Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is old and many gods have risen and fallen with the passage of times. Just like kingdoms and empires expand and topple, so too do the deities come in waves. Long ago, there were gods that ruled the world, running their own empires and kingdoms. But eventually, they faded from consciousness, and Death, with his mighty Blood Sword, came for them and they fell. Their immortality remained, but they were dropped into an endless slumber.

Some gods, however, were simply forgotten. Others were never in the consciousness of the people to begin with. These gods carved out for themselves space where there should be none in a mystical forest called the Whispering Woods. 

Gleaming silver ribbons of water and rushing torrents crossed the evergreen landscape in Reverie. Beneath and through the great River Azure lay Phlogiston with its charred landscape and hungry creatures out for blood. If you climb up the Living Tree you will arrive in Coppice, a tree-top land of glowing fungi and large and majestic old growth. And walk between the mushrooms Past and Future, and you will enter Atheneum, into a clearing in the center of a verdant green forest, in the middle of which grows an ancient weathered oak called Now.

This is where we, in Atheneum, find ourselves. Surrounded by the almost natural trees of the area, everything seems to be normal; besides the number of crows and the fact that the wind seems to talk...

Philza stretched his legs out beneath Now. His back ached from resting against the rough bark for so long. The sunlight, filtering down through the overhanging boughs glittered off the golden hair of the Wiseman. He had been sitting beneath the large oak for quite a while. From the center of his clearing on the roots of this ancient tree, he had watched nearly three centuries come and go. Phil had seen Now grow from a little sapling, barely as high as the length from the base of his palm to the tips of fingers to the majestic sight it was today.

But three centuries is a long time to be alone with only a tree for company. So it was good that Philza had the wind as well. It conversed with him when he ran out of events to record and blew to him crows carrying gifts, which he hung on his necklace.

He was talking with the breeze now.

“What have you seen on your travels, mate?” Phil picked at the dirt beneath his nails and shifted his body ever so slightly to the right.

I have seen many things, lord, the wind whispered back. The Wiseman simply stared at the sky and waited for it to correct its mistake. Ah, pardon me. I forgot your distaste for formality. I shall try again. The breeze shifted the branches of Phil’s oak in such a way that reflected the clearing of a throat. The world has changed much in your absence, my friend.

Phil raised an eyebrow and brushed away the grime from his fingers. “How so?”

Well, most significantly, a few months ago a warrior found the Blood Sword. He lifted his other eyebrow at the breathed words. 

“Strange. I thought that when Death retired his blade was destroyed,” Phil grunted and snapped his fingers, a large tome with green leather binding and a crow feather quill appearing and dropping into his waiting hands. “I guess I’ll have to change the histories, as it seems I was wrong… was that already five hundred years ago?”

Yes.

“Hmm. Time certainly does fly.” The scratching of the quill was the only sound for a few moments.

There is more, lord- ah, sorry.

The Wiseman waved off the apology. “No worries. Just tell me what else there is.”

Very well. I recently got word from, eh, sources-

“You mean the Captain.”

Yes. I was trying to keep her confidentiality, but I suppose it will be fine. Anyway, as I was saying, I have heard that the new owner of the Blood Sword is on his way past our woods.

Phil startled and sat up straighter at this, dropping his book. A faint light began to emanate from his spine. 

“Ah,” was all he said.

Indeed. I believe that it may be time for us to relocate. It would be no use for you to be reaped and have to exist in the Abyss with Death and the others for a few decades if we could simply avoid the Warrior instead.

Philza tilted his head and stared into the trees around his clearing. “You may be right,” The light from his spine grew slightly brighter. “I’ll consider it. You never know, maybe-”

He was interrupted by a snapping from the woods, shattering the near silence of the clearing.

GO! A gust rattled violently through the air, and the Wiseman sprouted his wings and rose into the air for the first time in almost three centuries.

The whistling of the birds was the first thing that drew Technoblade's attention. The second was the warm and peaceful aura surrounding the trees. They stretched as far as the eye could see across the horizon, olive and viridian and crushed emerald hues scraping the azure dome of the sky. The branches rattled together with the breeze and seemed to call to Techno.

They beckoned to him, told him to come in and rest his heavy bones beneath their jade boughs. He set his clawed hand onto the silver and bone hilt of his rapier and entered the woods.

The world darkened around him as he walked into the forest. Green growing things surrounded him, a harsh contrast to his usual environment of battlefields and bloodshed. It was calming, almost peaceful. That was a rare thing for Techno to find nowadays. 

His troubles had started a few months ago when he found his sword. It began with a seemingly innocent enough increase in battle prowess. Then came the more… physical changes.

First came the sharpened canines. Second, the upturned nose. Then clawed fingers, reddened irises, peachy-pink skin, and softly folding ears.

Finally, his long, flowing, rich brown hair turned a vibrant shade of pink.

Pink.

As if that wasn’t enough, most recently he had suddenly become only one of several residents in his head. There should only be one person in his head. Himself! And now there were countless voices tagging along, clamoring for blood and violence. Thankfully they didn’t all say different things all the time or he would have gone insane within the hour. They chanted bloodthirsty phrases such as ‘ blood for the blood god’ , which was the inscription on his new sword, and begged for him to kill and destroy. They often said ‘one of us’ when Techno commanded forces in battles and strangely enough, the letter ‘e’ . There were more prominent voices, however. Those were the real problematic ones. They tried to take advantage of Techno’s flaws and exploit him for their apparent entertainment.

BURN THE TREES. 

BLOOD.

ARSON.

KILL.

This seemed to be one of those times, judging by the fact that a monotone voice had just growled into Techno’s ears.

He ignored it, drowning out the chanting of the quiet voices by focusing on his environment. The trees he was walking through had changed into large oaks, and through the trunks, he could see glimpses of a clearing.

He changed his direction to point toward the light streaming in from the gap in the treetops. The voices went silent, which was slightly concerning, but Techno brushed it off.

Through the gaps in the trees, he caught flashes of a man sitting at the base of a huge oak. Techno paused to observe him. The man wore a vibrant forest green cloak thinly lined with squirrel fur and a cream shirt untucked from dark taupe trews. The man seemed to be talking to himself. And was that light coming from his back?

The voices began to whisper again, muttering dadza.

Techno took a step closer.

A twig snapped underfoot, and the man’s head snapped up. His piercing blue eyes held Techno’s own red ones still. Black wings erupted from the man’s back, glowing a blinding white, and he launched into the sky. Techno couldn’t move. The man - or, perhaps not a man, given that he had just sprouted wings - seemed to have frozen him in place.

Then the voices all screamed, prying open Techno’s mouth. He was forced to howl with them as his vision went red: 

“O great Wiseman, it is time to meet your doom. Come forward, Sage, and impale yourself upon my blade. Let me taste your life and drink your ichor, dear Philza.”

He drew his sword and it was coated in blood. He could feel his rose dripping crimson as well. From the corner of his eye, Techno saw an incandescent blur. He barely had time to bring his sword around before he was tackled around the waist and lifted into the air, bloodstained cloak fluttering behind.

Strong arms gripped him around the waist as Philza shot skyward in a tight spiral. The sun glittered off of golden hair and electric blue eyes skewered bloody red ones. Dark wings shot outward and Technoblade felt his stomach drop as they suddenly came to a stop.

The Wiseman wrapped a hand around Techno’s neck, bruising the delicate pink skin, and fisted the other into his hair, shoving him out to the side. Then he let go of his hair and Techno was dangling in the sky above the emerald trees, his life reliant on the weak bones and flesh and blood wrapped around by Philza’s hand.

“Warrior,” He spoke, an accent humming through the word, “dear Warrior, wielder of the hallowed Blood Sword, you dare challenge me? You dare try to kill me, Wiseman Philza, the Knower, with my own blade?”

Technoblade screamed, his hair slowly being ripped from his scalp. He could feel warm blood already trickling down. He couldn’t form a response, but the voices answered for him. 

“O Knower, you think I don’t know? Three-fold memory, Servant and Whistler and Forgotten, do you think I am obtuse? We both know whose blade this is. Dear Philza, all-knowing, how dare you think I am ignorant that I wield the Blade of Death, the Blood Sword? Poor, poor Wiseman, you sad, sad fool.” Voices layered upon voices roared out from his mouth and he laughed with those harmonizing shrieks. 

The slicing of the air was the only warning. Blood rained onto Techno’s pink locks as he cut deep into Philza’s wrist.

The Knower released his throat with a yell and Techno began to fall.

Tommy was walking along beside a gleaming green forest. He had been walking for a long time, nearly half his life. His feet were more callous than flesh and his clothes were permanently worn. He needed a place where he could rest his weary bones. 

This forest seemed promising. Tommy turned to face it and scoured the solid trees for a path in. Finding one, he set his staff forward and began to walk into the woods. Beneath his travel-roughened feet, the moist earth was a kiss of relief, a blessing from the dead gods. He sighed and dug his toes into the soil.

The trees enveloped him in their cool, shaded embrace as he continued onward, brushing his face and clothes with their cool green foliage. The wind sighed through the branches above him and almost seemed to whisper words to him.

There was a peaceful quiet to the world, here in this forest.

A break in the deciduous growth showed evidence of a clearing ahead, and Tommy altered his course towards it. He entered into a nearly circular gap in the woods. Sun shone down in warm honey rays of light, glowing off mossy stones and verdant shrubs, and wildflowers choked the clearing in pops of bright primary colors. Bluebells, daffodils, forget-me-nots, and poppies displayed their vibrant hues around the centerpiece of the glade, a huge, ancient oak.

Tommy gazed around the lush meadow in wonder, turning slowly to admire it as he walked haltingly toward the massive tree.

Then he looked up at the sky and froze in shock.

Above him in the wide and cloudless expanse of blue, were two silhouettes in front of the sun. The light beamed around the figures, keeping them in shadow. 

And one of them had wings. 

They beat slowly and deliberately, holding the two aloft. The winged man had one hand stretched out, grasping the neck of the other, dangling him above the void. It was like a scene from one of the old myths when the gods were still alive and roamed the earth.

Then the man being held aloft by the other brought around a sword of gleaming metal, the sun glinting off the steel, and sliced into the other’s wrist. The winged man released him, and he began to fall.

He plunged down, down, down, toward where Tommy stood petrified on the ground. 

The world seemed to slow as the man plummeted. His tattered and bloodstained cloak fluttered like a dropped handkerchief, the wing of a crimson bird. Pink hair streamed around the man’s face. He fell toward the earth, limp, a soul cast off from the heavens, sword glittering in the holy light of the sun.

Blood dripped from the sky and a drop landed on Tommy’s face and suddenly everything sped up again and oh gods he was seeing a man fall to his death and he didn’t know what to fucking do .

Then the man twisted in midair, bending forward to flip and spreading out his arms, then drawing them in and rotating, changing his trajectory from tumbling spine-first to feet-first. His knees were slightly bent and his feet were together, his cape flaring and sword brandished triumphantly. He crashed down through the branches of the massive oak and suddenly he was there on the ground in front of Tommy falling to the side, rolling over his shoulder and across to his hip.

There was silence.

The winged man floated slowly down, landing softly and crouching next to the supine form of the bruised and bloody warrior. The warrior opened his red eyes and stared up at him, grinning with sharp teeth stained crimson with blood.

“That was fun,” layered voices spilled out from his reddened lips. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and slid shut once more.

The winged man stood up slowly, then lifted his head, meeting Tommy’s wide steel blue eyes with his own cobalt ones.

“I apologize that you had to see that,” He tilted his head down, golden hair shifting across his forehead. “My name is Philza. I am the Wiseman.” 

Tommy was shocked by how nonchalant Philza was, just brushing off the bloodied man at his feet and his goddamn wings . But he supposed if he was polite first maybe he would get answers to those questions?

“I, uh, my name is Tommy,” He stuttered.

Phil smiled in response. “It is very nice to meet you, Tommy. I’m sure you have a few questions-” that broke the dam on Tommy’s said questions.

“I have many questions, asshole. Who the fuck are you and why do you have wings no actually HOW do you have wings and are you just going to ignore that you just probably KILLED a man and how is his hair pink??” Tommy waved his hands around violently and began to pace. “This is not what I signed up for when I walked into the woods I just wanted a break from being the goddamned exiled boy who is forced to be the Wanderer for life but instead I’m here dealing with a magic man with wings and a person falling from the sky and what the fuck is my life can I please just get a break from all this BULLSHIT?” He turned around and faced the Wiseman, pointing his walking staff at him threateningly. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

“So yes. I do have a few questions,” He spat. 

