Chapter Text
Phil,
The northern forests are pog! We’ve been hanging around this place called Esempi for a while now, bit of a shit name if you ask me but hey, not my land. Tommy befriended this kid named Tubbo. I told him it wasn’t a good idea but you know Tommy, never listens to me. We’ve been practicing with potions, I think we’re getting pretty good if I do say so myself. Made some money by selling them to the local villages. I think something’s up though, they’re all so downtrodden, and the guy who runs the area, weird green fucker in a mask, they all seem real scared of him. Gonna keep an eye out.
Tommy says to give the cows a treat from him, and to not break your old back while you’re doing it. If you see Techno tell him we miss him!
With love,
Wilbur Soot & Tommy Innit
Sunlight shines through the canopy, dappling green through the leaves and pink through the shimmering bottled liquid. Tommy watches as it bubbles, tongue out in concentration as he waits for the perfect moment. Just a couple more seconds for the golden particles to fully combine. Three, two-
“Boo!”
Tommy shrieks in surprise, wings snapping open as he jolts forwards, knocking the potion off the stand. It cracks as it hits the ground and seeps into the earth, forgotten as Tommy turns towards the explosion of laughter behind him.
“Tubbo, you asshole,” Tommy says, smacking the laughing boy on the arm with the back of his hand. “I spent ages on that!”
“Yeah, too long,” Tubbo retorts, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’ve been brewing all morning, I’m bored.”
“Fuck you, flower boy.” Tubbo stomps at Tommy’s feet. “Don’t do that, you have hooves-”
“You two had better not be wasting my supplies over there,” Wilbur calls. He has his eyes closed when Tommy looks over, arms tucked behind his head as he reclines in the grass. Tommy snatches a twig to lob in his direction, wrinkling his nose as it falls short.
“I’m not wasting anything, it’s Tubbo’s fault,” Tommy says, not pouting at all. “And what happened to ‘our’ supplies?”
“‘Our’ supplies turned into ‘my’ supplies when you started using them to water the grass.” Wilbur teases, cracking an eye open into a playful squint. Sunlight glints off his glasses as he tips his head. Tommy’s feathers puff up in indignation.
A scathing reply is on the tip of his tongue when Wilbur sits up, losing his smile and focused on the forest behind Tommy. Tubbo squeaks.
Tommy whirls around, nearly unbalancing in his haste.
“Hey there Tommy.” Sapnap smirks at his shock, leaned back against a tree with his arms crossed. Tommy splutters an incoherent retort, jumping back as Wilbur gets to his feet. He rankles a little at the hand on his back, but allows himself to be gently shoved back next to Tubbo; noticeably behind Wilbur.
“Sapnap,” Wilbur acknowledges, dipping his head in a slight nod. “What brings you to our humble camp this evening?”
“Just a little bit of business.” Sparks play about his fingers as he talks, deceptively casual. “On Dream’s behalf, of course.”
At mention of Dream, the three potioniers stiffen. It’s not that Dream was unfriendly, really. He was perfectly cordial, but Tommy couldn’t explain why he just didn’t trust him. Maybe it was the mask, or the cloak, or the massive fuckoff axe. He made the villagers act weird, anyways, Tubbo included.
Sapnap huffs a laugh at the reaction, before falling into seriousness. “You’ve been selling to Esempi’s villages. Dream’s been kind enough to let it go until now, but you owe us taxes.” His hand drops to the hilt of his sword. “16,000 gold.”
Wilbur goes pale, scales standing out starkly against his cheekbones. Tommy feels faint. 16,000? They were only charging 5g per potion!
“I don’t know if you can tell, but we’re not exactly living in luxury over here.” Wilbur’s voice is tight, hands clasped behind his back. “We don’t have that kind of money.” Sapnap visibly surveys the clearing; two little tents pitched neatly side by side, the various logs and stumps used as furniture.
“My only concern is whether you pay or not.” He shrugs, coolly disinterested. “You owe us. Pay up, or get out.”
His eyes gleam gold, and the forest shivers.
“You have until tomorrow.”
The day dawns to silence.
They had counted out their meagre stash of coins, after Sapnap had disappeared back into the trees. A couple stacks of gold, half of silver, and a few emeralds from those who preferred the older system; nowhere close to the 16,000g Dream wanted. Tommy had thought longingly of the centuries worth of accumulated gold back at their home, guarded by Phil and an army of crows.
