body would sink beneath the ground littered with craters and gore and ashes, where his flesh could be used to grow something better.
Flowers would be quite nice.
When he opened his eyes for the first time after his collapse, Tubbo found he felt only a dull ache in his leg, no longer the white-hot pain it once was. His mind, too, was fuzzy and full, unable to truly keep pace with everything around him. Though, there wasn't really much available to comprehend, anyhow. He was most certainly in a room within L'Manberg's small hospital, and there weren't any standout details about the space for him to prosses. Well, besides the man standing a little ways away from the bed he lie in.
Logically, the young boy knew he must have been given potions for his injury and the pain that came along with it, but he didn't care to think about the possible extent of the wound he sustained while in battle.
Tubbo flinched when he felt something cold and went touch his forehead, having momentarily let himself be lost to the mind, finding the man, most likely a doctor or nurse, now standing over him.
"You can go back to sleep," the man told him quietly with a small smile, adjusting the damp cloth until it was situated comfortably.
Without much will, or energy, to stay awake, Tubbo conceded to the offer and let his sences and perception fade away once more.
Tubbo only allowed himself to be roused enough to sit up when soft sunlight tickled his face through peeks in the curtains over his bedside window.
Attempting to move his lower body, even slightly as to adjust, caused jolts of stabbing hurt to climb up his right leg, and the young boy gasped at the feeling, holding back noises of pain. Being back in the comfort of his own room, though, within his own home, made the physical pain dull as contentment took its place at the center of the young boys mind.
Grabbing the sage curtains, the material soft and thin so that more light may seep through them, he gently pulled them back to reveal a lovely Summer morning, the world bright and warm.
Letting out a calm sigh, Tubbo smiled at the thought of running around outside with Tommy, through the morning dew and onto the scorched grasses turned golden by the midday Sun. Though, he knew that wouldn't be a possibility as of then, not with his wound.
Now inclined with curiosity, and a bit of fearful hesitation, to see the state of his wound, which felt as if it were wrapped tightly, the young boy made a move to pull the thin, sunflower yellow duvet down, before slowly stopping when he heard voices.
They weren't by any means hushed, and he recognized only one of the two, but it was enough to make him coil back under the coveres in weary anticipation of what was bound to come.
Tubbo felt his stomach turn with painful anxiousness, his throat becoming tight.
When the copper handle bent downward, and the birch wood door swung open with a looming nature only one particular person could achieve, the young boy quickly turned away and toward the window, letting out a whimper of pain despite himself at the fast movement.
He didn't wish to see who he knew stood there, that of who could as easily filled up a room by merely standing there as he did breath, who could start fires within Souls that spread like sparks of freedom and truth and ambition by his spoken and written word.
The young boy could imagine him standing there, over his bed, his tall body framed proudly in uniform, as it was always clean and orderly, his face set hard, his hair wildly curled, and his throat bobbing with words primed to break free from his mouth.
"Look at me, Tubbo," Wilbur instructed, his voice deep and rough.
Tubbo listened without hesitation, turning back around, although slowly this time as not to hurt himself again.
When the young boy gazed upon the young man, his older brother appeared exactly how he'd imagined he would. Yet, he hadn't accounted for the dark circles under Wilbur's eyes, so deep they almost looked like bruises, the taunt shoulders about to snap, or the curled fists at his sides.
Tubbo swallowed thickly, but didn't avoided the young man's harsh eyes tearing into his own.
Wilbur's eyes narrowed, his lips almost forming into a snarl. "What do you think I'm going to say to you?" He questioned, voice scarily quiet.
Nothing good, the young boy knew. He knew, already, he was done for, and yet, couldn't bring himself to regret joining the battle. Even though he hated fighting, the thought of it making him lightheaded, he had to.
He had to help.
Tubbo didn't respond, partly because he wasn't sure what to say, and partly because he knew Wilbur always pushed to have the first, and last, word.
But his older brother only threw his arms out in a questioning, exasperated motion. "Well?" He asked, louder.
Finally, the young boy looked away, not being able to bear the consuming eye contact any longer, gazing down at his hands. "That I'm in a lot of trouble," he whisperd out, trying to add a soft laugh at the end, but only accomplishing a choked noise.
Wilbur visibly swallowed, closing his eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to calm himself. "Do you have any possible idea what you risked in doing what you did?" He hissed, seething now.
Tubbo found himself shrugging, twisting his duvet in his hands absentmindedly. "No more than any other solider."
He heard Wilbur's two loud footsteps before he saw him move, but in mere seconds the young man had a death grip on both of his shoulders as he pulled him roughly to face him once more.
"You are not to fight on a battlefield, do you understand me?! Had I not made myself clear enough, Tubbo, because I sure as Hell thought I did!" The young man bellowed. "What have I said from the start, for both you and Tommy? You are forbidden from entering the fighting!" He yelled, chest heaving with stern force as he squeezed Tubbo's shoulders tighter.