Philza simply smiled good-naturedly. “I can tell. I will try to answer all that I can.” 

The man on the floor groaned.

“One moment,” Phil said and kneeled next to him. He patted his face a few times to wake him up. Then he leaned down and spoke loudly into his strangely bent ears: “Hello! Warrior? Are you in there, or have the voices taken over?” He tapped on his forehead a few times. “Technoblade. Anyone home? Blade?”

“Eurgh,” Technoblade grunted, his voice his own this time. It was deep and raspy. He blinked open his eyes and sat up. Phil leaned back and looked up at Tommy, beckoning him over. He glared, but complied, sitting next to the Blade and laying his staff across his folded legs.

Techno scooted back and leaned against the trunk of the tree, rubbing his head. “What happened?” He asked, looking up and making eye contact with Phil, then Tommy. “Who are you ?” He asked him.

“I’m Tommy, and I have no fucking clue what is going on.”

“You attacked me then I dropped you out of the sky,” Phil explained. 

“WHAT!?” Techno whipped his sword up and around, holding the tip of it under Phil’s chin. He didn’t even flinch. He simply continued to speak:

“You tried to cut off my hand,” He lifted his wrist, showing a deep cut oozing blood, which Tommy hadn’t noticed.

Technoblade lowered his sword, his eyes shining with remorse.

“Why did I attack you?” He asked. “The last thing I remember was walking through these woods and seeing you…”

“You were possessed by your voices.” 

Techno’s eyes widened. “You know about those?” 

The Wiseman nodded. “I know more than just that,” He pointed to Techno’s sword. “Do you know whose sword that is?” The Blade shook his head. “That is the Blood Sword.”

Techno looked confused, but Tommy was shocked. He had been glancing between the two of them rapidly, absorbing everything they said. But this, he had not been expecting this.

“The Blood Sword?” He exclaimed. “But that belongs to Death! No one has seen it for hundreds of years, not since Death himself used it to send the gods into eternal rest. There’s no way that is it.”

Philza looked surprised. “You know your history! But yes, that is the Blood Sword.”

“So you mean this blade I’ve been toting around for months belongs to a god?” Techno scoffed. 

“Yes,” Phil affirmed. “And before he went to sleep, Death cursed his sword. So you shouldn't worry about me blaming you for injuring me as I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“What do you mean this sword is cursed?” Techno demanded. Tommy had to admit he was curious as well. But then, he always was. It was part of the reason he got exiled. The Blade opened his mouth to say more but he was interrupted by music, as a haunting tune began to drift through the forest.

Wilbur was resting against a tree when the wind whispered to him for the third time. The first time it had whispered was a few months ago when it had told him to avoid those red berries. Then it didn’t talk to him for months. He thought he had gone insane, until the second time it spoke to him, two weeks ago, when it taught him that song. What was it called? Oh, right. “The Wiseman”. 

And now, the third time it was speaking to him.

Warbler! The breeze hissed through the trees. Wilbur froze and looked around wildly. He still wasn’t used to the random wind. Warbler! It repeated.

“Y-yes?” He replied.

Good. You’re paying attention. Do you remember that ballad I taught you? Wilbur nodded. Excellent. I need you to sit down on that rock over there and play it. He identified the stone that the wind was talking about. It was a large, smooth gray rock, lightly dusted in moss and lichen. Wilbur walked over to it and sat down, rubbing his ankles and feet. The joints and talons got sore from being compressed within his boots for so long. 

Great. You’re doing great. I need you to get your harp. The wind demanded, billowing his feather cape and it blew around him.

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Only if you ask politely.

Fine. Wilbur Soot, Warbler of the Woods, could you please play “The Wiseman” for me? The wind rustled darkly, annoyed. Happy?

“Yes, actually,” Wilbur nodded and unlatched his harp from where it hung at his belt. He settled it into his lap and strummed a chord. He hummed the first note of the melody, then began to sing.

Let me sing you a song
Of a leader so proud and strong
That he strung his friends along
Until he lost his mind

A tune drifted through the forest, calling to Phil. He recognized it from centuries ago. He had not heard it for so long. Who was singing his song?

“We need to find the person who is playing that music!” He ran off into the woods, his cloak flying behind him and his wings tucked in tight, hoping that the others would follow.

He begged his father dear
To assuage his fear
To heft up his spear
And pierce him through the heart

Techno watched as Philza charged off into the forest, his words still echoing in the clearing along with the notes from the song. His body ached from his fall, but he dragged himself to his feet. He glanced over to Tommy, who shrugged. Then they both turned and followed the Wiseman into the unknown.

With a great, heaving cry
The father watched him die
A flag waved so high
And flowers in the wind

Branches whipped across Tommy’s face, stinging his face. Technoblade was loping along to his left and Phil was several feet ahead. The song that drew them in was getting louder.

Centuries may pass
While I sit in the grass
For this very reason
Season after season
“O wiseman on high
What say the sky?”
Is all that's asked of me

Wilbur strummed his harp, the mournful tune spilling from his lips. He did not know why the wind had told him to start playing, but he would follow through with its request. He began the next verse of the song it had taught him and waited for whatever would come next.

Let me read you a story
Of a fighter who searched for glory
And left a trail so gory
That he fled into the snow

The Knower did not like unfound knowledge. And the musician playing his song was most certainly that. Phil had to find them. So he continued on through the trees.

But north was found with ease
And from between the trees
A message on the breeze
Told him to run

Techno felt shivers run down his spine at the words of the song and slowed ever so slightly. He wasn’t sure if this Wiseman really knew what he was doing.

An army baying for death
Tried to crush from him his breath
But our warrior ran, crying “Macbeth!”
And escaped from tyranny

Tommy noticed Techno slowing and tapped him with his staff.

“Come on, Blade. We have to get moving,” He said impatiently.

“But why? I almost cut off Phil’s hand before you arrived. Maybe this whole thing is a trap to get back at me,” Techno growled.

Tommy looked over at him, seeing his scrunched brows and worried eyes. He softened his tone ever so slightly. “Don’t be stupid. We resolved that, and we all know that wasn’t your fault. You have to forgive yourself.”

Techno nodded slightly and sped up with a new determination.

Centuries may pass
While I sit in the grass
For this very reason
Season after season
“O wiseman of worth
What say the earth?”
Is all that's asked of me

Wilbur drew his fingers along the strings of his harp in an echo of the fading notes of his voice. Then he continued to sing.

Let me tell you a tale
Of a child who refused to fail
And fought to no avail
When death knocked at the door

Philza followed the rich streams of music as it led him and his fellows on. The only sounds other than the singer’s voice and the plucking of strings were the swish of leaves and grass underfoot.

A prisoner knocked him down
Whose smile was of renown
And broke the poor boy’s crown
All to prove a point

Through gaps in the trees, Technoblade made out a figure sitting on a rock. He wore a cape of feathers, grey with flashes of yellow. His dark-haired head was bowed over a harp as he sang his mournful song.

Our boy was ripped to shreds
Played cards with those he dreads
‘Fore he was dragged back by threads
And welcomed with a grin

Tommy heard Philza begin to sing along, voice twining melodiously in harmony to the tune.

Centuries may pass
While I sit in the grass
For this very reason
Season after season
“O wiseman so free
What say the sea?”
I feel I am on strings
How I wish that I had wings…

Wilbur finished his song. He lowered his head to absorb the weight of fading notes as they evaporated into the quiet. Silence reigned for several beats.

Then a voice spoke.

“I have not heard that song for many years,” Wilbur spun around to see three figures standing at the edge of the trees, watching him. The winged man in front continued to speak: “Who are you who knows this song which I penned centuries past?” 

Wilbur didn’t respond, his eyes lost to absorbing the people before him. He recognized the man who had spoken, the one with the wings, had golden hair and electric blue eyes. He wore a forest green cloak, thinly lined with squirrel fur, and a cream shirt with pale leather threads and dark taupe trews. He had a light leather belt, from which hung a pouch. He wore soft, light brown boots and a necklace with a crow feather, maple seed, and a flower petal. 

The tall man to his left was robed in a tattered bloodstained cape with fox fur in shades of dark grey on the inside. The color looked like it was originally white as there were places where the fabric looked almost pink. He wore a dandelion yellow brocade doublet and red trunk hose with black seen through the slits. His nether hosen were also dandelion yellow and his warm, dark brown leather boots had a slight heel and stop at his ankle. Over his doublet, he had a black tooled leather jerkin with sparse yellow embroidery of boar tusks along the edges. His gauntleted hands rested on the hilt of a rapier with a carved bone hilt and swirling metal guard. 

The final member of the party, a slightly hunched boy, was decorated in the regalia of a traveler.  He carried a tall, gnarled wooden staff. A bright red and white checkered cloak with blue and yellow tassels shrouded his thin form and partially covered his light grey shirt shade and vibrant green waist sash. His arms dangled with bracelets ornamented with charms, beads, and bells, and his tattered, layered trews were dyed in shades of brown and mustard. On his feet were only strappy sandals. Dangling from his sash were several pouches in yellow, blue, and red. There was a small dagger on his sash as well.

The second man, the violent-looking one, spoke next. His deep, monotone voice rang out with command. “My companion asked you a question.”

Wilbur tilted his head, bird-like. “Did he? I couldn’t hear. I was absorbed in appraising your apparel. Who are you?”

"I am named Technoblade."

"And I'm Tommy," The boy piped up. “Also, why were you apr- apra- looking at our clothes? Seems a bit off to me.”

“You can tell many things from observing what a person chooses to wear,” Wilbur stated sagely. “For example, I know that you are a traveler, and have been for a while. And as you are quite young, it is most likely that you have been traveling with other people. Perhaps your family? But not these people. No, I can see that these are not your usual companions.” He pointed to the tall man. “This one, here, he is a fighter. Bloodthirsty. Comes from a position of power, perhaps nobility? The quality and style of the clothes say that much. And that cloak and sword! Well, it’s clear you engage in plenty of combat. Not such a place for a traveling boy, no?” Wilbur sat back, satisfied. “And obviously, you were not traveling with my fellow forest-dweller here. Everyone knows that the Wiseman doesn’t leave his tree.”

The winged man, the Knower, spoke. “So you know who I am?” Wilbur nodded in confirmation. “Then you might know that the melody you just played is my own composition.” His hand slipped from the strings of his lute and the Warbler’s eyes widened in shock.

“I did not know that.”

Philza narrowed his crushed lapis eyes.

"Then how come you know how to play it?"

Wilbur shrugged. "The wind told me how," Now it was time for Phil's eyes to widen. But his were filled with concern. Wilbur noticed and decided to ask why.

"If the wind is whispering to others..." Phil muttered. "It means that the others have awoken."

"What others?" Tommy asked.

Phil looked up to the heavens, the rich blue showing through cracks in the canopy. He sighed. "The Forgotten Gods. They were erased long, long ago, and for a good reason.”

“Then how come you still remember these gods?” Wilbur asked, leaning forward on his stone.

“Because I am one of them.”

Chapter Text

“Long ago, this world was full of magic. Immortal beings of immense power seemed to be around every other corner, deities building cities and kingdoms their image. They built empires around themselves and mortals worshiped them as gods. But the gods… they were discontent. There were too many of them and too little space on this mortal plane for all of their warring powers. They all wanted more space, more power, more believers.

“The gods split themselves into factions and went to war. They challenged each other in ferocious battles, drawing their weapons and slinging magic across killing fields. Their mortal followers rode to their deaths atop war-horses, trying to kill the unkillable. And Death, Lady of the Beyond, watched the carnage. Content for it to continue. But then the Forgotten gods arose. 

“We weren't always called the Forgotten. In fact, we used to be very well known, but for all of the wrong reasons. We used to be called the Vengeful. When we stirred, awoken by the mayhem and bloodshed, the world would tremble with dread and the other gods would bow to us. Even Death, all-powerful Death, feared our rage.

“So when we rose, drawing our blades and smiting entire battlefields into oblivion, Death knew that she would have to act. She unsheathed her sword, the sword Techno now wields, and began her rampage. Death lashed out with her blade at the rioting gods, sending them into eternal sleep.

“But she could not do the same to the Vengeful. So instead, she channeled all of her power into her blade and began to split us into thirds. She began first with Flower, The Grower. The Blood Sword carved him apart, banishing his thirds to the far corners of the world. Then Death moved onto Fever and repeated the process. But her power was lagging, and by the time she made it to Favorer, she was almost dry, her well of power nearly gone. But Death knew she couldn't stop, so she sent the last of her energy coursing through the Blood Sword and cleaved the Dreaming God apart. 

