Chapter Text
Wilbur strolled across the ruins of L’manberg, his boots thudding on the rocky terrain. Three boys – his brother, the former-president, and an enderman hybrid – followed him silently.
“You’re still building around this?” Wilbur says, looking around, hands clasped behind his back.
Tommy’s face became oddly pinched. “...yeah.”
Wilbur scoffed and kicked away a rock, watching it tumble down the crater that was once his beloved country.
“People are still holding on to the ghosts of the past,” Wilbur whispered to himself, frowning. Then he sighed in disappointment. The man turned to look at the trio.
“Leave me,” he says firmly, leaving no room for any arguments.
Tommy opened his mouth to protest but decided not to when Tubbo none-so-gently stomped on his foot.
“Alright,” the blond boy muttered grudgingly. “Let’s go, lads.”
The enderman hybrid – Ranboo, his mind supplied helpfully – looked apprehensive, glancing at his friends then back at Wilbur. Red and green eyes surveyed him as if suspicious.
Wilbur stared back, unfazed.
Ranboo wavered, stepping behind Tubbo, a hand on the brunet’s shoulder.
Tubbo smiles at him hesitantly, waving his hand in farewell and Wilbur inclines his head just to be polite.
The three boys left, and Wilbur allowed himself to sigh, his shoulders slumping from the tension leaving as he turned back to his L’manberg. His great unfinished symphony.
But then again, it was probably not so great to start this country out of a drug van and dragging his little brother with him and his plans of a “free” country.
Wilbur walked towards his secret clearing, noticing the birch tree that marked it was now gone. Instead, a slab of smooth stone replaced it, there was a lovely bouquet of peonies on it too. Oddly enough, they still seemed fresh. How is that possible?
He came closer and sat criss-cross near the stone, pale fingers curling around the bouquet as he brought it close. They, indeed, are still fresh and fragrant.
Then he looked over to the slab curiously and almost forgot how to breathe.
There, carved on the stone, was his name. It was a grave. His grave.
He felt confused. Tommy told him he wasn’t given one. Eyes narrowed suspiciously. Who?
“Dream,” he says aloud breathlessly as realization came crashing down. Only Dream knew about this place and what it meant to Wilbur. Only Dream knew about his love for pretty and fragrant flowers. Wilbur might’ve chit-chatted with Dream about his favorite things whilst he was working with him. But never in his life he would’ve thought that Dream was the one that created his final resting place.
Wilbur gently places the flowers on top of his grave. His hands shook as he runs his hand over the carvings. Wilbur Soot.
Warmth blossomed in his chest. He realized he quite liked the feeling. He smiled.
Dream cared enough to mourn him.
He should really thank the man, his hero, for bringing him back to life. Years in that awful train station with Schlatt as his only company was simply terrible and super stressful.
Wilbur leaves the clearing with a silent vow to visit.
Did his father even mourn him? Did he even care?
No. Wilbur told himself firmly. I have disappointed my father far too many times.
What use was a disappointment of a son like him to a great old warrior like his father?
It was clear that the Angel of Death cared more about the piglin he took under his wing (literally) more than his own biological son. It simply isn’t fair.
He sighed deeply, allowing his mind to wander.
He needs to get away from Tommy. Maybe if he told Tommy he needed some space to think and to ‘finally explore the server since Dream didn’t allow us to’... maybe that would take the kid off his back without him getting suspicious.
Perhaps he should take a page out of Techno’s book and become an anarchist instead.
It was clear that anyone with power over others would sooner or later get corrupted by it. It happened to Schlatt, it happened to him, it happened to Dream.
Dream. Dream. Dream... Tommy had mentioned the green-clad warrior was arrested and thrown into prison a couple of months ago with Sam stationed as the warden.
“Quackity visits him every day,” Tubbo had said.
Ranboo said nothing, only looking uncomfortable and unsure with the subject.
Wilbur takes out his communicator and types in ‘D-R-E-A-M’. Once he was in Dream’s log, he began reading a very long chain of yellow death messages.
No. This won’t do.
Anger rose from inside him. Completely unacceptable.
Pocketing his comms, Wilbur stares at Pandora’s Vault in the distance.
It seems like he has an escape to plan, a house to build, some items to take, and a certain blond prisoner to break out.