Chapter Text
Phil had to admit, walking through the rebuilt docks of L’manberg, that Tubbo had done quite well for himself. Of course, he was a young president, his cabinet full of questionable appointments that bordered on absolute nepotism, but that was par for the course in a small server like the Dream SMP, and especially for a child president.
Through the mist, lanterns gave off a soft, ghostly glow as though they were all interconnected through the wispy, drifting air. Ordinarily, Phil wouldn’t have stopped to linger on it for more than a moment but even after hundreds of years, the loss of his son had touched his heart more than he had expected it to.
His son was gone, now, off in the afterlife to be looked after by his mother. Hopefully, he was somewhere nice, somewhere he could relax and get some help after his short but chaotic existence, so that when they reunited in some thousand years, he’d meet a healthier, less gaunt and fearful version of the boy who had begged him to put that sword through-
Phil’s breath shook as he tried to forcefully purge the thought from his mind; the memories of the blood which had gone everywhere, drip, drip, dripping down the gaping hole in the wall like a little trickling waterfall. Nothing, however, could compare to the soft beating of Wilbur’s chest pressed to his, the warmth of his body slowly tapering off till he was cradling what was just a cold corpse…
But that was all behind him – New L’manberg was as much of a new chance for Tubbo and the other children he surrounded himself with as it was for himself; he had a little house, now, a place where he could live amongst others for the first time in what had probably been centuries. It was a shame that Techno couldn’t be there, too, but he understood that his good friend wanted some time alone, alongside all the… other problems… associated with his presence in L’manberg.
The winds were harsh on the freshly-constructed docks as Phil wrapped his cloak tighter around his corpse-like body. They ignored all coverings, seeming to go right through him as though there was no barrier to speak of, but still he soldiered on to his own home which reeked of paint and new wood. Well, it was no Antarctic Empire but it was definitely beautiful, if simplistic.
A townhouse, Phil’s house went up three floors above ground but he’d already been at work digging down to create what he hoped would be the deepest basement on the server. There had been no real purpose to all the digging, at first, but at least it provided a calming, monotonous activity for him to take his mind off things. Phil’s afternoon was sure to be lonely, more time spent in the echoing pit which reminded him so deeply of that horrific ravine Tubbo had shown him fearfully.
Through the whistling winds, Phil heard a strange humming carry itself through L’manberg, as though it was coming from underground. Phil wrote it off as merely a mob of some variety, something unique to the Dream SMP that he hadn’t yet come across on his travels. That idea was much better than the alternative…
It only seemed to get closer, as though it was tormenting him, and Phil realised with startling suddenness that it was the voice of his son – his dead son – humming out to whatever would listen. It had a slight echo to it, the sound that was supposed to come from inside a cave or from a recording, but there were no caves nor recordings to speak of.
Phil clutched a hand to his ancient chest as he seriously debated whether he was hearing things. The voice – Wilbur’s voice – didn’t seem to notice his fear, bouncing through his ears without a care in the world, such a cheer in each small hum that Phil knew it couldn’t be real, not even a recording.
Though it pained him to say it, his son had never been that happy, never would be, either… He had lived a hard life, a life cut short and had been in recent weeks the source of most of Phil’s regrets. Wilbur was dead – there was nothing he could do to fix what he had done, there was no way to make it up to Wilbur. He’d stabbed his own son in the chest, hugged him as he fell down, acted every part Wilbur’s biggest villain and best father. He’d gone through the motions of both, and didn’t that make it all worse?
“Hey, mate, is someone there?” Phil called out, his voice quivering as he spoke. He probably sounded insane to anyone around, not that many were in L’manberg for the fog. It seemed that everyone in the cabinet was inside doing whatever politicians did in a modern server, waiting for the next crisis or, more likely (knowing the sorts of people Wilbur tended to associate himself with) creating one of their own.
The humming stopped and Phil didn’t hear footsteps but he did hear loud pants come closer, as though someone was out of breath and therefore breathing with much difficulty…
“Oh – Phil! You’re my Dad! Hey, Phil, how are you?” Wilbur asked, grinning as some strange blue substance fell from his mouth.
Only, for all that the strange spirit held Wilbur’s voice, there was no doubt about it that the vestige was not him. For one, Wilbur was perfectly solid his whole life, never feeling the need to drift into the state of a semi-translucent being, nor had Wilbur felt the dire need to float at all times, especially without the wings that were Wilbur’s birthright.