“But her magic was gone with that last surge, and I was still whole. Death knew, and as she began to fade into the Void, she turned her head to face me and told me that my brethren were split, but that they could still come back, and it was my duty to make sure they never returned. She said with her last breaths, ‘When the wind begins to whisper to others once again, the Vengeful will return.’ Then she faded away, leaving behind only her sword, glowing with the last embers of Death’s once mighty power.

“And so, the Vengeful, split apart and weakened, faded from memory and became the Forgotten.

“History has erased the true scale of the devastation we once rained down and has relegated our tale to simple fire-side songs and tavern ballads, while the other gods receive sagas and epics. But I am not upset, for I do not want my brothers to return. In the centuries since their fall, I have been at peace, have been able to take advantage of my immortality, and truly live in the moment. It is a gift I wish others could appreciate. Yet I know that if the other Forgotten ever return, I will lose any amount of peace I have ever had, and will return to the bloodthirsty being I once was.”

Philza lifted his golden-haired head and stared off into the distance, his blue eyes glowing with holy light. His dark wings dropped against his back, feathers limned with the same light of his eyes.

He stared at the three men before him. Techno, poor soul who had lifted Death’s sword, blood-stained cape rippling in the wind. Tommy, colorful clothing and bare feet and wandering child. And Wilbur, yellow man, singing man, hiding many secrets.

The world believed Phil to have faded with the other deities; when Death had run rampant, swinging his sword and sentencing them all to eternal sleep. But he was here, had been here.

And it was time that the world knew.

Tommy gaped at the legend made into flesh. When he was small and still lived in the Empire, his mother whispered to him stories of the Knower to send him off to sleep. The memories of his mother telling him these stories, of the old gods, were some of Tommy's only good ones. And here was something from those memories, someone he believed to have been long gone.

Philza was like a fragment of his mother, whispering to him stories he had almost forgotten. The stories of the Fall of the World, when Death had banished the gods. But this retelling, that Philza told, was not a story and instead a memory, and that made all the difference. Tommy felt closer to his mother than he had in years. He swore he could almost feel her silken black hair, smell her floral scent. Her hands on his face and her voice whispering to him to sleep, my love .

Then the wind changed, and she was gone. It felt like a punch to his chest. The woods around them leaned in, shadows darkening and shifting, monsters in the dark. Techno was talking to Philza, asking something about the magic in his sword, and Wilbur was pacing, his strange gait carrying him across the clearing. But all of this was secondary to the fact that Tommy’s mother had been here, but now she was gone and somewhere in this forest with its whispering wind, and Tommy needed to find her.

Straightening his hunched back, uncurling himself and standing tall, Tommy turned and ran into the woods to find his mother.

Technoblade was asking Philza about what Death’s magic in his sword meant for him when from the corner of his eye he saw Tommy charge off into the trees. The boy gave no warning, simply sprinting off into the dark woods with only his small dagger at his side. Technoblade's heart seemed to stop in his chest, and a sudden panic arose.

“Tommy!” He shouted out, running after Tommy, instincts kicking in, “Where are you going?”

We won’t lose another one, the voices murmured. Save the gremlin child.

When the idiot kid didn’t answer, Techno charged through the trees even faster and roared his name again: “Tommy! What are you doing?” Tommy glanced over his shoulder at the warrior behind him and yelped.

“I’m going to find me mum!”

Techno stumbled at that. What did this kid think he was doing? His mum? There was no way that this ratty kid's mother was somewhere in this forest. Techno regained his balance, digging his clawed hands into a nearby tree to stay up. The wood shattered under his fingers, splinters piercing the skin beneath his nails. He hissed, shaking out his hand and splattering drops of blood onto the foliage.

Tommy was a fleeting shadow beneath the trees at this point, and Techno knew he would need to sprint if he were to catch up and keep him safe.

So he ran.

A hand landed heavily on Tommy’s shoulder, jerking him to a stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A snarling face filled Tommy’s vision. Techno’s fangs were bared and his red eyes were glittering, darting from side to side over Tommy’s face. He looked almost… scared.

“I-I…” Tommy stammered, shrinking into himself. The pig-hybrid was scary on a regular day, but having Techno yell at him? Fucking terrifying. Tommy had to force himself to not curl into himself protectively - or, at least not more than he already was. Techno appeared to pick up on his fear and deflated, features softening with apology and sorrow. His eyes didn’t quite lose their edge, though, as he pulled Tommy into a hug. Tommy stiffened at the unexpected action but relaxed slowly. Techno was surprisingly good at giving hugs. A warm feeling rose in Tommy's chest, something he had felt anything remotely like since he was a child. He buried his face into Techno’s chest, the leather of his jerkin tough against his cheek. Soft emotions swirled in his chest at the small display of human kindness and affection. Tears sprang unbidden to Tommy's eyes and smeared on the leather. He choked back a sob, but Technoblade still heard.

Pulling back so that they were separated by an arms-length, Techno’s eyes again searched Tommy’s features, flitting wildly once more. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong, kid? Oh god, what did I mess up this time-” Tommy cut him off, wiping his eyes.

“It’s not… shit. It’s not you.” He said softly, turning his head to the side and blinking away more tears. “I just thought- well, it doesn’t matter what I thought,” Tommy laughed, a bit brokenly. “It’s impossible, anyway.”

Techno shook his head, that fear still in his crimson eyes. “No, no, I want to know.” His voice was imploring, begging Tommy to tell him.

Tommy hesitated, then shook his head again. He couldn’t tell Techno. He would think he was stupid, a child. He wasn't a child, he was a big man, and he couldn’t bear Techno thinking anything else of him. So he steeled himself and said: “It’s really nothing,” He could tell Techno didn’t believe him by his narrowed eyes, so he put on a smile, “Really, it’s nothing. I promise.”

Techno still seemed a bit skeptical, but appeared to believe him finally, and lifted his hands from Tommy’s shoulders. As he did so, Tommy noticed something on one of them. “Hey, is that blood?” He pointed to Technoblade’s left hand, where streams of red could be seen trickling from beneath his matte black claws. Techno lifted his hand and just shrugged.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it. Just some splinters.” Tommy frowned but muttered an okay. He mentally shook himself, clearing away doubts. However, he couldn’t shake the little seed of hope that had begun growing in his mind, that his mum was still alive and out there. To try and bury it, Tommy grabbed Techno’s uninjured hand and tried to drag him along. He deepened his voice dramatically, “Come on, Blade! We gotta get back to Phil and Wilbur.”

Techno didn’t budge, just looked down with amusement at Tommy struggling.

“Why do you have to be so fucking heavy,” Tommy groaned, giving up and letting Techno’s hand flop back to the warrior’s side. He threw up his own hand and turned, walking off. “What do even do, eat fucking rocks?” He turned around, looking back at The Blade. He continued walking but glanced behind himself to make sure he wouldn’t fall off a cliff or some shit. The only thing he saw, other than trees and shrubbery, were two small patches of mushrooms. He turned back to Techno. He was just watching Tommy with amusement, trotting toward the boy. Tommy opened his mouth to speak.

Then the floor seemed to fall out from under him, like when you’re falling asleep and suddenly everything plummets toward the ground and floats at the same time and Tommy tried to scream but the earth was closing over him and dirt was getting in his mouth; the last thing he saw was Techno lunging toward him, bloody hand outstretched, mouth open and screaming and then everything went dark and Tommy thought is this the end, is this why I heard mum, was it because I was about to die, and then all of sudden there was light again, a soft gray light, and all he could see was the sky.

Chapter Text

The bright lilac sky burned into Tommy’s retinas. He didn’t know where he was. He knew that the sky wasn’t normally a shade of purple, however.

So, what the fuck was up with that.

Groaning, Tommy pushed himself up into a sitting position. His body ached all over, muscles he didn’t even know he had crying out their complaints, all clamoring for his attention. His head was pounding furiously, and he groaned again.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling? This your first time through a gate? I remember my first time, sucked ass-”

“AHHHH!” Tommy shrieked at the unfamiliar voice and jolted up. “WHAT THE FUCK!” He tried to scramble his way to his feet to get into a fighting position, but instead he felt himself start to slip. He tried to find traction with his bare feet on whatever he was standing on, but he kept sliding. Looking down at his flailing appendages he saw that he seemed to be on a… massive mushroom? Yeah, that’s what he was on. It was a massive red a white capped mushroom-

Tommy felt himself tip.

A hand flashed out and snatched his shoulder just as he neared the edge of the giant mushroom. “I got you!” The cheerful voice said again. Tommy was pulled back from the edge. He looked at his shoulder, where a small, scarred hand rested, then followed the arm to the face of his savior.

A short, smiling brunette, about his age, stared back at him. He had twinkling brown eyes and a slightly insane grin. He had two little horns peeking out from his mess of hair and wore a large green cloak, lined with fur. 

He also had horrific burn scars covering the entire right side of his face.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tommy demanded, ripping his shoulder from the boy’s grasp. He stumbled back, more towards the middle of the huge toadstool. “Where the fuck am I?”

“I’m Tubbo!” He said. “And you’re in Coppice.” Tommy waited for him to elaborate.

He didn’t.

Tommy slowly straightened from his crouched position, until he towered over the other boy. “Okay, Tubbo- weird fucking name by the way- where is Coppice? What is Coppice? Why are we on a giant mushroom?”

Tubbo looked confused by his line of questioning. “You don’t know?” Tommy shook his head. “Huh, I thought you would. You’re Flower’s Whisper, Tommy, right?”

“What,” Tommy said.

Tubbo pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, the actions pulling on his scar tissue. “You really don’t know.”

“No, Big T, I do not know,” Tommy frowned. Tubbo sighed.

“You might want to sit down.”

Tommy complied. He made sure he was in the middle of the mushroom so he wouldn’t slip. Tubbo sat down next to him and began to talk.

“So a long time ago there were four gods, called the Vengeful. There was this huge war with other gods, and the Vengeful awoke. Death had been impartial before this-”

“I already know this part,” Tommy interrupted.

Tubbo grinned widely, looking relieved. “Oh, you do? That’s great. That means I can skip most of this speech.” 

“You have a whole speech prepared? That's handy,” Tommy said sarcastically.

“It is, isn't it?” Tubbo replied, cheerful as ever. Either he didn’t pick up on Tommy’s sarcasm or he simply didn’t care. “Anyway, so... you know how the Vengeful got split into thirds and became the Forgotten?”

“Yep”

“Perfect. Okay so, when the Vengeful were split into thirds, it wasn’t their bodies that were split but their essence. The gods Flower, Fever, Favorer, and Fated—he’s different but you know that already, I hope—anyway, so those first three guys, their soul, magic, whatever, got split into thirds of decreasing power. These bits of power manifested as people. Now the biggest bit of power-turned-person claims the host deity’s name. That’s why the gods are called the Forgotten now, because the head quote-unquote god isn’t actually one of the Vengeful, they’re only a little bit,” Tubbo waved his hands energetically throughout his speech, almost whacking Tommy a few times. He had to use his patented evasive maneuvers.

“The current Flower or Grower or Growing God or whatever you want to call him isn’t actually a god, per se. He’s only a bit of it,” Tubbo pinched the air, showing how small of a god the current Flower-Grower-Growing-God was. Tommy wasn’t sure what to call him. “Before the Forest called to him his name was George but now he’s all uptight, like-” here Tubbo put on a very proper accent, “-'Oh I’m sixty percent a god’-” he lost the accent. “Like, no shit. And I'm thirty percent!” Tubbo was left panting after his rant about this George character.

“You good there Big T? Doesn’t sound like you like this George fella too much,” Tommy lifted his hands in poorly-made fists and started to box an invisible opponent from his seated position. “Want me to beat him up? I can do that for you!” He glared menacingly. Yep, it was definitely menacing, any other description was not true.

Tubbo waved off his very intimidating and not-at-all-comical offer. “No no, there’s no need- I just realized, don’t think I ever got your name,” He had a curious-looking expression on his face. It twisted his scars.

“It’s Tommy, innit,” Tommy told him. The scars smoothed out.

“Okay then Tommyinnit-“

“No, there’s no innit, just Tommy. I-... I’m just Tommy,” Tommy frowned, this admission somehow making him sad. Tubbo didn’t notice and just barreled merrily on.

“Oh, sorry. I'm dyslexic.”

