Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wilbur isn’t there when they catch the fae.

He is there when they drag it back to the manor, and so his first sighting of a fae is rather… gruesome.

The doors slam open, and Wilbur hears shouting as the hunting party returns. Wilbur’s head snaps up from where he was studying and he launches towards the door. The other scientists clearly have the same idea, because he has to fight past them to see.

One of the apprentice hunters dashes across the foyer, frantically opening the door to the dungeon. Behind him, the Captain and his Second drag a looming figure between them.

It, and the two men, are drenched in something that shimmers and shines in the light of the chandelier. It must be blood, and Wilbur’s brain spirals into the possibilities and properties that fae blood could have.

Behind… it follows the rest of the hunting party. They’re all holding each other up, hands clutched to wounds and faces curled in grimaces. Spatters of shimmering metallic blood are dotted here and there, but Wilbur can tell it was the two seniors who brought the thing down.

“Ready the chains!” The Captain grunts and the head scientist jumps, before grabbing two others and following the apprentice down the stone stairs.

Wilbur is about to follow them, when the Second slips, stumbles. The arm he had been using to carry the creature falls to the floor, and the Captain staggers under the new weight. The Second still hasn’t picked himself off the floor and Wilbur looks up, at the fae.

It’s staring back at him.

Wilbur could have sworn its eyes were closed just a moment before, but none of that matters. It’s looking at him. Right at him.

Blood, both metallic and red, drips from its hair, its mouth, its arms. Its eyes burn red, a red that speaks of fire and wrath and rust. Together, it paints a wild, bloody image of feral power. It calls to Wilbur.

He can’t look away. Something about its eyes draws him in, and the longer he looks, the brighter and larger his irises seem to get. It’s mesmerising.

And then the Second is back to carry his portion of the weight, and the fae’s face disappears from view. The moment is broken.

Wilbur releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and watches the Captain and the Second disappear down the stairs. One of the hunters shuts the door behind them, before leaning into the wall.

“You gonna stand there gawking?” He snaps, making Wilbur, and several other scientists, jump. “The fuck do we pay you for?!”

Right. Because we’re getting paid. Wilbur thinks bitterly. His gaze falls to the floor obediently as he murmurs to the page to gather the medical supplies. He walks to the first hunter and gets to work.

He is a doctor of research and science, not medicine, but the duke doesn’t care. Wilbur was to earn his keep while they waited for a live specimen, and apart from indulging in whatever scientific fantasy the duke dreamt up, that meant patching up the rest of the manor’s inhabitants. He learnt on the job - he had to.

So here he is. Wrapping bandages around a torn leg, pretending that he knows what he’s doing.

He finishes and moves on to the next wound. Mentally, he curses himself. Years of education, just thrown away.

Why did he ever sign up for this?

Despite its dramatic entrance, life doesn’t change for Wilbur after the arrival of the fae.

He’s still sequestered in the library, is still looking into the duke’s latest dream (a device to breathe underwater that was small enough to carry), still looking wistfully at the books on psychology and human behaviour as they taunt him from the bookshelves.

It isn’t until three days later that Wilbur is told what’s happening. They’re waiting to make sure the fae is secure before letting any of the research team down to study it.

Wilbur knows it’s for his safety, but he can’t help but get impatient. Ever since he saw it, there’s some urge to see it, to talk to it. It prickles under his skin, and he hates it.

He has to wait another four days before he’s let into the dungeon. He’s only there to observe, take notes, and give suggestions when called upon. But at least he’s getting his chance.

The seven of them that make up the team head down the stone stairs in single file, clutching their charcoal pencils and paper. The bracketed torches flicker with the cold draft that flies past Wilbur’s ears, and it makes the shadows on the wall flicker.

All in all, it’s eerie, and the deeper they go the worse it gets.

Finally, the stairs stop and they walk into the dungeon. It’s a square room, with thick shadows in the corners and a floor so cold that Wilbur’s toes curl in his boots. The ceiling is low and looks vaguely damp. There are three cells. The two on either side of the entrance are dark, empty. The one opposite the stairs is brightly lit and is flanked by four guards.

Behind the thick iron bars, is the fae.

More iron chains it to the wall, positioned in such a way that it has no room to move, to struggle. There’s a pool of that metallic blood on the floor, and in the torchlight, it looks gold. Streaks of it lead across the room to the locked door.

Wilbur is surprised by how… human it looks.

It doesn’t have hooves or a tail or wings or antlers. Its skin isn’t green or blue or purple. Its fingers aren’t webbed or taloned. It has skin, muscles, bones. It has hair, while admittedly pink, that’s mattered with blood and sweat and oil. Its head hangs heavy, like a man before the gallows.

If he doesn’t know better, Wilbur would have assumed it was just a human prisoner.

The head scientist, Niki, clears her throat. “I’m going to enter the cell. Wilbur, you’re going to come in too, but stay back. You’re scribing for me.” She looks at him, and Wilbur nods.

Scientists didn’t have Seconds, but if they did, Wilbur would be Niki’s. If something happens to her, he’s supposed to take over. But with the fae clapped in irons thicker than Wilbur’s wrist, he doesn’t see that happening any time soon.

He’s happy to learn what he can from her, and she’s more than happy to teach.

“The rest of you, I want drawings, as accurate as you can get them. Sally, write down anything he says or does.” The team nods and shuffles into position while Niki pulls Wilbur closer to the bars.

“I want you to watch it carefully, and report to me after.” Niki rubs her hands together, before clearing her throat. “I want to know what it’s thinking, how it compares to us in terms of behaviour.”

Wilbur nods, a grin dawning on his face. This is- this is amazing. Not only is he using his actual field of science, but now he’ll have an excuse to study it again.

This is amazing.

Niki grins back before her eyes dart sideways and it slides off her face. She takes a deep breath, clearing her throat again, before turning to the guard. He nods and unlocks the cell.

Niki doesn’t hesitate, striding into the cell with purpose, but Wilbur can’t help but hesitate. He is about to be within arms reach of a fae.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, and steps into the cell.

Niki is already in front of it, eyes sharp as she studies it. When Wilbur crosses the threshold of the cell, she blinks and steps back, holding a hand out to stop Wilbur. He’s already frozen, having felt it… stir.

The whole team gasps, and behind him, Wilbur can hear the guard shifting, iron spear pointed over his shoulder to the fae.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it lifts its head.

Wilbur holds his breath.

He can see the rise and fall of its chest now, noticeable and even. It’s not dripping blood anymore, but the substance is still crusted on its body.

A dark, grim smile makes the layers on its face crack and shift, and Niki takes another step back. Wilbur’s brain instantly starts to analyse, to catalogue every twitch and glance, every inflection, like it has been doing for years.

And that smile- It’s confident. Not at all worried, or scared.

