Fair noble Lady Tomasin and her Devilish suitor Conrad (feat the loyal lowly Reginald)
Once upon a time two lovers lived, Lady Tomasin and Lord Andry. Until one day Lord Andry decided to wed our lady’s young sister, Meryann, a prodigy harpist at the cusp of youth and womanhood.
On the night of their wedding, stricken with grief and fear for her fair sister, our Tomasin pierces her own breast to contract a blood pact with the devil to rid them of Lord Andry so the sisters may find peace.
Who is to answer but Conrad, the cunning devil of the very land Andry lords? Devil of Knaerwood, Conrad has lusted for Tomasin from afar and answers her plea all too easily.
As the sisters outwardly grieve in their new home after Andry’s death, the Devil inserts himself into their lives wearing many masks. A flirtatious maid, a strict cook, a paternal butler, and a mysterious gentleman caller set on courting the eldest sister.
He sets his familiar, the grotesque Reginald, to haunt the castle and send Tomasin running into the arms of his true form once more.
Wilbur exhaled slowly, watching the grey smoke spread in rivulets around him. By now most people would give up, exasperated, and some even scared. He tended to have that effect.
But the boy didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he was opening his mouth again, and Wilbur’s brows raised.
“You’re a dumbass.”
Wilbur choked out a laugh, smoke prematurely escaping his lips. “You’re not wrong.” He took his arm off the top of the bench to pat the seat next to him. “Wanna take a seat?”
Wilbur Soot is a depressed detective investigating a local murder. During his investigation, he meets Tommy, a lively blue-eyed boy that changes his life. However, there’s something Tommy seems to be keeping from him.
OR
Depressed Wilbur Soot befriends a homeless kid amidst his workplace homoerotic rivalry and family tensions until they all come crashing together: the fic!
Each clone is so vibrant, with their quirks and personality traits and different sets of armor, similar yet completely different. You want them to be happy.
It's a lost cause.
Confident, assured, ready for battle, they march on despite the danger, hold the line. It's not wise to get attached, but it happens anyway. And anxiety rises with each episode, with each fallen brother in the line of fire. Heartache. But the battles continue, and each fallen soldier is replaced by another.
What is it like, to live knowing you were born to die? What does it mean, to be born and bred for war? To live it, to wage it, to die in it? And what is worse - having a name to be remembered by, or having none at all?
Such a wild, unknowable thing, to be one in a million of identical faces. Same blood and bones and flesh, made to fight in a war no one else knew was coming. Possessing nothing but your own skin, your own armor, and the name you chose for yourself. To carve your own identity out of the one they set into your very DNA.
"You are less than nothing," they tell you. "You are property, you are objects for war." Living shields, cannon fodder, pawns on a chessboard. Disposable, irrelevant, easily replaced.
[But the truth is, they cannot win without you.]
But you grit your teeth and march onwards, fight in their war, and don't dare to hope for anything more than another sunset, another sunrise. You remember your fallen, because no one else will, each identical face and identical body, carve the names into your heart, onto your armor. What else can you do but remember, and hope to be remembered?
CW: blood, violence, suicidal ideation, more tags in ao3 link
Summary: A series of incredibly unfortunate events leads the Angel of Death, a wanted man cursed with immortality, to accidentally break into someone’s house, which he thinks may be slightly illegal. This quickly turns into an unlikely friendship (which he hates), a journey to overthrow the government (he doesn’t know how he got here either), and perhaps a chance to finally right the wrongs that have haunted him for centuries.
summary: against their better judgement, tubbo and ranboo leave tommy to babysit michael for the day while they have a meeting with foolish about their new mansion. and as any reasonable person should know, tommy is not one to follow the rules.
(word count: 2,359)
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“Come on Ranboo, we’re going to be late,” called Tubbo from the front door.
“One second,” he called back from the house’s attic. He turned back to the grouchy Tommy currently sulking in the corner of the room. “And remember to check his temperature periodically through the day. The house is usually warm but Michael gets cold very easily and I don’t want him coming down with a cold.”
“I still don’t understand why the fuck I have to be the one to babysit the kid,” grumbled Tommy.
“There are golden carrots in the downstairs cupboard for when he gets hungry,” continued Ranboo as though nothing had happened. “And be nice! Michael is friendly but can be very-”
“Jesus fuck, man, just get on to your meeting already,” interrupted Tommy. He pushed himself off the wall and pushed Ranboo to the trapdoor that led to the main room below. “It’s only a few hours, your stupid child is going to be fine.”
