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Chapter Text

“Dream, please detain and escort Wilbur out of my country.”

Tubbo’s decree is spoken clearly, for all to hear.

Wilbur’s face drops in despair. He stares in silence at his younger brother in utter betrayal, mouth left agape, unable to speak a word. He can’t be serious. No, no, it’s just a joke. Some sick prank. Quackity, Tommy and Fundy were always one for pulling pranks and messing around. But there is no laughter. No smile. He studies the president’s eyes. They’re cold, hardened, matched with a frown. Wilbur recognizes that expression from anywhere, for he’s worn the same exact one multiple times over the course of years. It’s the face of a leader doing what is best for their people. He swallows thickly at the silent confirmation. There is no joke, no punchline of any sort.

He shifts his gaze to New L’manberg’s cabinet who all stand behind Tubbo. Tommy is too busy shouting at his best friend, disbelief painting his features, to catch Wilbur’s pleading glance. Fundy’s head is lowered, fixed firmly to the ground. Ranboo (some new guy, Wilbur hasn’t got the chance to get to know him. And it doesn’t seem like he ever will) spares a pitying look, but is quick to avert eye contact. Quackity stares Wilbur down with a satisfied glare, as if taunting him, you had it coming. Wilbur quickly realizes there is no way out of this one.

Wilbur snarls. Traces of hurt instead begin to heat up into a blinding rage.

“Tubbo,” He breathes. “Tubbo, you’ve got to be kidding, man! You can’t exile me again!” Wilbur lashes out at the president standing across from him. “You- What the hell are you doing?! You can’t be serious!”

Tubbo does not respond. He does not so much as bat an eye.

“Would you fucking listen to me?!”

Tubbo turns away.

Wilbur is about to call out to his brother again, but is interrupted when a sudden hand grabs at his arm. “Get off of me-” He gasps and immediately retaliates, making an attempt to rip himself away. “Get the fuck off of me!” The grip on his arm tightens dangerously and Wilbur turns, only to be met with the carved smile of a porcelain mask.

“Wilbur.” Dream’s voice comes out unsettlingly composed, collected. “Let’s go. The president has made his decision.”

Wilbur does not listen, instead continuing to struggle violently against Dream’s hold, pushing and pulling, yet to no avail.

“Let go, prick!” He hisses. “Tubbo! God damn it!”

There is no reply. Wilbur can see Quackity finally turn away out of the corner of his eye.

Wilbur is strong and has an advantage in height, but Dream is stronger. He yanks the taller back with a harsh force, and lowers his voice to a level where only Wilbur could hear, “Don’t test your luck. Oh, it would be such a shame for someone to get hurt. Tommy? Maybe even Phil?”

Wilbur stills, “You fucking wouldn’t.”

When Dream gives no response, Wilbur grits his teeth. He stands down and ceases resistance. He’s unprepared for when he’s roughly shoved forward, stumbling over his own feet. Dream stands behind him, expression unreadable from behind the disguise of his mask, but it is obvious what he is demanding.

Wilbur turns his head back to take a last look at his nation. At his friends. At his brother. At his son. At his L’manberg. Under new management or not, blown to smithereens or still standing, L’manberg will always be his. That is just the way it is, the way it’s always been. He chews on the inside of his cheek, biting down any trace of emotion or hurt. A habit of his that had become second nature to him after years and years of practicing it.

Maybe this outcome is for the best. The only plausible solution to keep Wilbur’s destructive tendencies at bay, aside from another more preferable solution. One Wilbur had already attempted. He remembers it vaguely, in blurry images and senses. Sulfur choked the air, dust settling, rubble still falling as trembling hands urged a sword into his father’s. Surviving was not the plan. It never was. But clearly, fate had other plans for former president Wilbur Soot.

Tommy is still yelling, trying to reason with Tubbo, trying to get him to withdraw his proclamation. Oh, Tommy. Always at his side, no matter the circumstance. His loyalty will get him killed one day, Wilbur is almost certain. He appreciates the sentiment, but he can tell there is no changing Tubbo’s mind. The decision is already set in stone.

Wilbur shuts his eyes tightly and turns back around. There is a heavy netherite axe held to Dream’s side. Whether it’s for show or intimidation, Wilbur isn’t sure. If it’s the latter, it’s a miserable attempt, that’s for sure. Wilbur is anything but intimidated by the masked man. Threatened, sure, but not intimidated. He is not afraid of what Dream could do to him, but rather his friends and his family.

He does not fear death. If given the chance, he would welcome it with open arms.

“What are you waiting for?” Dream questions. Wilbur can tell he’s losing his patience, if only a little bit.

He scoffs, but says nothing in return. He keeps his head and gaze held high. Though his expression reads of indifference, the same can not be said for how he truly feels. Multiple emotions, thoughts and questions swim aimlessly in his chest. He’s lost, hurt, betrayed, angry, in disbelief. What happens now? Where is Dream taking him? He swallows it all down like a bitter pill.

Wilbur takes a step forward, then another step, and then another. Until he’s walking at a moderate pace. Further and further away from L’manberg. Until the shouts and complaints of Tommy grow quieter with distance. Until all is silent, aside from the click of heavy, metal armor beside him. Late autumn air blows against his face. It’s all he feels. Cold, it’s so cold.

History repeats.

Chapter Text

The journey was an awfully long one. A few hours, at least. It was mid-day when they began. Now the sun is gradually beginning to lower, wisps of orange accompanying the otherwise blue sky.