“So. You’ve caught me.” It rasps, low and broken but also dangerous. Its voice rumbles, travelling through the stone and up Wilbur’s legs. His knees shiver. There’s no hesitation, no pause. Confident. Sure.

The guards tense, but Niki nods. “We have.” She says clearly, like it might not understand her, despite the fact it very clearly can. It’s a clever tactic that makes the person in question feel lesser or belittled, and only really works if they’re foreign.

He guesses it counts as foreign.

Its smile doesn’t dim, and even though Wilbur can’t see its eyes underneath thick strands of hair that have fallen over its face, he feels its gaze locked on him. “Very well.”

Niki moves back in, clearly determined to make this a productive session. Wilbur shivers as he remembers the last time they had come to the duke empty-handed. She motions for Wilbur to come closer, and he does, although his legs feel like they could give out at any moment.

“So, are you going to behave?” Niki asks as she rolls up her sleeves.

It chuckles darkly.

They wait, but that’s the only answer she receives. Wilbur studies its face, tries to catch anything other than what it wants them to see, but there’s nothing. No sign of anything but surety, like it isn’t chained and helpless.

Niki ploughs ahead. Expertly she takes and manipulates its wrist, and Wilbur gets ready to scribe.

“Typical dexterity, so far looking like typical human bone structure and joints. As far as I can tell typical muscles and tendons.” She dictates, and Wilbur scribbles it all down, pushing down the feeling that it was going to snap and break her hand.

She moves down his arm, tapping scars and questioning healing rates, pre and post turn. She tries to find where it was wounded, but the gashes are completely closed, the marks buried under the dried blood.

She asks it questions and isn’t phased when it doesn’t respond. Wilbur writes them all down, listing them for later.

She comes to his head, pushing its hair out of the way. She pauses to cough into her elbow before peering into its eyes. “Red, shifting eyes. Product of emotion? Thoughts?” She buries her hand in its hair more to push its head back when-

It lunges forward, straining against its chain as fangs snap on empty air. Niki’s fingers are safely out of reach, but she’s breathing shallowly, eyes trembling and locked on its mouth.

It huffs a laugh that sounds more like a deep growl. It rumbles in Wilbur’s chest, makes his ribs rattle and shake. He can’t move. It- It did that on purpose, probably. Timed it so it would have the most impact. Wilbur shudders.

Niki opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Fangs.” Her voice is breathy and unsure. She coughs again. “Fangs. Fangs that can elongate and shrink. Biological or magical?” She says, firm once more, and Wilbur ignores the way he wants to lie down to scribble it on the paper.

Niki only stays for a few more minutes before she leaves, Wilbur trailing behind her. The team leaves in silence, followed by echoing laughter, low, rough and sure to haunt Wilbur’s dreams.

They go over Wilbur’s notes and the sketches the others took and begin to theorise. While most of the answers they’re looking for can be chalked up to magic, Wilbur isn’t satisfied. There must be rules, logic. Everything is limited by something.

Metallic blood? Sure, you just say that it’s a fae and move on, but what if it actually contained metals? What if turning gave the body chemicals that changed the colour of blood? What if it isn’t blood at all?

When they’re summoned to the duke Niki presents the facts and Wilbur presents the theories.

Like he said. If they had them, he’d be Niki’s Second.

The duke is satisfied, for now, and they’re dismissed. He doesn’t demand more research or order them to work on some side project, just says that whole team meetings aren’t necessary anymore.

When the doors are shut behind them, the team breathes a sigh of relief. They can sleep tonight, then.

They’re heading off to bed when Niki lags behind. Wilbur slows down with her and waves the others on. Niki will want to talk to him anyway.

When the others are out of earshot, Wilbur turns to Niki expectantly, but she doesn’t say anything. She looks- she looks like she’s trying to hold something back, like a sneeze, or-

Niki erupts into coughing, having to stop and lean against the wall. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough for dread to line Wilbur’s stomach.

She waves him off. “I know that look. I’m fine. It’s the lack of sleep, I’ll be better in the morning.” Wilbur doesn’t believe her, not for a second, but she also has a look on her face, one that says ’I’ll do what I want’. He won’t win this argument, so he doesn’t try.

He leans back and decides to take her words at face value. She’s the resident doctor, after all, the one who has the most medical training. If she says she needs to sleep it off, who is Wilbur to correct her?

They part ways, and Wilbur’s stomach grows heavier.

Wilbur wakes with a hand stretched out to the ceiling like he’s reaching for something. His mind flashes with images, space, time, someone calling out to him.

He ignores it. He has more important things to worry about.

The team wakes and Wilbur immediately looks for Niki. She’s just ahead of him, yawning and talking to one of the younger researchers, Fundy. He says something and she chuckles. There’s no sign of tension. No visible distress.

Wilbur sighs. She’s fine.

So why can’t he shake the feeling that she’s not?

He catches up to them, and Fundy glances at him. “Are you okay?”

Wilbur, too focused on Niki, just hums. He’ll be just fine; when Niki recovers.

They follow their usual routine, eating breakfast and scrubbing sleep out of their eyes, writing papers and discussing quietly until the sun comes up, and then set out a plan for the day.

Today, just Wilbur and Niki are going to see the fae. They’re going to take some blood, just peel the dried stuff off its skin. They don’t need liquid… yet, and they don’t want to anger it.

Something in Wilbur squirms at the idea of cutting into its skin, but he knows that if he had to he’d do it.

They head down to the dungeon, and halfway down the stairs, Niki coughs into her elbow.

Wilbur studies her intently but she’s moving on quickly and confidently, not in any pain or discomfort. It didn’t last too long, but there’s a flash of tension when she finishes. It disappears as quickly as it came, and Wilbur begrudgingly lets it go.

Niki’s fine.

It’s already awake when they reach the dungeon, which is both a relief and a worry. A relief, because now they don’t have to worry about taking it by surprise and waking it up, but a worry because, well. It’s awake.

It remains still as the cell is unlocked, doesn’t move when they enter the cell. When they approach, it tilts its head up just a little. “What is it this time?” He rumbles.

“We’re going to scrape off the blood.” She motions to the large patch of glittering blood that’s plastered on the side of its face.

It blinks. “You don’t need it fresh?” There’s genuine surprise at the question, but it’s not unsteady or taken off guard. It still feels confident, calm, in control.

Niki hesitates, before shaking her head. “Not for now.”

They take the sample and leave, but Wilbur feels burning eyes on him the entire time, even as they exit the stairs to the foyer. Niki leaves the sample with Wilbur and goes to make her report to the Captain. Just before the door shuts behind her, Wilbur can hear her coughing.

He waits until he can’t hear it anymore. He waits for about half a minute.

