𝕄ℂ𝕐𝕋 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤

ℝ𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕓𝕦𝕣 ~ ℝ𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕕

[*cutley drops a new oneshot and pretends I haven't been gone for a month*
Also it's my sixteenth birthday in two weeks like bloody hell I'm so old now.]

MCYT: Revived!Wilbur Soot

SMP or AU: ✨Le SMP✨

(I've changed the Minecraft/IRL to SMP/AU because I don't write IRL ones anymore, so I stick to SMP based or AU based oneshots :D)

Type: Angst?

Pronouns: They/Them (I'll probably make most of my oneshots gender neutral pronouns from now on, but you never know.)

Notes: Y/N=Your name

Premise: The President of L'manberg has returned from the dead

Trigger warnings: Upsettingly short

Y/N's POV

3am in L'manberg isn't exactly what one would consider the golden hour, yet still I walked. There was ritual in my step, feet almost on autopilot, knowing each crevice and inclination of the ground instinctively so I could remain balanced without much thought. Call it muscle memory, call it obsession; I didn't care.

You wouldn't know there had been a city here. In its stead, the gaping crater, meticulously preserved with a glistening glass floor, pieces of the original stone poking out disjointedly. It wasn't pretty, but that was the point. Techno calls war the eighth form of art, but I see no serenity, no emotion in this land. Only a distinct lack. Not a lack of anything in particular, just... Well, lack.

My eyes find familiar but empty spots. The execution stand, the walls, the L'mantree. Not even a whisper of their existence is found. Of course, Eret dutifully catalogues it all in the museum, but it is not the same. Everything there is a recreation, without the depth of emotion engrained into the material. There is no defiance and jubilation in the slice of wall, no scrutiny and betrayal in the final control room. Many do not forgive the King for such a stunt, but I learned to.

He did what he needed to survive, and yet we, who do much the same, continue to judge.

The moon is high in the inky dark, a pale light brushing the ground. A flicker of something other draws my attention. I walk this path every night to escape the want to sleep, knowing if I do I shan't wake whole. I know everything that lies along this desert of glass. What caught my eye was a thick red thread, pooled by the side of a boulder. Such a small and meaningless thing, but enough to make me stop and pick it up, stuffing it in a pocket so the once city may stay unmarked. The shade of crimson tells me it's from Tommy's hoodie.

The young blond doesn't come here often, but the fact he has been here so recently unsettles me. It is only of the utmost necessity that he tread on the ruins of his home. Something has happened.

I raise my head to the sky, closing my eyes as the wind surges the smell of smoke and gunpowder in my direction. A year or two has passed and yet the reek of destruction remains. In those years, I've slept fitfully every night. So I stay awake, forcing myself to move until I can't. Passing out from exhaustion means I don't remember what I dream. It's the one blessing left for me. The memories hurt.

I force myself to focus, wondering what could have drawn Tommy here. I knew he had mentioned something important he had to do earlier in the evening, gathering Ghostbur, Tubbo and Ranboo to help. He wouldn't let me know what it was, claiming I wouldn't approve. And that, unfortunately, leads me to believe it was something against Dream. I must admit, since the city I lived in was destroyed, I'd turned into somewhat of a recluse. I laid down all weapons, fruitlessly building myself a house away from all the fighting. No one I knew, on either so called "side" of the ever ongoing war held any conviction towards me anymore. While the same cannot be said for the way I feel of them, I believe Tommy was trying to protect me from having everyone's opinion of me tarnished, should I help.

He's most likely done something reckless and dangerous.

I hadn't noticed the clouds close in until the light of the moon was extinguished, the heavy dark of an impending storm bearing down instead. I sighed, senses infused the the petrichor. The first break in the calm night came from a distant rumble of thunder, a swelled but hearty sounds, resonating from somewhere east. Then as ever, the rain began to drip sullenly, as if even the weather itself couldn't be bothered with the late hour.

The first strike of lightning was when I heard it.

A sound that brought an acidic, acrid taste to my throat, bile rising. It was a laugh, a laugh once thick with sugar, now cold. I quickened my pace, horrified by the half excitement it inticed in me. I continued trance like to the alcove of rock on the edge of L'manberg the noise was coming from. Now it was loud, clear and devastatingly unmistakable.

I almost feared to round the corner.

There was no conceivable way it could be on the other side who I assumed. The two forms each had their own reasons as to why they couldn't be here, yet it was one of them nonetheless. I braced myself, forcing shaking legs to move.

Long coat draped elegantly on the floor, body shaking with laughter. A bloody armband on his left, hair flattened with damp dew. He was facing away from me, manic in his movement. I should have ran, I should have left. There are many things should have done. But I had no time, frozen with paralysis when Wilbur Soot turned to look at me.

And he was very much alive.

[I can hear the calls for a part two, and don't worry, there will be one. Have a great morning/afternoon/night!]