Tubbo had shook his head, when Wilbur asked if anyone in the villages could help. “No one in the villages has that kind of money, and even if they did they’re too scared of Dream.”
Time passes in a tense kind of stupor. Tommy’s wings shuffle and reshuffle, feathers bristling in unease. Wilbur digs gouges into the logs and the trees, clawed hands flexing on the hilt of his sword. Tubbo shreds the flowers blooming around the base of his horns, torn petals littering the ground where he walks.
Every noise has them on high alert; flinching at cracked twigs and crushed leaves and branches in the wind. By the time the sun sets Tommy’s muscles are sore from the constant tension.
They insist Tubbo stays the night.
“We don’t know what they’re planning, it’s not safe for you to be alone.” Wilbur doesn’t take no for an answer. Tommy agrees wholeheartedly, dragging Tubbo over to his tent. It’s not like he hasn’t stayed the night before, anyways.
The moon is high in the sky before Tommy can sleep. He can see a dim light flickering through the canvas of the tent walls—Wilbur is still awake. The thought is more reassuring than Tommy would usually admit. If Wilbur is on lookout, they’ll be okay. Exhaustion drags at his limbs, and Tommy finally allows his eyes to slip shut.
And he wakes to smoke.
The air is thick with ash as he stumbles through the tent flap, dragging Tubbo by the hand and rubbing at his burning eyes. Wilbur is already outside, squinting at a glow through the trees.
Tubbo goes stiff, and Tommy feels something like dread piece his chest as he tears his hand out of Tommy’s and darts away.
Down the little well worn path between the campsite and Tubbo’s house.
Tommy and Wilbur barely have time to exchange a glance before they’re following, footsteps thudding against the packed earth. The flickering light gets harsher as they run, rounding a corner to see Tubbo’s house in flames.
Tubbo stands before the firestorm, uncaring of the heat. The sound of their approach seems to snap him out of his trance, and he makes to lunge towards the burning building.
Wilbur catches him by the collar and hauls him back as a beam from the roofing crashes to the ground. The fire flares higher, sparks winking like stars against the night sky.
Tubbo struggles against Wilbur’s grip, a distraught scream tearing from his throat. Something within the heart of the fire breaks, and the building collapses in on itself, a wash of dry heat sweeping outwards.
Tubbo stills, and Wilbur cautiously loosens his grasp when he makes no further moves. He collapses to his knees as if the strings holding him upright were cut. His face is streaked with tear tracks and ash, staring at the blaze transfixed. Before him, something is gouged into the earth, lettered with sharp and jagged strokes.
We warned you.
“I built this place with my dad,” Tubbo murmurs. The fire has sunk to embers, crackling and glowing amongst the ruins. “It was the only thing of his I had left, after…” He trails off, blinking back tears. The ground around him is littered with dead flowers.
Tommy shuffles closer, brushing his back with a wing. Tubbo leans into the warm feathers, sniffing. “You never told us what happened to your dad,” Tommy says quietly. Wilbur shoots him a sharp look, but Tubbo lets out a watery laugh.
“I didn’t, did I? I guess I was just used to everyone knowing.” Wilbur still looks disapproving, but he wraps an arm around Tubbo’s shoulders, hand reaching to idly stroke at Tommy’s feathers.
“When Dream came, he didn’t offer anything in exchange for Lordship, he just wanted power,”Tubbo starts, wiping at his face. “And we didn’t want him here. So everyone who could fight joined together, from all three villages. My dad-” here Tubbo pauses, words catching in his throat. Tommy gives him an encouraging nudge. “Everyone called him the Captain. He was the best fighter in the villages, the leader of the militia.” There’s a fierce pride in his expression, shadowed by still-fresh grief. “They went up to the Community House, it was still being built back then, and told Dream that we wanted him gone.”
“No one ever came home. That’s why everyone’s so scared of Dream. He killed all our fighters, so we couldn’t resist his rule.”
Tommy has been reborn in many different kinds of villages, over the years. He knows what should happen, to leaders like Dream. How powerful can he be?