None of the tests so far can determine whether or not there are metals in the blood. It’s not magnetic, but then again some metals aren’t. None of the usual reactions work, but there’s a chance it’s mixed with something that doesn’t let the metal react.

Maybe they just need it fresh.

It’s frustrating, and Wilbur just wants something to go his way.

Then he’s summoned to the duke’s quarters.

He walks into the office to find Niki already in her usual spot. Wilbur slides in beside her, eyes down.

“Ah, Wilbur, was it? I’m told you’ve been experimenting all afternoon. Surely you can tell me something?” The duke’s eyes glint darkly, and Wilbur’s stomach drops.

“Well, sir, we’ve been trying to determine whether or not the fae’s blood is metal, or contains metal, but it’s a difficult process and-“ He starts, trying to frame his and his team in the best light, but the duke cuts him off.

“Stop making excuses. Do you have answers, or do you not.” He purrs. He sits in the chair behind his desk, smiling up and Wilbur.

Wilbur takes a breath to steady himself, to stop the tears or the yelling, and says, “I do not.”

The duke doesn’t blink. “Well then, I think you should all keep working until you have one, don’t you?”

Wilbur closes his eyes. “Of course, sir.” He’s exhausted, even after last night’s sleep. But he can’t say no to the duke.

They are dismissed, and Niki delivers the news to the team in the library. Everyone’s faces darken, and Fundy, the youngest among them, slumps over the table. It’s going to be a long night.

Niki coughs in the silence, and Wilbur’s too busy trying to think of ways they can prove the existence or non-existence of metals in dried blood to devote his attention to it.

They all settle in for the night, and when the sun comes up, they trudge blearily to breakfast, no closer to an answer.

The next time Wilbur sees the fae, he’s had significantly less sleep and significantly more time to come to terms with the entity in their cellar.

He walks in with no hesitation, far too tired to process the danger. The fae stirs, looking around the cell.

“Where’s the other one?” It asks, and there’s a different kind of gravel in its voice. It makes Wilbur want to listen. He wants to hear more.

Wilbur closes his eyes. “She’s… busy.” It isn’t a lie, but Wilbur has insisted she take care of the team while he goes and does this. She’s dead on her feet when Wilbur sees her last, even more than the rest of them. She’s coughing more, too.

Wilbur’s stomach doesn’t sit in his chest anymore. It’s too heavy. He doesn’t want to carry it, but he must.

The fae watches him closely. “Right.” The bones in Wilbur’s fingers tremble slightly in response to the deep baritone.

Wilbur straightens, blinking his fatigue away. He’s been awake for longer, before. Far longer. He can do this easily. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

They’re hoping that if they can make some breakthrough somewhere else, the duke will reward them. It’s a long shot- the fae hasn’t answered anything so far, but they just want to sleep. Fundy needs this, Niki needs this. So here he is.

It tilts its head. An invitation to continue.

Wilbur pulls out his paper and pencil, though he doubts he’ll get to use them. “Right. Do you have the typical body of a human?” He starts, ready to burn through the list and be back upstairs in a few minutes.

But it pauses. Thinks. “Yes. But typical is a broad subject.” The gravel is back, low and deep, and listening to it feels like stepping into treacle. Thick, heavy, warm. He wants to sink into it but he resists.

He writes the answer down, swallows his surprise and asks the next question. “Does your blood hold any special properties to your knowledge?”

“I wouldn’t know. No one’s ever tried anything with my blood.” The fae replies and Wilbur catches glints of humour, of a dark playfulness. It reminds Wilbur of the sharp conversations he used to have with Niki before they both got harder.

He clenches his jaw. He won’t fall for its tricks.

With every question Wilbur asks, the fae answers, but when Wilbur leaves, he feels more confused than when he entered.

He doesn’t know why it’s decided to talk to him. He doesn’t know why he wants to drown in its voice. He doesn’t know why he wants to talk to it.

He doesn’t know why they call it an ‘it’.

Nothing makes sense, the duke is happy, and Wilbur goes to bed listening to Niki coughing through the walls.

He doesn’t sleep.

“You talked when I was here alone. Why not now?” Wilbur asks, confused but mostly probing.

The fae tilts its head, eyes flashing under its hair. It doesn’t reply, not verbally, but somehow Wilbur gets the sensation that it’ll only talk to Wilbur. Alone.

Niki leans against the bars of the cell, looking pale in the torchlight. “Well, we can’t wait for-“ She coughs, hacking. Wilbur waits, but it doesn’t stop. He rushes over, tries to see what’s wrong, but she turns away, trying to hide it from him.

He turns her around with a hand on her shoulder and hits her on the back. It doesn’t help, not really, but it makes him feel useful. When it finally subsides, Niki’s shaking.

“If she gets help now, she’ll make it.” The fae rumbles and Wilbur looks it in the eye. He trusts it, and he doesn’t have time to analyse that right now, but he’s doubtful. He studies its face. He can’t see the lie, can’t make out deception, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

He turns away. He can’t rely on some fae’s words. It could be trying to trick him, or sway him, or something. He can’t rely on the words blindly.

But when Wilbur has to support Niki up the entire staircase, he’s considering it.

They reach the top and she’s panting, skin pale and sweaty. It wasn’t just the lighting. “Niki-“ He starts, but she narrows her eyes.

“No. I can’t leave.” She spits, wiping her mouth. “You need me. The team needs me. If I leave, it’ll just get worse.” She stares at the floor. “Like he’d let me leave anyway.” She adds bitterly.

She’s right of course, but that doesn’t stop Wilbur from worrying.

“But if you die-” He pleads.

“I won’t.” She cuts him off. “I won’t. And even if I do,” She looks Wilbur in the eye, defiant and strong. She means every word she’s saying. “Even if I do, I know you’ll look after them, Wilbur.”

He can’t reply. What can he say to that?

She disappears into the Captain’s office on the ground floor, and Wilbur stares at the polished wooden floor, wishing he could trade places with his reflection.

Niki is not fine.

She deteriorates. Wilbur visits the fae alone.

“Did she get help?” It asks, red eyes burning, and Wilbur looks away. He can’t reply, because he doesn’t want to face it. What that means.

The fae answers his questions and Wilbur dreads returning to the manor. At least here, he’s in control. At least here, the only thing he can hear is the deep voice of the fae, sinking into his muscles like warm oil.

Niki is not fine.

She’s coughing more often than not, and the medicines they have aren’t working. The duke refuses to give them more. Wilbur catches her hacking up blood.

The fae doesn’t mention it when Wilbur comes alone again and again. It just answers his questions, layers its voice with thick treacle that looks more and more tempting with every passing day, and watches.

One day when Wilbur comes down, there are two fewer guards. Wilbur just sighs and enters the cell. The fae hasn’t tried anything yet, and the duke has taken this as a sign it won’t. Wilbur isn’t so sure, but his opinion doesn’t matter.