Tubbo could only lie there, feeling as if he were drowning, along with the pressure of his brother's hands on him, weighing him down, and stare back with widened eyes and a tightening throat. "I'm sorry," he breathed, voice shaking and barely there as his ears folded in on themselves.
Wilbur released a strangled sigh, and his expression turned from anger to gentle concern with disarming speed, taking a heavy seat on the bed.
The President moved his hands from off of Tubbo's shoulders, placing them softly on either side of the young boy's face, cupping his cheeks. "I wasn't even made aware you were hurt, not until I saw you being quickly hulled away from me, because no one else did either," he explained. "What do you think I thought when I saw you being rushed to the hospital straight off the battlefield, covered in your own blood and sickness? What do you think Tommy thought when he heard you were badly injured?"
Tubbo choked on guilt, knowing his face must have been an expression of painful emotions, along with burning, watery eyes clearly visible, because the rough pads of Wilbur's hands on his face became even softer, yet more enclosed and encompassing.
The young boy shook his head, breaths heavy, but the President never removed his hands from his face. "I'm sorry," Tubbo whispered out shakily once more, as he knew not what else to say.
Wilbur stared at him intently, before sighing and taking a breath in, finally letting him go. "Your wound is healing nicely, considering, but you're still weak and need rest. I'm betting it hurts decently bad? You'll need to stay off it, Tubbo, I mean it. You don't want to exacerbate it any further."
Tubbo nodded, understanding, and not shamed enough to hide that his injury was very painful whenever he moved his right leg.
"How is Tommy?" The young boy questioned, worry blooming for his best friend.
Wilbur losed a half-laugh, framed by the slight upturn of his lips. "Asleep, finally, thank Prime. He couldn't rest for the two days you've been out of conciousness. He was too worried about you, but you know him, he'd swallow glass before ever admitting to it. Oh, he'll be so pissed when he finds out you woke up right after he went to sleep," he answered with another small laugh.
But the information didn't make the young boy feel any better, it made him feel worse, if he were being honest. To know he was the cause of his best friends stress and fear made his blood turn icy and his heart ache.
In the process of his concern and guilt, the knowledge of his being asleep for two days went blissfully undocumented.
"Oh," Tubbo mumbled out.
Suddenly, the young boy was wrapped in strong arms that pulled him against a chest he was painfully familiar with, having rested there many times before.
"You really gave me a fright," Wilbur spoke into his hair, and Tubbo could feel the metal frame of his glasses push on his head. "What am I to do with all the trouble Tommy and you cause me? I'm young, Tubbo, I should be vibrant with energy, but you two are aging me," he lamented dramatically.
Tubbo laughed, a quiet sound. "Wil, you're always frantic, physically and mentally, I wouldn't worry so much about becoming an old man any time soon." The young boy then paused, making a noise of consideration to himself. "Though, truthfully, you are looking a bit achy. Maybe you should go rest your crumbling, ancient bones-"
Tubbo was cut off when splayed fingers poked intrusively at the crease where his ribcage met his waist, letting out a squeal of a laugh in respose to the touch, and trying to move away from the feeling as much as he physically could without jostling his leg. Which was practically nowhere, since Wilbur still held him tightly to his chest.
The young man chuckled. "So rude, and to me of all people, your family?" He questioned dryly with a wry smile.
"Who-who better t-to make fun of than y-you?" Tubbo jeered, stuttering with fits of laughter and giggles.
Wilbur sighed, still smiling, but ceased his attack. "How cruel, but true." He leaned back, taking one hand and placing it against Tubbo's face once again, and the other coming up to softly move fluffy tufts of hair off the young boys forehead. "You'll be on bedrest for a while yet," he instructed.
The young boy swallowed back a noise of disagreement, but didn't stop it from showing apparently on his face. "When you said I needed to stay off my leg, I didn't think you meant being bound to my bed," he glared, dreading the idea.
Wilbur gave him a sympathetic look, but the determined, hard set of his eyes didn't give. "I don't want to risk it, Tubbo. You could stand to harm yourself further if you're walking on it, and then there's the apparent possiblity of infection, which is not something to take lightly," he stated with unmovable commandment, running his finger through the young boys hair gently. "Besides that, you're also not allowed to leave the walls of L'Manberg for a month after you're up and about again."
Tubbo couldn't help his eyes going wide, nor the spark of anger flickering in his chest, waiting to take hold of some sort of fuel and ignite into a mess of flames and heat. "Excuse me?"
"You're not allowed to leave the walls for a month after you're healed," the young man stated once more.