“They say his axe cuts through stone like tearing a sheet of paper.” Tubbo falls into a storytelling kind of cadence, almost songlike. “His generals spit fire and magic, and and if you cross him you’ll disappear. Pay your tithes and keep your head down, or your dreams will become nightmares”
“He’s taken everything from me.” Abruptly, Tubbo slams his fist into the ground. Wilbur and Tommy startle, but he’s already speaking, lit with incandescent anger.
“Fuck Dream!” He spits, shaking out his hand. “We didn’t do anything to him, we just wanted to live.”
As quickly as it arises, Tubbo’s rage fades from view, but Tommy can still feel it; a banked fire smouldering beneath his skin. His tail flicks in barely restrained fury.
The night is still. The world seems to hold its breath, and with a start Tommy gets a reckless, wild, wonderful idea.
“We don’t owe Dream anything,” Tommy begins, idea flowering in his mind’s eye. “Why should we, when he never did anything for us?” His eyes shine bright in the dark. “He wants to build a country? Let’s just make our own.”
A beat, before Tubbo barks a sharp laugh. “May as well,” he says, words acerbic. “What else do I have to lose?” They turn to Wilbur, bearing twin expressions of determination.
He blows out a sigh, looking to the heavens. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to stop you one you’ve made your mind up, is there?”
Tommy grins, fierce and unrepentant. “Not a chance”
“Fuck it,” Wilbur says, after a moment. “Fuck it! Let’s build a nation, boys.”
They burst into raucous cheers. It’s not a happy sound; it’s impassioned, and righteous, and something like grief all in one. It’s the sound of something borne from the ashes of destruction, and it’s theirs.
“We should remain peaceful if we can,” Wilbur cautions, over the clamour. “We don’t actually want to fight him, especially if he’s as strong as you say.”
Tubbo nods. “Words over violence. But I’m done living in fear.”
Stars twinkle overhead, fire sparks before them, and three revolutionaries plot their path into the future. It wouldn’t be an easy path for sure, but they were taking it with courage and resolve, and may the gods help anyone who tried to stop them.
Tubbo falls asleep as the rising sun tints the sky pink. His eyes bear dark circles and his face is drawn as he slumps in his spot, pressed between the two brothers. Tommy insists on being the one to carry him back to the camp, wings fluttering with every step as if they could give him any extra lift.
“Let him sleep,” Wilbur says, voice gentle as they lay him down in Tommy’s tent. “He needs it.”
They stop by the nearest village—Tubbo’s village—to buy the extra supplies they need for any independence related activities. No one will look them in the eye. They go about the exchange with heads down and eyes to the side, pulling their hands back quick enough to land just this side of rude.
They don’t overstay their welcome.
From the village, Wilbur follows the path they’d decided on last night, hammering stakes into the earth every few metres. Tommy trails behind, rope uncoiling from his grip as he knots it around the stakes. Black and yellow stands out in stark contrast to the surrounding forest.
“I still don’t know how we’re going to create a nation with only three people,” Wilbur says as they walk, borders trailing into existence behind him.
“Well Techno and Phil did it, yeah? I’m sure we can manage.”
Wilbur rubs the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up with a sigh. “They had a whole army, Tommy, and besides that—”
He cuts off as the forest rustles, too deliberate to be an animal. Wilbur clutches at a stake as if it would provide any reasonable defence, and Tommy tucks himself behind his back.
A figure unfolds from the bushes next to them, and Tommy lets out an unmanly shriek as he jumps back.
A fox hybrid stands, one foot still shrouded by leaves. With a practiced sweep of his tail, the well worn hollow beneath the branches is hidden. He flicks an ear, dislodging a leaf from his hair, and sneezes.
“Who the hell are you?”
Tommy looks outrageously offended. “What d’you mean, you’re the one who just popped out of a bush!” He gestures exaggeratedly, encompassing the surrounding forest and the wood-and-rope markers with a casual wave. “This is our land now anyways, we should be asking you that.”
His expression drops, an undercurrent of fear surfacing in his amber eyes. “You know this is Dream’s land, right?” He asks, quietly urgent. “You shouldn’t be saying stuff like that.”
Tommy scoffs. “Fuck Dream, man, we—”
“We’re seceding,” Wilbur intercepts smoothly, taking a half-step in front of him. “We’ve found Dream’s rule to be a bit too strict for our liking.”
The fox deflates, fear shifting to discontent. “It’s not like we really wanted him either, y’know.” He grumbles. “But who am I to stop you if you want to try?”
