Chapter Text
Looking back at his childhood, Wilbur should have known there was something wrong with him. Something dirty and disgusting. Maybe even something rotten.
He should have known at six, when his dad refused to let him out of the meadow they lived in. He should have known at ten, when his dad finally took him out of the meadow, to a trip to the Nether, and they came home with a hurt piglin hybrid that he doted on. He should have known at twelve, when the toddler his father and he had found in a cardboard box kept looking at him like he was possessed. He should have known at thirteen when said child ran away.
He should have known at fourteen, when his father left with his brother, abandoning him in an empty house.
It wasn’t Technoblade’s fault — he knew logically it wasn't. Techno was ill, or cursed, or something, and he needed help. He didn’t blame his little brother. He absolutely doesn’t. And he never will. Still, his father could have not left him behind, with no job and little money. Wilbur could only spend so many days farming wheat and herding sheep before boredom got to him.
So he does something stupid.
It’s actually multiple somethings, one more stupid than the other. His father would approve of none of them, but he isn’t around to complain so who cares? Not Wilbur, for sure. Are they risky? Yes. Yes, they are. Is that going to stop him? Not in the slightest.
He ventures out into the village, with nothing but a cup and his guitar, and starts strumming on the edge of the market. He sells the excess wheat and wool and buys pumpkins and potatoes and books. He explores the forest and finds a river, so he learns to fish just for that. He plays some more, writes his own music. He starts singing. He ventures closer to the mountains and finds an old abandoned mineshaft. He puts what little fighting his father taught him to use, and starts mining for iron, for coal, for gold and redstone he doesn’t know how to use. He sells those too. He writes to his father.
His father never answers, despite them both having player status and thus having access to the chat. It’s only when he sees the price of the message that he discovers his father and brother are off-server.
The smith he sells metal to asks him if he’d like to work for him, and he’s never been faster to say yes. He learns to forge swords, axes, and armours, but also locks and keys and pans and compasses.
In his breaks, he goes to the market and plays his songs some more. Every time, more people stop to listen to him. They start asking for his name. He never answers. Instead, he drowns his shame — because it could only be shame that made his father, the one and only Philza Craft, one of the greatest adventurers ever across the universe, hide him away — in the Nether and the mines.
He turns fifteen, a crying child on his father’s empty bed, in a lonely quiet house. He trashes the man’s bedroom and gets sidetracked by a pile of books on magic. He spends the night of his fifteenth birthday reading. In the morning, with red eyes and dried tear tracks and no sleep, he heads to the Nether. There’s a storm in his eyes as he kills a blaze, then another, then a few more, a roaring ocean as he hunts for nether wart.
He throws his father’s things out of the open window and drags the man’s crafting table to the middle of the room. On the fourth try, he manages to craft a brewing stand. He reads some more on magic and then on player privileges. He laughs when he picks up his father’s bed and places it in a chest. A chest . Then he learns about inventories and promptly loses his shit.
(He hates that his father never told him about that. He hates it so much he almost drowns. He tides himself over with books and pours the devastation into a new song.)
He leaves early the next day with his father’s and his brother’s clothes in a bag. He sells all of them and plays his new song, ignoring the people that ask him if he’s alright, if he’s safe at home. He tells them he’s fine and that his name is Wilbur and they don’t press. He buys ten glass bottles and hides them in his inventory before going to work.
When it’s time to go back, the smith’s wife comes in. She introduces herself as Mrs Gold, and he recognizes her as one of the worried people from that morning. They ask him if he’d like to spend the night with them. He says no, and still ends up having dinner with them. He barely keeps himself from crying over stew. He leaves with the promise of a safe space and permission to use the forge for his own projects.