Luckily, a majority of it was sailed on a boat. Though they did travel a moderate distance on foot in the beginning. All was quiet during it, aside from a few snippy comments from Wilbur that Dream did not react to. The silence was horribly uncomfortable, like an itch that could not be scratched. Only vast ocean for miles, no land in sight, just him and Dream. It was about halfway through the trip that Wilbur came to the realization he was not only being exiled from New L’manberg, but civilization itself. Far, far away.

It was all looking more and more hopeless by the second.

Wilbur tried his best to keep his eyes anywhere but the ocean the entire time. Not only did he not want to see his quite frankly depressing reflection staring back at him, but the sea reminded him of somebody he’d rather not think about. Something about a past lover. Something about a sweet woman with gorgeous red and white hair and blue scales. Something about her disappearance one night, left without a trace. Wilbur frowned. Maybe once did the squawks of seabirds and the crash of waves soothe him, but now they only served as a reminder of how truly alone he was.

The two end up on the shore of an island, many miles out from the rest of the SMP. Dream climbs out of the boat first and Wilbur is slow to follow. There is a bitter rage that burns dangerously within his chest, but he can’t bring himself to fight back. What use would there be? He stares wordlessly at his surroundings, his new home. It’s empty, untouched by man. A beach beside a plains biome, occasional birch and oak trees sprouting from the ground.

“Do you think they’re celebrating, now that you’re gone?” Dream speaks up, monotonously. An obvious attempt at a personal attack.

Wilbur gives an amused snort at the jab. “I wouldn’t hold it against them,” He replies with a casual shrug, not seeming all too bothered. Dream is silent as he drags the boat onto the sand to prevent it from drifting off.

He’s definitely thought about it before. Multiple times, even. The fact that those he loved did not love him the same way. Because how could they? He hurt them, destroyed their home, and broke their trust. Who could love somebody like that?

But this is what he wanted, isn’t it?

“Why are we out this far?,” He asks, turning back to glance at Dream. “I’m supposed to be exiled, aren’t I? This isn’t a vacation. We left the SMP’s bounds hours ago.”

“This time you’re exiled from everything. From every single ground that has already been touched,” Dream answers.

“Everything?” Wilbur repeats back, a frown tugging at his lips. “That’s not exile, that’s isolation.” He argues, the bridge of his nose scrunching up.

He glares down at Dream from behind the curls of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Returning anger churns inside of him. He can’t remember when exactly he’d begun to get so angry this easily. Somewhere within the depths of the dimly-lit ravine of Pogtopia, he can only assume. Wilbur was never a violent or vengeful type. Quite the opposite, really. That golden-hearted president with a distaste for violence had the patience of a saint. But he’d left his patience and pacifism behind with his second death on that cold forest floor. He never really seemed to gain it back.

Dream exhales loudly. “Then call it isolation. I don’t care. You’ve hurt innocent people, including the people who loved you,” He drones.

His tone is cold, void of emotion. But Wilbur does not back down.

“Oh, like you’re any better? How about we talk about you, Dream? Hm?” He snides, narrowing his eyes. “What is your goal here? You’re putting an awful lot of effort into exiling me over something you encouraged and helped me achieve.”
“Helped you achieve? Wilbur, what in prime are you talking about?” Dream tilts his head, to further express his confusion. “You’re delusional.”

The clouds eclipse the sun. Suddenly, the air is much colder than it was just a few moments ago.

“What don’t you understand about this? You were a tyrant. You tried to manipulate politics, you’ve killed people, you’ve destroyed an entire country! You’ve gone way too far. The citizens of the Greater DreamSMP are scared of you. Even the king himself was afraid you’d attack us next.” Wilbur opens his mouth to argue but can’t even get a word in before Dream continues. “You were terrible. You fucked up big time, and this is your punishment. If you ask me, L’manberg is being merciful. They could’ve locked you up, or even executed you. You’re lucky it’s only exile.”

Wilbur would have preferred execution over this.

“This is your new place, Wilbur! Welcome home, don’t you like it?” Dream spins on his heel and throws his arms out in a wide, dramatic gesture to the wilderness surrounding them. “Looks comfortable, huh?” There is no way of physically telling his expression from behind the mask, but from the tone in his voice, one can only assume he’s grinning.

The exiled man scowls, brows knitting together in a display of indignation.

Satisfied with Wilbur’s lack of response, Dream lowers his arms and takes a step forward. A shovel materializes to his hand and he plants the scoop into the dirt and grass. Wilbur watches with a cocked eyebrow as the man in green begins to dig a sizable hole into the ground.

“Hands me your things.” He says.

“What?”

“Hand me your things.”

Dream’s arm is outstretched, palm flat out. And Wilbur knows immediately that this is not a question or a request. There is no choice in the matter. This is a demand.

Wilbur’s eyes flick from Dream’s hand, back to his face, back to his hand.

“Wha-” He pauses for only a brief moment, to glance at the hole Dream had dug out. “Why? What for?”

“You’ve given me no reason to trust you. Why should I believe you won’t run back the moment you’re given an opportunity? Or even worse, attack me, or someone else?”

“Oh, yeah, because I can totally take you with no armor. Because I can totally just go back to L’manberg and be welcomed with open arms!” Wilbur makes jazz hands as he speaks sarcastically to further express how utterly ridiculous he found Dream to sound.

Dream stares at him. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. And Wilbur hates it. Hates not knowing what comes next, hates the unpredictable.

“Don’t be smart with me, Wilbur”

“Would you rather me be with dumb with you?”