“I was? Speaking? Not writing?” Tommy was incredibly confused.

Tubbo ignored him. “So I’m thirty percent a god. I'm what’s called a servant. Don’t ask me why, because I don't know. My ‘title’ or whatever, like George's Flower, is Sprouter.” 

“Okay... but what does this have to do with me?” Tommy said slowly. He was starting to think that this Tubbo character was maybe insane.

“I’m getting to that,” Tubbo said happily. “If you'll notice, we only have ninety percent of a god right now. That's where you come in. You’re our Whisper, the one of us who can blend best with society. Seeing as you’re only ten percent a god.”

The world screeched to a halt. Tommy’s stomach flipped inside out and all the blood rushed from his head. “TEN PERCENT A GOD?!” He screeched.

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted you to sit down,” Tubbo shrugged, looking perfectly at ease. If everything didn’t feel so soft and sparkly and fuzzy, Tommy would have cursed him out for not warning him. “Before you faint, as it looks like you're going to do that—perfectly normal by the way, learning you’re not fully human is a huge shock—your title is Wanderer. It’s ‘cause you wander, get it?” Tubbo giggled, proud of himself. Why? Tommy couldn’t figure it out.

“Got it,” He lied, voice weak and wavering.

The world gave his brain a hug, everything became large and small at once, light and dark, and then he fainted.

Philza sat down next to Wilbur. He glanced to his right at the man. Then he looked back into the trees.

They sat in silence for a bit. Wilbur fiddled with the pegs of his harp, tightening some and loosening others. He plucked at the strings after he made an adjustment, listening to the melodic sighs they made in response. He did this for a few more minutes. When he was finally satisfied, he strummed a few chords, his hands flitting over the strings rapidly. Wilbur rested his head on the top of his harp, stroking the cords lazily, sweet notes singing out. 

He began to hum. Philza stood up. Wilbur stopped playing. The abrupt halt to the music resulted in a discordant silence.

“No, no, please continue Wilbur,” Phil told him. “That was very beautiful, mate.”

“Thank you. And you can call me Wil,” Wil said. He turned back to the harp and began to play again. He hummed, adding melody to the harmonics he played.

Phil began to sway to the music.

“A man once told me I would never fly,” Wilbur sang, sweet voice lifting hauntingly. “Said that I was born to die.”

Phil started to dance, slowly and reverently. 

“He said ‘Boy, don’t you ever think you’re good,’” The melody was unbearably sad. Phil spun, twisting and turning gracefully. “‘Don’t you ever think you’re worthy.’” 

Phil spread his wings. He lifted and spun them, floating them around his body as he turned. They drifted through the air, heart-achingly beautiful.

“I cried out to the world, ‘Why am I here? Why am I set upon this earth, when I should be in the sky? My wings, where did they go? My voice, when will it grow? How will I live, if I have no songs to sing?’” Wilbur hummed.

Phil danced. “The man, he said, ‘You think you are great, you think you are deserving, you think the world wants to hear your voice. Well, kid, it’s time you learned. It’s time you learned how to live, so that you may learn how to die.’” Wilbur strummed the final chords and let his song fade into silence.

Phil heard none of the regular sounds of the forest, as if the woods themselves would observe this perfect quiet.

The only sound was the dripping of water. Phil turned to look at Wilbur and realized it was because the musician was crying.

Careful not to break the silence, he walked over and sat next to him. He reached out a hand, making sure that Wilbur could see it before he hovered his palm gently above Wilbur’s upper back. 

“Hey, mate, mind if I touch you?” He whispered, soothingly, blending his voice with the ambiance of the forest which was beginning to return.

Wil nodded. Phil gently set his hand on his back, rubbing small, slow circles. Wilbur was stiff for a bit before he melted into Phil. He leaned his head against Phil’s shoulder, burying his face into Philza’s shirt. He had to bend down, making his tall frame small. Phil wrapped his arms and wings around Wilbur, sheltering him. Keeping him safe.

They sat like that for what felt like hours until Wilbur was calm again. Philza’s shirt was wet with tears and snot, but he didn’t mind.

“You doing better, mate?” He asked quietly. He felt Wilbur nod. He tapped a finger on Phil’s wing, and Phil complied with his unspoken command, drawing his wings back. Wilbur straightened and wiped his eyes, sniffing rather loudly. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry about that.”

Phil frowned. “Don’t apologize, mate. Emotions are normal.”

Wilbur laughed a bit. “Yeah… but why I’m feeling them isn’t. That’s the problem.”

Phil fell silent, so he could process that. What could the reason be? Why did Wil think it wasn’t normal? 

Phil decided to just ask. He had always been a straightforward sort of god. “Why isn’t it normal?” He inquired, trying to sound as genuine and curious as possible. He added: “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Wilbur hesitated. He seemed to deflate. Sighing, he said, “Why don’t you see for yourself.” He propped up a leg onto the stone they were sitting on and removed his knee-high boot.

Phil opened his mouth. “Ah. I see.”

Wilbur just laughed humorlessly. “Mind if I keep my boots off? Wearing them so much hurts me.” Phil nodded, and Wil leaned down to remove his other boot. Then he stretched out his legs, showing Phil that without a doubt, from the shin down, Wilbur deviated from the norm.

He had bird legs.

The skin of his calves and shins was golden-brown with black streaks. The flesh looked almost lizard-like, with long, thin scale-shaped patterns. His toes were long and knobby and had been in the area where the human foot would go in his boot. He didn’t appear to have the arch portion of a foot, only toes and a strange fusion of leg to foot in the center of them; a secondary talon grew from the back and acted as a sort of heel. The strange bone in the middle of his foot went up to his ankle, halfway between his foot and knee. His skin blended from scales to human flesh halfway between knee and ankle. Looking at his leg from hip to foot, it formed a lightning bolt shape, with thigh twice as long as the calf area, which bent backward from the knee and forward from the ankle.

“Because of the way my leg is shaped, I had to put in extra supports and padding in my boots,” Wilbur explained, showing Phil the interior of his boots. He demonstrated how he clenched his talons together to slip into the shaped interior of the boot. “There is padding in front of my ankle-” he pointed to it, “-to preserve the illusion of my shin being straight. There’s a little wedge resting on top of my back toe, supporting my ankle bone and giving it a more human curve. The same thing rests on my shin to curve that area.” Wilbur pointed out each of these areas. “The whole thing is banded around on the inside with hardened leather to keep my leg mostly straightened.”

“You’re very passionate about this shoe,” Phil said wryly. Wilbur laughed. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Yeah,” Wil nodded. Then he frowned. “I can’t go ask a proper cobbler to make my new boots, now can I? I’ve had to teach myself.” He fell silent. “I don’t leave the forest,” He added. “Ever.”

“Because of the legs,” Phil assumed. Wil nodded in confirmation. 

Phil sat in consideration. “You said that the boots hurt you if you wear them for too long. How would you like to go for a walk, without them?”

Wilbur smiled, a true smile that seemed to light up the woods. “I would love that.”

“TOMMY!” Technoblade screamed. He looked at the place where the boy had disappeared into the earth. The mushrooms on the forest floor seemed smug, almost, like they were happy for devouring a child alive.

Tommy? The voices questioned. They sounded… sad. Where did the child go? 

Techno had to force back a sob, the combined emotions of his fear for Tommy and the voices’ sadness and confusion too much to bear. 

What do I do? He thought, pacing furiously- if only to delay his inevitable breakdown. He knelt by the mushrooms, knees digging into the soft earth. His cape drooped around his shoulders like a silken burial shroud. Blood continued to drip in streams down his hand. The red stood out starkly against his pale skin, like rubies on a bed of crushed lillies. 

Techno lifted his bloody hand to his face, turning it so that the blood caught the flickering rays of the sun. It shone like cut gems in the light, and dripped from the tips of his fingers onto the mushrooms. It dotted the toasted brown caps.

Where his blood fell, the mushrooms shriveled and died. Spore clouds dispersed from the corpses, purple plumes drifting through the air. The clouds expanded in the glen, filling everything with the almost magical dust. Techno looked at the spores flitting about, dust motes glowing violet, floating gracefully through the air. He breathed softly and slowly, looking at the swirls his breath made in the spores. They twisted and spiraled around, like what happens when you pour milk into tea.

Everything seemed magical and perfect and-

Have you ever tried a mushroom? The wind whispered to him.

You should try.

Techno nodded. “Yes. I should try the mushrooms.”

No, don’t try it. The voices whispered to him.

Techno nodded. “No. I shouldn’t try the mushrooms.”

But aren’t you curious? The wind caressed his cheek, tracing his face. It breathed down his neck, invisible mouth hovering below his pointed ear.

“Yes.” He reached for a mushroom.

No, you’re not. The voices told him, shaking their fists and hopping up and down angrily in his mind.

“No.” Techno agreed, drawing his hand back. He left behind bloody fingerprints. Oh, come on, just a taste. The wind laughed, not a care in the world.

Techno picked a mushroom, bringing it to his lips.

NO! The voices screamed. A wrenching pain pierced his skull like a lightning bolt. 

“AHH!” Techno gasped in agony. He dropped the mushroom. He gripped his head and pulled at his hair, baring his teeth at the sky. He jerked forward and curled into a ball, digging his fingers into his scalp. His nails pierced the skin and blood rushed down his pink locks, crimson falling like rain.

The mushroom will take away the pain. The wind promised him. The mushroom will take away the pain.

Techno reached one trembling hand forward and picked up the mushroom again. Another lash of pain shot through his mind and Techno arched his back, gritting his jaw against a scream. He lifted the mushroom to his mouth and ate it whole. 

The voices screamed again, and Techno let loose a scream of his own. Then suddenly the voices cut off.

They didn’t speak again. 

The wind rattled in the trees; Techno exhaled into the silence. 

He sat, waiting. Minutes upon minutes passed, his mind completely quiet. It was strange. He had become so used to the voices, and now that they weren’t there he wasn’t entirely sure what he should be thinking. So he continued to sit.

About half an hour had passed when the world started to waver ever so slightly. A soft knocking, rippling ache began to grow behind his eyes. The mushroom spores, still drifting in the air, began to dance. They grew wings and started to flutter this way and that. As they flew about, they left behind trails of luminescent violet. They danced through the air, these spore fairies, and as they left behind their purple light it tangled into a knot in the air and then the knot started to breathe.

Techno watched this breathing knot of purple light and giggled. The trees around him started to breathe as well, the grooves in their bark flowing. Techno leaned toward one and saw that the little running rivulets were muddy rivers trapped in the trees, surrounded by little homes made of the tree bark. Techno’s head throbbed and the earth started to speak to him.

It spoke of connection. It spoke of freedom, of fear, of being one. Techno started to fly, his mind separating from him and as it separated he realized that it wasn’t his brain, it was just a brain and he was floating in a river through the void and the body he had been in was just a body. Time lost all meaning.

Technoblade realized, as he floated down this river in the dark with fairies dancing around, that he wasn’t important. He was one with everything. He was not an individual. There was no “he”, no “his”. He wasn’t singular, he was plural, because he was one with everything and everything was him.

Techno mused upon this as they drifted down the stream. They decided that while on this river, to reflect their connection, they would refer to themselves in the plural. They nodded and laughed, satisfied with this arrangement. The river in the void agreed. Techno looked down and realized that they were simply floating and as they realized this the world manifested for them a ship so that they could travel on this journey. 

“Thank you,” they said and stared off into the darkness. The river bubbled happily. In the void, Techno began to see strange scenes appear. They saw people asleep in beds and around the sleepers’ heads they saw haloed images. Some were in color and others were in greyscale, but everything was the purest essence of the shade. They could taste these colors, like berries popping on their tongue. Everything was saturated with feeling and all of the hues were bright and clear. Techno leaned forward and watched the sleepers sleep. They supposed that perhaps what they were seeing were dreams. The boat rocked in response to this thought.

Techno accepted their supposition as reality.

He continued to watch the dreamers.

One person (or not one person, as Techno had learned that everyone was One Being and everyone was connected) was dreaming in color. Brilliant red shapes reminiscent of dragons soared through a sky of cobalt above a world of crushed emeralds. Techno noted this and accepted that this dream was just as much theirs as it was the dreamer’s. They turned and watched another dream, that another consciousness in this all-consuming void was dreaming, and accepted that this dream was also theirs. This one was of neon green frogs on mushrooms playing white, white banjos. The sun was an electric yellow light on the waving horizon. They saw the music fluttering from the strings and into the sky.