Niki is not fine.

Wilbur has to watch over her bedside now, in case she has a coughing fit in her sleep and he needs to wake her so she doesn’t choke. He isn’t sleeping, but he wouldn’t be if he was on his own anyway.

If the fae sees his skin turning ashy, it does not comment.

Niki is not fine.

Her hand shakes when it holds a pencil, and her voice is barely above a whisper. She grimaces when she swallows, and her forehead is perpetually covered in a sheen of sweat.

Wilbur trails after her like a shadow, waiting for when she inevitably falls. She doesn’t, not yet at least, but Wilbur follows anyway.

When the others catch on, they rotate, Sally taking the duty from him first. He starts to protest but falls silent when she puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. Fundy stands behind him, hovering within arm’s reach. To catch him. His own shadow.

Wilbur doesn’t complain when Sally insists he sleeps that night, only watches as she slips into Niki’s room in his place. She’s too kind to be here. Maybe in another life, Wilbur might have fallen for her.

He wakes the next morning sitting up, his sheets around his waist. He’s never sleepwalked before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Niki is not fine.

He leaves to visit the fae much later than usual. Niki had refused to eat her breakfast, so he spent hours trying to convince her to nibble on the toast he had to steal from the table.

When he takes the final step into the dungeon, the fae’s eyes lock onto his. Like they were waiting for him. “You’re late,” it says, chains clinking as it shifts. If Wilbur doesn’t know better, he would say it’s worried.

Wilbur ignores it. He needs to ask his questions and get back to Niki.

Niki is not fine.

Fundy pulls him aside after breakfast one day. Looks up at him with shining eyes and asks if Niki is going to die. Wilbur can’t lie. Not when it’s this obvious.

He spends as much time as he can with Fundy in his arms before the hunters force them to get to work. Wilbur has to visit the fae with tears in his eyes and a tremor in his hands.

“What happened?” The fae asks, and Wilbur shoves his looming dread down into a darkened corner of his heart.

“Nothing.” He replies, letting the yet float above them.

Niki is dying.

She can’t walk on her own anymore. The library is littered with bloody handkerchiefs. They can’t wash them fast enough. She looks so pale Wilbur is surprised she can interact with solid objects.

Niki is dying.

They prop her up at the table because she can barely stay conscious. Wilbur pretends he’s leaning down to listen to her, and when he straightens he says what he thinks she would have said.

Niki is dying.

The duke doesn’t care, keeps insisting that she works, even when Wilbur falls on his knees to beg. He sneers in disgust and dismisses Wilbur. He trudges back to the team and ignores how everyone looks up but Niki.

Niki is dying.

When Wilbur wakes slowly one morning, spine curled awkwardly from where he’d slept propped up against the wall, he knows.

He wraps the body in the bedsheet, takes the team to breakfast and skips it himself to tell the duke.

“Very well.” The duke sighs. “You may lead the team in her place.” Beady eyes bear down on him. “I expect results.”

“Yes sir,” Wilbur replies.

He finds the team in the library, waiting. He breaks the news. Fundy cries.

Wilbur doesn’t have time to cry. He needs results. He needs to make sure his team doesn’t die. He needs to find a way out of here.

He hugs Fundy again, letting the boy cry into his shirt, and stares blankly at the wall.

Why did he ever sign up for this?

Niki is dead.

The fae knows as soon as he walks in the cell, Wilbur can tell. It stiffens and looks almost sad.

“May her spirit join its kin in the forest of old, the forest of spirits, the forest of time.” It murmurs, like a prayer almost, and Wilbur lets his head fall at the voice, the steady, grounding voice.

They stand like that for another minute or so, before the fae asks, “When was the last time you slept?” It’s genuine, the question, with real concern in the words. It’s foreign.

Wilbur laughs, dark and honest.

He shakes his head. “I don’t see why you care.” He tells it, folding his legs to sit on the floor, back resting on the bars.

“I care.” It replies, and those words cripple Wilbur. They’re what he wants to hear, what he’s wanted to hear for years. That someone cares.

Red eyes dance in the shadows, and Wilbur watches them, fascinated.

“Why?” Wilbur finds himself whispering, like he should be holding a conversation with it, like it isn’t a beast that has killed countless people.

The fae smiles. “I’ll tell you one day.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “So you’ll tell me never.”

“No.” The fae corrects, lifting its chin a little. “I’ll tell you one day. I promise.”

Wilbur hesitates. The voice makes his spine vibrate, makes the bones in his legs hum. He believes it. “Fine.”

The fae blinks. “What are the questions for today?”

Wilbur shifts on his feet, gathering his thoughts as he finds the page with his questions. “Last time you mentioned the fae realm. Would a human be able to…” Wilbur blinks.

Niki is dead.

His eyes are burning. He can’t do this right now. Not here. He clears his throat. “Would a human be able to enter?”

The fae is silent. It waits, unwavering. Red eyes see right through him, right into his heart, where there’s nothing left but shrivelled black husk because Niki is dead-

Sharply, Wilbur turns around. If his body is going to betray him, he’s certainly not going to let the fae see it. He screws his eyes shut, refusing to break. He can’t break. He can’t.

Behind him, the fae shifts, iron chains clinking. “It’s okay to grieve.” It says, voice quiet and soft, and Wilbur nearly bursts into tears. He catches himself, reels himself in. He. Can’t. Break.

He turns back around. He came in here with questions. He’s going to get answers. “Can a human enter the fae realm?” He asks again, eyes firmly locked on the fae’s chest. Those eyes make him feel weak, so he won’t look at them.

The fae sighs. “It depends. Theoretically yes, but only if the Lord allows them, and only if they want to.”

Wilbur’s brows furrow and he scribbles down his notes. “The Lord? Like God?” He wouldn’t have guessed that fae were religious, but it kind of makes sense. Can they interact with God? Is it the same God humans have? What are their religious customs?

“No. Well.” Its eyes narrow as it thinks. “Not your type of god. He is old, older than time and space, but he is real. He loves us. He walks among us.”

Wilbur jots that down, thinking. “He actually… you’ve met him?”

The fae laughs, dark and rumbly. “You could say that.”

Wilbur frowns at his paper. So the fae has met this Lord multiple times, enough that it’s making jokes about how well they know each other. What does that say about the power of this fae?

He almost asks, but he bites the question down. He doesn’t want to know the answer to that one.

“Only if they want to?” He parrots.

The fae stares at him, and while Wilbur doesn’t meet its gaze, it’s a close thing. “Only if they want to.”

Wilbur shakes off the feeling the fae is talking about him.

Niki is dead.

When Wilbur returns to the research team, he has to stop himself from falling to the floor. This isn’t his sanctuary anymore. He has to be strong for the others now like Niki was strong for him.

