It was impossible to describe how exactly it felt, being taken to the new world.
Contrary to the god-child’s worries, it didn’t hurt one bit. Wilbur cradled a child she didn’t know to her chest, laughing and weeping and reminiscing and grieving all at once, her skin and the child’s alike flaking away into specks of gleaming gold.
“We have some time, before you’re gone. Before I have to go.” They hadn’t let go of her for so much as a second. “I can show you what this place looks like- really looks like. To me, at least.”
The void dissipated under their gleaming fingertips, and one by one, the stars emerged into their places, dotting the sky, faster and faster until all Wilbur saw was their sparkle. And oh, gods, the sound... Wilbur had never heard the music the stars made. She remembered her father talking about it, in her childhood days, the sounds that a night sky could make all together, but she’d never heard it, no, not like this.
The god-child pointed toward a gleaming star, to their east.
“That one,” they said, “Fly there. I’ll hold on to you.”
They held her close, one last time, and murmured into her shoulder, “I love you, Wil’.”
Wilbur couldn’t tell you much about the journey. She remembers laughing and crying, pressing kisses into warm brown wrists, already dissolving into golden light, and not much else.
But she remembers, and will remember, for every last second of her new life, waking up in the long, dewy grass of a field at dawn, breathing in the smell of wildflowers. A shooting star dashes across the sky, and as she stands, she finds, to her breathless wonder, that the sun is rising. She stares at the clouds of pink and gold and purple and orange and red in wonder, her eyes spilling over with gratitude.
She only spots the ouroboros inked onto her wrist in black much, much later, but just then, she presses a hand to her heart, and murmurs, to the wind, I love you too.
Wilbur brought the pickaxe down, her every muscle screaming out in pain. The stone rumbled ominously as the pickaxe finally gave out, shattering. She gasped at the sudden absence, swaying dangerously forward, dropping the handle and reaching for a hold on something. Her hands met the slick stone of the floor as she leaned forward, struggling to catch her breath. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose.
The wailing had become deafening, the sound of millions of souls crying out in unison for her to join them. Covering her ears had done nothing- if anything, it had made them louder- and she was so exhausted. she'd been walking all night and digging all day, trying to reach... what?
She laid down on the damp rock beneath her, finding where she'd left her comms. She held it tightly to her chest, holding her breath as a tear slipped free.
The sun rises over a new day, a bright orange scorch in a pale blue sky. Birds sing in the woods, joining a chorus of crickets.
Inside the little stone house on the edge of the forest, Wilbur Soot is doing his level best not to cry out, an endless waterfall of tears trailing down his flushed, fevered face. His hands are balled in the back of Phil’s cloak as he sobs into his father’s shoulder.
“Please, Phil, I can’t do it I can’t I can’t Phil please-” His frantic pleas reach a fever pitch, his throat scratched and hoarse, but he can’t stop. He feels like he’s being torn apart as the wings push harder and harder, trying to break free. Something’s got to give. He can’t take this.
Wilbur squinted as bright, mid-morning light filtered in through his door, groaning weakly and burying his face in his pillow. He didn’t dare look up and risk making anything worse, but he was glad to... hear Phil, he supposed.
The last hour and a half had been utter hell, to put it lightly. The fact that he hadn’t thrown up yet was, in his opinion, a testament to both his patience and his endurance, though maybe that was because he hadn’t been able to eat anything. The pain felt like it was leeching into his bones, and as tired as he was, there was absolutely no chance that he could fall asleep.
And this was barely even the first part.
He didn’t want to think about what was coming next.
Instead, he turned his head just enough to mumble out a slurred, “Hey, Phil.”
“Phil Phil Phil please come back I think-” Wilbur was splayed out on his bed, hands scrabbling for any spare bit of blanket he could reach. His back arched upward, the covers fallen away to reveal the wing joints straining against his skin. The fevered flush had completely overtaken his face, his eyes two scintillating points in the pale light before the dawn, pupils blown wide. His breath came in harsh gasps, the burning sensation having enveloped his entire ribcage.
