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L’Manburg was beautiful this time of year.
Wilbur sighed, leaning back on his hands as he took in the sight. The pre-dawn wind gusted, sending his white-streaked fringe fluttering, but it wasn’t cold. Not yet, not in L’Manburg, not until December.
Although the trees had lost all their leaves, and the grass was an ugly half-brown due to the frost they’d had a few nights ago, the sight was enough to make his heart clench. L’Manburg had always been stunning – almost enough for a postcard – in the blue hours of the morning, when the sun had risen for everybody else but had yet to climb over the hills surrounding them.
He didn’t get to see this sunrise often, since both Paradise and Phil’s were so far away. But last night had been bad for sleep, and so he’d grabbed his coat and made the trek out to L’Manburg while the moon was still high in the sky.
It was November sixteenth, today. Wilbur shivered at the sudden cold around him, and pulled his coat tighter.
The anniversary of the second war, and the button, and TNT. The anniversary of him killing h- dying. Of his death.
According to Ranboo, that was only one year ago. And Wilbur believed him; Ranboo was not a liar. He showed all his cards and gained people’s trust, and that level of confidence was, frankly, admirable.
But to him, it had been fourteen years since that day. Thirteen and a half in the station, and going on seven months back here. Thirteen anniversaries there, one here. He tried to do the math – had he already celebrated his fourteenth, technically? – then quickly gave up. It didn’t matter. It was November sixteenth, and that meant it was the anniversary.
Peering through the shadows, he tried to make out where exactly everything had been, that day. It was hard, given that pretty much everything was razed to bedrock, but Wilbur knew his country. It was engrained into his mind.
There had stood the walls, framed just so against the sky, and the Camarvan, right next to the river that now ran into a cascading waterfall, and the podium had had its back to that hill, and… wait, was that where the button room-?
And then the sun crested the hill, sending him reeling back from how bright it was, shimmering over the water and bathing the valley in golden rays. Same as that morning he’d come back. Wilbur’s lips parted in awe, curling up in a smile at the sight.
For the next while, he simply sat, and watched. All thoughts and nightmares gone, for once, as the sun slowly climbed up the cloudless sky.
Grass crunched behind him, barely audible.
Too caught up in a surface-level illusion of peace, Wilbur placidly turned around to see who it was. It made his heart pound as he scrambled to readiness, prepared to jump to his feet and fight or bolt off.
There stood Eret: the King, the traitor; his old friend and most despised. Dressed in a plain white poet’s shirt with an unassuming red cloak flowing behind them, and a simple golden circlet on their hair matching with the rapier in their belt. Hardly an outfit fit for royalty, and impossibly different from their ostentatious dress when he’d last known them.
They dipped their head respectfully, and murmured, “Mind if I sit?” Mouth dry, Wilbur shrugged. It’s not as if he could stop them.
Eyes locked on Wilbur, which he returned, they stepped up and kneeled next to him, although a good distance away. Slowly, they reached a hand down to the emerald-laid hilt of their sword. Wilbur tried to supress his flinch at the quiet shing as they pulled it out.
Eret met his gaze evenly. Wilbur’s hands clenched. Get it over with, some part of his mind whispered.
They threw the sword behind them. It glimmered in the sunrise’s golden light, and landed softly on a bed of grass.
Suddenly feeling very distant, Wilbur forced himself to breathe. He flickered his gaze back to Eret, who was staring ahead at L’Manburg’s new valley, face unreadable behind the sunglasses.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” they asked, and it took Wilbur a moment to realize they were talking to him. He nodded, and unclenched his hands. “L’Manburg.”
He didn’t feel quite as bitter at hearing its name in the traitor’s mouth anymore. Wilbur sighed.
“It’s been a year,” he said, barely a murmur. Eret nodded solemnly.
“It has.”
“A year since I destroyed it. A year since,” he swallowed, suddenly struggling to speak, “I died.” A pause. “At least for you guys. I don’t know why it’s hitting me so hard. A year passed for me a long time ago.” At Eret’s quizzical look, Wilbur shifted, and drew his knees tight to his chest. They waited patiently as he found his words. “To me, in Limbo, I was there for thirteen and a half years.”
“Ah,” they said, returning to look at the hill across the valley, where their tower had once stood. Wilbur buried his face in his knees. “They rebuilt it, you know. Tubbo and the others.”
“Yeah,” Wilbur sighed. He rested his chin on crossed arms. “Tubbo said. But… I don’t know. Does it even matter, since it was destroyed again? It’s just like how we tried rebuilding after the war: it wasn’t gonna last. I can’t help but think you were right.”