"I heard you the first time," Tubbo hissed, now properly angry. "What I don't understand is why. Tommy's gone against your wishes and fought before, three times, and you let Fundy fight, why punish me so harshly?" He seethed, pushing himself away from Wilbur.
Tommy had went behind Wilbur's back and participated in three battles, fought alongside fellow soldiers, because he couldn't keep that intense, bright, and fiery passion inside him from exploding in bursts of aggression, loyalty, and defensiveness, all tied up with burning emotions. But even then, even when Tommy had disobeyed, he'd only been forbid from leaving L'Manberg for a week each time, not an entire mouth.
The young man didn't move to follow when Tubbo veered away from his touch, sighing heavily. "Firstly, we've already been over why I allow Fundy to fight many times before, he's much older than you or Tommy. As for your brother, he was also not allowed to leave L'Manberg after every time I found out he participated in battle."
The young boy felt a deeper, more painful rage boil in his stomach. "Yes, for a week each time, not a month! Why is it I'm being so harshly punished?" He asked again, voice raised and cheeks red with hot emotion.
"This is not a punishment," Wilbur cut in immediately after the young boy had finished speaking. "It's not. You must heal, Tubbo, and, unlike Tommy, you were hurt, he never was."
The young boy found himself swallowing thickly, a knot forming in his throat. Not one of a need to cry, but of some other emotion he couldn't discern. Maybe it was everything he could feel jumbled together indecernably, lodging itself in his airway.
Tubbo turned away from his older brother, no longer being able to look him in the eye, and layed himself down onto his bed and plush, green-laced pillows.
He could definitely name at least one emotion he was feeling now. Shame.
"Hey," Wilbur spoke, placing a quiet hand on the young boys shoulder. "I'm sorry, my comment wasn't to demean your capabilities, I'm only worried about you," he spoke in a hushed tone, something so wholly unlike him it caused Tubbo to shift under the others hand. "But, besides your wound, as I'm sure you could tell, what with being in the middle of it, the fighting has become worse, and the Dream SMP forces attacks are increasing in frequency and power. I've begun adding much more border patrol and protection, as well as substantial additional funding for our military forces. You staying within the walls for so long has nothing to do with what you did in particular, but the increasing danger and war outside L'Manberg. Do you understand?" He questioned softly.
Tubbo shut his eyes, allowed himself to breath as his hands laying before him trembled ever so slightly. "Yes," he responded with the same quietness.
The young boy hated fighting, especially when it was with those he cared most about, so he gave no reason for another argument to catch fire.
The hand on his shoulder moved to his upper back and started rubbing in perfectly rhythmed circles. "I'm going to go get you something to eat and drink, and some healing and numbing potions. You're due for another dosage soon, anyhow, and I'm sure you're properly thirsty and hungry after sleeping for so long."
Tubbo couldn't, and wouldn't, argue with that. He tried his best to ignore it before, but his throat and mouth felt as if someone had stuffed cotton into them for the sole purpose of taking away any moisture, and no amount of naturally produced saliva could ease the dryness. He stomach felt like it was trying to tear itself apart, searching for any shred of nutrients available, and his thigh was starting to ache deeply again. All of this caused a unbounded sound of pain, somewhere between a groan, a wince, and a cry, to break free from his mouth as his face scrunched up in uncomfortable hurt.
Wilbur made a comforting shushing noise in response. "I know," he consoled.
Tubbo tried clearing his throat, finding no relief, and slowly turned to face the President. "Can you also being me some of the recent treasury documents and plans?" He questioned. "I need to get caught up on everything going on with our trade and funding."
Wilbur hummed with a slight shake of his head. "Tubbo, I really think you should be resting..." he trailed off, unsure.
"Please, Wilbur?" The young boy begged. "I'll be bored out of my mind with nothing to do but sit here," he explained, pleading.
The young man paused before signing with a smile. "I can never get you and Tommy to stay put, can I?" He laughed.
"Nope," Tubbo agreed. "We have to much energy, and who wouldn't want to be outside? Its been a lovely Summer so far."
The President nodded. "That it has. A nice, burning one." He ran a rough hand through the young boys hair, fingers grazing his small horns that hadn't yet grown lagre enough to poke through the fluff of his hair. "I'll be back," he said, raising from the bed.
Right as Wilbur was about to leave his room, Tubbo spoke. "When Tommy's up, can you send him in here, please?"
His older brother turned to look at him, hand on the door handle, and a faint upturn of his lips. "No need, he'll come the second he wakes." And then he was gone, shutting the door softly behind him.
Tubbo tucked himself further under his covers, curling up and staring out the window to the bright, glowing morning outside, the ground full and frayed, dotted with delicate dew, and the clouds puffed and pristine above the world. He wished he could be out there with Tommy, out in his small garden, but more than that, more importantly, he wished, hoped, everything and everybody was okay after the brutal battle.