God's Demise

1: "They're Fine"?

The fire roared a blazing orange and red heat, warming the group nearby. There were few sleeping, only those who hadn't lost loved ones that night. Fundy sat on the dirt, head laying on his mother's- Sally's- lap, sad eyes focused intensely on the flames as they danced, as not to cry. Sally's eyes focused sadly on the stars above, one hand playing with Fundy's hair while the other sat limp at her side.

Wilbur- the father of the fox- sat on the other side of the fire, his mind swimming in the sea of sadness. Phil- Wilbur's (and Tommy's) father- was sat beside Sally on the wooden log, wings tucked close to him as he stared venomously at the dirt covered ground.

Tubbo sat on a log between the biological family, eyes unmoving from the ashes that surrounded the burning flames. Tommy sat across from him, still in denial, his mind swimming in hatred for the world as his hands were folded in his lap, fingernails digging into his skin to keep himself from crying again.

There was one missing. 

-

The sky had been clouded since the morning sun had shone, rain pelting down like that of a metal blade to an enemy. Heavy thunder as though the clouds were laughing at those stuck on the surface. Phil sat in his rocking chair with a book in hand- his favourite way to pass time-, his thousand year old existence unfazed by the sounds of angry mother nature. Wilbur, on the other hand, paced around the living room anxiously, his brother and closest comrade having supposed to be back hours ago. Fundy was in the kitchen with his grandmother- Kristen- and Sally, working on preparations for dinner.

"They were supposed to be back an hour ago." Wilbur noted, aimed towards no one in particular, as though he were speaking to himself.

"Quit worrying, my boy." Phil responded in the clam, fatherly tone he'd always had, standing up after closing his book. "Do you know how many times you and your brother had me this worried?"

"Father, I'm aware. You remind me every time." Wilbur remarked, his pacing coming to a halt once Phil had set an old hand on his shoulder.

"Too many to count." Phil smiled, kindness and security oozing from his eyes. "They will be back soon, don't you worry."

It took another hour for them to get home, and by that time dinner was almost finished.

Fundy was setting the table for seven, expecting the pair to be back before they eat. Knives and forks set on napkins, ancient glass plates sat nicely around the table. Wine glasses for the adults, regular glasses for the two children. Salt and pepper shakers sat on a small plate in the middle of the table, the serving dishes lining the counters with the needed utensils beside them. A feast, celebrating the first hunt that Tommy had participated in.

Though hunting was a skill he'd picked up at the age of ten, going out with his older brother from time to time, this was different. They had gone hunting for people, bad people. It was a family tradition, if you would say, when you turned 16 to introduce you to real world horrors. Phil had done it, Wilbur had done it, Fundy had done it. Now it was Tommy's turn.

"Honey, I'm worrying." Wilbur had emphasised to his wife, his hand near his mouth, thumbnail about to be chewed off in the worried fit he'd held for almost three hours.

"Babe," Sally had paused, gently grabbing her husband's hand away from his teeth. "they're fine."

With a quick kiss on the lips from Sally to Wilbur, the door had slammed open. Two drenched to the bone boys hurried in, one blank faced while the other was panting and bloodied.