Eret shifted to sit cross-legged and face him properly. They kept their hands on their lap, shoulders straight. The posture of a well-meaning King, ready to listen and give counsel. “Is this about what I said when betraying you?” Wilbur scowled.
“Don’t dance around it. Say the words.” When they hesitated, he snapped, “Say it.” It still took them a moment to speak, and when they did, it was resigned and unwilling, quiet.
“…It was never meant to be.”
Wilbur had thought he’d gotten used to it after it echoed every night in his nightmares. But hearing it, actually hearing it again, spoken in that deep voice and right next to him, was somehow worse. He felt dizzy. He felt sick. He buried his head in his arms and grabbed onto his sleeves, squeezing tight.
Eventually, the nausea subsided, and he loosened his white-knuckle grip. He didn’t raise his head though, instead choosing to murmur into his coat, “That’s what I said when I blew it up, you know. ‘It was never meant to be.’ Because it wasn’t.”
Even with the distance between them, he could feel Eret stiffen. It made him want to laugh. Yeah, serves you fuckin’ right. The urge only grew when they said, “It really stuck with you, huh?”
Wilbur threw his head back as it tore its way out of his throat, bitter, hoarse, and ugly. It left his eyes tear-filled, when he shifted back to relax. “Yeah, yeah it did,” he said wetly. Eret pursed their lips.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t take back what either of us have done, does it?”
They sighed. “No it doesn’t.” Then, after turning to face the sunrise once again, they sighed. “Regretfully.”
Wilbur didn’t know what to say to that, and so he let the conversation fall into silence. Eret followed suit. They simply stared out at the place they had both once called home without ever really meaning it. One because they had rejected it, and one because they couldn’t. And now none could, because of their selfishness.
His eyes drooped, head slow and foggy. Barely eight in the morning, and he was already exhausted from the emotions of the day.
November sixteenth.
Perhaps that was why he let the next words slip out of his mouth, something he never would have voiced otherwise, especially not to Eret. “I never got a grave,” murmured Wilbur, not even bothering to look at their reaction. Probably dismissal or disapproval, if they were anything like the others he’d brought it up with.
Something that had bothered him at first, when Tommy had shown him L’Manburg and pulled the rug out from under his feet with, “You didn’t get a grave.” An ugly feeling deep inside that had faded when Tubbo told him of rebuilding, of banding together and continuing his legacy. Only to worm its way back in, even more bitter and loathing and venomous, when he’d stumbled across a little shrine in the woods near Paradise, crude but clearly filled with love directed only to that better version of himself.
“Maybe I didn’t deserve it,” he continued, resentful bile swelling until it was on his tongue, “Gods know I didn’t, but, fucking- fucking Schlatt did?” He gestured vaguely somewhere behind them. Eret looked on, frowning, and glanced between him and his hand as he kept on rambling, a dangerous pressure growing behind his eyes.
“I was a terrible person, I know, and terrible people don’t get graves. I get that. But,” Wilbur choked out, scarily close to outright crying, “is that all I am? Was there really nothing good to mourn?”
A sob wrenched its way out of his chest and Wilbur curled up tight, trying to physically hold himself together like he’d used to do, back when he cared about such things as appearing presentable and functional. He did now, again, for the first time in over fifteen years. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t, not in front of them.
Eret just sat quietly as he pulled himself together, waiting by Wilbur’s side until his shoulders stopped shaking with hiccupping sobs he kept his jaw clenched against. And then waiting some more. By the time they stood up, half-dead grass crunching under their boots, tears were no longer threatening to fall if Wilbur opened his eyes or thought one thought about the wrong thing.
He still couldn’t help the bitter voice inside that whispered, They’re sick of you and your stupid overdramatic emotions, even though they’d just sat by his side for quite a while as he staved off a breakdown. Which was why he was half surprised when Eret said, “Come with me.”
Wilbur jerked his head up. There they were, still a respectful distance away, but with their hand outstretched in aid. The sun shone on their circlet, framing their head in a golden halo. Wilbur frowned, and perhaps sensing he needed a little more persuasion, Eret added, “I have something I want to show you.”
I’m going to need you to follow me.
Ignoring the offered help, Wilbur stood up in a brusque movement, and brushed his hands off on his pants. Eret took it in stride, gracefully retracting their hand with a small smile as Wilbur stuffed his own in his pockets. He scoffed. “Well, show me then.”