“Ranboooo,” called Tubbo once more, a sickeningly sweet lilt to his voice that said you better get down here right now before I kick your arse to L’manberg.
“Coming!” Ranboo lifted the trapdoor and stepped down onto the ladder. “Oh, and if I see a single scratch on Michael, I’m gonna kill you.”
“You fucking-” started Tommy, but the trapdoor swung shut and Ranboo descended down the ladder.
He groaned in frustration and slowly dragged a hand down his face. “These next few hours are gonna be literal dogshit. Who in their right mind would leave me with their child? And a fucking toddler at that.” He watched as the piglin in question clambered onto the windowsill and swung his legs, which dangled nearly a foot over the edge. “Guess it's just you and me, eh, Big Mike?”
Micheal looked up at him, blinked once, and looked back down, mesmerized by his swinging hooves. Tommy palmed himself in the face.
“You probably don’t even understand me, huh? Fucking wonderful.”
Tommy glanced around the room. It was fairly large for a toddler, furnished with a bed, coffee table, bookshelf, and various paintings. In the middle of the room lay a yellow rug, which Tommy thought was a questionable decor choice. Then again, he lived in a dirt hill, so he didn't really have a right to talk. His fingers brushed over the dusty books sitting on the bookshelf, whose pages looked like they’d never seen the light of day. He held his hand to his face, and wrinkled his nose at the gray dust that coated his fingertips.
“Not much to do here, big man, is there?” he asked Michael as he brushed off the dust on the front of his shirt, who continued to make no sign he heard the whiny teenager.
“I don’t even know why Tubbo chose me of all people. Last time I saw you, I threatened to kick you. I’m a fuckin’ safety hazard!”
Michael’s snout dipped the slightest bit.
“I wouldn’t actually kick you,” said Tommy hastily. “You’re just an annoying lil’ shit, you know?”
Michael’s head dipped even further.
“Come on, don’t give me that.” Tommy rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Okay, fine, you aren’t that annoying. I just hate how the two of them don’t shut up about you. It’s all Michael this and Michael that. You don’t even do anything, you’re just sat there!”
Michael jumped down from the windowsill, and Tommy continued his one-sided conversation. “I know I’m mean to them sometimes, especially Ranboo. I actually don’t mind Ranboo that much, he’s fuckin’ cool actually, but he talks about you so much and its infuriating!”
Michael turned to walk to the other side of his room. One of his hooves caught on the rug in the center and he tripped, tiny hands braced out to catch his fall. Tommy was there in an instant, catching the small boy in his arms before he could hit the ground.
“Fuckin’ careful man, you could’ve hurt yourself.” He let out another string of curses, putting the boy down and crouching down to examine him for any injuries. Michael watched him in mild curiosity.
“You seem fine, but wow, you almost gave me a heart attack, big man.” He let out a nervous laugh. Michael reached up with a tiny hand and ruffled his hair, or at least tried to. Tommy’s laughter died in his throat.
Micheal smiled at him, and brought his hand back down to his side. He walked back over to the window while Tommy sat there in shock trying to comprehend the last few moments because that was the single cutest thing he’s ever seen holy fucking shit. Then he caught up with his thoughts and swore at himself because he was not about to go all soft. He was Tommy-fucking-Innit, and he had a reputation to uphold, damn it.
He walked over to Michael, who was looking out the window, hooves and snout resting against the glass. Tommy hesitantly reached out a hand and rested it on the toddler’s head. Michael leaned into his hand, and Tommy started rubbing the thin bristles. He made a sound that Tommy could only describe as “happy piglin noises.”
“Do you wish you could go outside?” asked Tommy several minutes later, as Michael continued to gaze longingly out the small window of the attic. The view outside was beautiful. The ground was coated in a thick blanket of snow, and beyond it lay a small dock and an endless glittering sea.
Michael nodded.
“Holy shit, you can understand me!” Tommy bounced on his heels in excitement. “But man, it must suck being holed up in here all the time.”
Micheal let out a noise that Tommy assumed was agreement. Suddenly, he turned around and climbed down the windowsill, using Tommy as a brace.
“Woah, woah, woah, where’re you going?”
He grabbed Tommy’s hand and dragged him across the room until they were standing in front of the trapdoor.
Tommy let out a nervous bark of laughter. “You wanna go outside?” Michael looked at him expectantly. “I don’t know, big man, isn’t it dangerous out there? Mobs n’ shit, y’know?”
Michael continued to stare. “And don’t you get cold easily? If you get sick or hurt those two will fuckin’ kill me, man.”
