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Tommy lies lifeless in the van, and his general is not beside him.
No, he is somewhere else entirely, attempting to keep his attention fixated on the scritch of his boots dragging on the rough dirt path. Eventually that path ends, and there is only grass. Tall grass, which sways in the winds and hits him in the back as he walks.
Without fail, he will whip his head around to the touch every single time. It feels no different than the shoulder grab that is to be followed by a hand clamped over his mouth and an elbow below his chin– he must stay alert.
Yes, he must stay alert now, because he was not alert then. The fact which yanks at his ribs like unsteady ladder rungs is not that he ignored the signs: it is that he failed to notice them entirely. That is worse in a thousand different ways.
Eret had been so honorable, Wilbur thinks as he enters a now-familiar tunnel. They had laughed at all the same jokes– they had sung all the same songs, and wept at the same all-encompassing uncertainty of the future of their cause, and slept by the same fire when the van’s heating broke, and drunk all the same ale when the nights got especially boring.
Eret had signed the Declaration. Eret built the walls which now threaten to crumble before their eyes… because Dream had offered them a better deal.
And yet, it is every bit Wilbur’s fault. Perhaps he who wears rose-tinted glasses is more at fault than he who shakes the hand which holds the axe. Because every moment Wilbur failed to see Eret sneaking out beneath stars, every moment Eret conspired with the enemy undetected, is a moment that could have been used to prevent all this.
But it was not prevented, and now Tommy lies lifeless in the van. Now Wilbur lays his eyes upon four chests set out for four fools and a button coated in blood. Now the pit in his stomach (hollow, but certainly not empty) expands and contracts at the completely wrong, rapid pace, as if actively trying to combat his breathing. Now he feels the pressure of a hand on the back of his neck, and the rising burn of eyes fixed on the back of his head. Now he hears the slow drag of netherite swords on blackstone, which grabs at the base of his spine and finally make him turn the fuck around–
Nothing is different. No one is there, yet the feeling persists all the same. Now any control over his breath is all but sand slipping theough this fingers. Now he feels the grip of another hand on his shoulder, so he jerks it away. Now he faintly hears the groan of a bow-string pulling back, closely followed by the much closer whiz of an arrow from behind him. Now he cannot pinpoint any other thought except that he needs to move, or it will snipe him in the forehead– just like Tommy. Now he finally moves, and he is only half-aware when his legs practically move on their own and slam him against the wall (or- you know, something like that, knocks the wind out of him regardless).
Now, with his back solidly against a wall, the feeling dissipates, crawls back to wherever the fuck it came from. Now, Wilbur curses himself for thinking such a thing about Tommy, lest the prayers made to Prime in his honor mean nothing– Tommy is a loyal follower of Prime, so those respects are paid to him after the loss of his first and second lives, even if no one else in their group is a follower, and even he is too dead to see it. To suggest otherwise or speak ill of the dead is the highest dishonor. So Wilbur reprimands himself for thinking such things.
Such a train of thought is one of the reasons he sits on a chest (he is not sure whose, but he does not care the least bit), brings his knees up to his chest (he cannot bear to hear the sound of footsteps on blackstone), and buries his face in his hands.
There are some tears that ought to be shed: one for Tommy, he who lies lifeless in the van, barely granted a second life— one for Eret, he who was promised power yet sits on a thrones of his own comrades’ bones and uncritically accepts the role of the powerless— and one for himself, he who begins to loathe his own pulse because it is under the impression that he is still alive.
There is a tear that ought to be shed for the sheer distance Wilbur has fallen. He has sunk to an underground room with naught but a cursed button and a mind that sings him tales of this story’s ending.
But now is not the time for tears; it is the time to return to his men. Tubbo and Fundy need guidance, support– now more than ever, in Tommy’s absence. Regardless of whether he can provide that, he must at least try.
He’s willing to try. He wants to; he needs to, because there must be a General Soot pretending to keep things in check. But he can’t move.
No, he can’t. If he takes his back off this wall– the one stained by the blood of his own men, a smell that seeps into the already suffocating underground air– he will not be safe anymore. There is not a word he can say that would accurately describe (even to himself) this feeling that forces him to remain in such a horrific room.
Over and over, he prepares to leave. He places his foot on the ground, hears for himself the gentle tap of the leather on blackstone, and for a brief moment he thinks it is progress. But then he freezes once more, and he is back to square one: counting down from three. Three, two, one… nothing. Just the same deep breaths he’s heard for the past ten minutes.
He has no idea how long he stays there, eyes fluttering around the room pointlessly yet too scared to move, but when he finally emerges, it is dark out. And sure enough, he immediately feels the phantom hand on his shoulder. So he speedwalks. The speedwalk embarrassingly turns into a sprint, his mind absolutely convinced that someone is there– Dream, Sapnap, Punz, it makes no difference, just somebody– simply waiting to strike in the dark when they spot him foolishly wandering without a light source.