“That’s the spirit!” Wilbur says, clapping him on the back. “So, your name is…?”
“Fundy,” he supplies, seemingly resigned to his new company.
“Fundy!” Wilbur gives him a couple more slaps, near bending him in half with the force. “I’m Wilbur, this is Tommy.” Tommy raises a hand in acknowledgement, mostly content to stand back and let Wilbur continue his unorthodox interrogation.
“What are you doing out here anyways, Fundy?”
Fundy rubs the back of his neck, amusingly sheepish for a fox. “Dream and his men have been coming ‘round the villages more often,” He says. “I was sick of walking on eggshells, wanted some peace for a while. Guess I just fell asleep.”
Tommy and Wilbur exchange a half-guilty glance. “Guess that explains the reaction we got, then.”
“You’re not from around here, are you? What did you do to piss off Dream?” Fundy asks, curious despite himself. “Or the opposite, I suppose.”
“He was a bit of a dick to us, yeah, but our friend Tubbo…” Tommy trails off, uncomfortable. The memory of fire blazes in his eyes. “He’s from around here. Dream’s really done a number on him. Said he was sick of living in fear.”
Fundy watched with an intimate understanding. Slowly, though, his sympathy morphs into a unexpected kind of outrage; the look of someone just realising they too have a right to be angry.
“Say,” he pauses, cocking his head. “You wouldn’t happen to need any help with this secession of yours, would you?”
“Well, you were here when we marked the border,” Wilbur has a sparkle in his eye, the kind he gets right before he says something designed to get the greatest reaction. “That kind of makes you our first citizen.” Fundy, of course, doesn’t notice, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“You could say that, yeah.”
Wilbur places a hand on his shoulder, solemn facade hiding the devilry within. “You’re my son now, Fundy.”
He blanches, near recoiling as Tommy bursts into cackling laughter.
“That’s… not exactly what I was thinking,” he says, ears angled backwards. Wilbur hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close.
“You were born here! And as the founder of our great nation it’s my duty to take you under my wing.”
Tommy wipes at his eyes, a bit breathless as he says, “You know, I’m the one who suggested this whole ‘independence’ idea.”
Wilbur waves a dismissive hand in Tommy’s direction. “Oldest founder then, whatever. Would you prefer to be his father?”
“I think I’d prefer neither of you as my father, actually.”
When they get back to camp, Tubbo is sitting by the tents with exhausted eyes. His hair is brown without a single spot of colour, and the way it hurts Tommy’s soul doesn’t quite manage to be a surprise.
“This is Fundy!” Wilbur beams, seemingly determined to raise his mode through brute force humour. “He’s my new son, he’s gonna be joining our little endeavour here.”
Tubbo stares. “I fall asleep for a couple hours and now you have a son?”
The border construction goes a lot quicker with Fundy’s help. He knows the forest better than Tubbo, preferring to roam the woods in his spare time rather than stick by his village. He knows all the little fox trails running through the dark forest depths, the landmarks notable enough to make a border memorable yet too subtle for anyone else to see.
He also has very sharp hearing, a fact that they capitalise on to warn them of any potential threats before they get the fences set up. It is this skill that has them all gathered together, prepared, when someone new appears at the half-built gates.
They look ostensibly human, though something about the dark glasses they wear hints otherwise. They pause as they see the wary welcoming party, deliberately relaxing their posture and raising gloved hands in the universal sign of no-harm.
“State your business.” Wilbur’s tone isn’t cold, but it’s edging ever closer to a frosty snap. The last person approaching their camp had hardly brought good tidings, after all.
The intruder neatly clasps their hands in front of them, speaking with a low rumbling voice. “I go by Eret.”
“Hey, I know you.” Fundy had been eyeing them with wary confusion, a lighting flash of realisation striking as they spoke. Now, his ears flick forwards eagerly.“You live up in that big castle, on the other side of of the cliffs, right?”
Eret inclines their head in acknowledgement.
“You have a castle? That’s sick.”
They smile, flashing teeth in their first uncalculated move of the day. “My, hmm, family has lived there for centuries. Built it, actually.” They look decidedly pleased with the compliment.
Tommy’s eyes are sparkling, practically bouncing with thoughts of potential. Why don’t we have a castle?