Michael pouted, which Tommy didn’t even think was possible for someone with a snout. And man, how was he supposed to refuse those puppy dog eyes now? (Well, one eye, technically.)
“Fine,” he groaned. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you, okay?”
Michael nodded, jumping up and down in excitement.
Tommy dug through Michael’s closet and pulled out an armful of clothes. Carefully, he bundled the toddler in several layers. As an afterthought, he added a small red cape he’d found hanging in the back. Better to be safe than sorry. (He would never admit that he wanted the two of them to match, as Tommy was currently wearing the thick red cape he wore back when he stayed in Techno’s base.)
After a bit of clever maneuvering and several moments where Tommy thought he had fucked up and accidentally killed the kid for sure, he finally managed to carry Michael down the ladder and onto the landing below, injury-free. The second he put him down, Michael raced to the door and threw it open, which Tommy had to admit was rather impressive for a two-foot tall toddler with hooves for hands.
“Wait up, bitch!” he yelled in exasperation, running after the hyper piglin. He found Michael sitting in a pile of snow, patting it softly and giggling as his hooves sunk into the sea of white.
In spite of himself, Tommy felt his face split into a grin and he thought his heart was going to melt.
“You like the snow, Big Mike?” He gathered some of it into a ball and handed it to the child, whose face stared in wonder. “That’s a snowball. You can throw them, like this.” Tommy created another snowball and demonstrated by throwing it at the front of Tubbo’s house. Revenge for leaving him to babysit his fucking toddler (he didn’t mind too much anymore, though he would never admit it).
“Your turn, buddy,” he said, turning his head back to Michael only to be met with a snowball to the face.
“WHY YOU LITTLE SHIT-” he yelled. He tackled Michael to the ground and rolled himself over so that Michael was now laying across his chest, Tommy’s back in the snow. He sat up and began to tickle the piglin, who let out a squeal of laughter and tried to squirm away.
“I should’ve known you'd try something like that,” he said, fighting to keep the smile off his face. “It’s something Tubbo would do; like father like son, eh?”
Michael finally managed to twist out of Tommy’s hold and ran a few steps- only to trip and faceplant into the snow. However, before Tommy could let out more than a shout of concern, he sprung back up, looking perfectly unharmed and extremely amused at the concern written across Tommy’s face.
Tommy sighed. “Quit giving me heart attacks kid, you’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, unable to keep the endearment out of his voice. “C’mon, let me show you what else you can do with snow.”
For the next half hour, the two of them worked tirelessly on a giant snowman. Tommy held up Michael so he could add the small sticks and pebbles to the topmost snowball in the vague arrangement of a face. He thought it looked suspiciously similar to Ranboo, but made no complaints, happy that the toddler was having fun. After Michael added the last touch, a wreath of leaves that resembled a crown, Tommy set him down, and the two of them admired their handiwork.
“Not bad, Big Mike,” he said, nodding his approval. At that exact moment, the snowman’s head decided to slip off onto the ground, landing in a pile of ice, sticks, and leaves. Tommy and Michael looked at each other for several seconds, then simultaneously burst out laughing.
“I’ve always wanted to knock down Ranboo’s head like that,” he joked. Michael playfully slapped his leg.
“Wanna explore the rest of Snowchester?” asked Tommy. Micheal nodded eagerly. He scooped up the boy in his arms and started making his way across the ice. “We can’t go too far because your dads might see us, and we need to be back home soon,” Tommy informed him, “but I think we can go to the dock. Let’s fuckin’ go!”
Before long they were standing on the wooden planks, staring out at the sea. Tommy sat on the edge and held Michael in his lap, hands wrapped securely around his waist so he didn’t fall into the freezing water below.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked the toddler. The sea stretched in an endless expanse before them, glittering as it reflected the rays of the afternoon sun. Chunks of ice floated in the water, dotting the scene like sparse freckles. The occasional breeze blew across the water, creating tiny ripples and waves in the sea’s texture. It was truly a sight to behold.
The two of them stayed like that for a long time, admiring the scene that Michael had up until then only viewed from his bedroom window. It was definitely much better in person, and Tommy vowed to himself that he would take Michael out here much more often, Tubbo and Ranboo’s rules be damned.
Tommy could never get tired of watching the sunset. His eyes refused to leave the horizon as the sun inched closer and closer to the sea. With a start, he realized that over an hour had passed, and his two friends were due to be home any moment.
