Forever we shall be // Ghostbur x reader

Chapter 1

Loyal to fatality, your deadly sin was wrath.

You lived and died for the birth of a nation, fighting for its independence, fighting for its citizens, dressing up your love as patriotism to hide the truth. The truth, the overwhelming truth, was that this ragtag bunch of rebels were the first people with whom you truly felt understood.

Everyone would look back on your choices, on your life, and wonder what had inspired your sudden vitriolic devotion to a cause like L'manburg of all things. Stuck with self imposed blinders, all you'd wanted was that warmth of belonging, that approval, their respect.

Your people won your land's independence, lead by a diplomat, but you never had the same way with words, the same grace; you'd earned your place in this nation through displays of force, of gnashing teeth and brute force. This war had taken lives from you; you didn't know how to earn your place in this new world of peace.

But they smiled at you, mirrors of warmth and understanding among them, assuring you that if you wanted your place to be defending this nation, then no-one would take that from you.

But they told you to rest, to pick your battles carefully; with stubbornness you ignore the genuine concern in their voices, only to twist it to some kind of question of your capabilities.

"I- we- L'manburg is better with you in it," Wilbur tells you as he checks on what you're pretty sure is a broken nose over another petty fight with another party's supporter.

"I don't want them to think that they can speak about you... or L'manburg," you add quickly, "at least not like that."

"Don't die defending my honour," he says it like its half a joke, lips twisted into something you think is adoration in the right light, though you don't want to get your hopes up. You huff a faint laugh, and hope he doesn't notice how you don't make any promises.

Loyal to fatality, you lost your last life in service of the walls you'd already perished protecting, and the man whose words inspired them. And you. You'd picked the wrong time to be incensed by someone badmouthing your land, and the people set to lead it, if all went as planned with the election. The election, already tensions had been running high, your nerves alight with something jealously protective at the idea that anyone would even dare to usurp the nation you'd help build from its rightful leader.

So maybe you'd been looking for a fight. 

And maybe you'd picked the wrong one.

Something is decidedly not right when you wake up in the land of the living once more. You have awoken with a new clarity. Every memory you have is stained with a strange sense of detachment as you realize that the land you fought for was never the thing you cherished.

But you hadn't thought to tell anyone that, so scared that it would be perceived as weakness, that putting their individual lives above the nation you'd so loudly defended would be some kind of treason. Your memories don't feel like yours; looking back, all you feel is regret.

More than just your physical form had died that day.

You've changed in ways you can barely comprehend.

Time has passed, the election that had sent you spiralling, terrified of being robbed of your sense of belonging, your place in the world if your friends did not pull through to victory, was now only days away. But the part that you'd missed for your blinders was that you weren't the only one spiralling because of this all.

But how can you face them again?

How can you find the words to tell them you finally died for a nation you no longer care about?