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I never anticipated that I would write in this book.
I’m not the kind of person who is all too fond of keeping personal records, though I’ve always taken an interest in literature. I never expected to find myself in a position where my insight might mean life or death, though. Maybe it’s a good idea to organise my thoughts, just so I don’t forget anything important.
So, I’ll start from where I become relevant.
My name is Wilbur Soot, and I am at the head of the L’Manbergian Revolutionary Army.
Though I have never received formal training to be a General on the battlefield, I guess fate doesn’t care much about the specifics. I am presently in the middle of the preparatory phase for the war that will determine if we live, or if we die.
In under twenty-four hours now, I will lead my men into battle for the first time. We aren’t rich, by any means, but we are hardy, and I don’t doubt that I will be able to secure freedom for our rapidly forming nation. We are due to meet the Dream Team on the horizon, where the towers touch the sky. I don’t anticipate that we will have the height advantage, but that is hardly an issue.
Until then, I will continue to spend my time preparing mentally. I know I have delegated physical duties of leadership to my current right-hand man (I have never been adept with a blade) but I am still expected to conduct the army as a whole, and I need to keep Tommy in line, lest he gets himself killed.
This first battle will be decisive. I have faith in our nation.
May we prevail.
- W. Soot.
---
Wilbur’s journal was nothing special. It was a leather bound book, hand-crafted with care and bound by brown string every time it was closed. He’d owned it for years before writing in it, careful to keep it by his side. When asked as to what it was for, Wilbur would always deflect, tucking it away in his pocket.
He was almost never seen writing in it, or reading from it. Tommy was almost certain that it was actually blank, and that Wilbur was trying to pull a fast one on all of them. Tubbo, on the other hand, seemed convinced that he was just being some kind of genius, and that the book actually held the secrets of leadership within its pages.
They never managed to stay on the topic for long, though, kept busy by the manual labour of war preparations. Though Tommy would kill to see what the hell went on in his leader’s head, at the end of the day, he had more important things to worry about. Dream wouldn’t defeat himself, after all!
And so, the journal went unnoticed, safe from the prying eyes of the youngest.
---
Surprisingly, our first military endeavours have been a resounding success.
Though I can’t say I am fond of the after-ache that comes with active duty, I can’t be upset for long. Despite everything, we have pushed the opposition off of the towers, and we managed to force them into a retreat. Initially, I was worried our equipment gap would cause us trouble, but I ended up drawing a significant amount of fire while our soldiers took a tactical position abovehead.
We were untouchable. It would be exhilarating, if I were not constantly at risk of dying.
Still, my well-being is irrelevant, for the time being. I am fit to lead still, and we are currently at rest. I did intend to launch a further follow-up intelligence mission, in order to evaluate just how wide our skill gap is, but Eret informed me that they had a secret weapon below deck for us, and that they planned to show it to the battalion in an hour or so.
Of all the soldiers, Eret is a needed fresh breath of air. I doubt I would have gotten this far without their supporting position. I’m sure that this weapon will prove itself invaluable to the rising success of L’Manberg.
The Dream Team won’t know what hit them.
- W. Soot.
---
Wilbur set the journal down, sliding it into position on his admittedly over-cluttered desk. Papers with plans and maps covered the oak surface, pots of ink scattered around on top of them. He let out a deep sigh, stretching his shoulders one more time and wincing as one of his joints popped. He wasn’t old, by any means, only a ripe 24, but this war was taxing, and Wilbur couldn’t help but hope that it wouldn’t last for long.
A sharp knocking sound rang through the air, and he rose his head, eyes shooting to the door.
“Come in,” Wilbur said, summoning his voice of authority to the best of his ability. As he straightened his back, Eret walked in, a smile on their face.
“The weapon is ready, Wilbur,” they said, the glow of the lantern reflecting warmly against their sunglasses. The General smiled, rising to his feet and placing his tricorn hat atop his head.
“Excellent,” Wilbur spoke, moving forward to pat him on the back. “I’ll go get everybody else. This will surely turn the tides of war.” Just like that, he left, leaving Eret stood in the doorway of his office. The soldier’s gaze travelled around the room, before lingering on the familiar rust-brown of the bound journal.