“Shit, shit, fuck,” he mumbled to himself. He set Micheal down beside him and got up, stretching. Michael let out a whine of protest. “I know, I know, I don’t want to go back either, big man, but your parents are gonna fuckin’ kill me.” He lifted Micheal into his arms, who rested his head on Tommy’s shoulder. “See? You’re getting sleepy. Even more of a reason to go back.”
Michael yawned in reply, and Tommy's heart melted for the hundredth time that day. He slowly made his way back to Tubbo’s house, careful not to jostle the drowsy toddler too much.
Getting Michael through the door and back up the ladder was a challenge in it of itself, but finally they were back in Michael’s room. Tommy helped Michael out of his extra layers and dried him off with a towel. Before long, it looked like nothing had ever happened, and Tommy grinned in satisfaction at his superior babysitting skills.
“Here’s a golden carrot for being a fuckin’ excellent partner in crime,” he told Michael, handing him one from his personal stash. Michael giggled in delight.
Tommy crawled into Michel’s bed and lifted the toddler on top of him. “Time for bed, kid,” he whispered. Michael finished up the last of his carrot, then curled into Tommy’s sweater. His eye drifted shut, and soon he was fast asleep, light snores filling the quiet room.
That scene was how Tubbo and Ranboo were greeted upon returning home: Tommy holding Michael gently, the two of them curled up against each other and knocked out cold.
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” whispered Ranboo in amazement. “I thought for sure I’d come back to the house on fire or something.”
“Tommy can be very competent when he wants to be,” Tubbo informed him. The two of them cooed as Michael sneezed in his sleep, then curled deeper into Tommy’s chest. “Anyways, now I have blackmail material.” He took a picture of his sleeping son and best friend and smiled in glee. “Oh, Tommy is gonna be pissed.”
However, to Tubbo’s surprise, Tommy’s only reaction to the photo the next day was a request for Tubbo to send him a copy, and an assurance that he could count on him the next time he needed someone to babysit Michael.
summary: Three weeks ago, Wilbur left home in search of his destiny. He would’ve found this journey a lot easier if there wasn’t a pesky little thief that kept stealing his stuff. AKA, how c!crime boys met, pre-canon!
(word count: 4268)
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Wilbur considered his self-preservation skills to be similar to that of a fly’s. He made incredibly stupid decisions, but whether it was from luck or sheer dedication, he was going to survive. Speaking of flies, he swatted another one away from his forehead, where sweat collected over his brow.
“This is fine,” he mumbled to himself. He was standing at the base of a large tree, looking into the eyes of a particularly rude squirrel. The fucker threw an acorn into his face, and it hit his temple with a light thump, bouncing off and falling to the ground. “Everything is fine.”
He had been trying to hunt the stupid thing for the last two hours, but the little shit just wouldn’t die. He had tried everything from traps to arrows, but the squirrel was determined to survive. Or taunt him. Probably both.
The sun was setting now, and Wilbur was temporarily blinded as its rays shined into his face between the branches of the tree. He could hear the squirrel scamper away, and he cursed. When he could finally see again, the sky was a stunning tapestry of pink and blue hues. An orange river snaked through the two, the sun resting at its mouth.
Another acorn hit Wilbur in the eye. “You fucker,” he seethed. He pulled out his bow and marched through the sparse forest, leaves crunching beneath his foot. His stomach growled over the noise. “Shut the fuck up,” he told it.
There. The squirrel balanced on the branch of a nearby tree, watching him. An acorn hung a few inches from its face, and its arm was outstretched in the acorn’s direction.
Wilbur nocked an arrow against his bowstring in record speed. “Oh no you don’t,” he yelled, and let the arrow fly. By some miracle, it hit the squirrel directly in the eye, and the thing fell through the thin leaves and to the base of the tree, where a small cloud of dust rose upon impact.
Wilbur could hardly believe his eyes. He stared at his bow in amazement, then looked back to the now-dead squirrel. “Take that you fucker! You little bitch! Not so snarky now are you? Are you, you little shit?”
He approached the base of the tree and picked up the squirrel with his empty hand. It was smaller than he originally thought, a pitiful dinner for the hours he had put into retrieving it. At least it’s something, he thought as he made his way to a small clearing.
Wilbur set the dead squirrel onto the ground while he unpacked his belongings to set camp for the night. Within a few minutes, he had a small fire going, its blue-and-orange flames dancing pitifully across the small collection of twigs and branches he had gathered throughout the day. The corners of his mouth twitched into a frown, but he turned away from the fire and set out for his next task.
Gutting the squirrel, while disgusting, was fairly easy with decades of experience cooking with his father. Soon, he had it roasting over the fire, the gentle crackling playing like music over his thoughts.