Techno loved these dreamers because these dreamers were them and they knew that they should love themselves. They knew this and in this void of colorful feeling and love they were able to finally love themselves, and in doing so, they realized that they loved everyone because there was no One, there was simply Every.

Techno, satisfied with these dreams that were theirs and their love, turned and finally looked into the void.

The void looked back. Storm clouds the color of squid ink and tasting of blackberries exploded into flavor on their tongue and bled from their lips into the void and became the ink. The void had eyes, eyes of midnight, the shade singing into Techno with voices of compressed terror.

And looking into this void and hearing it look back Techno felt themselves begin to fall, fall into the oblivion of All, and finally, finally, as their boat neared the end of the river, they felt himself begin to return and fight against the All. He knew of the All, he knew he was part of the Every, but as the void began to lighten and fear began to grip his heart, hand-in-hand with the love, Techno’s self returned and he knew that it was not his time to fall. He despaired because he missed that sense of All but he simultaneously rejoiced because while knowing that he was not alone was comforting, being so un-alone to the point of Oneness was terrifying. And Technoblade wasn’t ready for that terror, for the storms.

So he made a choice, as the sky lightened into day and the river turned to azure, to leap from the boat into the unknown.

The water buffeted him, chilling him to his bones. His head ached and his limbs wouldn’t move. They were weighed down with anchors; his muscles were weights and he could feel hands grasping at his ankles, ready to drown him. 

Technoblade felt the hands grabbing at him. He had always known that people were out to get him, and this just confirmed it. The paranoia grew and he fought to exit the river, his cape dragging him down. 

Fear started clawing up Techno’s spine and the cold of the river froze his lungs. He felt so, so heavy, and gods his head was hurting. And those hands, those people trying to drown him… he started gasping, chest tightening, and panic setting in. Water was getting up his nose, in his lungs, and there was nothing he could do because his body wouldn’t work .

He was drowning in this blue, blue river, with pine trees all around, and the stormy sky above.

No. This can’t be happening. I refuse. 

Technoblade, with an effort that could only be described as heroic, forced his legs to kick. He kicked away the hands, feeling bones crack and blood spurt beneath his boots. Clouds of red began to swirl in the water as Technoblade, freed from the grasping hands, started to swim. The water lapped at his face, choppy and fierce. He looked back, just for an instant, to see the bodies of the people who held him down, but he saw nothing.

There were no people. 

The colors leached from the world, and it all looked so dreary and drab. The water was a stormy blue and the sky a murky gray and the trees a faded evergreen, instead of the vibrant pure hues they had been just minutes before.

Techno, drifting in the water, wondered if it had all been a dream. Nothing seemed quite real anymore, all worn and forgotten like this. It was like an old painting, left in an attic for too many years. The canvas moth-eaten, full of holes, and the paint faded and detail blurred into oblivion by time.

Everything was quiet. It began to rain.

Then the water started to speed up. The burbling of the river turned into a thunderous scream. The current turned from calm to turbulent and Technoblade, swiveling around quickly to see the reason, saw only massive black rocks jutting from the choppy water like teeth, ready to shred him apart.

The river had him in his grasp and it pushed him under.

Everything darkened and turned a frigid shade of blue. The water roared in his ears and he was thrown against rocks, sharp stones slicing his flesh into ribbons. His lungs ached for him to take a breath but he couldn’t because he was under the water, trapped beneath the waves, and if he thought he was drowning before it was nothing compared to this.

The water slammed him down against the riverbed and scraped his face on the sharp stones. In the murky darkness, Techno saw a shape looming up ahead: a massive boulder appeared out from the violent foam. Technoblade tried to dig his fingers into the ground, grab onto a rock, anything to keep him from hitting that wall of unflinching stone and shattering into a million pieces. But he couldn’t find anything to fucking save him. He was a rag doll, slung into the merciless care of the river whose whims changed upon a dime. 

Thunder boomed above the water, but to Techno, it sounded so very far away.

He collided with the boulder with a resounding crack and Technoblade felt his body break.

Wilbur Soot walked through the forest next to the god Philza. He could feel the moist earth beneath his talons, soothing his skin and relieving pain. Without his boots, his legs could bend fully and he sighed happily, stretching out his tightened joints and muscles. He saw, from the corner of his eye, Phil smile. 

“Feeling better, mate?” The Wiseman asked. 

Wilbur replied: “Yeah. Thank you for not… not leaving me? Reviling me? I don’t know. I just… thanks,” he sighed. “I don’t know why, I haven’t done anything deserving of your kindness and acceptance. You just… gave it to me?”

Phil stopped and set his hands on Wilbur’s shoulders, turning the taller man to face him. He had to look up a bit to meet Wilbur’s eyes. “Mate, I accepted you because you don’t deserve to feel like you are wrong, in any way. And, also, because I’m your friend and that’s what friends do.”

Wilbur felt a knot growing in his throat and coughed a few times to clear it. “You- We’re friends?”

“Of course, mate,” Phil smiled again, and to Wilbur, it seemed like it lit up the world. He wrapped his arms around the smaller blonde and buried his face into his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled by Phil’s clothing. “I’ve never had a friend before. Well, except that one weird sheep that wandered through the woods a while back; it wouldn’t leave me alone and kept eating the scraps from my boots, don’t know what was up with that-”

Phil laughed, interrupting Wilbur’s ramblings. “I get it, mate. It’s hard, being alone for so long.” Wilbur leaned his face back out of Phil’s shoulder and nodded. 

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” Wilbur said quietly.

“Neither do I,” Phil smiled sadly. “Neither do I.”

“Maybe we could… be less alone? Together?” Wilbur asked tentatively.

“I would love that, mate.”

Wilbur grinned at Phil and he grinned back. They turned and continued to walk.

Birds chirped around them. The music of the forest rose and fell like the different parts of a symphony, insects and tree frogs and the rustling of leaves telling a story. Wilbur inhaled the sweet smell of the woods, and for the first time in a long time, he felt… not exactly happy, but content.

Wilbur was content. He smiled, and spread his arms, and began to dance. Phil looked on in wry amusement, but Wilbur didn’t care, because he knew that Phil accepted him and didn’t care if he broke out into song and dance on a forest stroll. After all, Phil was his friend.

Wilbur laughed, spinning and hugging himself, and danced to the symphony of the Whispering Woods because he had a friend . He had someone who would be there for him when his past caught up to him and he felt like he was nothing, smaller than nothing, simply an unworthy speck on the underside of a leaf. When he hated himself, wanted anything and everything to change, and an all-consuming sense of wrong saturated his bones.

But he wasn’t feeling any of that now, so Wilbur danced. He danced and he danced and he danced, danced through the trees and into a clearing where a massive tree stood. He danced around the tree, stared up at it, and saw that it had been struck by lightning. The wood was charred, and the tree had lost many branches to fire.

But it was still standing. Just like Wilbur was standing.

Storms had come and battered this tree, but it had weathered them, and survived, and was still alive. It had faced adversary, had experienced all the worst the world had to offer, and it was still a living tree.

It was the Living Tree.

Wilbur smiled and sat in between two massive roots. Phil, following behind him, emerged from the woods into the clearing. He was smiling. Wilbur smiled back, before turning to look at the roots and wood around him.

Rising above him for what seemed to be hundreds of meters was the trunk of the tree. It was a dark gray and dripping down it in stripes were strings of moss and ivy. Branching from the top, fractal-like, were branches and spots where branches used to be. Some were burned and blackened from fire, while others were green and growing. It was death mixed among life, and Wilbur thought that it was the most accurate representation of what it was like to be alive that he had ever seen.

Beside him on either side were mossy roots, growing tall, like wooden walls. Wilbur ran his fingers along the bark. Beneath his calloused fingertips, it felt like the grooves and ridges in the wood were like letters, trying to tell him a story. And if Wilbur only listened, he would be able to hear what the tree had to say.

So convinced was he that there were words, if only he listened, that Wilbur set his ear upon the bark of the root to his left. And sure enough, within the wood, he heard little voices whispering to him.

They whispered, and Wilbur felt himself start to fall. He fell into the story, into the wood, and he closed his eyes. He could hear, vaguely, Phil yelling his name, but that didn’t matter because the tree was speaking to him and it was telling him that there was a place, a place where he could go and emancipate from his earthy chains.

If he just gave in, he would be free from the rule and tyranny of his past. He could be made anew. He could be anything he wished, could do anything he wanted. Hell , the tree told him, you could blow everything to smithereens! Everyone who wronged you, you could burn them alive. Make them suffer like they made you suffer. You could finally be a winner!

You could write your own future.

Wilbur gave in. 

Chapter Text

Blood drifted up, coming to a rest on the river's surface. It faded through the water like a feather drifting in the wind. The red ichor stretched its tendrils out through the brook, diffusing into the current, a crimson cloud dripping downstream. The undulating ribbons forked into two streams farther upriver, split around a huge boulder, the tip of which pierced the bubbling surface. Resting upon the rock was a limp body, sheathed in a damp red cloak which clung desperately to the frame. Limbs were splayed out in a way almost like the figure had dragged themselves from the water and collapsed with exhaustion. Yet the bones protruding unexpectedly from skin disproved this theory. Instead it seemed rather more likely that the body had floated to the surface before being deposited unceremoniously atop the sunken monolith.

Rivulets of blood seeped in thin streaks of bright color down the stone and into the river. 

Everything was quiet and still. Sunlight fell onto the scene, bold swathes of gold. The river glittered the blue of cut sapphires and the banks and woods were resplendent in emerald, jade, and beryl shades.

Then the figure took a breath, loud and rasping in the peaceful woods. It began to cough, a hacking, rattling wheeze, and pushed itself up, vomiting water and blood. It seemed almost inconceivable that such a wretched-looking creature might still live, yet there it was, breathing, heart beating, pumping that ruby blood out into the water.

Techno rolled onto his back, the ripped flesh of his arms and shattered bones screaming in such anguish that he couldn’t even register the agony and torment. In a vague section of his mind, he knew that he was most likely dying, and the reason that he couldn’t feel the pain was due to shock. He couldn't bring himself to care. He was so tired. And so very cold. The cold was like a living entity, a monster gnawing on his bones. Its teeth of ice speared to his marrow, freezing his ichor into crystalline shards, picking him apart piece by piece. 

He had not even the energy to shiver.

He lay on the rock, exposed, drifting. Slowly he began to warm, the insatiable cold lessening, somehow - impossible, that this cold might so vanish - yet there it was, evaporating away in the heat of the sun like an evil miasma banished by the sacred burning of sage. He might have rejoiced in this freeing sensation, the release from the frigidness, except that with its absence arose to the forefront the pain of a shattered body, with life seeping away at an ever-increasing speed.

To inhale would be to pierce his lungs, but the scream building in his chest had to escape. And escape it did, a weak, wavering cry threading from Techno’s bloodied lips, deprived of the oxygen needed for a full-bodied sound. It rasped and hissed out, a broken lament. Techno took quick, shallow breaths, the pain thrumming in fast, pounding waves, radiating out from wounds and thudding in a polyrhythm of his heartbeat. 

“Fuck,” Techno hissed out, teeth clenched in a defiant grimace. “Just have to- AHHH!” He screamed, tearing his pulverized body to a sitting position. “Oh my gods, please, please, PLEASE, I can’t…” He sobbed.

He hunched over his knees, body shaking, and his mind dislocated.

The forest of Reverie glowed in the evening light. A storm was coming, judging by the clouds gathered on the horizon, but it wasn’t here yet. The muddy ground, covered with shed needles, clung to his boots as he walked along.

A scream rent the air in twain.

It came from the direction of the River Azure. Ranboo spun on his heel and started to run. He had thought someone had entered Reverie, a few hours ago, but when the consciousness went dark on his tongue, he believed he had been mistaken. He should have known better. 

Ranboo was never wrong.

His pointed purple boots splattered mud upon his black leather britches as he ran. His book and quill floated along behind him, desperately trying to keep up. The pines got in the way, and he had to dodge around them, almost running into a few several times. His breath began to come in gasps and gulps, but he didn’t dare stop. The stars had told him Favorer’s Whisper was on his way. Was it possible that the scream belonged to them? Ranboo didn’t dare let the dream go farther than that. You never knew when the Dreaming God was listening. 

Ranboo broke through the trees onto the bank of the river. Glancing up and down, he saw what looked like red ribbons writhing in the current. Walking forward carefully, he knelt down, wet sand sticking to his knees. He dipped his fingers into the stream, touching the red ribbons.