There's a boom of thunder, and Lani crashes down on the doorstep of the castle. She thuds down the stairs, rolling helplessly.
She screams, and holds her face tight, trying to hide any imperfections. Then she curls into a ball.
Everything hurts, it hurts so bad.
"I'm sorry!" She sobs out, unsure of where she is. "I'm sorry!"
-@lanusky-order-goddess
The thunder was out of place on the clear, quiet night. Wilbur startled at the faint, desperate noise from outside, going to the door to check. That sounded just like…
“Lani?” It couldn’t be. It couldn’t, Lani was always the steadier of the two of them, but Lani was- she was-
“Mother of- Lani-” Wilbur swallowed back the urge to vomit, and instead grabbed her baby sister’s hands.
“It’s just me, okay? Just Wil. I’m getting you inside, and we’re going to get you cleaned up.” Lani was shaking like a leaf in her arms, and she wanted to ask, who did this? Who hurt you?
the sky is perfectly clear, resplendent with streaks of color slowly fading into a star-studded twilight. foolish is the one to open the ceremony, of course, his eulogy raw and beautiful, practically bleeding at the edges. he hasn’t practiced- wilbur can hear it in his voice. he takes his seat next to her, head bowed, frills folded against the sides of his head. neither of them look at each other as the first citizen comes up to speak.
it goes on for hours, wilbur holding her head in one hand, then the other, barely even listening. her head, her entire body feels like living static. one after the other, the citizens in attendance share heartfelt stories of their kind, caring king, some of them choking up at the microphone, some fully weeping. none of their sorrows even breach the fuzz, the blurring of reality that seems to radiate from the place where she sits. a few of them glare at her on their way back to their seats- she gives them a half-hearted grin in return, all teeth.
she gave everything for you, she wants to scream at them, this is your fault.
the only person to truly catch her attention is one of the staff wilbur’s seen flitting around the castle, one she recognizes from a sunlit introduction months ago as-
“natalie!” eret calls from across the hall, grinning wide and earnest, even with the beginnings of dark circles under their eyes. “come meet wil!”
natalie looks far worse for wear than wilbur’s ever seen her, haggard and pale, deep shadows carved into her face, and somehow, it’s her that commands wilbur’s attention, more than anyone else at this gods-forsaken event.
“king eret is- they were always reckless.” it looks like it ages her thousands of years just to say. “they never cared what would happen to them, if it would help someone else.”
she begins to tell her own anecdote, a story about two villages and a bitter feud, but wilbur’s not paying attention anymore- in her mind, she’s in the east wing, staring up at the giant stained glass window that shatters the dying sunlight into shards of multicolored light. the image they create is not one of dream, or a crown, but merely two hands, one holding onto the other, emanating light. the plaque beneath it reads- what did it read-?
“she always told me it was her dream for the server, in three words.” natalie’s voice rings from the podium.
the plaque reads- it read-
“never alone again.”
the static cracks, like a mirror, like ice. the wind rushes past, and wilbur shivers, full-bodied- it’s so cold, even for early summer. natalie throws a glance her way, her expression asking, clear as day, are you coming?
wilbur blinks, and she’s in front of the lectern, someone having adjusted the microphone for her. she can feel everyone watching, so unlike her chat, unlike her imagined audience- all the eyes on her are real, little fleshy things that wilbur wants to tear at until they stop looking at her. she clears her throat-
the casket is open. eret’s eyes are delicately closed, as if she were only in the barest pantomime of sleep, white lilies and wither roses nestled in his fingers, though none of the foliage can hide the burns along her arms, marring the sides of their neck, nor can they draw wilbur’s attention away from the gauntness of their face.
wilbur thinks she might pass out. nobody told her about the open casket- nobody told her anything about this- she wobbles dangerously, for a moment, wings flaring out in an attempt to stabilize herself, and she realizes that there is absolutely no way she’s going to be able to do this.
the epiphany burns in her throat. all the words climb forth at once, i hate you, i miss you, horribly, i love you, eret, i loved you- but every glance back at the casket is sending her back to the night and the sand and the cold and the stillness of their pulse.