He had left home a little over three weeks ago, determined to find his destiny elsewhere. Wilbur loved his father dearly, but years of listening to Phil’s tales of conquests and empires left him with a thirst for adventure. Phil, as always, was incredibly supportive, but even centuries of experience could not hide the worry in his tone as he waved his only son goodbye.
“Be careful,” he had told Wilbur. “The world is not as kind as you treat it.”
At the time, Wilbur scoffed at these words, but he soon learned that they were not far from the truth. While most of the villages he visited were more than hospitable, he had experienced his fair share of scams and false smiles in the last month. Not to mention the mobs that lurked at every turn, ready to shoot him dead the second he let down his guard. Thankfully, the spruce forest he sat in now seemed to be mostly friendly, and it was sparse enough for him to detect any mobs far before they got close enough to hurt him.
Wilbur ate the squirrel in a few bites, teeth tearing tender flesh from bone. He finished the meal with an apple and a handful of nuts, then washed it all down with a canteen of water from the nearby river that he could only pray was sanitary.
He sighed, his hunger satisfied but his stomach still a long way from full. His life was becoming a routine as bland as the one he had just left. Walk, hunt, gather, sleep, and repeat until he managed to find something promising.
He laid out his sleeping bag and wiggled inside, resting his head on the only pillow he currently owned. His bag rested a few feet away from his head, empty except for some nuts and a small array of weapons. He doubted anyone was near, but it wasn’t unlikely for a fox or some other animal to try and steal something while he slept. Better safe than sorry.
Sadly, this kept him from doing any actual sleeping, so while his eyes were shut, he could hear every chirp of a cricket and crunch of a leaf. He must have slept little more than five hours in the last week, and his head pounded.
One sheep, two sheep, he counted to himself, knowing his attempts would be fruitless. But still, it was better to try, and evidently it must have worked, considering he jolted awake some time later as a dark shadow passed over him and he detected a shuffle of leaves near his bag.
“Who’s there?” yelled Wilbur, grabbing the dagger beneath his pillow. “Show yourself!”
It was too dark to make out exactly what it was, but he could tell the creature going through his belongings was no fox, or any other animal he could think of for that matter. The creature took a step back into a streak of moonlight, and Wilbur gaped at...was that….a child?
He hurriedly untangled himself from his sleeping bag, holding out his dagger. However, the child (was it actually? Or was it a trick of the light?) was much quicker than him, because Wilbur blinked and they were gone. He stood alone once more, breathing heavily beneath a ceiling of stars that were just dim enough to hinder his sight, and trees that blocked out any light he did have. Even his fire had gone out sometime during the night.
Wilbur shivered as he picked up his back, eyes darting between the gaps in the trees in case the child returned. Thankfully, it was mostly untouched, but some of his nuts and berries had disappeared. He shuffled through the contents once more, and with a sinking heart he noticed that a knife had been stolen as well. He only bought it last week. He grabbed his bag and hugged it to his chest as he snuggled back into his sleeping bag. He doubted the person-thing would return, but just in case.
His attempts at sleep for the rest of the night were fruitless, mind racing with the thought of what that could’ve been. It couldn’t be an enderling, since there was no glowing purple in sight. It was possible that they were a young piglin. Wilbur’s heart ached with fondness at the memory of Technoblade, the only piglin he knew and his father’s best friend. He last saw Techno over a year ago, though they correspond through letters frequently, at least before he left home.
Wilbur wondered what a piglin was doing alone in the woods. It was rare for a piglin to leave their sounder, and he shuddered to think of the circumstances that would’ve led to one wandering alone in a forest in the Overworld. Unless it was actually a human? Regardless of what it was, it was smart enough to use a dagger, and likely hostile to be able to survive alone in the wilderness, which put Wilbur in danger.
Hours later, Wilbur packed up and resumed travel long before sunrise. He walked slowly, telling himself it was to be more careful as he could sense things better that way. The trees grew more sparse the farther he travelled, making it easier to tell if he was being followed, but also making it easier for him to be tracked.
At times, he thought he saw a shadow dart in the corner of his eye, but at this point he was so exhausted and paranoid it was probably a hallucination. Still, he kept a firm hand at his dagger pointing outward, disregarding the shake in his hold and the hilt digging into his palm.
Around an hour after sunrise, he heard a twig snap a few meters behind him, and whirled around instantly. A flash of red streaked across his vision, then nothing.