“I’m sorry, Wilbur,” Eret breathed, before leaving to follow after their commander.
---
We were betrayed.
I formally retract any niceties I offered towards Eret. No, scratch that. I’ll curse them. Curse their lack of loyalty, curse their greed, and curse their easy sway. Curse everything - the Room, their benefactors, their smug, smug, smile.
Curse myself, for failing everybody.
Eret led us down into their Final Control Room like lambs to the slaughter, and I am sure they revelled in cutting us down. I had the misfortune of being the last to die, the last to make the chopping block.
The others were children. They do not deserve knives through their back. It was brutal. I can picture the horror of it, even now.
Safe to say, I do not care for the feeling of a sword through the lung.
Respawning is not easy, and it is not pain-free. We are all healing, albeit faster than if we’d been left alive down there. Tommy is limping, Tubbo’s got a headache. Fundy - my poor, sweet Fundy - appears to be temporarily blind. I, personally, am of short breath.
That’s not what’s important.
We have lost everything. Our bodies were looted - and, even if they weren’t, I could not stomach the idea of going back down to the sight of our fallen selves. Eret knew our stash locations - curse, I trusted them! - and they know our battle plans. I once believed that we could win the war. I now see that belief as bastardised faith.
The soldiers are still looking to me for strength, though. So, I will mask my wheeze, and I will lead them as I always do. We might have lost everything, but we won’t lose our honour.
I’m sure Eret wishes they could say the same.
- W. Soot
---
The journal felt slightly heavier with every day that passed. Wilbur found himself retreating to it at night, too disturbed to properly sleep. He was busy, always busy. Dream wouldn’t wait for him to be ready to lead, after all, so if he was to properly plan out his words, night time was the best time for it. Plus, it kept the writings out of the hands of the boys - not that Wilbur would dare to spill any secrets in it, after all.
It found a special place on the desk, nestled amongst the chaos. Eventually, it came to rest in the back left corner, right next to Wilbur’s copy of the L’Manberg Anthem, and just on top of a now-disused topographical map of the Dream SMP. The brown strings remained tied, though Wilbur was sure it was meant to be thrown out years ago. Still, he refused to let go of it.
Planning became easier with the aid of the book, though he would never disclose its existence to anybody else. Eret had taken his trust and ruined it, and so nobody would get to see Wilbur in a vulnerable state ever again. Besides, with the betrayal behind them, the army had a greater problem ahead of them - the art of de-escalation.
---
I have secured a meeting with Dream.
It took a worryingly long amount of time for him to accept my offer, during which we barely fended off multiple infiltration attempts by subordinates of their elite, but it has been secured. I feign my confidence when it is needed, but I can’t deny that this meeting strikes me with a level of trepidation that I’ve never felt before.
I think the weight of this rebellion is finally settling on my shoulders. I am responsible for these men, and I carry the sole blame for any lives lost. It is up to me to ensure this meeting goes through safely, to secure a future for these men - and for my dream.
I have topics planned for tomorrow, though I won’t detail them here. I intend to barter for our freedom - I’m sure someone as materialistic as Dream would not hesitate to accept material power in return for our peaceful existence. (Gods, I don’t fully understand why he wants us gone in the first place.)
We are recovering, albeit slowly. My breathing is nearly back to normal, and the others are back to full mobility. I don’t want to place too much stock in my own ability, but it is my job to do my best to secure a peaceful end to this war. I’m tired of death.
Hopefully, the end will arrive sooner, rather than later.
- W. Soot.
---
This time, Wilbur planned to take his journal with him, hoping to keep his thoughts close at hand at all moments. Today, he was the only man intending to be at risk. If Dream threatened death, he would be the only one to fall - the other soldiers didn’t deserve to go through the traumatic experience of dying again. Instead, Wilbur planned on taking the forefront, and if he died in the process - he would die for a noble cause.
Tommy approached him as he shrugged his jacket on, the shoulders sliding into place comfortably.