He takes a deep breath and smiles at his team. “Alright. We need to go over my notes, but after that I want everyone doing some reading, okay?” He gives each member of his team a meaningful look.

They all get the message, nodding appreciatively. The hunters can’t exactly prove they’re not working if they have their noses buried in books.

He gives his notes and they all scribble down suggestions and ideas. Wilbur has a fresh list of questions for tomorrow and a fresh list of concerns.

Especially when Fundy pulls him aside, picking at his nails. His eyes are red, have been ever since that morning, and Wilbur can tell he’s trying to keep himself together.

“I know that when Niki-“ His breath stutters, but he continues. “Um, that you were- that she-“ His voice breaks, and Wilbur decides to save him.

“Fundy, no. You’re too young.” Wilbur can see Fundy shrinking away, and he quickly adds, “You’re what, seventeen?” Fundy nods, eyes watering. Wilbur puts his hand on his shoulder and ignores the way it makes the boy shudder.

“Fundy, I can’t let you take more responsibility. It was hard enough for me, and I’m four years older than you-“

“That’s the point!” Fundy bursts into tears. “I just want to help you! T- to support you! Like you support me!”

Oh.

“Please,” Fundy sobs, and without thinking Wilbur wraps his arms around him, “Please just let me do something for you.”

Tears soak his shirt, and Wilbur doesn’t know what to do. Niki would have the answers. Niki would know just the right thing to say that would make everything right.

Niki is dead.

Wilbur rubs his hand up and down Fundy’s back tentatively. “I can’t put you under this pressure. I can’t.” He sucks a breath through his teeth and admits, “But maybe- small things.”

Fundy pulls back, a heart-wrenchingly hopeful look on his face. “That’s- That’s fine, I just want t- to help, really, anything, even if it’s just- like- coffee, or carrying your papers-”

Wilbur nods, laughing wetly. “Yeah. Coffee. Coffee sounds great.”

“Like- now? Because I can do now-” Fundy starts, furiously wiping his eyes, but Wilbur shakes his head, laughing again.

“No, no. Not now. Get a book to hide behind and take a nap.” Wilbur whispers, and they both straighten. Wilbur gives him a quick ruffle of auburn hair and goes back to his notes.

He watches Fundy scamper into the shelves, before returning to the pages in front of him. It’s starting to get difficult to organise, and Wilbur is ashamed to say that Niki did most of that kind of thing.

Niki did a lot, now that Wilbur thinks about it.

He really isn’t ready, not for this.

He’s heading to his room after his daily meeting with the Captain when he pauses.

His eyes wander to the door next to his. To- her door. He hasn’t been inside since that morning when he’d- covered it. In the sheet. He hasn’t- checked. Since.

Surely they’ve moved it, right? Taken it to her family to be buried? To be looked after and sent off into the afterlife properly?

Wilbur’s hand hovers over her doorknob. The metal shines, and Wilbur catches his reflection.

He should check, right? Just in case?

He swallows, and his hand falls to his side.

He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer to that question.

He slips into his room and stares at the ceiling.

He wakes, fingers stretched to meet some invisible hand. He rolls out of bed, already sitting upright, knowing he won’t get any more sleep. It’s a miracle he slept at all.

He’s summoned to the duke’s office during breakfast, which means he doesn’t get to eat anything. He knows he should take someone with him, but he’s not putting Fundy in that situation, and if he picks anyone else Fundy will take it personally.

No, he goes alone.

The duke has just woken up, judging by his robe and generally dishevelled appearance. He’s yawning and grumbling as Wilbur states the new findings and theories, and when he’s done, he waves his hand.

“Whatever. I want something I can show to his majesty, something real. Get to work.” The duke deadpans, and Wilbur nods his head.

“Yes sir.” He breathes, too exhausted to fill his words with hidden venom or anger.

He trails into the library and the team get to work. Fundy manages to slip him half a slice of toast, and Wilbur scarfs it down behind a book, desperately trying to catch his crumbs.

Between research, discussing and making sure everyone is doing as well as they can be, the day flies by and it’s time to report to the Captain.

He stands with a sigh, turning to the door when Fundy gets up from his chair too. “I’ll do it.” He blurts out, eyes narrowed in what Wilbur is sure is supposed to be an intimidating expression. It certainly looks determined, and Wilbur knows he can’t just brush this off.

“Fundy-” He starts, trying to think of a way to let him down gently, but Fundy just shakes his head.

“No, you said- small things. At least- I get that you won’t let me come with you to the duke, but at least let me come with you for this. Or do it for you.” He pleads, and Wilbur can see the dark circles under his eyes.

Wilbur opens his mouth to put his foot down, but he catches Sally shaking her head in his peripheral vision. He sighs.

“Okay. Okay, Fundy. You can come with me.” Wilbur relents, and Fundy perks up.

They head across the foyer to the small office, and the Captain greets them smartly. Wilbur delivers his usual report, and Fundy chimes in with the smaller details he forgot. He’s not loud, or twitchy, or anything that Wilbur was worried about.

After the Captain dismisses them to keep working, Wilbur stops Fundy before they return to the others.

“That was- good. You did good.” He says, too tired to come up with anything better. Fundy beams up at him, eyes wide and shining, looking for all the world like Wilbur hung the moon.

“Thanks,” he whispers. “Thanks, Wilbur.”

When they enter the library a few minutes later, the redness around their eyes is buried under dark shadows.

“Where were we?” Wilbur asks, and they get back to work.

By the time breakfast comes around, Wilbur is in his rhythm. The worst part of exhaustion is the first few days. After that, things start to blur and the symptoms stop being mental and start being physical.

By midday, he can’t quite walk in a straight line. That’s manageable. He’s not walking the length of the gardens, he just needs to pop up to grab a book or a sheaf of paper.

It’s dark outside when his muscles start twinging. It starts with his leg, a muscle tensing without his permission. Then it’s one on the back of his neck as he leans over the papers, squinting in the candlelight. Then it’s the muscle between this thumb and finger. His eyelid.

In the morning, when Wilbur stands to grab something small for breakfast (never eat large amounts when sleep-deprived, the nausea only gets worse), he nearly faints, his body not ready to stand.

It’s mid-afternoon when the shaking starts. It isn’t bad, to begin with, just the papers rustling in his grasp, a visible tremor when he’s reaching for something. Then it affects his handwriting. Then his fingers can’t quite close around the pencil properly.

Then he can’t write.

It’s been days now, and they’re not any closer to having something tangible. They can spiral off into the potential existence and location of the fae realm all they like, but without something they can touch, the duke isn’t going to let them rest.

It’s late evening when Wilbur goes to see the fae, when he forces himself to take a break. It takes far longer than usual to descend the stairs, but Wilbur doesn’t want to risk falling down them.