That night, he tries to brew a potion and nearly sets the house on fire. He spends the next week with a cough that has Mr and Mrs Gold constantly fussing. Two days after he stopped coughing, he tries again, nearly choking on the smell of multiple badly-brewed potions. Frustrated, he goes mining lower and lower, uncaring of the monsters and the darkness and of how tired he is, focused only on finding some obsidian. He doesn’t notice the creeper behind him until it’s almost too late. The cough stays there for a month this time.
He leaves brewing to on and off attempts, instead gathering sapphire, looting mine-shafts and dungeons and bartering with piglins. He spends three evenings crafting an enchanting table and shakes in both excitement and exhaustion as the knife he made floats over the open book, lapis dust getting absorbed into it.
It’s an ugly thing. It’s understandable, really; it was the first one he ever made on his own. The few decorations he tried to incorporate are wonky and the blade itself is littered with little crevices. It sings with magic. He presses the pads of his fingers in each and every groove and feels currents of power rising and falling like the tide.
He falls asleep cradling his creation, with his head on the red cloth that covers the obsidian base. The next morning he grins when Mr Gold asks him why his hair is dusted in blue and squeaks as he’s picked up after showing off the enchanted knife. Then the man tells him he’s proud of him. Wilbur stops breathing. He spends the rest of the day drowning with a tight smile. The man must notice, because he gets dragged to dinner with him and his wife.
They end up discovering together that Mrs Gold is pregnant. He doesn’t know how to feel at being included in such a moment. The smile they give him is blinding and the hug he’s dragged into is warm. He goes home that night and cries. He doesn’t know why.
(He does. It’s because he’s scared. There was a time when his father seemed proud of him. There was a time when he was part of a family. If he were really good, if he were really something to be proud of, his father wouldn’t have hidden him away cinically. If he weren’t rotten, the Golds would know who he is really. Instead, he tells them nothing, and they will realize on their own as their actual child grows that he is only something to be ashamed of.)
He attempts brewing again and tries to asphyxiate in the fumes. The potion comes out perfect. He throws the bottle against the wall, wails as it shatters, and panics at the stain on the wood. He’s suffocating in that house, the ringing silence absorbing all the air there is, and he can’t breathe in that cursed place, he can’t think, can’t exist, can’t—
He takes off.
The next morning, he’s shaken awake by Mr Gold, worried beyond belief at finding him asleep against the forge’s backdoor. ‘My house is too quiet’ seems like such a dumb sentence said out loud. Mr Gold still understands all he doesn’t say.
That evening, it takes him twenty minutes to get the man to let him go, and even then he gets accompanied to the door.
“You’re always welcome,” the man tells him. He doesn’t bother holding back tears when, upon protesting, he’s told that he’s not intruding, he’s not disturbing, he is a child and he is deserving of love and care. He does lower his head to hide them though. It’s not two hours later that he’s running through the shadow-cast village and knocking on the Golds’ front door.
The door cracks open, and then it’s shoved wide as Mr Gold appears through the frame. He’s talking, probably, but Wilbur can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. He can’t even speak. He can just hold himself and tremble. Then there’s arms around him, strong and warm and safe and caring. It’s all he needs to break the water surface. Like he’s been in apnea for years, drowning in loneliness and silence, he takes a gulp of air.
He breaks.
The next few months are a mess of emotions, seeking comfort and running as soon as it’s offered. Mr Gold has to physically restrain him more than one time. He ends up crying on the man’s floor more often than he has the confidence to admit.
He always ends up with a stone in his stomach, especially when Mrs Gold makes her husband tend to the dinner to comfort him. He hates and loves the little words of reassurance. He hates them more in the later months, when he can feel the baby kick him through Mrs Gold’s womb. She says it’s because the baby likes him. He doesn’t think that’s why. Yet, he keeps going over and he keeps hating himself for it.
When he spends the day unfocused, when the silence rings louder and he hardly has the energy to exist, Mr Gold stays with him until he reaches the farmhouse’s front door. As the anniversary of the day Techno and father left nears, it happens more and more.
