Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They miss him, now.

They’d all hated him for so long. Berated him, used him as a scapegoat, anything to avoid their own truths. It was easier to hate him than to have to acknowledge that none of them were the good people they claimed to be.

Why do they miss him now?

Why couldn’t they miss him before? Why couldn’t they have missed him when he so desperately craved it? Why couldn’t they have missed him when he was alone, and he had missed them, too? Why did he have to die to be missed?

Over the sound of his own pleas, over Dream’s laughter, he had heard Sam scream. It was cruel, to be so close to freedom and have it taken from him. To nearly get out just to be pulled back in.

Wasn’t this supposed to be closure? Wasn’t he supposed to finally get to be a kid?

How horribly, sickeningly realistic, that he should die on the precipice of finally finding some semblance of turbulent relief. 

They’ve erected statues of him. They’ve shed tears for him. They’ve planted flowers for him.

Why couldn’t they save him?

They’d all known- every single one of them. They’d known, yet they stood by, and he suffered the consequences of their inaction. He has always suffered their consequences. What gives them the right to miss him now? What gives them the right to mourn him when they sentenced him to this death? What gives them the right to grieve? Who do they think they are?

He wants desperately to find it funny, that he must not only be made to die, but to grieve as well. 

They’d stolen his freedom from him. Their inaction makes them complicit, their hands held firmly in the fists that beat him to death. He is stuck, now, grieving for the life he almost got to live. It had been within his reach, just shy of his fingertips, and they’d taken it from him.

They’d taken everything from him.

His innocence. His fire. His life. There is nothing left to take. 

They question why his spirit is so vengeful. His brother’s ghost had been so kind, so innocent. He had never done harm- he had only happy memories. Why was his spirit so different? They couldn’t understand, and that makes it all the worse. All they had to do was think for once in their terrible, shitty lives, and they’d understand. It wasn’t that hard.

Wilbur wanted to die. Wilbur’s ghost got to be happy because that’s how he wanted to be.

He had wanted nothing more than to live. How is he meant to be happy in death when life was all he wanted? Who were they to expect him to be happy when all that he had ever wanted to be had been stolen from him? How could they still have him so twisted in their heads that they think he should rejoice at being dead?

They are undeserving of the very thought of him. They had done nothing in his time of need, and now that he is gone, now that they have nothing left to do, they believe themselves worthy of his name. The fruits of his labor. They are the sole perpetrators of his demise, yet they mourn him anyway.

They had thought, upon seeing him hold the allium, that he would be docile. They had not expected the burning, fiery wrath that fell so easily from his hands, but they deserved it. These are the fruits of their labor. These are the consequences of their actions. He will make sure they face each and every one of them, in his unending, tormented existence.

His freedom had been his for the taking. He had been so. close. Yet here he is, now, ripped from that fickle freedom and forced to wander their blighted world in search of something he will never have. His business will remain unfinished, his spirit tied to these people who refuse to take responsibility for all they have caused. They will die, and he will remain, and it will be their fault alone.

They had held the hand that brought him down, that broke his skin open and left him bloody. They use those same hands to manufacture monuments in his image for the sole purpose of expunging their own guilt. Their complacency in his death. The hands that killed him craft things that would never have been given to him in life.

Why is it so different now? What is so different about him now? In their eyes, why does death make him worthy of their grief? Who gave them the right?

They cannot appease his ghost. Their apologies mean nothing to him- they fall on deaf ears. Their cries are deserved, their misery penance for all they have wrought. They will no longer go unpunished. Their hands were his judge, jury, and executioner, and now he will be theirs.

Few are spared from the volatile rage that froths like fire from his hands. Those who had been kind to him are few and far between. There are only five, and they are a rocky few. Tubbo, Ranboo, Puffy, Quackity, and Sam. They were gentle with him in life, and though they had done nothing to set him free, the ghost of his affection for them does not fade. It has been twisted, beaten beyond recognition, but they bear their grief just as they deserve.

There are more he could spare. More who, were he not so vengeful, he could forgive. But they will reap what they have sewn. They planted the seeds with their indolence and watered them with his blood. Fertilized the ground they walk on with his bruised remains. Their pretty words and false grief would grant them no shelter from his fury.

They had all believed there would be no consequences. They had all believed they could let him die and then miss him afterward, when there was no boy left to miss. 

As the world burns down around him, as ash and dust settle upon the things they had held so dearly, he hopes they learn. There are consequences for their actions- or lack thereof. 