“Who’s there?” he yelled in false bravado, cringing at the shake in his voice. “You think you can get the best of me? Huh?” He edged towards the tree he saw the streak come from, scanning the dry terrain. He heard nothing except the wind and his own heavy breathing.
“I know you’re there!” he shouted out to whoever it was. “Come out and fight me like a man!”
Several moments passed in silence. Still nothing.
He peeked behind every possible tree and bush the person could be hiding in, coming up empty. Wilbur bit his lip. “Fine, be that way,” he told the forest. “You’re only prolonging your own demise.”
He thought he heard a snort, but he couldn’t tell where it was from, or if he imagined it. Maybe he was imagining all of it.
Wilbur huffed and turned back to his original course. The rest of the day continued uneventfully, collecting nuts and berries, and attempting to catch fish at a lake he found.
Stomach full a bit after sunset, he lay down to rest once more, though he couldn’t bring his mind to do the same as his body. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes in an imitation of sleep and remained still. He read somewhere that if you stayed still long enough, you’d eventually fall asleep. An hour passing, Wilbur discovered that whoever said that was a fucking liar and he was no closer to sleep than the cricket next to his head that refused to shut the fuck up.
Light steps, shuffling leaves, and an almost-silent rustle. Wilbur’s neck turned so fast he heard it crack, but sure enough, he was being robbed again.
This time, he was prepared, and he shot out of his sleeping bag, dagger in hand. The figure turned to him with widened eyes.
It was a child. A human boy not much older than thirteen, though he could be as young as ten, with blond hair, a ragged red shirt, and baggy jeans that failed to conceal his bony frame. His blue eyes narrowed in determination, and he bolted to the left.
“Oh no you don’t!” yelled Wilbur, hot on his heels. He worked hard to get that food, dammit, and he was not going to let some thief steal it all away. “Get back here you little shit!”
Wilbur was fast, but the boy was faster, and Wilbur could only watch as the boy’s figure got smaller and smaller while the density of trees only increased, making it harder to see. He kept eyes focused though, and for a moment he was gaining on him, inch by inch until-
Wham! His foot slipped on something soft, and he slammed face-first into the dry underbrush at his feet. Wilbur got onto his hands and knees with a huff, looking to see what had tripped him. He was greeted with the view of a decaying green arm, slime oozing from the wound that littered its surface. It was a zombie.
Wilbur scrambled backwards, dead leaves flying up around him. The arm rose slowly, and a muffled scream escaped his lips as a groan from beneath him made him realize that he was sitting on top of the rest of the zombie.
“Fuck-shit-fuck-” Curses fell from his lips like pebbles, and he scrambled back even farther, got onto his feet, and ran. He ran back in the direction he’d come, back to the comfort of his sleeping back and the thinning trees and the dying embers of his campfire. He was not going to risk his life for a bit of food, though a part of him worried for the safety of the blond boy, scoundrel as he was.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, so heart racing, he packed his bags and continued his journey in the dark. Better to get away while he still could.
The next few hours were filled with nothing but mind-numbing cold and the sound of his own stumbling footsteps. He had no idea where he was going, the sky too dark to see his compass properly, but he found he didn’t really care.
He hoped he wasn’t being followed, but his mind was too scattered, too exhausted to focus on anything but his own heavy steps. His legs ached, his heart pounded, and he was desperately licking his cracked lips when he realized that the sun had risen. He checked his compass, and with a relieved sigh he found that he was still going somewhat in the right direction. Not that there was a particular right direction considering he had no destination in mind but “away,” but at least he wasn’t retracing his footsteps.
He had completely lost track of the river though, and his blurred vision told him nothing except that the forest was getting even thinner. He would be out of it soon, and hopefully the clearer landscape would allow him to spot a water source nearby.
He wiped some sweat from his forehead and frowned at the heat that met his hand. Were foreheads normally this hot? It was probably the sweltering sun, he decided, pulling at the collar of his shirt that had become drenched in sweat sometime during his journey.
He paused to catch his breath, leaning against the trunk of a tree his shoulder had grazed. His thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of water crashing against rocks. His eyes widened. Was it a river?
He scrambled towards the sound, tripping multiple times, but he pushed himself back onto his feet and pushed through. Finally, he saw the river, the force of the water causing it to splash against the grey and brown rocks at the bank.
Wilbur let out a strangled groan and took one step, two steps, three, and everything was getting awfully bright and his feet dragged as though chained and the world swayed dangerously and his knees buckled beneath him and everything was gone.
Light filtered through Wilbur’s closed lids, and his head pounded. A dull ache permeated through the entire length of his left side, and he let out a small grunt. Where was he?