“Wilbur, I don’t want to surrender,” the boy said, a pout evident in his voice. He must’ve just gotten back from a resource run, because his cream breeches were spattered with mud, and he looked exhausted. Behind him, Tubbo trailed in, looking incredibly sleepy.
“We’re not surrendering,” Wilbur replied calmly, moving to tuck his journal away. “This is negotiation.” He brushed his jacket down, but Tommy only seemed to look at him with more curiosity in his eyes.
“The hell do you even write in that brown book?” the teen asked, tilting his head slightly. “You always keep it on you. It’s weird.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tommy,” Wilbur replied, buttoning the pocket up. “Go get some rest, I don’t know how well Dream is going to take my proposition. We could end up with a battle back at base.”
Ruffling his hair fondly, Wilbur hummed a warm note, before heading to leave the Camaravan. Behind him, the two boys stared after him, baffled surprise evident in their stares. They’d never had family, before.
---
I met with Dream, as requested.
He denied my offer. For a leader, he is awfully stubborn. I would commend him for it, if it hadn’t resulted in the deaths of my family. I can not forgive Dream for what he has done, and I hope he knows I have no intention of submitting to him - not after the atrocities he has proven himself capable of committing.
We are awaiting his arrival at L’Manberg - a secondary meeting, on our ground, since the first was on his. I do not expect a good outcome, but I must be brave in the face of the enemy.
Dream was responsible for Tommy’s death, a week ago. I don’t think he knows I know this. I’m sure, in his eyes, my guarded detestment of him is rather unfounded. Then again, an antagonist always considers himself to be in the right. I’m sure Dream believes that he is simply “guarding his territory”.
Well, I call it tyranny.
I don’t intend on repeating such a bloody battle. We are unmatched as is, our equipment gap widened by circumstance. I would rather die than watch these soldiers fall at Dream’s weaponry again - this is a commander’s promise.
My being scarred can wait a few weeks longer. In the meantime, I have a negotiation to attend.
- W. Soot.
---
Fundy knocked on Wilbur’s door hastily, his knuckles quick against the door frame. Wilbur’s head shot up, the quill in his hands freezing. Without thinking, he shut the journal, slotting it in his pocket and standing to attention to greet his son.
The hybrid looked panicked, ears flattened against his head.
“Dad, the - Dream’s here.” Fundy spoke, his words bleeding into each other. “The - The Dream Team - they’re waiting for you - they’re impatient, they -”
Wilbur hushed him with a calm shushing noise, placing his pointer finger to his lips. “Funds, calm down. I arranged for this meeting, this isn’t an ambush.” His son still seemed bristled, so he slipped into an easy smile, trying to ignore the twisting anxiety that was settling in his gut. “We’ll be alright. I’m going to negotiate with them some more.”
Fundy looked nervous, before he rushed forward, tackling his father in a hug. “Don’t die,” he mumbled into his jacket, voice thick with nerves. Wilbur rested his hand on Fundy’s head, returning the hug before the hybrid pulled away and stood to attention as if nothing had happened.
“I don’t plan on dying, Funds,” Wilbur spoke. “If you could gather the rest of L’Manberg outside with me, I think I’d like to send a message to our kind adversary.”
With a salute, Fundy scrambled off, leaving Wilbur to gather his nerves for the big meeting.
---
We are in ruin.
Dream, the curse, must’ve had Eret rig explosives underneath L’Manberg. The green demon detonated them when I least expected it, and now we have nothing. We are recuperating in a panic chamber, reduced to ashes, because we have lost.
I was far too hopeful to think we could have succeeded. In hindsight, I was a naive man, far too trusting and far too innocent.
It hurts to write, I must say. I caught my shoulder fairly roughly on the recoil of the blast, and strained it further when I stopped to help Fundy out of some rubble. Tubbo and Tommy, thankfully, evaded the worst of it, though I know they’re shaken.
None of us died, and yet I am responsible. So, I will take responsibility for ending this. I plan on surrendering to Dream, in return for our lives. Their lives, I should say, really. I don’t have anything to offer him besides myself. I don’t want to see any of my family sacrificing themselves for my wish.