He eats less too. The energy and will to cook fades every time he holds a bowl, every time he sees his father’s ghost hunched over the counter. His soup is bland, he can’t make stew, the vegetables are either uncooked or overcooked, and there’s never any time to make bread.
On the day of the anniversary, he’s a mess. He’s trembling the whole time, to the point he can barely lift the hammer or pour the molten iron into the mould. Around midday, he slips and crashes in a corner. He ends up laying on the floor for twenty minutes before Mr Gold comes into the back and finds him.
“Kid. Are you alright?” He kneels down next to him and puts his hand on his forehead. “What am I saying, of course you’re not. Come on, let’s get you to Flora. Have you been eating enough?”
Wilbur smacks the man’s hands away as he tries to pick him up. “No Flora.”
“Wil, this isn’t healthy,” the man says, hovering like a worried parent. Ha. As if Wilbur deserved one.
He shakes and presses his palms into his eyes. Mr Gold immediately takes his wrists and moves his hands away. “Shh, hey no, don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.” He tugs him closer, makes him rest his head on his lap and wipes his tears away. “Talk to me, kid. Let me help.”
He trembles some more and opens his eyes. He closes them immediately when he’s met with Mr Gold’s warm brown ones. “No Flora,” he repeats.
“Why not, kiddo?”
He swallows around a lump in his throat. It takes him a minute to string together a sentence, and even then he stammers. “She’s… She’s got enough on her— on her plate.”
Mr Gold doesn’t say anything. Wilbur starts drowning, dragged lower and lower in thick panic because he offended them, they’re going to leave, he’s so disgusting, something to be hidden away, ashamed of talking to him, of knowing him, of his existence, of—
“Okay,” the man says, and Wilbur chokes on a sob. “Hey, hey, no, shh. It’s okay, kid, it’s okay. No Flora.”
When the man gathers him in his arms, Wilbur clings to his shirt. He trembles in his hold, hiding his face and forcing his breaths. He ignores the world, even as the man moves and talks. He still can feel eyes on him. Mr Gold keeps walking. He tries not to cry.
There’s silence when the man speaks again, clear above the haze. “Wil, kiddo, is there any chance your parents are home?”
He lifts his head from his shoulder. They’re in front of his house. It’s in worse shape than he remembers it being. When was the last time he tended to the crops? That he got rid of the weeds? Then, he registers the question.
“What?”
“We’re worried, Wil. This– This isn’t healthy. I understand if you don’t want us confronting your parents, just say the word and we’ll leave it alone, but you don’t have to do this on your own. We care about you. You can let us take care of this, if you want to.”
His heart sinks. They think he’s… what? Being hurt? Is that why they’re so kind to him? All just because they think his parents are violent? He doesn’t voice any of it. “Who’s… Who’s we?” he asks as he gets out of Mr Gold’s hold.
The man’s eyebrows are pinched and worry lines his eyes. “Most of the village.”
Oh gods. Oh gods, everyone thinks that. Everyone. They’re going to hate him. They’re going to kick him out the moment they discover he made them think that– how could he make them think that? They’re going to be so angry and he’ll deserve it — of course he’ll deserve it — but still, he doesn’t want to go. Gods, could he be any more selfish? No wonder Phil left if this is what he makes strangers belie–
“Wil, kiddo, it’s okay. Breathe with me, little gem, in… and out…”
He chokes on a sob.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you– gods, you’re far too light. Come on, kiddo, it’s okay, you’re okay. We don’t have to do this now.” The man draws him into a loose hug, a presence rather than a cage.
Wilbur breathes in, trying to slow his heartbeat and hold his tears. It mostly works, but the ‘we don’t have to do this now’ keeps ringing in his ears. Now. So they’re going to ask again. He looks at the door. The longer he waits the angrier they’ll be. He has to tell them now. Gods, he doesn’t want to.