When he reaches the safety of the van, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Rushing in hot like he’s been chased by someone with a gun will only add unnecessary worry to what pressure already rests on their shoulders. Under no circumstances can he be anything but patriotic, optimistic General Soot.
That is exactly it: General Soot is needed right now. Wilbur is not. So with a deep breath, he steps inside the van.
“Wilbur!” Tubbo exclaims. “Where the fuck have you been, boss man?”
Wilbur pauses. Playing dumb is his first instinct right now. “What, was I really gone that long?”
“Yes,” Fundy answers coldly. “We were beginning to worry for you.”
“Not beginning to. We were,” Tubbo takes a step forward, “So where were you?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Uh….
“Sheesh,” Wilbur astonishedly rolls his eyes. “Since you ask, I was actually down at the river. It’s about that time when salmon come in, if you know–”
“We know,” Fundy cuts in. As far as Wilbur knows, he has no reason to be so angry when he adds, “You’ve told us this story a million times. We don’t need to hear it again. Just look at how Tommy is doing.”
Wilbur huffs. Even if that was supposed to get them to change the subject, it still stings to be so harshly cut off. “Fine.”
Fundy moves to the front of the van as Wilbur and Tubbo move to the back, to look at the condition of Tommy, who is currently lying on a bed that just barely fits in the given space.
Though, Wilbur would be a liar if he said his gaze didn’t linger on his son for a moment; one long enough to garner the attention of Tubbo, who just scoffs and briefly explains: “Fundy’s been like that to everyone all day. I don’t think it’s anything personal.”
“I’ll talk to him anyway,” Wilbur replies softly. “Do you have any idea what’s got him so upset? So I know what I’m working with here?”
“It’s probably Eret,” Tubbo shrugs. “You know.”
“Fundy has a right to be upset about that.”
“He doesn’t have a right to take it out on the rest of us,” Tubbo locks gazes with the other man. “We’re all just as upset as he is, but you don’t see me being snappy to everyone who crosses my path, let alone my own father–”
“Enough,” Wilbur asserts, with a practiced finality. “You’ve made your point. Now tell me the deal with Tommy.”
Tubbo sighs. “He’s looking as good as he can, I guess. We gave him a healing potion while you were gone–”
“In the way I told you?”
“Yeah, soaked a towel in it and dabbed it on the damaged area.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Tubbo pointedly begins, because he knows this is a little test, “Giving him too much before his body restarts will overwhelm it.”
“Perfect,” Wilbur grins. The fabric of Tubbo’s undershirt is soft as he pats the boy’s shoulder. “You have a good grasp on this, so… I’m gonna try my hand with Fundy. Tell me if you need anything at all.”
Tubbo nods, so Wilbur swivels on his heel and pushes the door open. The van may seem cramped to others– Niki has a problem with the lack of space, and Eret used to as well– but that feeling has never crossed Wilbur’s mind. This van is his, after all. It’s far too familiar to even imagine feeling unsafe in.
Fundy is found in the passenger seat clutching his knees brought up as close to his chest as possible; his ears flick up at the soft creak of the door behind him, and he spares not even a second to look at who he’s speaking to before grumbling, “Get out.”
Wilbur treads lightly. “I want to talk to you,”
“I don’t.”
“Then I won’t be the one talking,” Wilbur states, as he smoothly moves into the driver’s seat. “You talk. I’ll be a listener.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What happened was fucked up, and I want to help,” Wilbur attempts to reason because… he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s never been on the receiving side of teenage angst before– with the added bonus that it’s not teenage angst at all, just a (quite frankly) fucked up reaction to a very fucked up event.
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re awesome at that.”
The comment is barely spoken at all. The sound fades immediately, but the words hang in the air, pointed, piercing.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“No,” Wilbur tries his hardest to keep his voice steady, but– he’s finding it hard to believe he heard his son wrong. “What did you just say?”
“I didn’t say anything at all,” Fundy swivels in his seat, leaving his father to look at the back of his mismatched uniform. “Eret’s a listener.”
Yeah, there it is.
“Look, I know Eret is much better at th–”
“I don’t care what you have to say!” Fundy snaps. “I don’t want to talk to you. Not here and not now. Fucking leave.”
So that’s it: Wilbur leaves. It feels right as he plants his feet on the ground and stands, gazes at Fundy with a look he cannot see. But the moment the door clicks shut, a weight in his chest drops when he glances at truth he holds in his hands: he failed to help. Somehow, he has found another way to fail.
The thought of swinging that door back open certainly crosses his mind. It sits criss cross applesauce as he ponders it. Six breaths later, he decides that he will not.
Of course Fundy is upset about Eret– if anything, he has the most right to be. Eret has seen him grow, from his first pair of little tiny boots to his brand new enchanted bow. If there were to be anyone that would feel this sort of grief so intensely, it would be Fundy.
Because that’s what betrayal is, right? Just a different form of grief?
Wilbur looks out the window, and his eye catches Eret’s second uniform, still hanging to dry on the laundry line. Yes, the feeling it brings him is grief. Certainly.