They aren’t going to like this plan, but it’s all we have left. It’s all I have left.
- W. Soot.
---
Wilbur sighed over his writings, squinting in the dull light. His glasses were slightly cracked, though it didn’t matter much - he was excellent at adapting, and he’d been through much worse in the past. Still, his heart sank heavily as the realisation of the situation really settled in the air.
“We’ve lost so much,” he spoke, leader facade breaking for a split moment. The soldiers’ eyes rose to meet his form, narrowing in concern.
“This doesn’t have to be the end, right?” Tubbo wondered aloud, voice rough from smoke inhalation. He coughed at the end of it, wheezing a rattled breath, and Wilbur felt his heart sink more at the sound of it. “We’ve come so far. L’Manberg has come so far. This can’t be it.”
“Yeah,” Tommy agreed, earning a nod from Fundy. “I don’t wanna go back. We can’t go back now, they’ll hang us for going against them! You know what happened to --” The teen stopped before he said the name, hand clamping over his mouth when Wilbur bristled sharply.
Pushing down his fears, Wilbur tilted his head high. “I’m going to meet them on the hills. There, I’m going to discuss the means of surrender.” His eyes narrowed with sadness, and he paused his speaking, taking deep breaths to ward off the tears and the return of his weak lung. “Then, if Dream wants blood, I will be the only one to give it. You deserve freedom.”
“Wait -” Tommy spluttered, rising to his feet. “Let me come with you! I’m your right hand man.”
---
I am a moron.
I am an incompetent leader if I can’t even keep my brother in arms out of trouble. I swore I would be the only one to take the fall for my loss, I intended to be the only one to give blood to Dream for our surrender, and I promised I would not let Tommy die again, but I have failed him.
He is so stubbornly heroic. The makings of a great protagonist lie in him, and he is wasting his future on me. He is willing to die for a cause I could not even win freedom for.
We sought out Dream’s audience for a discussion of surrender, like I planned to. He met us at the peak of the hill, stood menacingly as if he were some kind of holy saint. And then, before I could intervene, Tommy was yelling, threatening him, and undermining my authority, and now he’s -
Well.
We have a duel to attend in two hours.
Tommy is presently practicing with a bow, outside, because he can’t shoot to save his life. He will have to shoot to save his life, though, or he is going to die for his nation.
I am a terrible leader.
If I cannot stop even one person from dying, have I really achieved freedom?
- W. Soot.
---
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, number ten paces - fire!”
Wilbur’s hand came down with a powerful drop, sending both arrows flying. He breathed a sigh of relief when both missed their intended mark, silently watching as the two warriors nocked a second arrow and dove to the side to take a second shot. Tommy drew back his bowstring, raising his weapon in the air, and then--
Strike.
Dream’s second arrow pierced him right in the chest. Tommy stumbled once, twice, thrice, and then -
Thunk.
He was on the floor.
Feeling his blood run cold with fear, Wilbur dropped the pretense of collectiveness, sprinting towards the side of his fallen brother. In the background, the other L’Manbergians were locked in place, their boots glued to the earth by shock, but Wilbur found their presence blend into the background as he dropped to his knees.
“Tommy, Tommy-” he breathed, voice thick as he gently helped support his soldier’s head. “Tommy, look at me. You’re alive, right? You’re still alive?” Wilbur should have been more careful. He should have taken Tommy’s place, he should have called the duel off, he should have --
Tommy coughed weakly, blood sputtering from his mouth and spraying on Wilbur’s jacket. “Wilbur?” he breathed, before breaking down into a coughing fit. “Sorry I couldn’t win.” His voice rang with childlike optimism, despite the raw pain of the arrow ledged between his ribs. Slowly, but surely, his breathing slowed, and Wilbur felt something in him break.
Eyesight blurring, Wilbur buried his head in Tommy’s chest, sudden remorse for this child overflowing from his heart. He’d lost. They’d lost. Tommy would be back, soon enough, but they’d all lost irreparably. He felt his shoulders shudder as he sobbed into Tommy’s lapel.