But the damning thing – the one piece of evidence that made Phil wonder if he was even seeing right – was the large, gaping wound of blue which had opened up this non-Wilbur’s stomach. Phil could see, if he looked close enough, the slightest hint of organs hanging out carelessly, and though the creature in front of him didn’t seem bothered by the pain, Phil had to assume, for all that logic dictated the rules in the Dream SMP, that it hurt a lot.
“Hey, mate,” Phil replied, dumbstruck as he looked into the eyes of the non-Wilbur. It had WIlbur’s eyes, yes, his soft little brown iris which held not even the slightest hint of green as though Wilbur was so rebellious he refused even Phil’s favourite colour. Oh, he was all his mother, down to the dark chestnut hair that was almost striking for how it seemed to bounce wherever it chose, and the spirit which stared him down was just the same, their shared lanky frame showed to him once again.
The spirit seemed unbothered by Phil’s fearful reaction, as though it had shown itself already that day to similar results. Phil wondered if it really had, or if he was merely going utterly, unfixably mad for what he’d done – a curse from Kristin, perhaps. for taking their boy so soon. Phil stared at his reflection in the eyes of what couldn’t possibly be his son and wondered when he’d gone so wrong.
“Phil, Phil, oh, you’ll love to see what I built!” not-Wilbur cheered, at least having the decency to not call him Dad again – his rapidly accelerating heart couldn’t take it, even after hundreds of years on the battlefield, the weak crushed underfoot in the thousands.
Phil blinked again (rather bird-like, Wilbur might have commented) and simply stared back at the spirit, unable to match its energy.
“Do you not want to see it?” it said sadly, as though Phil had any responsibility over the creature – it wasn’t his son, couldn’t possibly be his son… Right…?
“I do, mate, just… Wilbur, what happened to you?” Phil asked, gasping as the words freed themselves from his mouth.
“Oh, I’m Ghostbur, I’m dead!” Ghostbur announced cheerfully – not childish in sound but with an air of innocence that had not accompanied his son for many years, the voice of a softer-spoken and kinder version of Wilbur, something that Phil would have been overjoyed to see all those years ago if it was real. But this… this wasn’t real.
“Okay, mate, fuck, uhh, are you… How are you here?” managed Phil as he stared at his supposedly dead son.
Not exactly able to congratulate himself on his tact, Phil was relieved that Ghostbur didn’t seem to take offense at his question.
“Well, I blew up a nation and killed everyone – now I’m dead and I’m here in L’manberg with you!” Ghostbur cheered, wincing suddenly at something.
“Are you in pain, Ghostbur?” Phil found himself asking, though even that question was similarly tainted with a lack of tact and a certain desire for information that Phil knew he wouldn’t have held, hadn’t held all those weeks before Wilbur’s…accident.
Ghostbur seemed to turn blue for a moment, the air around him shifting colder as Phil realised that they were still in those cold docks, his mind no longer so distracted and overloaded by the sight of his own son that it refused to function.
“Well, it does a bit – ghosts don’t really like water, you see,” Ghostbur announced, moving closer and whispering as though it was all one big secret – a game, even.
It was then that Philza noticed the slight hiss coming from Ghostbur’s unsteady body – he was a ghost, sure, and ghosts weren’t renowned for their solidity, but Phil was fairly sure that it wasn’t normal for ghosts to be disintegrating as they moved about, little pieces of them coming off as though they were in a constant state of shrinking…
“Wil- Ghostbur, how about we get you inside?” Phil offered, outstretching his hand as though waiting for the ghost to take it till he realised the glaring error in his actions.
“That sounds lovely to me – do you still have those great tea sets? I always loved them,” Ghostbur mused, music to Phil’s ears even with the strange distorted echo over every syllable.
“You liked my tea?” Phil asked, his mind instantly rushing back to all those afternoons spent sampling ancient teas.
Once, when he had been an emperor with more subjects than he could count in a mortal lifetime, he had millions of different teas at his beck and call. While his supplies had dwindled over the years alongside his standards, Phil could still admit that his tea was a point of pride for him even in his old age, one of the things which had remained a part of him since before he’d known Kristin. That Wilbur had once shared the love for his tea tore at his heartstrings, even if this Ghostbur was an imposter or a hallucination.
It was only when Phil shut the front door to his house that he realised what he’d done – this strange figure, whether it was Wilbur’s ghost or something more sinister, was in his house. Phil almost panicked but he instead stole a glance at Ghostbur, endeavouring instead to mix something a little stronger into his tea, hopefully without Ghostbur noticing.