When he drew his hand back, his pearlescent scales dripped with blood.

Whipping his head to look upstream, Ranboo could just barely make out rapids hundreds of feet away, emerging around a bend in the River Azure. He stood and began to sprint. As he ran, more and more blood filled the water, so much that he started to fear that he was too late.

And then he saw the body. Huddled on a boulder in the middle of the river was a bloodied figure, bones jutting from skin. Ranboo clapped a hand to his face, swallowing down his bile. He forgot about the blood on his hands, though, and the coppery taste invaded his mouth, salty and rich and-

He could taste the Dreamer in that blood. This person, dying on a rock in the middle of rapids, was his way out of this place.

Techno groaned and grasped his head, snapping back into his skull.

“You-you’re alive! Oh thank the gods, I was afraid you were dead–that would have been terrible. You can’t die. I need you–wait, that sounds callous. That’s not exactly true. I mean, I do need you but I also don’t want you to die–”

“Please, be quiet, Ranboo,” Techno muttered.

“You- what- how-” 

“I don’t know,” Techno looked up at Ranboo on the bank of the river. He wore a black corset, white shirt, black leather britches, and pointed purple boots, with a dark forest green cape tying it all together. His all-black hair was straight and down to his lower back, tied into one long tail with a leather cord. He had eyes that were green on the left halves and red on the right, and black lips. His eyes reflected a lot of light, almost cat-like, and his lips were very matte, a contrast to the rest of his skin. He had pointed ears. His skin was so pale as to be almost pure white; it was shimmery and appeared to be faintly scaled. Behind him floated a book and quill. He couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Techno hurt too much to think about how bizarre this was.

“Could you, eh, assist me, perhaps?” He winced, the sharp agonizing pain of his body fading as more blood seeped out.

Ranboo looked startled. “Oh, uh, yeah, I can do that. Just, uh, hold on a moment,” As he spoke, Techno saw that he had fangs and a black tongue. “Here. Can you grab onto this?” A branch was thrown next to him, rattling onto the rock. Techno snatched it before it could fall into the river. His war training was kicking in, and adrenaline pumped through his veins.

The smoke burned his eyes and scraped his throat as he struggled to breathe. “Calvin!” He screamed. Oh gods, where was he, where was his friend–

Techno gripped the branch.

Mud formed from blood mixing with dirt clung to his boots, staining the hem of his white cloak even more. He still couldn’t find him. Where was Calvin? He scanned the battlefield, burning corpses and bodies with spears protruding from their chests, horses felled by dozens of arrows–all of it blocked his vision. Catching a glimpse of purple, Techno waded through the carnage. And there–there it was, the purple–and–no…NO–

“Can you jump into the water? If you hold onto the branch it will help you float out of the rapids,” Ranboo called to him. Techno nodded and slid into the water. It was freezing, and he shivered. It numbed the pain only slightly, but it was enough that Techno pushed himself off the rock.

“CALVIN!” Techno screamed. That- that was his friend- he was- he was-

The water grabbed a hold of him and began to flush him downstream. Techno clung to the branch for dear life as he twisted and turned, his broken body narrowly avoiding crashing into more rocks. “You’re almost out!” Ranboo called to him as he ran alongside on the bank.

“No…” Techno collapsed to the ground. Mud squished between his knees. Mud formed from- from the lifeblood of- of-

The water calmed, and Techno drifted in the blank expanse of blue. “I’ll come in and grab you!” Ranboo cried, removing his boots, cloak, and corset, slipping into the water. He splashed forward, walking until the water reached his armpits, at which point he started to swim, long, graceful strokes out to Techno.

Next to the body of- of… Next to the body was the corpse of Commander Hypixel. And in his chest… that was- it was his sword- Calvin had-

Skinny arms roped with muscle gripped him beneath his shoulders. “I’ve got you,” The boy whispered into his ear. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Techno had whispered to Calvin before they left to fight. And now, here he was, alive and well and kneeling over the- the- body of his very best friend and jutting from his gut was the Commander’s sword, bone-handle shiny with the blood of his very best friend and it was mocking him and telling him that he had failed poor Calvin, barely past his nineteenth birthday, who had sparred with him and laughed with him and lived with him and now he was dead but at least he had taken Hypixel with him, hadn’t he? And that was worth something, right? It was what they had been fighting for–to relieve the land of his tyranny, but was this- was this- was it worth it? Was it a victory, if that victory took the only thing that mattered?

The shore was damp and gritty beneath his skin, and Techno could do nothing but lay there on the bank, dying. “I’m not going to let you die,” Ranboo muttered above him.

“You should.”

Techno held the body of his friend, his brother, tight to his chest, and sobbed. He sobbed, on that battlefield of blood and bones and death, and he mourned the loss of his happy ever after. That was what this was supposed to have been: they would fight, and they would win, and they would both be alive and free to enjoy their life, unchained from tyranny.

But Calvin was dead, and Techno was alone.

“I- what? No, no, I have to keep you alive. You- you’re in shock, you’re not thinking straight. This is fine, this is fine–oh, gods, what do I do?” Ranboo’s hands shook over Techno’s skin, ghosting across his ruined flesh like memories.

Techno, gently, reverently, lowered the body of Calvin from where he clutched it to him. He looked at that face, once so bright and happy and alive, but now–now his chocolate skin was pale in death, and his eyes–they would see nothing, nothing ever again. Techno lifted his hands, gently, reverently, to Calvin’s face, and set his fingertips on his eyelids. He slid them closed.

“May the endless night of Death welcome you with open arms. May you find peace in the lasting dark. May you dream in color, forever and always, and the eternal sleep cradle you close.”

“Okay, okay, think think think… I have to set the bones, I need to get them- get them back beneath the skin- okay- here goes-”

Techno’s scream shook the world as Ranboo snapped his bones straight.

“Oh, gods, I’m- I’m so sorry, I-”

“Just- get it over with,” Techno sobbed. “I’m… so tired.”

“No- no, you can’t sleep,” Ranboo shook Techno awake. “You can’t sleep! I’m… I’m going to fix you, okay? I just- I have to close up this skin.”

Techno stood, and grabbed the hilt of Commander Hypixel’s sword. The bone was cool and slick with Calvin’s blood. He eased it gently from the flesh of his fallen brother, leaving behind a bloody hole. Techno set down the sword, coated in blood, and turned to the body of Hypixel. This time, as he grabbed the sword, he ripped it free with a passion, tearing the corpse apart.

Ranboo began to tear up his cloak. “I- I can’t stitch up your wounds, but I can- can bind them. It will have to do until I can get you back to the camp. You’ll be okay. You’re gonna be fine,” Ranboo said, wrapping Techno’s many injuries with the torn fabric of his cloak.

He laid Calvin’s sword on his chest, curling his frozen, still fingers around the hilt. Picking up the Commander’s blood sword, Techno stepped back. He pulled a vial from his pocket and poured it on Calvin’s still form. Then he threw a match.

The flames reflected in his dark eyes, shining off the tears soaking his cheeks.

“Sleep, my brother. Sleep.”

Techno gently lifted a hand to rest upon Ranboo’s. The boy stilled, white palm trapped beneath Techno’s own clawed one. “Why are you saving me?” He murmured, vision fading. “I- I’m not a good person. I’ve killed people. I’ve- I’ve gotten people I love killed. Why would you want to save such a wretch?”

Ranboo was silent.

Techno faded, as as his eyes slipped shut, he thought he heard Ranboo speak. “Because you are my savior," Ranboo said.

“Because you are my savior,” Calvin said. And then he went to the killing field, and died.

Tommy felt himself return to consciousness. There was a strange buzzing noise. Why had he…?

“How are you feeling, big man? Any more godly?”

Tommy remembered. He felt like he was going to be sick. “I-...”

“That’s okay,” Tubbo said, cheerful as ever. Tommy sat up, and realized they were in a large basket. He looked up and saw the underside of… was that a bee? 

“What the fuck?” He whispered. “Hey, hey Tubbo, hey Big T, why is there, why is there a Very Large Bee carrying us in a basket?”

“Oh, him?” Tubbo grinned. “That’s Peter. He flies me back to base a lot. Don’t you, Peter?” Tubbo patted the Very Large Bee foot next to his hand.

Peter buzzed louder.

“Speaking of base, we’re almost back. You see that mushroom up ahead?” Tommy looked out over the side of the basket. There were hundreds of mushrooms, all the size of trees. Tommy and Tubbo, in their bee basket, just barely skimmed the tops of several of them. Most were red with white dots, or white with red dots, but a few here and there were brown or blue or purple or white or gold- Come to think of it, Tommy thought, looking around, there seemed to be mushrooms of every color of the rainbow. Many of them had moss on their caps, or flowers. Tommy saw insects, butterflies and bees and ladybugs, flitting around the mushrooms.

“Whoa,” Tommy gasped. “It’s…”

“I know,” Tubbo nodded his head solemnly. His horns peeked from beneath his hair. “The glowing purple mushroom with the hut on top is the base, by the way. It’s in that direction.”

Tommy followed Tubbo’s finger to the glowing purple mushroom ahead. It made a sort of purple haze that surrounded the nearby mushrooms, and, sure enough, there was a small stone hut absolutely covered with moss on top of it. They were approaching rapidly.

After a few more minutes of flight, which Tommy savored, looking around this weird mushroom forest, Peter the Very Large Bee set them down at “base.”

“Welcome to the Hub of Coppice!” Tubbo declared, climbing down from the basket to stand on the squishy, rubbery top of the mushroom. “Obviously, it’s not the actual hub, or Flower would be here, and since I kinda hate him, I live here and not in the actual hub.”

Tommy nodded. “Makes sense. Ah, why are we here?”

“Oh, we’re here to find your magic. I have a special flower that you can fiddle with and then we’ll see what happens, I suppose.”

Tubbo ran over to the little mossy cobblestone hut and emerged moments later carrying a rose half the size of his body. Its petals were furled in, brown and dead. Tubbo handed the rose to Tommy. It was surprisingly light, for how large it was. Was everything in Coppice oversized? Other than Tubbo?

“What do I do?” Tommy held the rose out from his body.

“I’m not sure,” Tubbo said. “My thing is that I can speak to animals, and can make plants grow. I can also enchant animals to do my bidding. They tell me what is happening in the world. The Growing God is the god of living things, growth, and the present, so that covers all the bases. It kinda feels like a tingling in my fingers when I use my magic. Maybe try to make your fingers tingle?”

“Alright,” Tommy shrugged. “Come onnnn, fingers. Tiiiiingle time. Lets go, lets go, lets- OW!” A thorn pricked his finger. Both he and Tubbo watched in silence and a bead of crimson blood dripped onto the rose.

The rose turned red. Petals unfurled, leaves waved, roots growing down, searching for the ground. “Oh!” Tommy dropped the rose. This is it, Tommy thought, I really am a god.

“Ow,” The rose said. “That hurt.”

“I- what? Sorry?” Tommy said.

“I didn’t say anything?” Tubbo looked at Tommy funny. “Well, at least now we know your magic relies on blood-”

“No, no, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the rose.”

“You… alright, cool. Okay, you got the growing thing; y’made the rose come alive, can talk to it… that’s growth and living things, what about the present? Ask the rose to tell you about something.”

“Uh, okay,” Tommy said. What would he ask about?

All of a sudden he remembered.

Oh my gods. Techno.

“Oh my gods, Techno! I forgot about Technoblade! How- how-” Tommy felt frantic. He- Techno- oh gods. He was probably so worried! “Rose! Tell me what is happening to Technoblade!”

“You could ask nicely, y’know,” the rose whined.

“Not the time, Rose! I’m having a crisis here! I forgot about Technoblade, mah friend, Technoblade! Oh gods. Oh gods. I-” Tommy hyperventilated.

“Flower, kid,” The rose sighed. “Techno… Techno…ah, there we go! Technoblade. He’s Favorer’s Whisper.”

“Wait, really?” Tommy exclaimed. “Techno’s a god, too? That’s so cool! We’re like- we’re like- god brothers!”

“Oh, yeah, he’s also dying.”

Tommy felt faint.

No. That couldn’t be right. “Techno is… dying?” He said weakly.

“Yeah. You could probably save him with your blood, though. Like how you saved me. You’d need a lot more though. If you get goat boy to take you to Reverie, you might be able to get there in time.”

“Tubbo, we need to get to Reverie. Now.”

Wilbur woke to the crackling of fire. He turned his head, realized he was lying down, sat up, and frowned.