He opened his eyes, and took a moment to gather his surroundings. Wilbur was next to a rushing steam, and he lay on the rocky surface of the riverbank, a tree pressed against his spine. He was sitting upright-or rather, slouched over, and he smelled smoke and what he hoped was roasted duck.
He shivered as a gust of wind blew into his face. For some reason, his entire shirt was drenched in water, and his cheeks stung as though slapped. He rubbed them slowly, looking for where the smell came from.
A few dozen meters away, a familiar blond boy sat with his back to Wilbur, turning a roasted duck over a small campfire. Wilbur’s bag leaned against his leg, bow poking out of the closed flap. Wilbur scowled.
“Oi-” he began, but a coughing fit interrupted the rest of his tirade. The boy jumped and turned, picking up a knife.
He approached Wilbur warily, knife held out with both hands in front of him. It’s sleek surface flashed sunlight into Wilbur’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut in pain.
“Don’t move or I fuckin’ slit your throat,” warned the boy, voice shaking with every syllable.
“You stole my stuff,” rasped Wilbur once he had composed himself. He looked up to find the edge of his own knife inches from his face. He held up his arms on both sides of his head, letting out a nervous laugh.
“I saved your life,” retorted the boy. “And I won’t hesitate to take it back if you try anything, bitch.”
Wilbur bit his lip. “A bit hostile, aren’t we?”
The boy only glared back.
Wilbur sighed. “Look, kid-”
“I’m not a fuckin’ child!”
“Man, whatever, I don’t care,” he continued. “The point is, as long as you agree to put down that knife and stop stealing my stuff, I’m not gonna do anything. I never was.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “You chased me and threatened to kill me.”
“Because you stole my stuff!”
“Well, I need them!”
“Has it ever crossed your tiny little brain that I need them too?”
The boy scowled. “My brain isn’t tiny.” However, he lowered his hands, bringing the knife to his side. “And you’re a little bitch.”
Wilbur sighed in a mix of relief and exasperation. Another small cough spilled from his lips. “Can you get me water, by any chance, or do you own the river too?”
The boy kicked some dirt into Wilbur’s face, but retrieved his canteen, filled it from the river, and threw it to Wilbur's side. “Bitch,” he stated in finality.
Wilbur rolled his eyes and brought the canteen to his lips. The cool water poured into his mouth, spilling across his tongue and making its way down his parched throat. When he finally stopped to breathe, the boy was back near the fire, laying the roasted duck on a flat stone at his elbow.
The boy moved to sit cross-legged and lifted a piece of duck to his lips. He stopped when he noticed Wilbur was watching him.
Wilbur’s pride refused that he asked for a portion, even as his stomach growled. Still, he approached to grab his bag, shuffling through its contents to find something to eat. He emerged with a pitiful handful of pine nuts.
He let out a little huff and moved to sit near the boy on the opposite side of the stone. He pretended not to notice the duck, even as his mouth watered. He stuffed the handful of nuts into his mouth to stop the drooling and glared at the forest floor.
The boy raised his eyebrows at Wilbur but said nothing. He proceeded to eat another piece of duck, licking his fingers meticulously. At the sight, Wilbur’s stomach growled with the force of a massive hound, and he flushed pink when the boy’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“Want some?” he asked.
Wilbur said nothing, crossing his arms.
“It’s really good,” the boy sang. “Tender and juicy, freshly roasted duck.”
Wilbur glared at him. “I don’t need your pity, child.”
“You’re being a little bitch.”
“Is ‘bitch’ the full extent of your vocabulary?”
At this, the boy snorted. “‘Oh, look at me, I’m so smart and eloquent,’” he mimicked.
Wilbur let his eyes flutter shut in a dramatic show of exasperation. If hunger or sickness wasn’t going to kill him, this kid certainly will.
“You can pretend to be a big macho guy all you want, but I’ve seen you,” said the boy. “It took you three hours to catch a fuckin’ squirrel! I've prepared entire feats in half that time, and I learned to do it all by myself!”
Wilbur frowned at the implications of that. “Kid, where are your parents?”
The boy’s expression changed in an instant. “Oh, you’d sure like to know, wouldn’t you? You nosy little bitch. Fuckin’ egotistical little bastard. I’m doing perfectly fine on my own, I’ll have you know. I’m just as much a man as you are, probably more actually, you’re just a little pussy. Pussy little bitch boy. Mind you’re own fucking business, dipshit.” Wilbur had clearly hit a nerve.