“Took you long enough.” The fae grunts when he’s in eyesight, slumping back against the wall.

Wilbur keeps silent, fishing out the key to the cell. There aren’t any guards down here anymore. Off catching the duke’s next pet project. Probably.

The pouch around his hip is heavy today. It’s not grounding, in fact, it only proves to make Wilbur’s chest tighter.

The fae freezes, red eyes scanning Wilbur with a speed he almost can’t catch. “What happened.” He demands, and Wilbur can only sigh.

“Just…” He tries to explain, but the words take too much effort. “Tired.” He finishes, ignoring the urge to sit with his back against the bars. It wouldn’t be comfortable, and he might fall asleep on the spot.

“I can see that.” The fae remarks, voice softening as he pours honeyed gravel into the words.

Wilbur presses his fingers into his forehead, pushing against the dull throbbing pain that resides there. He needs to do this. It’ll help the team, and if they’re right, it could help thousands of people.

He needs to do this.

His hand strays to his pouch.

With a tilt of his head, the fae catches Wilbur’s gaze. “What happened?” He asks, eyes flashing, and Wilbur is caught up in the dazzling curls of rust and copper and gold and bronze.

“We’re trying to give the duke something he can show his majesty, something ‘real’, but…” Wilbur’s fingers brush against the shape in the pouch, “it’s hard. We need-” Wilbur swallows.

“It’s okay,” The fae says, treacle easing Wilbur’s headache, just a little. “It’s okay. Whatever you need, take it.”

Wilbur’s shoulders slump. “No, no I- I can’t. It’s-” He forces himself to take a shuddering breath before he starts crying. “This isn’t something I- How am I supposed to call myself a scientist? A- a good person?”

The fae keeps his gaze, and Wilbur slowly relaxes. “You’re a good person. Whatever you need, little one. Please take it.” The title lands softly on Wilbur’s shoulders, and he shuts his eyes.

“Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”

With trembling hands, he pulls out the knife.

It was Niki’s, meant for this very purpose. They never used it until now, but Wilbur can’t ask for another weapon. This is the only one they’re allowed. He doesn’t think about thin pale fingers.

With his other hand, he pulls out the jar.

The fae nods, shifts so its arm is straight and as close to Wilbur as possible. “It’s okay. I’m giving you permission, it’s okay, little one.”

Wilbur stares into red eyes that pull him deeper and deeper, and slowly takes a step forward. And then another. And another.

He blinks and he’s crossed the cell, knife shaking in his hands. He’s close enough to the fae to watch his eyes flash and swirl, to see the way the colours shift and glitter. He’s close enough to hear it breathing, to see its chest rise and fall.

He very pointedly doesn’t think about how Niki was the only one who had gotten this close before. And what happened when she did.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you take as much as you need little one, you can take anything from me, it’s okay,” it murmurs, low and quiet. Just for him. Wilbur lets the words sink into his skin, his bones.

He takes a deep breath. Raises the knife.

He chokes on a sob, and the fae shushes him. Wilbur can feel his warm gaze against his cheek. There’s a constant stream of praise coming from the fae, but Wilbur can’t hear the words.

The blade trembles as Wilbur presses it against perfectly scarred skin, and he brings up the jar in preparation. He has to do this. It’s okay.

Wilbur gasps when the knife slices into flesh, pulling it away as fast as he dares. Shimmering blood pools onto the rim of the jar, but his hand is shaking too much to catch most of it.

He stubbornly waits until the jar is full, and the fae pours encouragement into his ears until Wilbur drags himself away.

The second he is out of eyesight, Wilbur slumps against the wall and lets the tears flow freely. He can’t show the others, and he can’t hold them back, not after that.

After a few minutes, he shakily gets back on his feet, praying his puffy eyes have faded by the time he scales the stairs.

He misses Niki.

He looks at the jar in his hand, the bloody knife on the other. The drips of shimmering metal are on his coat, his shoes. He’ll never get them out.

Why did he ever sign up for this?

The blood proves to be what they need. After a few experiments, they find that it can mix with food and liquids, can enhance flavours and even give a sort of rush, if combined with the correct things.

The duke wants them to push forward with this at once. He’s ecstatic.

“This could be-” He runs a hand through his soft, shining hair. “This could be incredible. I want you to experiment with this at once. Imagine if these effects could be amplified. Imagine what his majesty would say!”

Wilbur looks at his shoes, at the shining blood that’s splattered upon them, and thinks, for the first time since coming to the manor, that maybe they aren’t doing the right thing. Maybe this isn’t for a good cause.

The king wants these effects to power his army. He wants an army to conquer his neighbours. He needs a fae’s blood to get this. If he wants to power an entire army, he’ll need many more fae than the one in the dungeon.

Wilbur thinks of all the fae has told him about the fae realm. About shifting, and their Lord, and magic.

No. Wilbur does not think he is fighting for the right cause.

But it’s too late now.

Why did he ever sign up for this?

Wilbur hasn’t slept in three days.

No one on the team has, not properly. Wilbur has been trying to sneak in quick naps for them when he can, but it’s getting harder. They can’t do the book trick every time, or the hunters will catch on, so Wilbur is getting creative.

He sends people to look for the most ridiculous things, excusing them to curl up in a forgotten corner of the manor to rest. Or he’ll ‘test’ a potion on them, and they’ll ‘pass out’.

Fundy refuses to take a nap unless Sally promises to look after Wilbur, but there’s nothing that either of them can do. He has to keep working.

They are making breakthroughs. So many, in fact, that Wilbur is having a hard time writing them all down, let alone ordering his notes or even writing them in full. He uses shorthand, code to essentially everyone but him and Fundy.

The kid is smart. Smarter than Wilbur, that’s for sure.

He glances at Wilbur’s scribbles and deciphers them effortlessly. He tilts his head at the ingredients they’ve gathered and suggests combinations that work every time.

He can see Fundy is suffering, but Wilbur is so proud of him. So proud.

He can’t say it out loud, not with all the hunters watching them, so Wilbur tries to tell him in small ways. A hand in his hair when they pass each other. A genuine smile when Fundy makes a new combination. A hand on his shoulder when they’re talking.

Fundy smiles up at him every time.

At the end of the week, the duke finally lets them sleep. They all drag their bodies up the stairs, too tired to even celebrate, and disappear into their respective rooms.

Fundy waits until everyone is gone and then hugs him. It’s long and warm, and Wilbur is sad to see him go.

He turns to enter his room when once again he hesitates.

Is the body still there?

He doesn’t shy away from the question like last time. He’s too exhausted to feel anything other than numb, and far too exhausted to keep up the walls that compartmentalised his thoughts.

Niki is dead. Is her body still wrapped in her bedsheet, rotting where Wilbur left it?

His hand wraps firmly around the door handle. Time to get some answers.