Behind him, Tubbo and Fundy approached, placing supporting hands on his back as they knelt. Side by side, they mourned for their brother, and their nation, blinded to the sight of Dream disappearing into the distance.
--
We lost.
Tommy has yet to respawn. We decided to bring his second body back to L’Manberg, though it is still demolished, and is due to be disbanded. It is only fitting that we honour his sacrifice.
I requested to be left alone while we wait for Dream to arrive. I can’t stand to be around them right now. I can’t help but feel responsible for this loss. He was so hopeful for this nation, for freedom from Dream, and yet I failed him. I let him die twice. I am a coward.
They will be here any moment soon, and I don’t know what will happen. I presume Dream will want to take some reparations for the war costs. I will offer myself. Without my nation, I don’t have anything to continue for.
I can only hope that -
---
Wilbur’s disillusioned writing was interrupted by the noise of someone approaching the Camaravan wreckage. Pulse skyrocketing in surprise, Wilbur wiped roughly at his eyes, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious to Dream that he’d been crying mere moments before the death of his ambition.
Smoothing out his jacket, he rose to his feet, headed towards the noise. He left his sword and his journal behind - they wouldn’t be needed any longer. The war was officially over.
To his surprise, though, instead of a green figure appearing through the walls, a tentative spry boy poked through, face widened in a smile. Wilbur could hardly believe that he’d just died - hell, if he hadn’t known any better, Wilbur would guess that he’d won the duel rather than lost it.
“Tommy? What’s happening? Are you okay?” Wilbur spluttered, rushing forward to support him when he stumbled through the gates. Tommy remained bright through his exhaustion, smile bright on his face.
Meeting his gaze, the soldier beamed widely. “Wilbur, I’ve just bought our independence.”
---
I never thought I’d have a drive to use this journal past the end of the War, but I find myself writing in it again. My roles as a General have ended, but they have instead been replaced with something new.
I should explain.
Tommy bought our independence with a pair of music discs. I’m not quite sure what they meant to him, but they were valuable enough for us to be able to remove ourselves from the SMP and finally establish our own government.
He spent a few weeks recovering from the shot, while we repaired the nation. I found myself re-titled as President - it’s an awfully prestigious title, but I suppose I’m the only one who could have taken it. The rest of the L’Manbergians are children after all, and this nation is my child. I hope I can finally lead it to the freedom it deserves.
Our re-building has been going well. The structural terraforming has already been complete, and we have already established homes for each of us. Fundy requested a separate home to me - that’s fine, he’s growing old, but I can’t say I won’t miss the company of sharing a base.
We are free. We are beginning to prosper. I ought to be happy. I think I’m happy.
Perhaps I should write to Dad soon.
- W. Soot.
---
“Hey, Wilbur, does your Presidency make me your Vice President?” Tommy asked Wilbur, leaning into him as he tried to write something down. “Does it? I bet it’d be a sick rank. Cos I’m your right hand man.” Despite his recovering injury, he was full of energy, and for a moment, Wilbur envied his spark. Tommy’s excitement was a good thing - it meant he was sleeping well.
Wilbur pretended to think. “Well, I guess it does.” He let Tommy whoop for a moment, before cutting in again - “As long as you stop being a little gremlin.”
Tommy whacked him, though it was hardly hard enough to hurt, and Wilbur tried to shove him off.
“Hey! I’m not a fuckin’ gremlin!” he complained, scrambling back to lean on the President’s shoulders.
“If you weren’t a gremlin, you’d leave me alone so I could get this writing done.” Wilbur replied, rolling his eyes. Tommy stuck his tongue out, leaning over to look at the paper.
On the desk was his journal, open to a blank page. Tommy immediately struggled to see it better, but Wilbur shut it instantly, levelling a glance at his right-hand man.
“No peeking. This is my private book, Toms. Go get your own.”
Grumbling, Tommy peeled himself away, staggering to his feet. “Fine, old man, I’ll go get my own “private book”, and it’s gonna be so much better than your old man personal writing.” Just like that, he disappeared out of the old office, leaving the door open behind him.