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry, okay? You're right, it's none of my business and you seem perfectly capable,” said Wilbur.
The boy’s mouth fell open in shock. He must not get many compliments, Wilbur thought with a twinge of pain for this boy he barely knew.
Then the boy’s face twisted into a smug grin. “Damn right I am, bitch. More capable than you’ll ever be.”
Wilbur couldn’t help the smile that forced its way into his lips. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Not a fuckin’ kid.”
“Sorry, sorry, man.”
The boy narrowed his eyes at Wilbur, then took another bite of roasted duck. “Name’s Tommy,” he said between the food in his teeth.
Wilbur held out his hand. “I’m Wilbur Soot,” he replied. Tommy finished his bite, looked at Wilbur’s hand strangely, then greeted it with his own. Wilbur winced at the sticky fat that lined Tommy’s palm, but shook it firmly nonetheless.
The smile that lit Tommy’s face then stood out to Wilbur from any he had seen through their entire conversation. Though brief, it was the first true smile of joy. Of warmth.
The annoying little fucker might be growing on him.
Tommy pointed at the remaining duck that lay on the stone between them. “Say, you gonna eat that, mate? Or do you want to starve? Because that’s fine with me too.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes, but picked up the duck with his fingers. His teeth sunk into the tender meat, and even though it had no seasoning, at the moment it was the best thing he ever tasted.
“Thank you,” he mumbled to Tommy between mouthfuls. “This is amazing.”
A light pink dusted the blond boy’s face at the praise. “You’re welcome….bitch,” he eventually replied.
The rest of the day passed by with similar insults and banter as they gathered supplies and continued travel. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they were a team now, and Wilbur surprisingly found that he didn’t mind all that much. Tommy’s boisterous speeches and loud insults did make his head ring a bit (he was still sick after all), but for the most part Tommy was incredibly useful. While putting up regular arguments, which Wilbur supposed just came with the package, Tommy carried out Wilbur’s requests quickly and efficiently, and looked to him for direction. Clearly, he had no more of a destination in mind than Wilbur did, which worked out for the both of them just fine. More than anything, Wilbur was just glad for the company.
Hours later, they were getting ready for bed, the two lying on similar humps of blankets as they stared into the crackling flames. (It was the biggest fire Wilbur had built yet, thanks to Tommy’s help). Neither spoke for a while, watching in content, when a sudden idea sparked into Wilbur’s head.
“Hey Tommy, how about I tell you a story?” Before anything, Wilbur was a storyteller. He grew up with books attached to him like an added limb, constantly delving into magical worlds and new realities. Whenever Philza or Techno came home from another expedition, Wilbur would listen with rapt attention as they recounted their experiences, stories of castle walls and perilous fights. One day, Wilbur hoped he’d be able to tell stories of his own life, which was why he was on the search for his own destiny.
“I’m not a baby, I don’t need fuckin’ bedtime stories,” said Tommy through a yawn.
Wilbur frowned. “Stories aren't for babies.”
“Easy for you to say since you’re a baby.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Anyways,” grumbled Wilbur, “I’m going to tell you a story whether you like it or not.”
“Ohhh, I get it, so this isn’t for me, you just want attention, don’t you?”
“Oh shut up,” he snapped, but there was no bite to his tone. “I’m going to tell you a story, a real story, about a man.” He waited for Tommy’s response, but all he got was a barely-stifled yawn.
“Well, go on then,” urged Tommy. “I haven’t got all day.”
Wilbur ignored him. “This man...his name is Philza Minecraft, and he’s the bravest man I ever met.”
“You’ve met me now, so that makes him second,” interjected Tommy.
“...What?”
“I’m the bravest man you've ever met, so that makes this mineshaft guy second.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “His name is Philza Minecraft, and he’s the bravest man I ever met.”
Tommy huffed, but he let Wilbur continue.
“A long, long, time ago, he and his friend Technoblade established what soon came to be known as the Antarctic Empire…”
As Wilbur went through his story, recounting the tales and adventures he had memorized by heart over the many years, Tommy’s interruptions grew scarcer and scarcer. At one point, Wilbur noticed that Tommy was no longer saying anything at all, and he stopped speaking.
Besides crickets chirping and the fire’s steady crackle, a light snore filled Wilbur’s ears. He looked over to the lump that was Tommy. The fire illuminated the sleeping boy’s face, where his features rested, making him look younger than he already did. Most notably, a small smile rested at the corner of his lips.
Within minutes, Wilbur fell asleep as well, mind at ease for the first time in a very long while.