How did he get here? For that matter, where was here?

He turned to look at the fire. Maybe it could answer him. Wilbur scoffed. Yeah, right. But at least it was pretty. The flames waved like hungry ribbons. Sparks gently floated up into the sky, red stars rising to join their brethren in the night. Wilbur followed them up to the sky with his eyes, admiring the view. There were so many little pinpricks of light, twinkling like diamonds in a gown of black silk. Wilbur felt the familiar itch to compose.

“I awoke, and the stars glittered, diamonds in the night, watching, embittered,” Wilbur hummed. “Eh, not really. Maybe… Little diamond, why do you cry? Little diamond, in the sky. If I could have half your beauty, I would never be lonely. Oh no, I’d never be lonely.”

“That’s nice. Did you just come up with that?” A voice, distinctly feminine, with a pleasant lilt, said from behind him.

“Eep!” Wilbur squeaked, trying to spin around quickly, but as he was sitting, it didn’t really work, and he ended up plopping onto his side. His harp dug into his hip. “Ow,” He complained.

The woman laughed. A face drifted down to settle before his, tilting to the side so it could be even to his own, squished into the ground. Short pink hair drifted around her face. It waved gently in the air, almost like if flames were slowed down. Her pale skin was softly scaled, like the hide of a dragon. Wilbur had seen one or two fly overhead before. A wreath of gold laurel rested on her head.

“Who're you,” Wilbur demanded, sitting up. He spat dirt from his mouth.

“I’m Niki,” The woman said, settling cross-legged in front of him. Her black leather pants creased with the movement. Niki smoothed out her soot-stained brown cape around her, straightening her white shirt. She removed her black felt boots and set them next to the fire. “I noticed you weren’t wearing shoes, so I thought I’d join,” she explained, waving at his legs. Wilbur looked down and realized, oh, I’m not wearing my boots, why is that? I always wear them- Oh right! Phil said we were friends, he didn’t mind the bird legs, also, hey, where’s Phil? I remember we were walking, then… then the tree, and…

Oh gods. The- the tree had eaten him, gobbled him down like Wilbur was a worm and it was the robin. It had tempted him with… vengeance? That-

“Hey, where am I?” Wilbur asked, cutting his thoughts short. He didn’t need to remember why he needed vengeance. Wasn’t important.

“Oh, you’re in Phlogiston. Fever’s domain. I’m his Servant.”

“I- what?”

“Fever. He’s a god. Part god. I’m his servant. Also part god, but to a lesser extent. And you’re his Whisper, right?”

Wilbur remembered something his brother had told him, before he left to go fight. 

“I heard a story, once,” he said, sharpening his sword. “That the Wiseman, Philza–you know him, right? The Man Beneath the Tree?” Wilbur nodded, gazing in awe at his older brother. “Well, anyway, Philza used to be part of this group of gods, called the Vengeful, a long time ago. Apparently, they were super powerful and badass and Death didn’t much like that, so She stabbed them with her sword or some shit. ‘Parently, She did something funky and the gods broke into three pieces–seems pretty gross to me, but whatever,” his brother lifted his sword to admire the shine.

“Anyway, these three god-bits had titles–Forgotten, Servant, and Whisper. ‘Parently, only the Forgotten and Servants are around right now. Whispers aren’t born yet, I guess.”

“When will the Whispers be born?” Wilbur asked.

“Dunno, but ‘parently, if the Whispers ever unite with the other two god bits, the Vengeful’ll rise again and then we’re all fucked. No one messes with the Vengeful.”

“You could kill them, right? You could save the world!” Wilbur declared, jumping up and stabbing at the air in mock combat.

“Nope,” his brother smiled. “Not even I can kill one of the Vengeful.”

“I hope not,” Wilbur said, sinking back against a log.

“Hmm. Mind if I check something real quick?” Niki said, reaching for him.

“Yeah, sure,” Wilbur placed his hand in hers. She flipped his hand over so she could see his palm. She began tracing the lines. Her brow furrowed. Her laurel crown glittered in the firelight.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Wilbur drew his hand back.

“You’re Fever’s Whisper, all right. I’ve never seen such an explosive hand.”

“I-”

Niki stood quickly. “We can’t let him find you. If the Burning God knows his Whisper is here… well, let’s just say you’re going to need much more than a harp to save you. Follow me.”

Wilbur jerked to his feet, running behind Niki, who carried her boots in one hand and withdrew a knife with the other. Wilbur looked around them as they ran. The woods here in Phlogiston were much different than those where he had just come from. They were burnt and twisted, like a fire had just ripped through.

“We get wildfires pretty often here,” Niki said, feet flashing over the ash on the ground. “And we have to be careful, because there are all sorts of monsters in these woods. Phlogiston is home to many beasts, anywhere from fire ants–little bugs that burn if you touch them–and chimeras. Those things are nasty. We even have a couple dragons.”

“Fun,” Wilbur wheezed, struggling to keep up. “Where are we going, by the by?”

“My home. It’s a weird old wreckage, the skeleton of a burnt airship.”

“Airship?”

“Commander Hypixel made a few of them when he was running around killing armies. It’s basically a metal boat that he forced dragons to carry. They’re long gone now, though. No one else is as batshit insane as to try and use dragons as a beast of war. If the Captain weren’t an informant, and was more inclined towards warmongering, she might try it, but then again, Puffy is too in love with the ocean to abandon it for the sky. Although I did here a rumor that she and her brother were looking to settle down somewhere.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. So anyway, how are you feeling about the Whisper situation? Kinda just sprung it on you there, didn't I.”

Wilbur thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I mean, my whole life, ever since my brother died, I’ve kinda just been existing, you know? Not really living. He–my brother, that is–told me about the Forgotten. I was just a kid, and when he said that not even he could defeat one of the Vengeful, I was terrified. So, I don’t know, I guess I’m pretty scared. But also, y’know, this might be my opportunity to finally be alive. Maybe- maybe I can prove myself, to myself, and defeat Fever, at least.”

Niki just nodded.

Maybe then I can finally be worthy of love.

Wilbur shook the thought off, as the two of them emerged into a large clearing in the woods. Wilbur had to stop and process what he was seeing.

Rising from the forest floor was a behemoth of twisted, blackened metal. It speared into the sky, an upside down ship gutted and rusting. At the base of the massive ship–gods, the thing was the height of two trees–a small pocket of colorful fabric covered the holes in the hull, making a little reinforced tent. Niki strode across the clearing, snapping her fingers. Instantly, a bonfire twice the size of the tent sprang to life in the center of the clearing. It blocked the tent from view. Niki paused before the flames, turning to look at Wilbur. Silhouetted by the leaping inferno, she looked like a demon from the pits of hell.

“Well? Are you coming or not?”

Wilbur shrugged, and walked up to the bonfire. The heat dried his skin, and the flames licked hungrily at his flesh.

“Oh, it likes you!” Niki smiled.

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” Wilbur muttered.

“Oh, psh,” Niki waved her hand. “Just look into the fire. I’m sure we can figure out your magic soon enough.”

“Just- look at the fire?”

“Yes. That is how we determine magic–in theory at least,” Niki smiled wryly. “I haven’t really had another Whisper to test this on, have I?”

“No, I suppose not,” Wilbur laughed awkwardly.

Then he focused on the flames.

Screams. There was pain, and there was blood, and Techno couldn’t fight anymore. Ranboo had done his best, had labored over him and stitched him up like a doll, but there was only so much one could do to hold Death at bay.

Techno was glad he got to see Tommy one last time. He was glad he had given the child what he needed–glad he could be a brother again, if only for a night. He wished he could have seen Wilbur and Phil, but they had each other, and that was enough, Techno thought.

He looked at the sky. It was so beautiful. The sun was rising, bleeding light onto the horizon. He smiled. He could see Calvin again.

Techno closed his eyes, and retired at last to oblivion.

Distantly, Wilbur felt his body fall to his knees, heard Niki yelling, dragging him back from the flames.

Tommy knelt over the body of Technoblade. He could feel his heart trying to escape through his eyes, big, fat tears dripping down his cheeks. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to live, they were supposed to leave here and go into the world and live. They- they were going to be brothers.

“I’m so sorry, Tommy,” That strange, shimmering man knelt down next to him. “I-I did everything I could.”

Tommy whirled around and snarled. “No, you didn’t, because he’s dead! He’s dead, and I only just found him, and- and-” Tommy’s voice broke. Tubbo wound his arms around his waist, and Tommy sobbed. His heart was bleeding. He was going to drown in his blood, steeped in sorrow.

“Shh,” Tubbo whispered. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, bee boy,” Tommy cried. “It’s not.”

He turned and looked down at Tubbo, his scarred face brimming with sadness. “You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, you know,” Tommy said quietly, tears slowing. “But- but Techno’s my brother.”

And Tommy pressed his hand to his chest, and made his fingernails grow like thorns, and ripped his heart from his chest. It pulsed, shining red with blood, and Tommy fell across Techno’s body, gaping chest soaking his cloak with even more crimson life.

With the last of his breath, Tommy squeezed his still beating heart, piercing it with his fingers. Blood dripped down his hands. He could hear Tubbo and Ranboo pounding on the translucent stone shielding him and Techno, he could hear them screaming for him to stop, but he ignored them. He willed his lifeblood into the air and sent it piercing down in tendrils into Technoblade’s body. He sent his magic, his life, into his brother’s body. His heart fell from his limp fingers, rolling away onto the ground.

“Live,” Tommy whispered, and died.

Wilbur could hear someone screaming. He understood vaguely that it was him.

Philza stood alone in the forest. Wilbur had vanished. So had Techno, and Tommy. Philza felt so very old as he fell to the ground.

“Hello, Phil,” A woman said. Phil looked up. A woman stood above him, dressed in black. “It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Death,” Phil murmured. “It has.”

“You are aware the Whispers have awoken?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to stop the Vengeful from rising again?”

“Yes.”

“Then I need you to do something for me.”

Philza, Knowing God, Knower. Wiseman, Sage, Fated. He had so many names. But as Death told him what he needed to do, he thought of only three, none his own.

Techno. Tommy.

Wilbur.

“Can you do that for me?”

Philza nodded. He took the knife from Death’s hand. The giant woman shrank, so that she was the same size as Phil. She knelt before him. He had never realized how truly beautiful Death was.

“I need your power, sweet Fated. It is the only way.”

Phil nodded. “I know.”

And he drew the blade across his throat. Death caught him as he fell, wings limp. She held him close, and whispered to him as he died.

“Did you ever wonder why I spared you the first time around?” Blood bubbled. “I spared you because I knew that deep in your soul, you were good. A sort of good I have not seen for a long time,” Death smiled sadly. She stroked his hair away from his face. “It was then that I fell in love with you. But I knew… I knew it was never meant to be. So I did the only thing I could.

“I kept you away from me for as long as possible. But I come for everyone eventually. Even gods,” Death wiped a tear from Phil’s cheek. “Shh, don’t cry. You have saved us all. My only wish is that we had more time than this.”

She kissed him, and for Phil, it felt like a beginning and an ending, everything and nothing, and as his last breath left his lips, he smiled. “Sleep well, my sweet Fated.”

Death held him tight as he died, immortal no more.

She cried.

Wilbur ripped his gaze from the hold of the flames. He stared up at Niki, tears streaking his cheeks.

“What did you see?” She asked him quietly, wiping away his tears. “What does the future hold?”

Wilbur held her gaze. His heart was cracking in his chest. He was silent for a long while. When he finally answered, his voice was choked, and forcing out his words pushed more tears from his eyes. As the liquid dripped to the ashen ground, he told Niki what he saw.

“I saw all of them die.”

Chapter Text

“Saw who?” Niki asked.

“My friends,” Wilbur gasped out. “They-”

Niki rubbed his back as he choked, desperately gasping down lungfuls of air. “It’s okay. That’s only one possibility of the future. The future’s not set in stone.”

“But-”

“Shh, Wilbur. It’ll be okay. You can get through this.”

Wil shook, his arms trembling as they held his head up from the earth.

“I remember my first time seeing the future,” Niki began. “I didn’t have a childhood. When Death split the Vengeful, the other Servants and me, we just sort of- ‘popped’ isn’t the right word, but it captures the spirit of it- into existence. I came into life fully formed. I had memories of being a part of The Smoldering God. But when I was formed, amidst all of the chaos, my mind snapped forward. I saw the future that Fever wanted to create. Bodies were strewn across bloodsoaked fields. Corpses burned on pyres, smoke rising into the air, able to be seen for miles around. I stood there in that ruin, and I- I smiled . Of course, it wasn’t really me- it was me and Smolder and I guess you, all put back together.”

