Work Text:
Wilbur pressed a finger to his… wrist, yes, that's where his wrist would be.
Wilbur pressed a finger to his bloody wrist, continuing to carefully write out the symbols onto the altar, each word written upon an ancient scroll telling him exactly how to posture each image.
He did so almost leisurely, if not for the anger and pure exhaustion pulsing through, he would’ve thought he was breaking this seal for fun. On a lazy day.
Wilbur was a witch.
He has been one since the day he was born.
Wilbur grew up around the mythical, unknown, and unfathomable, his whole life. His parents taught him how to light candles with a single snap of his finger tips, his wife taught him the ways of weaving magic into song, his son taught him the joy of mixing spells with one another.
In those years he was called a spell caster, a good one, perhaps not above average, but a good caster.
But then his parents were hunted.
His wife was poisoned.
His son burnt upon a raging pyre.
Now, Wilbur was a witch. A cruel and nasty thing you'd tell your children to beware of. One that put curses and hexes upon others for cruel and unusual punishment, or perhaps the witches own morbid sense of justice, maybe just to watch one suffer for entertainment.
Wilbur will say he was not always what they made him out to be. But that „was“ is long before any regular castor and human life.
Now? He would put hexes and curses upon others for punishment he saw fit, no matter the cruelty nor oddity. He would do it for his own morbid sense of Karma. He would do it to watch one suffer and wither away like they were worthless.
…
Wilbur is the witch. He has become a folk tale the moment castors were said to be the reason monsters and evil exists and prevails, the moment that family became foreign and isolation became the new normal, he is a tale not one living being wished to be on the receiving end of.
…
Did you know a group of 270 castors is the reason the corrupt gods have not ransacked humanity into nothing?
Wilbur does.
All casters do.
But, Humanity does what it does best, it defiles and takes history from the losers hands and shows righteousness in a human kingdom's actions to the masses.
Wilbur was a young lad when the war ended, he was nothing when the gods were sealed, he had seen humans in their worst light.
He has no hope for them, nor himself.
So that's why, as he knows an army of angry knights and townspeople will arrive any minute, he writes cursed lettering with bloodied hands onto the sealed gods altar.
He is battered and bruised from being hunted for 313 years.
And he can't avoid capture this time.
So, whether or not he succeeds, he is doomed to a cruel fate. One much deserved for the blood he still does not care for spilling, he knows that in another eyes that no matter the revenge and out right mindless death is wrong.
These gods will not save him.
The people were never good to him.
And Wilbur wishes to stop running.
Wilbur closes the scroll, listens as the people’s marching comes in closer and closer in the form of running and screams and fire, he calmly looks up to the stoic statues…
Wilbur slams a hand onto the symbol, he feels the warm liquid beneath his palm and fingers, he feels the stone beneath his hand, and he feels the rumbling from the people coming closer.
…
Wilbur sighs, a tired and bittersweet smile gracing his face.
He truly is unlucky isn't he?
Wilbur shifts from his sitting position to look behind him.
In the coming distance is the familiar orange glow of fire and smoke accompanied by it, there seems to be the classic pitchforks raised, the peoples shadows grown in size to make them seem like monsters from Wilbur’s point of view.
Huh…
Hah..
Wilbur… laughs, he laughs at the irony, he laughs at his coming end, he laughs at the blood loss, laughs at obscurity at his coming end after all this time.
Once he’s done, he knows the people have heard him, he knows they are going to rush faster than before.
Wilbur turns back around to the altar, a feral smile on his face, „looks like I’m going to be joining in a long deserved nap huh?“ he said to the stone prisons in front of him, his tone hallow, „maybe this old scroll was shit, maybe my magic is just that useless, maybe you could give less fucks about being broken out…“ Wilbur trails off, „or maybe you would rather be broken out by a non caster?“ Wilbur wonders, deciding to just draw with his blood on the floor, entirely bored with the outcome, „Which, fair, if some human casted me into stone I’d rather sleep for eternity than let some human be the reason I’m able to cause death and ruin upon others lives,“
Wilbur looked over his shoulder once more, the people ever so slightly becoming easier to see in the dark evening and flaming lights, „I wonder how they planned my murder,“ Wilbur wondered aloud, „they could perhaps do the classic decapitation,.. no I‘ve committed to many atrocities for such a painless death, and I’ve actually reattached my head before and they probably think I can do that again,“ Wilbur looked to the dark sky, „hanging? No, the detachable head thing, perhaps throwing me off a clif? No they would assume I can still fly, even in this state,“ Wilbur moved his right hand to touch his chin, only to remember he got it cut off when blood touched the area instead.