The door swings open easily, and the first thing that Wilbur sees is the moonlight streaming through the window. It touches the walls and dusty floor and makes everything washed out and pale.

Then his eyes drop to the bed.

The grimy, bloody sheets are still there, still covering an unmistakable lump. Wilbur wants to vomit. They haven’t moved her.

He stares at the body.

And stares.

And stares.

When he finally looks away, the sky outside is grey and slowly getting lighter. No sleep for him then.

He opens the window. If she can’t go home, this is the best he can do for her. It’s pitiful really, and something in Wilbur dies at the fact that this is her send-off, but he can’t do anything better.

His arms ache, and he shuts the window before he can hear her body hit the ground.

He stumbles down the stairs, nearly falling face-first onto the stone floor of the dungeon. Mentally, he curses. He needs to sleep soon, but he can’t afford to take a break.

He staggers into the cell and leans against the bars. He just needs to stay here for a few minutes, just needs to get the duke off his back, then he can get right back to working with his team.

“You’re exhausted.” It’s not a question, but Wilbur knows the fae still wants an answer.

He musters his energy to shrug. “So what?”

The fae narrows his eyes. “I care about you, remember? Have you been eating?”

Wilbur ignores the way those words sink into his chest like a punch wrapped in treacle. Ignores the way his stomach rumbles at the reminder. He pushes that into the small corner of his mind that is home to all the things he’s not allowed to feel right now.

He wants to be honest though. Wants to say please help me, I haven’t slept, I’m under so much pressure, eating feels like a waste of time and I had to dump my closest friend’s body out of the window-

“I’m fine,” Wilbur says instead.

The fae lifts an eyebrow. Wilbur doesn’t need his years of research into human behaviour to know that he doesn’t believe him.

“I am,” He insists, lifting his head to glare at him.

The fae smiles, and Wilbur watches the world fade around him.

“Sleep, little one,” he breathes, and Wilbur feels his eyelids growing heavy. He sinks to the floor, eyes locked on glowing points of copper. “You deserve a break.”

When Wilbur wakes, he feels a little better. He scrambles to his feet and practically races back to the team.

It’s only when he’s reaching into his pockets for a pencil hours later and his fingers brush against the key that he realises; he forgot to lock the cell.

He pauses for a moment. Thinks.

He puts his head down and gets back to work.

The days blur a little.

Potions brewing, measuring shimmering blood in drops, watching with bated breath as some poor soul has to try their concoctions.

Fundy, catching the books that Wilbur drops, pressing coffee into Wilbur’s hands, helping him find whatever notes he’s looking for this time. Sharp eyes that eat up every word Wilbur speaks, every twitch his hands make.

Shared looks with Sally as the potions they make grow in potency, worn down pencils littering the floor, stacks on stacks of papers and notes covering every surface in the library.

The days blur.

Wilbur sits opposite the fae. He’s savouring the visits now. Using them as a break from the constant push of the upstairs.

“Tell me about- anything.” He croaks, head resting on the bars behind him as he looks at the ceiling.

The fae obliges easily. “We fae, we have- it’s hard to describe.” He starts, and Wilbur closes his eyes. Lets himself sink into the dark honey, lets the warm treacle swallow his bones.

“It’s like- a destined family. The ones who will love you until the end of time, who will follow wherever you walk. Who will care for you unconditionally, who will never falter in their support.”

Wilbur wants to cry. That sounds amazing.

The fae hums and Wilbur’s whole body relaxes as the vibrations run across him like a plucked string. “I have a destined family. Soon, it will be almost complete.”

Wilbur keeps his eyes shut. “How long does it take? To find them all?”

“Centuries.” The fae replies, low and soothing. “Or weeks. Time doesn’t apply to destiny, and it works very differently in the fae realm than there.”

A few weeks ago, Wilbur would have jumped on the idea that time functions differently, but now he just… lets the information wash over him. Something deep within him tells him he’ll have time to figure it out later.

“Tell me more,” Wilbur asks.

“There is a father, who walks the earth endlessly to find his destined family. He has three sons. He has found one. The other is within his grasp. The third remains lost to time, but he will find him eventually.”

The fae weaves his tale, and Wilbur drifts off.

In a rare moment of sleep Wilbur manages to snatch, he dreams.

It isn’t much- just a few fleeting images.

He’s close to- to something. It’s warm, like a fire, or an embrace. And it feels like he’s coming home. He’s surrounded by stars and feathers, by space and time.

He wakes, and he’s standing. He’s on his feet, staring out the window. Staring at the forest, the trees that ring the manor. His hand falls from reaching towards the lock, the latch that keeps the window closed.

He stands for a moment in confusion before his knees buckle, and he falls onto his bed.

He lets himself sit for a moment more, processing what happened before he gets up and goes back to his work.

He’s never sleepwalked before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Wilbur is sitting in his usual spot, back against the bars. They’re not talking, not right now at least, but he fae is making this sort of… rumbling sound. It hums up his bones, makes it easy to lean back and forget about his worries.

His eyes trail around the room, and unbidden they land on the thick chains clasped around the fae’s wrists and ankles.

“Does iron hurt fae?” Wilbur asks.

The fae looks him in the eye. “No.”

He isn’t lying.

“Oh.” Wilbur finds himself saying, his gaze dropping and he tries to process that fact.

He waits for a few minutes, but it just doesn’t sink in. He’s sure it will soon, that he’ll panic and run upstairs for help. But he trusts him.

It must be the exhaustion, the dehydration, the malnutrition, because he says; “Okay,” and that’s that.

Wilbur hasn’t slept in five days.

He hasn’t eaten in about seventeen hours.

He hasn’t had anything to drink for six hours.

But he must keep working. They refine the potions and their effects hour by hour, so every minute counts. The duke is careful to remind them of this, rambling excitedly about his relations with the king whenever he gets the chance.

Wilbur just keeps moving, trying not to think about the fae that is essentially free in the dungeon (Wilbur has stopped locking the cell. It seems rather redundant, and no one checks), or the way Fundy is getting paler and paler, or how his notes are losing coherency, or Niki’s body which is still lying haphazardly on the ground outside her window, Wilbur checks every chance he gets, or about a million other things that Wilbur has locked in that corner of his mind.

He keeps pushing.

He works so others can sneak in naps, or scuttle away to snatch food or duck into a corner to gulp down coffee or water. He works so that no one else burns their fingers, or breathes in the harmful smoke, or stains their skin with acids and magic.

He keeps moving.

Fundy starts following him around as Wilbur did to Niki.

He keeps going.

Niki didn’t get a break, so neither does he. If he dies-

Well. Then at least he won’t be here.

Wilbur can’t move.