He moves out of the man’s embrace, but the warm earthy scent follows him. Mr Gold starts to move away, but Wilbur grabs his wrist. The man stops. Wilbur doesn’t look up from the ground. “You can come in.”
There’s a hand on his head, tussling his hair. “We don’t have to.”
Wilbur tugs him forward. “I– I need to.”
He fishes the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. He notices now how bad things look in the light of the day. The house is… dishevelled. Dirty. Silent. He moves his papers and journals from the rickety old table and smiles tightly. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?”
“Only if you let me help you.”
The silence is tense as the water boils, both of them wanting to speak and neither managing to. It’s only when the cups are full and they’re sitting together that they do.
“I gather your parents aren’t here yet?”
Wilbur stays silent. He puts down his cup and doesn’t meet Mr Gold’s eyes. “I never got to meet my mother. I don’t know her name, or what she looks like.”
“And your father?”
“I don’t know. He– I–” He takes a deep breath. A warm hand covers his own and he opens his eyes. The look Mr Gold gives him almost hurts, dripping care and concern. “I have a little brother,” he says, “and he’s the best brother I could ask for, even when his piglin instincts go haywire and he gets annoying while I’m studying. But… he got sick a little over a year ago. We didn’t know how to help him, so… father left with him to try to find a cure exactly a year ago today.”
It’s silent as he finishes talking.
“You’re here alone.”
He looks away. It’s not for much though. Mr Gold puts a gentle hand on his cheek, so he immediately turns back to him.
“I’m so sorry he left you alone. He shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “Tech needs help. I don’t blame him.”
“It doesn’t excuse him for leaving you. You don’t deserve that.”
The sentence lingers in the silence. It reverberates in his mind and he can’t help but find it untrue.
“Can I give you a hug?”
He doesn’t deserve it, but he stands up and buries himself in Mr Gold’s chest anyway.
“Do you know when they’ll be back?” he asks, and Wilbur shakes his head. “Would you like to stay with us? Either permanently or while you wait?”
Again, Wilbur shakes his head. He likes Mr and Mrs Gold, but he can’t do that. “Your house is small enough as it is, I wouldn’t want to impose,” he mumbles. “Besides, all of my things are here. I can’t leave them.”
“Right, you somehow keep enchanting random things. What’s the trade secret, little gem? Am I allowed to know?”
Wilbur ducks away from the hand ruffling his hair. “I may have found my father’s books on magic. Some things are pretty cool.”
“Oh? Is he a librarian? Or a cleric?”
“Ah. Neither?” He shimmies a bit. “I’m… actually not quite sure. I just know that we’re both… uhh, you know… Players?”
Mr Gold blinks. Twice. “Oh. Okay. That makes sense. Lots of stuff then?”
Wilbur deflates in relief. “Yeah.”
“And you want to stay here.”
“Yeah. I… still have to learn some things.”
In the few seconds it takes him to go back to his seat, Mr Gold’s lips have pressed into a thin line. “Your father didn’t teach you?” At Wilbur’s grimace, he doesn’t hesitate. “Shame on him. Here, I’ll do you a deal.”
Wilbur watches in fascination as a worn journal appears in Mr Gold’s hand in a small burst of light. “I’ll teach you.”
Wilbur gulps as he takes the journal Mr Gold is handing him. He passes his hands on the leather cover and the golden buckle keeping it closed. “You said a deal. What do you want in return?”
“For you to have dinner with us,” he says. “You won’t have to spend the night, even if I’d rather you did. You can leave and come over whenever you want. Just have dinner with us.”
Wilbur shakes his head. “You’re already offering lunch.”
“And now I’m offering dinner. Please.”
Wilbur tries to ignore his worry. He still gives in. “Alright. Thank you, Mr Gold.”
The man smiles and pats his shoulder with a bit too much force. “You can just call me Davis, kiddo.”