The price was blood, and they have all paid.

Chapter Text

He remembers what the snow felt like beneath his feet one of the last times he’d come here. Alive. 

It’d been cold and wet, and then it had been nothing, because he had lost feeling in that foot not long after he started walking in the snow. Techno had chopped it off in order to save the rest of him.

Funny, really, what a waste that was.

The snow melts under him with each phantom step he takes, now, and the grass underneath is left stained in red. There’s a clear trail behind him that steams as more snow touches down on the frozen ground. The flakes would melt him if he weren’t melting them first. His anger is too hot, radiating violently off his skin.

He no longer knows where his blood ends and others’ begins. The lands of the SMP are in flames, bodies scattered amongst the rubble in his wake. He waters the seeds with their blood, now. The rivers have long since run red.

He wonders, as far as his mind can stray from his sole purpose, if his brother regrets saving him back then. He wonders if that is why he never came to save him this time. He wonders if he even knows he is dead.

He will, regardless. He’ll know just as they all came to know. 

Smoke curls like a beacon from the cottage he knows lingers just over the next hill. It had been his sanctuary, once. The people inside had been his family, once. 

He’d died on his father’s birthday. He doubts the old man knows.

It’s almost poetic, he thinks, that this is the last place he has to go before he can leave. His family has not yet paid for their inaction, their abuse, their neglect. They have not yet suffered as he has. They likely never will, but that will not stop him from collecting their penance. 

The cottage is within his view, now. He watches Phil putter around inside for a few moments, empty eyes glancing to the stables afterward. Carl is missing, which means Techno is elsewhere. His brother couldn’t stop him if he tried, but this will be all the more sweet. He will suffer even more- knowing he was absent from their father when he was killed. That he could do nothing because he wasn’t there. 

He hadn’t come to save Tommy, either, and he had known. They both had.

Doors mean nothing to ghosts. He makes no footsteps, though he leaves melted snow and dribbled blood behind. The door cannot creak if he simply passes through it. The floorboard near the front door, left purposely untreated so it would groan upon the entrance of someone who doesn’t know it’s there, cannot do so if he simply floats over it.

Phil is in the kitchen, back to him. His wings are loose, the tips of the feathers brushing delicately along the floor. Funny, how unsuspecting he is. How safe in the false knowledge that no one can harm him out in the tundra. There are no weapons hidden on his person, no armor strapped across his back.

His sword lies unattended by the front door. When Tommy lifts it, the blade scrapes across the ground, and Phil turns.

“Tommy-” he says, and Tommy watches as he processes exactly who he sees. His eyes settle on the sword, first, and then they sweep across the place where Tommy’s feet are supposed to touch the ground, and he freezes.

Volatile satisfaction takes root in Tommy’s chest, burning so hot that smoke swirls out of his nostrils and through the wispy mirage of his hair. Phil looks stricken. Tears swell in his eyes, yet they don’t leave. 

“Tommy,” he says again, grieving in a way that feels fake, “what happened to you, mate?”

What happened to him? What happened to him? He laughs something bitter, acid on his tongue. Blood bubbles out of his mouth and down his chin, restaining his shirt in the same place it always has. He will never not look like this. 

“Why didn’t you save me, Dad?” he asks, tilting his head just so. “I called for you, but you didn’t come. Why didn’t you save me?”

“What happened, Toms?”

Tommy floats closer, the tip of the sword carving a small crevice into the wooden floor. Phil does not move at his approach, eyes wide and chin trembling. The pot on the stove boils over.

“You were- supposed to be safe, in the prison. Sam was supposed to protect you.” Phil continues, hands beginning to tremble where he holds them. “How are you- why are you-”

“I thought you were going to protect me,” Tommy whispers, the echoey quality of his voice lingering in the air around them. “Why didn’t you come save me, Dad? Why did you let me die?”

There are only two steps worth of space between them, now. The tears that leak from Phil’s eyes mimic the blood that dribbles from every unclosing wound on Tommy’s body. His father opens his mouth as though to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled, pitiful noise.

“I died on your birthday,” Tommy continues, “sorry your present is a little late.”

“Don’t be sorry, Toms, I’m the one that should be sorry,” Phil sobs, reaching out shaking hands to cradle the flickering form of Tommy’s face. 