Wilbur looks to the missing appendage, then back to the imprisoned gods, „ maybe dismemberment? A knight actually cut this off when I was running, she kept yelling about how I killed her fiancé or something,“ Wilbur rambled, feeling almost impatient for his coming death.
Wilbur looked back to the coming crowd in a hunched position, and looked back to the gods with a smile once more, „well,“ Wilbur said as he stood on shaking legs, „I can at least make a show out of this before my inevitable downfall,“ Wilbur put a his hand and wrist together in an almost prayer, closing his eyes as he stated,
„May death stay buried,“ He bowed to Mortum, the god of death and grief.
„May blood soil the ground,“ he bowed to Sanguis, the god of blood and pain.
„May chaos reign,“ he bowed to Confuiso, the god of chaos and suffering.
Wilbur turned back to the crowd, said crowd had stopped in hesitance at where he stood.
He knows they don’t truly fear him, he lost a hand is battered beyond belief because of these peoples unrelenting hunt after all, they fear where he stands.
They fear the gods' cruel hands.
For once, Wilbur does not blame them. Gods with unimaginable power, ideals, and speciality. What normal person would be fine standing upon an altar created to contain said beings?
A mad man, a murderer, a menace, a torturer… those are the few people who would stand where Wilbur is.
And they all (perhaps not the gods behind him because they were not there for Wilbur’s atrocities) know that Wilbur is that.
He is a mad man, a murderer, a menace, a torturer.
„won’t this be a wonderful reunion?“ Wilbur said, arms outstretched as if welcoming the people to his humble home.
A person, a priest, walks up before the rest, „you know you may be mad, cruel, and unforgiving,“ the priest stood tall, his form stiff and uncomfortable, „but you even recognize the madness in summoning those.. beasts,“ The priest's voice wavered.
Wilbur only looked down with his plastered on grin fading into an expression one could only call lifeless, his arms falling to his sides, only two thoughts coming to his mind.
No, he didn’t recognize his own madness.
And.
Maybe a bigger sacrifice is needed.
Wilbur smiled once more, maybe it was more of a beaming grimace, but a smile nonetheless.
He took his left hand to his holster.
It used to hold his wand, when he was normal, when he was optimistic, when he was kind.
It’s been long.
Too long.
Since when he could last be called kind
Wilbur raised his dagger, the townspeople readied themselves at the sight of the blade, Wilbur aimed it towards himself.
„May the gods kill us all for our sins,“
Wilbur stabs himself in the chest, stabbing it deep before pulling it out swiftly, he then falls backwards into the summoning circle.
For a moment, it’s silent, it’s peaceful as the beast takes itself out.
Then it’s rumbling.
Wilbur feels as his own body tries to save itself, he feels as his heart is trying to stitch itself back together despite the fruitless endeavor. he feels his own blood leak out from his hand and now his chest, he feels as the warmth is taken with it.
The rumbles of the ground, the screaming in the fog, and the blurring of his vision is calming.
Because, at least he chose his downfall.
And If there was someone who was to save him because of a misplaced savior complex? He might just kill himself to spite them as the world had spitted him.
Wilbur closed his eyes, the rumbling subsided, the screams hushed, once more was everything quiet….
Then someone harshly grabbed Wilbur face, the hand itself cold but the irony liquid warm, he groaned and looked upon who decided was going to be the last person he was going to see before he died:
Their face was practically indiscernible from the strong shadows cast on their face, blood red eyes being the only thing shown under the pure white hair that was stained by blood coming from a crown made of thorns. They wore a Roségold color armor he couldn’t make out the details of, and a large red cape.
Two others are behind the figure, out of his fleeting view of his surroundings.
„mortal, Why?“
They asked, their voice echoing, it was gruff but smooth, questioning growl behind their question.
Wilbur only smiled, one big and unnatural, „if my existence was a curse, I hope I lived to those expectations“ Wilbur felt himself fall away further and further, he closed his eyes once more, the armored fist let go of his face…
And then.. he was picked up?..
You know, he would care more if he wasn’t about to die.. maybe?.. man he hasn’t realized how apathetic he’s become.
Wilbur was being held how a princess would be held, like something cherished and treasured, it was odd. Wilbur couldn't help but snuggle into the hold his head practically in the crook of the being's neck, he was freezing, and by the fact that he was both dying and that it was autumn wasn't helping.
He heard words being spoken over him, ones he wasn’t sure what was being discussed, just that it was happening.
Then, the being holding him held him closer, it felt… weirdly possessive? Kinda like someone suggested sharing something and in response you just hold the thing closer.
Ah, cheers he’s being regarded as an actual treasure, how fun.
The being then moved him more, he vaguely heard another chase after, then all of a sudden:
They were airborne.
The wind was freezing, the being held him closer, and whispered:
„Your going to make a wonderful Blessed“