“Except recently, someone has decided that he is the only one worthy of owning a fortress.” Their face twists, a deep burning anger etching furrows into their skin. “Dream trapped my castle, threatened to blow it up if I didn’t leave.”
"That castle means everything to me, and that bastard threatened it,” they snarl, and Tommy almost takes a step back at the sudden change, before they shift again and their anger morphs to charm.
“I heard you were seceding from Esempi, thought I’d stop by and offer my assistance.”
They exchange glances, wordless conversation flowing smoothly with the slightest gestures, but it was mostly for show. They’d already decided shortly after Fundy that anyone else brave enough to oppose Dream’s rule was welcome among them.
Wilbur, the leader in all but name, steps forwards. He throws his arms wide as he smirks, ever self-assured.“Welcome to the resistance, Eret.”
They take down the two tents, no longer big enough to offer shelter to everyone. Eret produces a roll of extra canvas from somewhere obscure, and shows them how to rig it all together into one big pavilion. They string it up around the great redwood tree at the centre of the camp. Wilbur is extraordinarily pleased with the extra space, rolling logs into place to set up tables for their brewing stands, and a couple of bigger ones as a desk.
“What are we gonna call it?” Tubbo says, one late evening. They’re all curled up in the designated sleeping area—originally separated into neatly partitioned sections, but that idea quickly fell to Fundy’s heat seeking efforts and Tubbo’s tendency to latch on to anything in reach.
“The nation,” he clarifies, when his only replies are a chorus of confused hums. “We don’t have a name for it yet.”
“Can we even call it a nation? There’s only five of us,” Eret questions. They’ve removed their gloves, revealing elegant clawed fingers stained dark with tiny scales.
Tubbo pouts. “What else are we supposed to call it? It doesn’t sound like we’re doing much if we just call it a village.”
“Whatever it is, it still needs a name. And I’m voting against traditional conventions, no ‘The-Camp-At-The-Centre-Of-The-Redwoods,’ please.”
Tommy flexes his wings a little, just to feel the brush of feathers against warm skin curled close. “What about Manburg? Since we’re all men here.”
“Eret’s not a man,” Fundy points out. Eret raises an eyebrow playfully and shrugs, a movement that ripples through the loosely huddled pile.
“I can be a man for this.”
Muffled snorts are smothered in blankets as sleepy thoughts turn in earnest to the task of naming their budding not-quite-nation.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t quite sound right.” Tubbo ponders. “Not enough gravity, y’know?”
Wilbur, quiet until now, shifts in the purposeful way he does before song. “How about L’Manburg?”
The world inhales. Somewhere nearby, a man in green looks up from his axe, whetstone stilling in his grip. Somewhere unknown, the wind catches pink hair as a warrior looks to the horizon. Somewhere far, far away, blue eyes crinkle with joy as a sleek winged crow bears a letter towards welcoming hands. The moment is insignificant to most.
But to a few, it is everything.
“L’Maaaan–burrr–g,” Tommy repeats, drawing out the word as if he’s tasting the way it sits on his tongue. He quirks a smile at whatever he finds.
“Yeah, L’Manburg!” Tubbo’s exuberance is broken by a jaw-cracking yawn. Hushed laughter drifts through the air, Wilbur getting up to dim the lantern as the unspoken cue to settle down is taken.
Murmurs meander their way between friends, the newly found name as repeated as a prayer in the dark. One by one, voices drop into gentle silence.
“Wilb’r?” Tommy’s syllables slur together, already half asleep but clinging to the last threads of wakefulness.
“Yeah?”
“Do you really think we can do this?” The quiet night has stripped away the layers of bravado, leaving behind a raw and sincere concern. “I don’t want them to die.”
There’s a million and one things Wilbur could say.
They’ll die whether you want them to or not.
Let’s run, you and I, back home to our father’s wings and our brother’s sword, where time is frozen and you’ll be safe.
There’s a reason our kind shouldn’t care about mortals.
He knows it’s far too late.
“Names are for luck,” he says instead. “We come from a family of sanctuary, and L’Manburg is ours. They'll be fine.”
“If names are for luck,” Tommy yawns, giving a drowsy chirp he’d never let free if he was properly awake. “Then this can be the, hmm, L’Mantree.” He waves a limp hand at the tree standing silent sentry at the centre of the tent.