The ghost of the affection he once felt for his father is nothing compared to the anger that comes with knowing he had been here, that he had known where Tommy was, and he had done nothing. No amount of fond childhood memories could save him now. There weren’t even many of those- Phil had abandoned him so young. To travel with Techno.

“You’re right,” Tommy murmurs, bringing the sword up in one swift movement, “you should be sorry.”

The blade, well cared for and dangerously sharp, pierces through his father’s body like butter. He drives it through until the hilt is pressed flush with his chest. Phil chokes on blood, and it dribbles down his chin, and he looks down at his own chest in shock.

“Son?”

“The price for your failure is blood, Phil,” Tommy snarls, pulling the sword out of his father and shoving him into the counter behind him. Phil presses his hands to the hole in his chest, but blood still pours from between his fingers. It gushes from the wound in his back as well, painting the countertops and the floor in red.

“You left me in there to die. Why didn’t you ever come save me, Phil? Why was I never enough for you? Why didn’t you love me? What did I do wrong?”

“I love you, Toms, you’re my son,” Phil chokes, sliding down the counter and thumping against the floor. “I’ve always loved you.”

Tommy barks a harsh laugh, dropping the soaked blade on the floor with a clatter. His father stares up at him in horror, and maybe grief, and Tommy can feel the coil around his chest loosen. “Sure didn’t feel like it.” 

He watches, just as they all had watched him, as the life leaves Phil’s eyes. His hands go limp, and his chest stops moving, and slowly, his gaze goes far off. 

Tommy turns off the stove. He dumps the boiled water into the sink, and he sets the pot upside down to dry. The sun is beginning to set, and he knows Techno will come back soon. He slowly moves to sit down beside his father’s corpse, triumph rolling through him like the ocean’s waves. 

All he has to do is wait for Techno, now. His eldest brother should come home as the sun is setting. He doesn’t like to leave Phil home by himself for too long- likely for this exact reason.

He laughs quietly to himself, rage slowly sinking to a simmer in his chest. Embers dance gently on his fingers before they die, and exhaustion settles in the phantom of his bones. He is angry, sure, his spirit is only here for vengeance. But he is also tired, weary after wandering for so long. He wants nothing more than to rest. To be free. 

There is not long to wait, as the telltale sound of hooves moving quickly through snow approaches. The stable on the side of the cottage bangs open, and if he were to strain his ears, he’d likely hear Techno speaking to Carl. His brother had always been so fond of the horse.

He rises, moving over toward the window to watch his brother. He is still the hulking figure he has always been, hybrid traits more prominent as they protect him from the cold. Normally, he would shed his hybrid features when he came inside. Tommy doubts he will, now.

His brother raises his head sharply, gaze snapping to the front porch. He has likely smelled the blood Tommy inevitably left behind, carried to him on the arctic wind. Tommy watches his latch the stable and then creep quickly around and to the stairs, and he does strain his ears this time to listen to him walk up the steps. He, too, avoids the boards that will creak. 

The door opens slowly, groaning on its hinges. There is a moment of pause, and then Techno slams the rest of the way through the door, wide red eyes staring at the corpse in his kitchen. His shoulders heave, chest trembling with the weight of his grief for their father. 

Where had that grief been for him?

Techno turns to him, then, shouting some kind of nonsense and charging. He draws his sword and brings it down, but Tommy simply smiles. His brother swings at him -through him- thrice more before he seems to realize his weapon does nothing.

He stands tall, towering far taller than Tommy ever could, and he watches the way Techno finally takes all of him in. No, the bruises and bleeding breaks are not from their father trying to defend himself. Phil had not fought back- he hadn’t had the chance.

“You killed him,” Techno states, voice breaking as he steps several steps back and looks between Tommy and their father. 

“Yes,” Tommy answers.

“You’re dead,” Techno trembles. “Both of you.”

“Yes,” Tommy answers again. The coil is nearly undone. There is no more penance to collect.

Techno stays where he stands, torn between the ghost and the body in his kitchen. Tommy watches him try and fail to process it, and he grins.

“Why didn’t you save us, Technoblade?” he asks, delighting in the jolt that visibly shoots through his brother at the sound of his voice. “Why did you let us die?”

“I-” but no words will find his tongue. Tommy continues undeterred. 

“I needed you. You were supposed to protect me. I was your little brother.”

The sun sets outside, and the few birds that thrive in the winter retreat into their trees. The tundra falls silent save for the quiet, rhythmic drip of blood.

“It hurts. Doesn’t it?”