Wilbur felt himself slump against the desk. It was harder and harder to feign his old levels of snark, but it was worth it. If Tommy thought he was weak, Wilbur might lose his respect again. L’Manberg had to know he was strong.
---
I think I’m happy.
Is this happiness? I don’t think I quite remember the definition of the word. I am content. I am proud of my nation. But am I happy?
I find myself putting up a facade now, an air of authority. It’s expected from me, I’m President. If I am not carrying myself with pride, then something is wrong, and if something is wrong, somebody might die. I am unwilling to let any more people die.
Still, the pressure is immense. I feel as if I have taken a thousand tonne weight upon my shoulders, and I am expected to walk with it as if I am a hero. I am no hero, of course - I could not even convince Eret to stay loyal to me - but I have to pretend, or else there will be consequences.
Reconstruction is going smoothly, even with my being stuck working on paperwork.
I’m sure I will work myself out of my insecurities in due time.
- W. Soot.
---
Wilbur hefted a box into his new house, letting out a wheeze as it dropped to the wooden flooring. He didn’t have many personal items - just a few boxes of clothing, and some newly crafted furniture. Unpacking could wait, though. With Presidency came great responsibility, and Wilbur shrugged off his exhaustion in order to return to his desk, sliding one of the freshly delivered papers in front of himself to sign.
They were building permits. As a result of their new baseline government, Wilbur had spent a good few weeks creating brand new forms and formatting styles for the official documents the nation would need. Now they were in action, he regretted making them so complicated. Taking a quill, he slid his journal out of sight, quickly getting to work on finishing the form. It was absolutely necessary, a permit allowing the formal residence of newer citizens in the now-flourishing nation.
Wilbur sighed. He hadn’t slept in about two days, admittedly, and he felt as if he was carrying rocks. Still though, he kept his head up. It wasn’t like he could sleep if he wanted to, anyway, because closing his eyes meant remembering, and remembering meant -- well. That was a theory Wilbur didn’t really want to test.
---
I ought to be happy.
I am free, and every day, I see the L’Manbergians happy and flourishing. I should be happy, too. I don’t have any right to be anything but.
The human mind is so awfully complex, and never in a way that helps me. It seems so hell-bent on making me linger on my mistakes, and my failures. I haven’t been sleeping - that’s for good reason. Every time I close my eyes, I find it so easy to picture the duel. A child shouldn’t have any need to be so strong in the face of danger.
A child should not need to withstand hell to secure freedom.
What have I done for my nation, besides propose it? Sign some papers, build some wall foundations? I don’t know. I should know, though. I am their backbone. If I am weak, they are weak.
I have no choice but to be strong, from here on out.
- W. Soot.
---
There was always so much work to do. Paperwork piled upon paperwork, and new laws needed passing, and debates needed mediating. Presidency was rough, and Wilbur was feeling it. He lay on his half-made bed, unwilling to change. Willing the urge to move was somehow harder than fighting, lethargy infecting Wilbur’s limbs like a disease. How long had it been since he woke up?
Grumbling, Wilbur tugged on his uniform, frowning at the restrictive fabric. He felt sluggish - perhaps from a lack of sleep - but restless, limbs fizzing with frustration. A pile of undone paperwork sat before him, a long complex of legal arguments in relation to the creation and destruction of an alley market dispute with Dream. They seemed to mock him, lines and lines of unfilled legalese laughing in his ear. On top of them, his journal lay open-spread, untouched for days.
The burden was too much. The burden was so much. Wilbur felt as if he were still mourning the loss of Tommy from the day of the duel, even though he was still alive. Hell, last week, he’d spent a solid hour paying his respects to the gravesite of a living person. He’d considered stepping in the Final Control Room one last time, only to back out at the last moment. Closure was so close, but so far.
Wilbur felt his hands tremble as he slouched over the desk, and placed his head in his hands. As his barriers fell down, he felt himself begin to cry.
---
(The page is tear-stained.)
I underestimated the cross of Presidency.