Wilbur struggled to his feet, and Niki guided him to the tent. She continued, “I remember feeling this all consuming rage, and this sense of rightness and justice , like the world got what it deserved. That all those dead deserved their fate. It was… ‘horrible’ isn’t a strong enough word. It was being in the mind of a psychotic killer set loose on the helpless masses, manning the guillotine, pulling the lever at the world’s gallows.”

Niki helped Wilbur onto a cot, and her eyes met his own. They were filled with kindness and, and empathy. “So when I say I understand, and that it will be okay, trust me. We bear a heavy curse, but it is also a blessing. For while we see the worst the world has to offer, we also see the best. A few centuries ago I foresaw the rise of the Academy. It was beautiful . Seeing that possibility, that wonderful place full of wonder and knowledge — I would gladly see the horrors if I get to see the deeds of martyrs and saints.”  

Niki smiled at him, stroking his hair away from his face. In his mind, Wilbur saw himself as a little boy, and his brother comforting him by doing the same after he’d had a nightmare. Wilbur fell asleep to the sight of Niki smiling at him, telling him that everything is going to be just fine.

When he woke, Niki was gone. He stood, stretching out the stiffness from his limbs, walking out from the tent. Niki sat on a log by the remnants of the fire. She was whittling something.

“What are you making?” Wil yawned.

“Oh! You’re up,” Niki turned and smiled at him. Her scales glittered in the morning light. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Like a sculpture carved by the ancient masters. Wilbur wanted to write a song about this morning, the sun on her hair. It would be called Sunlit Flame .

“That’s very sweet of you to say,” she smiled, indulgent, and Wilbur realized he had spoken out loud. “I’m carving you a spoon so that you don’t have to use your hands to eat.”

Wilbur sat down on the ground next to her log. “Thank you,” he said. 

He took out his harp and started to tune it. He strummed a few chords. Niki hummed along. They settled into a rhythm, Niki carving, Wilbur playing, and whittled away the morning. The sun crested the tops of the trees, charred landscape in full light. It was rather beautiful in its desolation, Wilbur thought. Its bleakness spoke to a history of death, but its continued existence cried Life!

“Is this what friends do?” Wilbur asked suddenly. “I only have one of those, so I don’t really know that well.”

Niki smiled. She had moved onto carving a bowl for him. “Well, I only have two friends myself, and them, I rarely see. So, I think friendship can be whatever we want it to be.”

“That’s good,” Wilbur said. He put down his harp and sat in silence for a bit. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What did you mean, yesterday, when you said I had explosive palms?”

“Oh. Well. By that I meant that you tend to blow things up; whether it be real or figurative.”

Wilbur thought of his brother again. How he didn’t visit. Never sent letters. “Ah. I see. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They lapsed back into silence once again. Wilbur stared at his hands. They looked normal to him. But then again…

“Hey, Niki?”

“Yes, Wil?”

“What’s the circlet on your head for?”

“Oh. Well. That’s for another aspect of Smolder’s power. Victory. It was an old treasure given to victors in an ancient civilization. It's out of fashion now.”

“Ah. I see. What powers did you get for victory?” 

Niki paused her carving. “Well, it's sort of an insidious one. Fever can decide the fate of battles, of competitions, pick the winner, that sort of thing. Like a winner’s blessing, sort of. I just… well, I don’t really lose. Doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t know what it’s even like, really, to lose.”

“Must be nice.” Wilbur wrapped his arms around his knees. “I seem to lose all the time.”

“Then it seems we’re both cursed.”

Wilbur smiled sadly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You have any questions, feel free to a-” Niki froze.

“Niki? Niki?” Wilbur stood, shaking her. “Hello?”

“Hello Wilbur.” Niki’s mouth moved, but it wasn’t her voice that emerged. It was a man’s voice.

“Wh-Who are you?”

“I’m your friend! You’ve surely seen me before. Maybe in a dream? Anyways, I’m here to tell you that your vision, the one of your friend?” Philza. “Well, he appears to be here, in Phlogiston, with a certain dark-clothed woman. Might want to find them before anything… irreversible happens. Oh, and, by the way, Techno is still dying. Tommy’s on his way.” 

Niki slumped over, unconscious.

“Fuck.” Wilbur said. Then he turned and ran.

Tommy soared through the sky on the back of a giant butterfly. Tubbo rode beneath him on Peter.

“Tommy! I think- we need to talk about this!”

“Why?” Tommy said, voice breaking. He felt like he was ten years old all over again, being forced from his home, his mother’s body hanging limp from the gallows, long black hair obscuring her face. He had known Techno for so little time, and yet, something in his heart told him that he was special , that Techno was somehow connected to him. “I-I just need to see Techno, that’s all. Before-”

Tommy felt his emotions start to crack open again, and stopped.

Tubbo was quiet for a time. The only sound was the whirring of wings and the roaring of the wind in his ears. Or were those just his thoughts?

“Tommy. I’m… I get it. Your friend is dying, and you want to be there for him. But… I’m just afraid that us leaving will alert Flower to your presence, if you porting in here wasn’t enough. I really think-”

“I don’t fucking care what you think, Tubbo!” Tommy took a breath, the sting of his words hurting his eyes. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that-”

“It’s okay, bossman.” Tubbo said quietly, his bee soaring up and ahead of Tommy’s own mount. He looked back, and Tommy could see his scars twist, his smile bittersweet. “I’m not going to stop you. I just wanted to make sure that you’re sure about taking this risk.”

“I’m sure.” Tommy set his jaw, meeting Tubbo’s eyes. 

Tubbo nodded. “Well, here’s our exit,” He pointed toward a tree. It wasn’t a particularly special tree; it was rather ordinary. But it was made extraordinary by its simple existence. In a forest of fungus, here was something truly alive . And- Tommy noted- something normal-sized.

And then a man fell from the sky.

Phil screamed. The Living Tree made an awful, burbling noise, a self-satisfied chuckle, as it sucked Wilbur in. He vanished into the bark, gone, leaving behind not a trace.

Phil ran forward, leaping in after Wil. He couldn’t- Wilbur wasn’t- oh, gods, how had everything gone so wrong?

His vision went black. Then the world brightened, and Phil started to run again. He needed to find Wil-

But he couldn’t move. He jerked, flared his wings. Nothing happened. He was a fly trapped in amber. 

“What the fuck!” He struggled. “Let me go! You bastards- Fever! I know it’s you!”

“Welcome back to Phlogiston, old friend.”

“Let me go, Fever. I have a job to do.”

“Now, now, that’s no way to greet an old friend, is it, Knower?” A man crafted of flame stood in front of Phil. A bandana wrapped his head, a crown of rippling ash. Heavy robes cloaked his figure, embroidered with golden thread. The edges of his clothes charred, stuck in an endless loop, burning and extinguishing, cinders and sparks dripping like scorching tears into the blackness where Phil stood, frozen in a run.

“You’re no friend of mine, Smolder.”

The Smoldering God lifted one hand to his heart, flesh made of licks of flaming coal. “I’m hurt, Philza. Here I thought you were coming to say hello! It’s been so long.” 

Phil narrowed his eyes. “So it’s like that, huh, Sapnap ? Tell me where the fuck Wilbur Soot is.”

Fever narrowed his eyes. “Who is Soot? He sounds like he would be one of mine.”

And Phil felt his world flip inside out. Oh, Death, of course, Wilbur’s his fucking Whisper. He composed his face. He could not let Sapnap know that his Whisper was here , was in his realm . If Fever knew– fuck , Phil might as well kill himself before he fell back into a Vengeful.

“He’s-” Phil scrambled. He needed to protect Wilbur “-my son,” he finished. Maybe the threat of Phil’s vengeance– ha –would keep Wil safe. 

The Smoldering God arched one blazing eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the sort,” he said, leaning in towards Phil’s frozen face. His heat pressed into Phil, oppressive and smothering. He scrunched up his brow. His coal-colored eyes bored into Phil’s own blue ones.

Smolder barked out a laugh. “Your son! Well, that certainly explains that ,” Sapnap grinned. “Ha! Ha.”

Phil felt a sinking in his chest as he remembered Smolder’s Sight. What did the future hold that would make a god laugh?

“Well,” The Smoldering God leaned back. “Well, then. I suppose that’s rather tidy. You’re free to go.”

Phil snapped forward and everything vanished once again, and freezing air pierced his feathers and he shivered, and then everything was blinding white, and he stared into the eyes of Death.

“Hello, Phil,” She said. Death was dressed in black. Her long black hair brushed her shoulders. “It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Death,” Phil murmured. “It has.” His mind swam with his revelation, and fear of what Sapnap had Seen.

“You are aware the Whispers have awoken?”

“Yes.” As of a few minutes ago. “I thought it was only the others, the Forgotten, but…”

“Unfortunately,” Death smiled softly. “Well. Do you want to stop the Vengeful from rising again?”

“Yes.”

“Then I need you to do something for me.”

Philza, Knowing God, Knower. Wiseman, Sage, Fated. He had so many names. But as Death told him what he needed to do, he thought of only three, none his own.

Techno. Tommy.

Wilbur.

“Can you do that for me?”

Philza nodded. He took the knife from Death’s hand. The giant shrank, so that she was the same size as Phil. She knelt before him. He had never realized how truly beautiful Death was.

“I need your power, sweet Fated. It is the only way.”

Phil nodded. “I know.”

And he drew the blade across-

“NO!” A familiar voice roared.

“Wilbur?” Phil turned, knife, Death, his duty forgotten.

“Phil, god, please- get away from him!” Wilbur sprinted in front of Phil, placing his body between him and Death. “You can’t take him!”

Death cocked her head. “Why? Don’t you know that his sacrifice will free you? That it will keep you from being subsumed into Smolder, used as energy to destroy the world?” 

Phil could feel Wilbur’s body quake. “It’s okay, mate-”

“Yes, I know, I know everything , but I don’t care. Phil- Phil is my friend. You can’t take him .”

Death’s hair swirled around her, tendrils of ink and shadow. “You saw.”

“Y-yes.”

“I see. And when you say everything-”

Wilbur looked at Phil nervously, as if for approval. Then he set his jaw and looked at Death once again. “I know what you feel. How could you tell someone you, you love, to kill themselves? How dare you tell my friend to commit suicide?”

Death was still, and Phil realized two things in the time it took for her to turn to look at him.

One, Wilbur could see the future.

And two… Death loved him. She loved him .

“You…?” He gazed into her eyes. 

“Did you ever wonder why I spared you the first time around?” She smiled. “I spared you because I knew that deep in your soul, you were good. A sort of good I have not seen for a long time. It was then. Then, I fell in love with you. But I knew… I knew it was never meant to be. So I did the only thing-”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Wilbur held up his hand. “You already said this. Or wait- you are going to? But- not anymore, since I stopped the first path-” His eyes went vacant. Then they cleared. “But now you have another- oh.”

Death flung out her hand. Wilbur shifted ever so slightly to the right. A spear of shadow sprouted from his neck, level with Phil’s head. It was almost obscene in its shock, in its violence. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He coughed, face turned to Phil. Terror filled his eyes. His mouth moved, forming words, but grotesquely, nothing other than gurgling gasps emerged. His hand gripped Phil’s collar in an iron grasp, strengthened from years of music. 

“Wil-” Phil gasped.

Then a form blurred in his eyes, pink and brown and glowing with power. “Out of the way!” A distinctly feminine voice cried. “Oh, Wilbur, oh, no.”

A pink-haired woman cradled Wilbur in her arms. She held his bloody hand in her own. “Oh, gods. No, no, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You-you-”

Wilbur lifted a hand to her face. He mouthed something, something that looked like Goodbye, friend.

Wilbur’s head faced Phil, and he could see him smile. His lips started the word friend , or maybe it was Phil . Then the light faded from his eyes. His hand fell to the earth. Lines of crimson stained the woman’s cheek. 

Death vanished in a cloud of darkness. The spear faded from Wilbur’s corpse, leaving behind a gaping hole in his throat. Phil fell to his knees. There was a scream in his head, in his heart. 

No. No. NO.

Oh, god.

Wilbur was-

Wilbur was-

Wilbur was-

Wilbur was Wilbur was Wilbur was Wilbur was dead he was dead he was dead and gone and Phil fell to his knees and broke into a thousand pieces, his heart on the floor, shattered, next to the unmoving body of his friend.