“is-” and oh, how it burns, oh, how merciless, “is there anyone who would like to say anything else?”
a quiet murmur pulses through the crowd. nobody raises their hand. foolish still isn’t looking at her- he’s not looking up at all.
“okay. r-right. we can continue on, then.”
wilbur doesn’t stick around as they close and lower the casket, quietly slipping out of the courtyard and back into the castle, collapsing onto a tiled floor as she tastes acid and bile in the back of her mouth. everything comes together in floods, in torrents- the eret that exists in wilbur’s memory surrounds her like a downpour as she is promptly sick in some stupid fucking castle bathroom. her chest aches. her bones ache. everything aches.
the sun has set fully, the stars drowning in the darkness of the new-moon night. wilbur presses her head to the cold stone wall, and prays that nobody finds her for a while yet.
Wilbur Soot lays her head down, at last, to find rest, and dreams a long, long dream.
There is a garden, though it’s not one she recognizes. Somewhere beyong the tree line, the hot, rusty shine of desert sand stretches out to the end of the horizon. Wilbur unfurls her wings, flaps them once, twice, just to see if she can. She’s sitting in an exquisitely carved chair, made from the heart-wood of some tree, tucked in the middle of this- this oasis. She sits quiet, waiting, in the dry heat.
“Really? I didn’t think you still believed in the desert, Wil’.”
She huffs a half-laugh through her nose. “I know you’re not her.” Her gaze remains resolutely forward. “Eret knows what I believe in. Knew.”
“Booo. You’re no fun, these days, you know that?” The voice behind her lilts, a half-assed mockery of annoyance. Wilbur feels a cold hand slide down her jaw, fingers ghosting down her neck and along her collarbone. It’s a relief, in the heat, and Wilbur presses her cheek into it before she can stop to think.
“I’m plenty fun.” It’s barely an attempt at a protest. “You make me fun.”
“Ah- don’t tell me things meant for her, Wil’, you of all people should know how rude it is.”
Those cold fingers have stopped to rest at the nape of her neck. Wilbur shivers.
“It wasn’t for her.” Two sluggish blinks- the back and forth of scorching sun and phantom touches makes her skin prickle. “I meant it for you.”
“Wil’-”
“I meant it for you, you fucking sheet-ghost, I-” She swallows. The effort is more difficult than it should be. “I...”
“You?”
“I... hunger.” The hand draws away, and it takes a substantial effort not to cry out at the loss. “I know what I am owed, what everyone is owed- I know my duty. I want to save her.”
Wilbur’s hands shake. The voice behind her is silent.
“I want to, I do. But-” Time seems to move as sluggishly as magma. “But I see you, your translucence, your death, your all-death, your insubstantiality, and I think- she will never know me, the way I know myself in you.”
A quiet breath from behind. Wilbur takes it as a cue to keep going- She’ll never say it again, if she stops. She knows this.
“In you, I know myself, in your death too lively to remain in the grave or the void of limbo. I know you, I- I love you. And I’m not saying it for her.” She takes a deep, trembling breath. “I love you, too. It has grown into me. It has taken root, it has flowered, it has gone to seed and taken root again- I love you.”
Wilbur does not look behind her. She gets the sense that the figure has turned away, regardless.
“Love-blossomed fields musn’t sow lies in foreign soil, Wil’, it’s unkind.” A cool breeze rustles as it floats away.
“Please come back. Please stay.” Wilbur’s voice sounds thin, even to her own ears. “Or let me come with you.”
A pause, and then a sigh.
“Oh, Wil’...” It sounds faint, more like wind through leaves than anything else. “You know you can’t. You’re already waking up, see?”
-
Wilbur opens her eyes, and hot tears spill down her face with the morning sunlight. She thinks, sluggishly, that she’d like to go back to sleep now.