Fundy is avoiding me, though I’m not sure why. I find it difficult to move most days, stuck inside my house completing paperwork before it is late. When I do find time to go out, it is at midnight, standing guard by the walls.
The boys are happy, I think. Niki treats them well, and it’s what they deserve. I let them die, after all. I need to keep them safe from outside threats.
Yesterday, Tommy almost started another war. He got into a fight with Dream, and he and Tubbo stole his gear. They almost refused to give it back, until I attempted to intervene.
The issue is, they almost didn’t listen. I was undermined once again, my title merely decorative. It’s understandable, I don’t seem to deserve my rank. But it’s disheartening.
It would appear that everything is disheartening, these days.
If they don’t respect me, this nation will fall apart. I will have failed them, again. I can’t do that.
I can’t.
- W. Soot.
---
Fundy and Tubbo seemed to be at each other’s throats, and Wilbur wasn’t sure quite why. He’d been called out to mediate their debate, only to be met with a petty argument that could escalate into something really dangerous.
“Dad, you have to understand, I didn’t mean to upset Tubbo!” Fundy explained, “I did what I had to do! I did what you would have done.”
Tubbo seemed to dislike that answer, pushing him aside. “You didn’t have to do any of that! I had nothing to do with it!”
Wilbur looked between them, exhaustion hitting him all of a sudden. Taking a deep breath, he willed the Sky Gods to bless him, before standing straight and sweeping his gaze over the two. The boys seemed to wilt under his watchful eye, but neither of them showed any signs of backing down.
“Look, we can’t have infighting in L’Manberg. You’ll tear it apart.” Wilbur sighed. “Fundy, you should repay Tubbo for some of what you broke.” At that, the hybrid spluttered in surprise, but Wilbur cut him off with a sharp tut. “Tubbo, you should try and hear Fundy out, next time.” Tubbo frowned, pouting at his words.
“I don’t want to hear news about this happen again. All clear?” Wilbur spoke, trying to catch their eyes.
Neither Fundy or Tubbo responded.
---
I have no authority.
I attempted to mediate a dispute between Fundy and Tubbo, today. Though I advised them as best as I could, neither of them were willing to listen to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they went back to squabbling immediately.
It was just a small argument, but it is something dangerous. If they refuse to listen to me now, when else will they refuse? When will they realise that I am not so strong, or that I am a coward of a President? When will my family follow after Eret, and leave this nation in disrepair? I don’t know.
I have to do something about it. Is there a legal way to reassert my authority? It would be for the greater good, for the future of L’Manberg, but I can’t simply declare myself a dictator. I cannot stand the idea of being the same as Dream.
I don’t know what to do.
- W. Soot.
---
The nation was falling apart. Wilbur paced his bedroom, hands running through his hair antsily. He was losing control - not that he’d had any control, anyway. It was obvious people were unhappy, and he was failing, because it is a President’s job to keep people optimistic. How on Earth was Wilbur failing even that?
He sat on his half-made bed heavily, leaning forward and cupping his face in his hands. He had to do something. But what should he do? Every day, he felt like screaming into his pillow, or running away from the stress, but - he couldn’t. Abandonment was worse than betrayal, and Wilbur would rather die than commit something worse than Eret’s atrocity.
His breaths came back choked, tears attempting to work their way forward, but he swallowed them back, trying to steady his breath. Think, think, think - there had to be a solution to the crisis! There had to be a way to fix the criminal lack of authority in L’Manberg, right? Wilbur refused to let his symphony go unfinished, after all.
Suddenly, the President’s head shot up, eyes red with tears that still threatened to spill over.
---
(The page is heavily tear-stained.)
I have struck upon a goldmine idea.
If authority is my power, and the reason I am being disrespected is because I have not earned my respect, then I can always earn it now. Most leaders are democratically elected, but I was not. However, it would be fairly easy to implement democracy into such a small nation.
I’m sure this would benefit the ideas I had for freedom - even if I am driven to starting an one-party election. Democracy is fair, after all. And fairness leads to respect.
So, I will hold an Election.
The First Democratic Elections of L’Manberg.
- W. Soot.