Chapter Text
Phil hummed a tune as he dusted flour off of his hands, admiring his handywork and the result of a few hours of effort.
The cake was…passable. And the person it was intended for would hopefully appreciate the gesture more than the cake itself. Hopefully, anyway. Tommy had changed a lot during exile, so Phil thought that this show of support would be most welcome.
Depositing the cake carefully in a travel box, Phil washed his hands, donned his cape, and set his hat atop his head.
Cake in hand, he departed, waving goodbye to Techno and Steve, who were just returning from a resource trip. Techno waved back, looking only slightly confused. Techno didn’t get why Phil wanted to visit Tommy; he still saw Tommy as an insufferable child who “was ignorant beyond belief”.
Phil thought that there was a bit more to it than that.
So here he was, traipsing around Logsheadshrine or whatever Tommy’s exile was called, looking for him.
When Tommy didn’t answer Phil’s first few calls, Phil took it as commonplace. This was Tommy, after all. The second time he got no response, he figured that Tommy was either too far away to hear him or just really ticked at Phil for not visiting in a while.
The third time, he started to get worried.
He whispered to Tommy through chat, no response. He asked if anyone had seen him in the World Chat, and only one person responded; Ranboo, saying that, of course, he hadn’t seen him.
Phil frowned.
At this point, he was walking near a giant tower of various materials. It looked like something Tommy would build, right? He always did have a fondness for cobble-stone.
“Tommy!” he called once more, cupping his hand to his mouth to add a bit more distance.
He rounded an edge of the tower.
“...Tommy?”
The cake dropped from his hands.
And he screamed.
Tommy was smiling, like he was happy to see Phil, but it was all wrong. Everything was wrong. His face was pale, brightened only by the dark red that seeped down his brow, out of his nose, and out of the corner of his smiling lips. His normally brilliant blonde hair was stringy and dull, lacking all of it’s previous life.
And his body--oh Prime, Phil didn’t even want to look at it. All his brain could register was more vibrant red dripping into the earth and towards the nearby sea.
And then, tears began to flow from his eyes. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster until he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.
Heavily, he sat down on the ground next to the smushes remains of Tommy’s cake and wept.
But soon enough, those tears of sadness turned into tears of frustration.
Why was it always the young ones? Why the children?
First Wilbur, begging for Phil to take his life ( Kill me Phil, kill me ) amidst the ruins of his own country, and now Tommy. A shattered boy in a shattered life that some would argue was of his own creation.
But Phil didn’t think so.
He thought that this was totally and utterly unfair.
With one last fallen tear, he unclipped his cape and draped it over Tommy’s body. He’d leave him here for now, leave him resting, until someone could give him a proper burial. Someone he knew better, maybe.
And with a stubborn set of his jaw, he set off towards the place where he hoped he could find answers.
L’Manburg.
As he was walking down the streets, he realized that this L’Manburg was very different from the one he had left. For one, this one wasn’t a smoking wreck. It actually had houses and marketplaces and the like.
And another thing…
He had no idea who currently sat in power.
All he knew was that he probably wouldn’t like who it was, just judging by their past actions: exiling Tommy.
Evidently, it had not been the right call.
Because now Tommy was--
Yeah. That was why he was here in the first place.
L’Manburg had one thing going for it, and it was the atmosphere of the market. It was bustling with business, the everyday villagers striding purposefully between the stalls, the venders harking their wares from the safety of their booths. A melting pot of smells filled the air, making it impossible to tell what scent came from what unless you were up close to it.
Phil had half forgotten what it was like to be amid so many people, living in the frigid North, only trading when necessary and only then with Nether piglins or the occasional traveling trader. But that was incredibly rare as well, as Techno was a powerhouse who was pretty much always working to gain resources.
But there was one thing that this market was good for, and that was information.
Phil casually walked through the market, ignoring the occasional stare he got from people who knew who he was and picking up small snippets of gossip.
“Did you hear? Quackity is planning to…”
“--Tubbo is a surprisingly good…”
“--haven’t heard much from them…”
“That much for flowers?!”
“...is Fundy handling things…”
Gossip almost always revolved around politics in a place like this, and so Phil surmised that at least Fundy, Quackity, and Tubbo were part of the restored government.
Phil wouldn’t be surprised if Quackity was the President, Fundy was Vice, and Tubbo was Secretary, or some other position. Because surely he held one, almost being one of the founding fathers (Phil decided to ignore the thought that both the founding fathers were now dead).
But there was only one way to confirm his suspicions.
Phil started walking towards the White House.
When he made it there, he took a moment to look up at the huge, grand white doors. Really, was there a need for such a statement? They were the government of L’Manburg; everyone already knew how much power they held, the President especially.
Phil rolled his eyes and pushed them open.
Immediately, all movement inside stopped.
Phil maybe puffed up his wings a little bit as he said,
“I’m here for the President.”
Quackity himself poked his head around the corner of a doorway, saying lazily,
“You’re gonna have to make an appointment, Phil.”
“Are you the President, Quackity?” Phil asked. Quackity barked out a laugh.
“Course I’m not, are you crazy? The Prez is right through there, in his office,” Quackity said, pointing at a far away door. It seemed he only realized his mistake when Phil began striding towards it.
“Uh, did I say the President was in there? I meant that he would be in there, if he was in the building--”
But Phil had already opened the door and stepped inside.