Months go by, Mrs Go– Flora ’s belly gets bigger. He learns to use different Job Blocks and to craft more efficiently and to visualize his health bar and hunger bar and to gain and use life energy. He’s told that the ‘might-as-well-be-his-son’ of an old friend of M– Davis’s is coming over, that he’ll probably stay for a while. A man with ram horns and permanent tears comes, and he spends more time at the bar than in the house. He’s young. Older than Wilbur, but still far younger than Davis.
He helps Davis bring the man home one day and catches the whispers of grief. The man sways with self-hatred and flows with care that has nowhere to go. He catches him crying to himself late at night the few times he falls asleep on the worn sofa, reading Davis’s old journal. At first, he does nothing. Then he starts getting up and fetching a cup of water. Sometimes he gets a story. Sometimes he doesn’t.
“But I was a dumb teenager high on freedom and too proud to admit I could make mistakes.”
“She was the most amazing person I had ever met. I don’t think I’ll ever meet someone quite like her ever again.”
“Go to sleep kid.”
“Sometimes I think I loved them too much.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t love them enough.”
“A life on the run is not a good life for a three-year-old. We had to leave him.”
“I wish we hadn’t left. I wish she was still with me.”
“Never regret loving, kid. That’s the one thing that will destroy you.”
"They promised they'd keep him safe. They'd promised. He was my little lamb. He's gone now. He's gone. Even if they'd promised. We never should have trusted them."
“I’m so lucky to have my friends. I’m going back to them as soon as I've, y’know, picked myself up. It’s a safe place, our own server. Should have been for both me and Toby but… eh.”
“I live alone. In a hut in the forest just outside the village,” Wilbur tells him one day. “Phi– My father left with my little brother to find a cure for him. Davis and Flora insist on taking care of me while I wait.”
“He’s going to regret it,” Schlatt answers. “I know I did. He’s going to sit down one day and realize he’s lost time. He’s going to come back and cry because you’re not the person he left behind.”
Wilbur frowns. “Of course I’m the person he left behind.”
“But you’re not the same. You’ve grown. In the year he’s been gone he lost his chance to teach you player privileges, to teach you magic, to watch you grow. When you meet again, he’ll have lost a lot.” He’s silent for a moment, staring off into the darkness as if memories were threatening to drag him under the current. “The cruellest part is that you’ll have lost a lot too. Sure, you’ve gained Davis and Flora and their child and you’ve got the entire village looking out for you, but you still missed out on having your father there.”
Some days are better. Some days are worse. Schlatt teaches him to flip a coin and he teaches him to read a music sheet in return. They hold onto one another as they have a mental breakdown. He’s a funny man when he’s not wallowing in self-pity, but that self-pity recedes as time flies.
Davis and he are working when maid Liana comes barging into the shop. “Davis. Oh, Davis, you have to go home now. Flora’s giving birth.”
They hurry to put out the fire and leave the still heated metal in the water buckets. Awful shouts are coming from the house. Schlatt is already there, inside the house but outside Davis and Flora’s room, ready to reassure Davis the moment he starts pacing. It’s an eternity before the door opens. Maid Nassi ushers them in while Mrs Plays and her mother putter around the room to get equipment out of the way.
Flora is on her bed, under the covers. There’s a weird blob-shaped figure on her chest. It seems more like a potato than a kid and it’s quietly crying. Davis goes near them with stars in his eyes and kisses his wife’s forehead. Wilbur ignores their quiet conversation to study the bundle of cloth. It's… cute. In the way small and ugly things are.
"Vinnie," he hears Flora say.
Looking at them, he sees Davis nod. "Amethyst."
"Whatever for?"
He smiles at his wife. "Well, so I can say she's both my champion and my little gem. What else for?"
Schlatt laughs, so he's assuming there's a joke somewhere in there. He's probably right, considering Flora swats his arm with a playful smile.