“That is an absolutely ridiculous name.” Wilbur’s voice is soft. He runs a soothing hand through red feathers.“Go to sleep, Tommy.”
“The L’Manburg Declaration of Independance!”
Wilbur had spent the day curled over the desk they set up, near hissing at anyone who even looked as if they would take a step in his direction. He hadn’t allowed any curious onlookers even a glimpse of the paper he’d been working on, until now. He holds it up with beaming pride, fingers ink stained and quill still in hand.
“This document declares the territory which shall be henceforth known as L'Manburg to be seperate, emancipated and independant from the territory of Esempi.” Eret reads, leaning closer to peer at the looping script. “Independence is spelled with an ‘e,’ though.”
Wilbur splutters at the laughter, scratching out the ‘a’ with a quick movement.
“Shouldn’t this be neater? Official document and all,” Tubbo points out, watching Wilbur’s last minute fix.
“Well yeah, we’ll make a nicer copy,” Wilbur says, as he scrawls his signature along the bottom with a flourish. “But this one's for us. It’s allowed to be a bit messy.”
“Sign here, gentlemen.” They pass the parchment around the fire, quill scratching methodically. “You can put ‘Soot’ as your surname if you want, Fundy.”
Fundy rolls his eyes as he signs, squinting at the names above his. “You and Tommy have different surnames?”
“Adopted!” Tommy calls from across the fire, the last consonant catching as Tubbo shoves him into the dirt.
After a while, the exuberance dies down to a warm contentment. The Declaration is safe in the frame that Wilbur specially bought, after Fundy had gestured just a bit too close to the fire. Wilbur had snatched it from his hands, patting out the smoking corner and securing it to the tree at the centre of the tent. (“The L’Mantree!” Tommy says victoriously, as Wilbur, ever the long-suffering elder brother, shakes his head.)
Wilbur had brought his guitar out at some point, idly strumming bits and pieces of song. If they’re quiet enough without bringing attention to what they’re doing, they can catch words sung with enchanting tonality, soft as a whisper.
“Hey Tommy?”
He glances at Tubbo, seated next to him. Tiny flowerbuds are nestled in his hair, for the first time since his house was burned. He hums an acknowledgement.
“Do you ever wish you could fly?” Tubbo’s voice is curious, but toned in a way that says he’ll back off if the answer’s too personal.
“Well yeah, I think all avians do.” Tommy looks uncharacteristically wistful, staring up at the clouds with longing. “But Phil can, and he’s taken me flying before.”
“Who’s Phil?”
Tommy and Wilbur exchange a glance, unused to talking about themselves and their family. “Our dad,” Wilbur answers. “He’s an avian too, has these great big iridescent wings.”
“And he can fly?” Fundy says, impressed. Avian hybrids are fairly common, as hybrid types go, but having a wingspan large enough to fly? Now that is rare.
Tommy fishes at the neckline of his shirt for a moment, tugging out a pendant. Two feathers, one red and the other a shimmering black, are bound together by gold wire. A tiny glass vial is looped through the chain, a scrap of rolled parchment visible within.
“We all have one of these,” Tommy says proudly, almost bragging. “The feathers are mine and Phil’s, the vial has some of Wil’s lyrics since we didn’t want to rip out his scales or anything.” Wilbur obligingly flips his guitar around, showing a similar pendant attached to his guitar strap. He rolls his eyes indulgently as Tommy continues. “The gold wire’s for our brother Techno, he’s a piglin hybrid.”
Tommy can tell they’re intrigued, but he waves off further queries, tucking the pendant securely under his shirt. “My turn to ask the personal questions now.” He turns to Eret, sitting on the ground and leaning back against a log. “Why d’you always wear those tinted glasses?”
“Ah, they hide my hybrid trait.” Eret fidgets with the hem of their cloak. “People find my eyes a bit… unsettling, sometimes.”
There’s a brief moment of silence. Hybrid treatment had improved greatly since the ascendancy of the Antarctic Empire, but even that might couldn’t fix everything. It was safe to say the vast majority of hybrids knew a little bit about prejudices.
“Do you mind if we see?” Tubbo asks, carefully. They hesitate, fingering the arm of the glasses, and then slide them off in a jerky movement.
