ASSASSIN 2~ 𝓗𝓪𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡Haunted♡*⁠｡⁠.⁠

Quackity POV:

Waiting proved to be just as infuriating as he'd expected. Pacing the throne room had started to drive him a little insane, but wandering aimlessly about the castle was becoming vastly worse.

He'd walked these halls his whole life, and they were still as empty as they had always been, aside from the odd passing castle servant or guard. Quackity's eyes still searched their faces occasionally.

The king found himself pausing at the base of a tall staircase leading up to one of the towers. Perhaps he could watch the grounds from up there, at least.

He began to climb the endless steps and quickly remembered why he didn't frequent these towers, his breath shortening and his legs already burning despite being not even halfway.

Eventually, Quackity dragged himself to the merciful platform at the top. He was met with a heavy wooden door and pushed it open, the bottom scraping on the floor from slightly uneven hinges, sunken by age.

The room was round, and not overly large. Empty, mainly, but Quackity's attention was immediately drawn to the large window at the opposite end of the door. It stuck out from the tower a little way, a wide sill on the inside of the room, where Quackity was able to sit with his knees curled up beneath him.

The glass was stained in light colours that were dull in the current cloudy weather, but Quackity could imagine them casting a rainbow of little shapes and reflections across the wooden floor of the room when the sun actually did shine.

He peered outside, but there was not yet any sign of anyone entering the castle. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he looked at the courtyard, wondering if he should train after all. A sudden creak and scrape and bang of the heavy door swinging closed behind him made him jump and almost fall off the windowsill.

Cursing, he turned to stare at the door and tried to steady himself. But as his palms found the frame to regain his balance, Quackity could have sworn he heard another noise; like a soft snicker -no louder than a whisper.

"Tubbo?" He called out nervously, after a moment of debating whether or not he was hearing things. "Is that you?" He was trying to keep his voice stern, but couldn't help secretly hoping that it was just the kid messing with him.

There was no response, sending yet another shiver down Quackity's spine, as his eyes flicked around the much less empty-feeling room.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words died on his tongue, his throat suddenly dry. His hand, resting on the windowsill beside him suddenly felt freezing cold, as if something icy had brushed past it.

Quackity yanked it away and stood up abruptly, stumbling back slightly and knocking into a chair. It could have been a draft, his last logical thought suggested. But the touch had felt something else other than just cold... Something that made him almost hesitate before pulling away.

He couldn't dent it anymore.

He was being haunted, and despite how avidly he had avoided admitting it, he knew exactly who it was. How, or more importantly why was a question he couldn't bring himself to try and answer.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Or maybe he was simply going completely mad.

Either way, he could sense Wilbur's presence there, possibly only inches away, yet just out of reach. And this painful reminder, by gods it hurt. It hurt like a fresh wound all over again, bringing him back to that night, and every restless night since.

It was a different sort of presence to the one he knew from his dreams, too. More familiar to the man he'd known. What cruel power kept Wilbur's soul here, after everything? Was it him?