"Vinnie Amethyst Gold then?" says Schlatt. His expression is weird, unfathomably happy but stained with sadness. It makes sense. Wilbur notes to himself to accidentally fall asleep there that night. It doesn't work.
Schlatt leaves a week later, tearstained and still fussing over the new parents. Most likely overloading them with tips and tricks and advice. Wilbur even catches a “spend every moment you have with them. You never know what the future holds, so you can’t waste a second” from Schlatt that sounds more pleading than it should.
Schlatt is already halfway out the front door when he calls for Wilbur. He gives him a business card and a golden coin. “If you ever get around to travelling come visit, yeah?”
“Aww, will you miss me?”
He barely evades Schlatt’s noogie. “Brat. I expect to see you around, old man.”
“Yeah yeah, send Jo my regards when you see him,” laughs Davis, bouncing little Vinnie on his hip.
Flora smiles and presses a bag into Schlatt’s hands. “Safe travels. Void knows your penchant for trouble and danger.”
“I’ll sure try. See you by the sea!” he says as he walks away. Davis and Flora answer the same thing though, so Wilbur guesses that’s just how they do things.
Things both stay the same and change too much. Davis and Wilbur keep going to work. Flora and Vinnie are there more often than not. Wilbur stays over to help almost every night. His things are still in the farmhouse, all the books and music sheets and lapis and potion ingredients and precious memories. Most of his clothes and trinkets are not.
Vinnie grows slowly. She gets a tuft of dark hair and when she first opens her eyes they are caramel brown. When she’s not sleeping or eating or crying, she smiles and laughs and holds his pinkie. His sixteenth birthday grows closer.
A week from his birthday, he starts going back to the farmhouse more. Maybe it’s hope that Phil and Techno will be there. Maybe he’s already anticipating the grief of not finding them. Flora and Davis say he’s free to do what he wants, even if he feels guilty about not being there to help. He doesn’t sleep soundly in the farmhouse, but that’s okay. He can study and enchant and make more potions. He falls asleep at the desk a lot.
Thunder wakes him one time, far louder than should be normal. His ears ring, the bells do too. The world rumbles. Something dark wraps itself around his heart and squeezes. He looks out the window. It’s the middle of the night. People are yelling. From the bottom up, the sky is alight with grey.
He grabs everything that might be useful — bucket, sword, shield, potions, potions, where’s the swiftness, healing, regen, strength, fire res, where, where where? — and sprints out of the house, towards the village.
There’s people in the streets carrying buckets of water. He doesn’t even ask where’s the fire, he just fills his bucket and follows the crowd. He doesn’t notice people doing double-takes at seeing him. Not until he starts to notice where they’re heading. The pit in his stomach grows heavier.
The first thing he notices is the buildings on fire. The Golds’ house and their neighbours, the Lofis and the McPlays. The second thing he notices is that the fire is grey. He’s never heard of grey fire, not even in Phil’s books. He tries to run forward, but a hand on his elbow stops him.
“You can't go. It’s too dangerous,” says the old librarian, Mr Otis.
“Are they in there? If they’re there I have to go. I have to help them,” he pleads. He lurches forward, but Mr Otis keeps him there.
“You can’t. There’s nothing you can do. Look.”
There’s people going forward and retreating. The flames are almost stationary. They don’t spread, the water does nothing. He sees maid Liana swat the fire with a shovel, but the tool disintegrates to dust. Wilbur’s eyes widen. In a corner of his mind, a passage from one of Phil’s books rings loud and clear. He searches the people. There’s a shout. Wilbur’s gaze snaps to a man whose fire-licked arm is disintegrating and to the woman pulling him out of the flames.
He gives up his struggle. He won’t find bodies, he won’t see them again. He knows that for sure. Still, he shoves those thoughts away and brings the book passage to the front of his mind. He’s probably the only person around who can tell what’s going on.