Eret’s eyes are a silvery white, brighter than anything Tommy has ever seen. A radiating glow follows their gaze, concentrated near their face but diffusing outwards quickly. He can’t tell if they don’t have irises, or the light is just too bright to see.
It could almost be unnerving; except the glow is mellow and warm, and without the glasses Tommy can see the anxiety creasing their face. A thin scar cuts across their cheekbone, dangerously close to an eye.
“That’s pretty cool.”
Eret smiles, and the glow seems to brighten, just a little. They leave the glasses off.
“My mother was with the militia,” Fundy says abruptly. His tail flicks with quick movements as he looks at Tubbo. “She used to tell me about the Captain, that he’s the best fighter we had and we were sure to win. I think he’d be proud of you, y’know. We’re continuing their work.”
Tubbo sniffs, eyes suspiciously wet. A flower bursts into bloom, right at the base of a horn.
“What was she like?” Tubbo speaks into the quietude, an offering in return.
“Her name was Sally,” Fundy smiles, a bit maudlin but so full of love. “And she was so kind. I never knew my birth parents, she adopted me when I was really little. She was an aquatic hybrid. A bit like you, Wil.” He looks at Wilbur, who had stilled at the mention of the name.
“Sally?” He says, frowning. “Long red hair, green eyes; pretty, almost lacy looking fins?”
Fundy looks stunned. “Yeah, actually, how—?”
“I knew her, for a while. Knew her pretty well.” A smug smile splits his face. “You really were destined to be my son!”
“Wait, I’m not actually your son, am I?” Fundy protests, alarmed.
Wilbur laughs, a bright, melodic burst of sound. “No, no. Not biologically, anyways.”
Fundy sighs in relief, head in hands. “Will you ever drop that joke.”
“Absolutely not.”
And for just this moment, everything was perfect.
Tommy is woken by a creak so faint he isn’t sure he heard it at all. Sitting up, he stretches his wings with a yawn, rubbing at his eyes and shaking out his feathers. Around him, the L’Manburg members sleep in a loose pile. Fundy snores lightly, tail twitching where it falls against Eret’s arm. Their glasses are set in a neat pile along with Wilbur’s; and in danger of being kicked by a dreaming Tubbo. Tommy moves them with a slight smile.
Staggering to his feet, Tommy pushes through the tent opening. The fencing that seemed so tall during the day, lining the outer edge of the L’Manburg ‘capital,’ looks flimsy against the night. He traces the perimeter with sleepy eyes, and his blood freezes.
The gates are ajar.
Why are the gates ajar?
Tommy was certain they were closed before everyone went to sleep, he remembers sliding the bar into place himself.
Wide awake now, Tommy hesitantly approaches, pushing at the open gate with his fingertips. It creaks faintly as the gap shifts wider, and Tommy gets a good look at the lock. The little mechanism Fundy had been so proud of was splintered, scorch marks staining the wood in splattered patterns.
Tommy’s eyes are wide, feathered ears twitching at the slightest noise. The forest beyond the fence rustles. He steps back from the gates, aware of every shadow dancing in the torchlight.
Then he sees the arrow.
Fletched with feathers in a familiar green, an arrow is pinned to the outside of the gates, buried deep in the wood. Tacked under the arrowhead is a folded sheet of parchment. He reaches out with a shaky hand, tearing the from the point. His ears flicker at a sound in the darkness, and suddenly Tommy has had enough.
“Wilbur!” he shrieks, paper clutched in his fist as he darts back towards the tent. Muffled cursing erupts as Wilbur undoubtedly shoots to his feet, disturbing everyone puddled around him. “Tommy!” he shouts, as a lantern flares to life.
Wilbur ducks out of the tent, squinting in the dark as Tommy stumbles close. The rest of L’Manburg crowds out behind him, worry a tangible cloud in the air.
Wilbur catches his arm, the pressure a reassuring band against his skin. Tommy’s wings are puffed twice their size, and he shakes as Wilbur’s gaze narrows on the open gates. Wordlessly, he holds out the parchment, crumpled from his fearful grasp.
Eret holds up the lantern as Wilbur unfolds the parchment, light playing across the dark ink.
“Declaration of War,” he reads.
His face is grave as he looks up. In the lantern light, without his glasses, he looks both impossibly young, and every one of his many thousand years.
“We’re at war with Esempi.”