When they told him Durin died, Wrenn didn’t react like anyone thought he would.
They expected wailing. Sobbing. Curses upon the world, misery in every corner, tears that could fill an ocean. Yet instead of the whirlwind of emotions, there was only silence.
People who loved Durin inflicted Wrenn with their grief-fueled rage, infuriated by his lack of reaction. Yet even that gave no reaction. Not a sound, not a thing. Yet with the grief so settled into their own hearts, they could not see the calm before the storm until it was too late.
The first sign of trouble they did see, however, was a Vision growing dull.
Once full of Anemo magic, Wrenn’s vision became a troubling paper weight he didn’t even bother pinning to his clothes anymore. There was no point in carrying around an ambition that had long been buried.
The second sign of trouble came in the papers he wrote for the Akademiya. The quality of such had dropped significantly with the papers being disregarded as nonsensical and borderline gibberish. He was kicked out of the Akademiya.
The third sign of trouble was the lack of anything in his home.
A home that was once filled with trinkets and tools became a barren showroom with little in it that once made it a home. Everything was clean, but not even the kitchen saw any use. Any time someone would come by and check up on him, asking Wrenn how he was, Wrenn would only quietly mutter out ‘No one by that name lives here.’
Eventually, people stopped coming around.
The storm hit, however, when Wrenn suddenly became interested in fire arms—specifically purchasing a short musket imported from Fontaine. He carried it around on his person for a few days before he finally went missing. No one would be able to find him, and that exactly how he intended it.
With a bag full of bullets, Wrenn found his way back to Simulanka—and, specifically, back to the place where he met Durin for the first time.
It was now an abandoned cave with spiders calling it their home. There was no sign of the Simulanka characters here—and that made it the perfect place.
He stared, for a long moment, at the open space in the cave where Durin first appeared before him. When Wrenn reached out to that broken soul, reminded him of his name, and drew him out of the despair he had been feeling for hundreds of years. A kindred soul, one he came to love with all of his being, one that met the fate he did because Wrenn couldn’t keep his promise to protect him no matter the cost.
And now, the sad, pathetic puppet who used to be called ‘Wrenn’ would pay for his sins in full.
It was not a glamorous or showy punishment. He was not looking for any kind of audience. He didn’t want to world to see him and ruin his chance to make amends. He didn’t want anyone to stop him as he sat on the ground, resting the box of musket bullets in front of him before he took a bullet and loaded the gun.
With an empty gaze, he pointed the barrel of the musket to his chest—right to where he calculated his core resided.
As long as he was repairable, the pathetic little puppet wouldn’t ever know death. Yet death was theoretically possible—and if he could damage his core outright and never be found—or found when plenty of time had passed—then the puppet who no longer had a name would finally meet his end.
Though he wasn’t trembling, not afraid for what he was about to do, that nameless puppet hesitated. Thoughts tried to surface, but they were scrambled up by his grief and despair, nothing about them at all coherent.
He knew, deep down, that Durin wouldn’t want this. That he’d want ‘Wrenn’ to live on and learn to love again, to enjoy life.
But ‘Wrenn’ didn’t exist anymore. That person died the moment Durin did, and all that was left was an empty shell of a person. A shell that needed to be disposed of.
The tears that slipped from that puppet’s eyes were silent as he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out and echoed, but it would never reach the ears of the storybook world’s residents. He was too deep in the cavern for that.
His body went limp, his core damaged and severed from the rest of the system, and liquid that imitated blood pooled around the puppet’s body. While he had prepared multiple bullets in advanced, he really only needed the one.
For that puppet would never awaken ever again.
My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.
//Only suffering out here 😭
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