He snaps his arm out of Mr Otis’s hold but he steps back. “Tell everyone to retreat. we have to go at least sixty feet out before it lashes. I’m gonna try to contact the admin,” he says as he summons his communicator. He checks that the man is doing as he said — which he is, if a bit wide-eyed — and looks for their Admin’s contact. He thanks every star that Davis told him the woman’s contact.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐆𝐨𝟑𝟔𝟎: 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐥
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐆𝐨𝟑𝟔𝟎: 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐭 -𝟏𝟓𝟗 𝟕𝟏 -𝟐𝟐𝟔
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐆𝐨𝟑𝟔𝟎: 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐢𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬
There’s yells in the background and he still can hear his heart. A beat. Two. He starts to despair. His communicator buzzes.
𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐆𝐨𝟑𝟔𝟎 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮: 𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜
He has a vague feeling of the world squeezing on itself before there’s a pop right next to him. A woman appears, holding a far more advanced communicator. “You’re the one that called me here?”
“Yeah. We’re making people step away but some are already gone.”
“Don’t worry,” she says as a hologram appears over her communicator. “Make sure everyone’s away.”
The woman teleports on top of a building and Wilbur runs towards the crowd. He grabs the hand of a random person and pulls them away. The rest is a blur of yelling, running and colours that are not made for the night. The next morning he just knows that he’s waking up beside maid Liana and that he keeps coughing. They give him a regen potion and he tries to make himself useful. He doesn’t break when they tell him the Golds are gone. He expected that. Glitches like that don’t leave anything behind but damaged code, at least according to Phil’s books.
He sees the Admin around while helping bring things to and from the funerary committee. They lost nine people in the glitch and thirteen have suffered injuries. Four are missing parts of their bodies, disintegrated to nothing. They sit with the Admin as she finds a way to restore their code, or at least fix it a bit. None of them meet his eyes. Neither does the rest of the village. Everyone tells him to sit, to slow down, to rest. One person yells at him for not crying.
He goes to the farmhouse that evening and stains the shulker box the Golds gifted him with tears.
They hold a funeral. It’s a beautiful affair, with white flowers strewn all over the square. The sky is a beautiful blue and the weather is as good as it gets in September. Some people give speeches. He doesn’t. They pray together to the sky gods that they may live forever in the afterlife. Wilbur, for whatever reason, doesn’t. Instead, he murmurs a plea.
“Lady Death, carry their souls gently. Cradle them like gems and let them shine like stars. May they know pain no longer. May they rest. Lady Death, Mistress of the Night, let the crows sing for them.”
He doesn’t know why he says it. He read of the anchor gods, but he never imagined praying to them. His back is heavy with grief as he brings his fingers to his lips, then to his wrist. He thinks he’s seen the gesture before. A breeze blows through the village, bringing the scent of saltwater and metal and spices and making the wind chimes ring like crystal laughter. It smells like Davis and Flora. It sounds like Vinnie. He lets a tear slip and feels heard.
The funeral ends. He realises he's barely heard a word. The town's people keep giving him their condolences. As if it were his family that died in the glitch-fire (maybe they were). He insists on helping bury the empty caskets and he falls apart the moment he's alone.
Silently, he wishes for Phil. Except if Phil were here, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. His hands tremble. He’s alone now. Actually alone. He has no idea what to do now. He hides his hands in his pockets.
His hand catches paper, forgotten in the depths of his pants. It's a business card, wrinkled and stained with days of loneliness and nights suffocating in an empty house but given with care and gentle, tired hands. With it is a golden coin. A friend. An offer.
He takes the rest of the day to sell the sheep, sell the crops, sell the furniture, the pans and pots, everything that isn't valuable. Midnight strikes. He turns sixteen.
There's something wrong with Wilbur Craft. He should have known for a while, but he knows for sure as the farmhouse burns. He knows it in the few things he runs with. He knows it in the way anger drowns his grief. He knows it in the Death clinging to his skin. He looks at the old life he killed. Yes. There truly is something wrong with Wilbur.