With an elegant nod and swish of their cloak, Eret led him down the Prime path, boots clicking confidently against the wood. They stopped on the way to pick up their rapier, and Wilbur forced himself to stand still as they did, tense on the balls of his feet and only relaxing when it was safe in its scabbard. Although Eret kept their hands firmly clasped behind their back, as they walked, he still tread lightly on his feet, ready to run at the first sign something was wrong. This, following the traitor somewhere only they knew, felt too familiar to do anything otherwise.
Eret led him down the streets connecting L’Manburg and the SMP, over the familiar path Wilbur took from Paradise or Phil’s place to L’Manburg, when he was feeling nostalgic enough to come visit. (Which was more often than he’d like to admit.) The wood was familiar under his feet, its creaks and groans not concerning, but comforting as he took in his surroundings as they walked.
Although a lot had changed while he was gone, it was slowly settling into the new normal. Blurry reminders and images tinged in blue were no longer at the forefront of his mind when he tried to navigate, but simply memories. No more Targay, no more of Eret’s towers, a new pumpkin field behind the hill where he’d hidden the button, the museum…
Wilbur didn’t even realize he’d stumbled to a stop until Eret stepped back to his side and asked, “You ever been?”
He jolted out of the trance he’d been in, tearing his gaze from the Camarvan (home, home, home,) enclosed in stone walls – as it should be – and framed by the doorway, to look at Eret. They smiled. Wilbur’s hands felt numb in his pockets. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and said, “Yeah, once or twice.”
Eret nodded. “Good. I, uh, I wanted to keep history preserved. Since, you know,” they cleared their throat, “not a lot of the originals are left anymore.”
“Yeah,” Wilbur croaked out.
“It’s not what I wanted to show you, but,” they hesitated, shuffled forward, “if you want, we could go inside right now?”
Wilbur squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his hands into fists. If he had to see the walls right now, or the Final Control Room, or- or the button room, (kill me Phil, kill me, do it, kill me,) he thought he’d break down then and there. So he shuddered out a breath, and said, “No, I think, I think I’m good. For now.”
“Okay,” Eret said quietly. “C’mon, then. It’s in the basement.” And they led Wilbur past the steps, down and around under them. What else could Wilbur do but follow?
If they were about to kill him again, well. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, or however the saying went. And Wilbur couldn’t be bothered to care. Not feeling numb and wrung thin, like he was. Not today, on November sixteenth.
“Not many people come down here,” Eret explained as they walked past rooms filled with books and papers stacked high, or neatly tucked away on shelves. “It’s mostly books and other things. Like old maps.” They nodded at two large, wall-spanning maps of the Greater SMP. Wilbur had to blink back tears when his eyes latched on to one spot, almost small enough to cover with his hand. Inconsequential, really, in the grand scheme of things.
L’Manburg – or Manburg, technically, given the lack of walls – back before it had been blown up. There was the podium, the space centre, the towers, Niki’s bakery, the docks… Fuck. It was all there. He hadn’t seen this in so long. He hadn’t ever expected to see it again, not outside of his rocky memories.
Forcing himself to turn away, Wilbur shot Eret a shaky smile and a nod, which they returned before continuing down the hallway. The rooms ended and it opened up into a large space, which they explained as, “This’ll be where I put more monuments and other things when I run out of space-“ they jerked their chin up, “-up there. But for now…”
Eret drew to a stop at the back end of the room, shifting to the side so that Wilbur could see what they’d led him to. He froze, knees locked up, eyes glued to it.
“I know it’s not much, and it’s kinda in a shitty location.” Eret laughed, and Wilbur probably would have, too, if he was processing anything right now. “But I was afraid someone would defile it, so it was either here or in the middle of the woods, and this was more convenient…”
One hand over his mouth and the other outstretched as he took a stumbling step forward, Wilbur gasped in his first shuddering breath since he’d laid eyes on the small slab of stone in front of him. Eret’s words faded into background static as he read the ones engraved on its surface:
WILBUR SOOT
Passed 16 November 2020
President, General, brother, father
The best leader this land has known.
He was barely aware of Eret falling silent as he ghosted a hand across the surface of his gravestone – his gravestone – feeling the grooves of the letters crudely, but carefully, carved into the surface. And then the words blurred, and he tried to take in a shuddering breath but his body pushed it out in a gasp, and his legs were weak and numb so he let them give out, falling to his knees.
Curling in on himself, Wilbur sobbed, a resurrected man over his own grave. Eret rested a hand on his shaking shoulders, gentle and comforting. He couldn’t bring himself to push it away.
Wilbur knelt, and wept, and for the first time, mourned his death one year (fourteen long years) ago.