Phil maneuvered Ghostbur over to the kitchen table where there were two chairs perfectly placed to allow a quiet conversation over food. It was Phil’s opinion that there never really needed to be more than two people in any one conversation for it to be perfect; one person with one perspective, another with theirs – that way, the conversation could be more intimate – private; something that was unique to the two speakers. So, it was in that interest that he refused all other furnishings in hopes of using his lack of spare chairs to create the perfect social dynamic for him at all times in his own home.
“So, mate, what kind of tea do you like best?” Phil asked awkwardly, painfully aware that the once-tight bond he’d shared with his son was all but gone. Whoever Ghostbur was, even if he didn’t seem to notice the cold awkwardness which had made a home for itself in the room, he was nothing like the real Wilbur.
“Hmm… I like mint tea. Some people think it’s a bit boring but I like it!” Ghostbur declared cheerfully, a wide smile on his face as though someone else was pulling it. Somehow, Ghostbur pulled it all off without appearing malicious himself in the slightest.
Phil processed Ghostbur’s order a little slower than he might have otherwise, had the person he was speaking to been someone other than Ghostbur.
“Alright, mate,” he began, picking a bundle of tea off the shelf above the table. Instantly, removing it from the shelf created a tiny, slight cloud of tea-scent in the air, something that Phil found himself enjoying immensely for all that it was strong. It was almost grounding to his nose, giving him a calmness that softer smells didn’t have anymore,”let’s get the tea on.”
“Oh, okay! I love tea – it’s really interesting, actually, did you know that tea leaves are from-” Phil knew he should probably have been listening to Ghostbur but for all that he looked and acted differently to Wilbur, he ostensibly rambled just as well, as though even in death nothing could quiet Wilbur.
He walked over to the kettle in the kitchen, making sure to keep an eye on Ghostbur for all that he seemed innocent. It was a lesson swiftly learned on servers that even the most kind and innocent people were, under the surface, typically much stronger and deadlier than they initially seemed; like his own son. Once, he had wondered what threat Wilbur could ever pose, if any. After the explosion, his own home sitting on that massive crater, Phil no longer needed to worry, his mind at ease for Wilbur’s ‘lack of threat’. In the end, it seemed positively ironic that Wilbur was the one who had caused the most damage.
Phil focused on the kettle – water, it needed water – and he wondered for a moment how logistically safe it was for Ghostbur. Surely, Ghostbur would be aware if he couldn’t drink any liquids, right? Though, there was no saying how long Ghostbur had been around. He debated asking the ghost for a moment but, as Ghostbur continued to ramble on, Phil noted that it would probably do more to upset the ghost than anything else.
“Mhm,” Phil nodded, completely unaware of what the ghost was actually saying.
Half distracted, he poured a small portion of a water bucket he had kept in his inventory for months into his tiny kettle, allowing it to boil and bubble till Ghostbur’s voice was drowned out by the horrific sound, like mobs out for the kill.
Phil stared down at his own hands on the kitchen cabinet and wondered, not for the first or the last time, if what he was seeing ws even real. Once, Wilbur had lived as everyone else had, on the very same plane in a mortal-seeming body. Wilbur had never shown an ounce of supernatural qualities, that mortal force around him, a clear indicator that he was going to die, burning out like a star in one final act.
Phil had been right in that regard, of course, however Phil hadn’t anticipated whatever had happened after that – Wilbur (or, Ghostbur) was back, somehow, in a different form yet still recognisably Wilbur. Phil should have been happy – overjoyed, even – but all he could feel was the dull numbness that came from losing a son in one of the most heartbreaking ways out there.
Perhaps that wasn’t quite right; guilt he still had in spades, a powerful, all-consuming force which held as tight a grip on him as Kristin had herself all those years ago, her magic filling him up like he was merely her vessel. Those days, when they had been one, were times that his ancient body would recall with a special wonder akin to the warmest of summer days, his mind galaxies above the mortal plane and in his silly body all at once.
But Wilbur and Kristin, his dearest ones, were both far away from him now, even if a shell of his son was still right in front of him.
The kettle screamed for his attention, snapping him from his thoughts like the day he’d been uncoupled from Kristin.
“What was that…” Phil hesitated, unsure of his words,”Ghostbur…?”
“Oh- I was just saying that I’ve started building my house, then it started to get really misty. It hurts a bit, but it’s fine… I don’t think Alivebur hurt in the mist,” he mused, his words hardly audible through the shrill squeaks of the kettle.
Phil froze, hesitant to reply to ‘Ghostbur’, the creature who had just admitted that he wasn’t his son anymore.