His meeting with the duke was going just like normal when he- when he asked for-

Wilbur covers his mouth. He has to. He must. If he doesn’t, what will the duke do to Fundy? Sally? The team? He can’t fake this one. He has to do it.

He descends the steps in a daze.

He has to. And last time- the fae said he could take anything. That it was okay. So it’s okay if he has to. It’ll be okay.

Wilbur wants to cry. He wants to vomit. He doesn’t want to be here.

When he enters the cell, the fae is still in the chains. He doesn’t know if he’s grateful that he’s keeping up the illusion or angry that the fae is coddling him.

He decides to be grateful.

The fae studies his face, noting the silence, everything. “Oh, little one,” he breathes, and Wilbur can’t hold in it any longer.

He bursts into tears, falling to his knees. He can’t do this. He can’t do this anymore. He’s spent. Every part of him is cut up and strung up in that damned room with all those damned brewing stands and his damned notes that he can’t even read anymore-

“What is it,” The fae coos, “what’s wrong, little one?”

Wilbur dives headfirst into the voice, the rumble, the honey. “Please, I- I don’t-” He hiccups, feeling his tears pour down his cheeks. “I don’t- I can’t, he wants me to- to- and I can’t-”

The fae shushes him and hums. It crashes into Wilbur like a horse, and he sobs at the comfort it gives. “It’s okay. Little one, tell me what happened.”

“He wants- flesh,” Wilbur blurts, “Like- like a finger, or something, and I just- I can’t, I can’t do it, please, I just don’t want-” He cuts himself off, clawing at his shirt as he tries to stop the iron band squeezing his lungs.

Carefully, delicately, the fae asks, “What do you want, little one?”

Wilbur inhales, the breath catching and shuddering down his throat. “Please, I don’t wanna- I don’t wanna be here anymore, please just- I hate it, I hate it, I just wanna leave-”

There’s a snap, like metal shattering, and suddenly there are arms wrapped around him, soft, warm, safe. Wilbur melts, throwing himself into the safety and comfort.

The fae rests a hand in his hair, and Wilbur wants it to never leave, because he’s missed this, oh god, he’s missed someone touching him like this, and it’s so good, and he never wants it to end.

“Technoblade, call me Technoblade,” he rumbles, and now Wilbur can feel every dip, every letter vibrating through his entire body. Every purr sends warmth cascading down his body, makes the world seem a little brighter.

He cries and cries and cries.

“Ssh, I’m not letting you go back there ever again, you’re safe with me, it’s okay, little one, you’re safe, it’s okay,” He murmurs into Wilbur’s hair. He mutters something else, something that Wilbur’s mind doesn’t catch, and then-

And then someone else is there, old, powerful, familiar.

Technoblade eases him into another lap, and Wilbur turns to cling to the newcomer without hesitation.

“Oh, my son,” The stranger breathes, and Wilbur breaks. He lets this man, his fated father hold him, cradle him, take the pain away.

When he’s got enough of a hold on himself to talk, he gives his name away. He knows what it means, but he also knows that this is his family. They’ve waited centuries, and Wilbur can’t wait to be with them.

“Wilbur.” He says, and both fae wrap around him all the more tighter.

“Wilbur,” the newcomer repeats, except this time it feels permanent, it feels like each letter was remade with love and comfort and safety and sunshine, “You can call me Phil.”

“Phil,” Wilbur says, because it feels like the right thing to do. “Technoblade.”

Phil presses a kiss against his hairline, and Technoblade scrapes his jaw against his ear. “That’s us, darling. You call us any time, and we’ll be there.”

Wilbur believes them. He believes every word, clings to every declaration of love, be it words or touch or something deep inside him.

Technoblade shifts and his warmth disappears from Wilbur’s back. He whines, shamelessly, and Phil wraps him up tighter, closer. Wilbur opens his eyes to see that the limbs blanketing his back are wings, with feathers of dark starlight. “It’s okay, dearheart, Techno’s going to make sure no one here hurts anyone ever again.”

Phil leans back in, and his antlers just barely scrape the top of his head. The motion is beyond soothing, and Wilbur goes boneless in Phil’s grasp.

Wilbur sits up. “Wait,” He rasps, “Wait no, there’s- good people, the researchers are good people, please- please don’t kill them,” Wilbur begs, fresh tears streaming down his face.

Techno kneels back down to brush his tears away, the calloused pad of his thumb sending sparks of warmth deep into Wilbur’s stomach. “Okay, little one,” he says, “okay. Not the research team, the people in the coats, right?”

Wilbur nods, “and- there’s-”

He can’t say it.

Niki is dead.

He can’t say it. Can’t- but he needs to if he wants her to be buried, or just- anything.

Phil does the thing with his antlers again, and Wilbur slumps. “Go on, it’s okay darling,” Phil coos, “you can do it. You can say it.”

“I had to- Niki, the, the woman from before, she-” Wilbur hiccups, and Techno nods, patient, understanding. “She- but they didn’t move her body, from the bed, and so I had- I had to, to- out the window-”

Techno’s eyes darken. The red has shifted to blood, to war, to fire and fury. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll take care of that.” And he disappears.

Wilbur melts back into Phil’s grasp, lets the Lord of the fae wrap his wings around him and scrape his horns on the top of his head.

“My son, what did they do to you?” Phil whispers, and here, cloaked in the stars with the void in his lungs, Wilbur whispers back. He tells him everything, from the endless days with no sleep, water, food, to Niki, to Fundy and Sally, to the duke and all that he demanded.

Phil takes the pain from every word, repaces every thorn in Wilbur’s mind with a soft kind of love that makes Wilbur tremble. He takes it all, and breathes, “Let’s get you home, son. You’re safe, it’s all okay now. I’m here.”

Wilbur believes him. Tears stream down his face and his father whispers into his hair, rubs his hands (his strong, warm hands) up and down his arms, keeps his wings around Wilbur, cradling him.

When Phil opens his wings, they’re deep in a forest, sitting in the soft grass before a magnificent tower of magic and old.

Phil doesn't let go, keeps him safe and sheltered in his arms, and Wilbur savours every second of it, for all eternity.

When Techno returns, he’s clean, free of blood. Wilbur drinks in every inch of him, from his pink hair to his tusks to his soft white shirt to his golden piercings. Techno joins them on the ground, and Wilbur knows he is home.

Later, when he’s better and he knows he is loved, he asks about Fundy. Techno says he made it out, papers stuffed in his arms, a grin on his face as he watched the manor burn with Sally and the others by his side.

“He’ll be just fine,” Techno says. Wilbur smiles. He’s glad.

He’s home. Wilbur is home. He’s with his family, his father and his brother, who will love him until the world ends, and even after that.

There’s only one missing, but Wilbur knows they’ll find him in time.

He’s loved, forever and ever.

He’s safe, forever and ever.

He’s home. Forever and ever.