He was fully prepared to give ye president a peace of his mind, but--
“Tubbo?!” Phil cried, for it was Tubbo who sat in the high-backed chair that was much too big for him.
“Hm? Oh! Phil! What can I do for ya?” Tubbo asked nicely, although he had the decency to look slightly frazzled.
Trying not to lose his steam, Phil exclaimed,
“You can tell me why you of all people exiled Tommy! And for what reason!”
Tubbo recoiled, and that was when Quackity came to his rescue, stepping into the room with a stern expression.
“Phil, you really do need to have an appointment man, you’re gonna have to leave,” he said strictly, putting himself between Phil and Tubbo and crossing his arms. Two more bodyguards filed in, and Quackity laid a threatening hand on his axe.
“I just want answers, mate,” Phil said, trying to address Tubbo over the heads of the guards.
Quackity poked Phil in the chest with two fingers and said,
“You want answers, mi amigo? You can get them outside . Come with me.”
Phil took one last look at Tubbo, President Tubbo, his view obscured by the guards, and then he turned, letting Quackity escort him outside.
As soon as they were outside, Phil turned to Quackity and opened his mouth to speak, but Quackity got there first.
“Why do you want answers? And why from L’Manburg. The only time you’ve ever come here was to kill Wilbur,” he spat.
Phil flinched.
“That’s besides the point,” he whispered, then cleared his throat. “I uh---I wanted to know who exiled Tommy. At first, I didn’t question it; I wasn’t a member of the nation, who was I to object? But…” and he paused, the events from earlier today bringing more tears. Quackity blanched. Then, quietly, as if he knew the answer but didn’t want it to come, he asked,
“Phil…what happened?”
Phil gathered himself, and took one last look at Quackity’s face, only filled with confusoin and apprehension.
He hated to have to tell him.
“Quackity, I went to visit Tommy today in exile and he…he was dead.”
“He was… what? That can’t--no one else was around,” Quackity said breathlessly.
“I think that was why he was…well…” Phil trailed off.
Quackity was dead silent.
“He was… dead dead? Like, no chance of respawn?”
Phil nodded.
“He lost his first two lives in the L’Manburg War. This was his last,” he said sadly, then straightened. “I was wondering if L’Manburg had any information that could…I don’t know, bring him back?”
Quackity considered this for a moment, then shook his head.
“L’Manburg doesn’t have any helpful information…but I might,” he said, perking up.
Phil allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.
“I overheard a conversation between Schlatt and Dream a while back,” Quackity began, becoming more and more animated by the second. “Schlatt was talking about a Revive Book--convenient, right--and I think he gave it to Dream. Back then I thought it was just talk between two madmen, but now I’m thinking--hoping--that there’s something more behind it. I’ll go give Tommy a proper burial, and maybe you can check that rumor with Dream?”
Phil nodded.
“Will do.”
And that’s how he found himself at the entrance to Dream’s known base.
He just hoped that he was home.
“Dream? Hello?” he called, poking around the cliff face where Quackity said his base was. He didn’t exactly know where the entrance was, so he couldn’t knock, but he did have lungs. And he would use them.
“Dreaaaaam?!” he yelled once more, and suddenly there was a two block tall hole in the rock and there was a mask that appeared amazingly annoyed even though it was made of cold porcelain.
“Just come in Phil, but make it quick,” he snapped.
“Oh trust me, I will,” he muttered, climbing inside.
Once he was inside, Dream turned to him, amidst all his chests and hidden exits and asked,
“What do you want.”
Phil smiled.
“I was just wondering if you had something along the lines of…a Revive Book? That you got from Schlatt? I was wondering if I could use it to try and revive Wilbur,” Phil said. For some reason, call it a hunch, he didn’t mention Tommy.
Dream cocked his head as if he was confused.
“Revive Book? Never heard of it,” he said, but his fingers twitched.
Now, over the many long years of his life, Phil had grown quite adept at reading people (or so he liked to think anyways), and he could tell immediately that Dream was lying. The Book was probably sitting in his inventory right now, if the hand meant anything.
Now, Phil could see why Dream would lie about having the Book; he had presented his reasoning for it as it being for Will, and as much as he hated to admit it, his son had been a dangerous and unpredicatable man at the time of his death. Who knows what he could do if he was revived.
However, Wilbur and Dream had been working together to bring down L’Manburg, so it would make no sense for Dream to not want him back (which brough up a whole new issue of why he hadn’t done so yet, which Phil really didn’t feel like thinking about; there were too many possibilities).
Which meant…that Dream knew something he wasn’t talking about, which made him all the more untrustworthy and just made Phil want to get the Book form him more.
And he knew that Dream would never give over something so precious without a fight and so…
Phil stabbed him.
Sadly, Dream had his netherite chestplate on, and even Phil’s netherite swords with all it’s OP enchantments did not kill him in one go, so he did the logical thing and stabbed him a second time before he could utter a word.
Dream exploded into items.
[Dream was slain by Ph1LzA using [Death’s Will]]
And right there on the ground laid a mysterious tome, wrapped in dyed purple leather and with glowing runes inlaid onto it’s surface.
It gave Phil the creeps, to be entirely honest. But he picked it up anyway (along with a few golden apples, those were always good to have) and high tailed it out of there. Dream was a worthy adversary and he didn’t know how close his respawn bed.
And Phil always liked to be prepared.
Back at his home on the Tundra, Phil commandered one of Techno’s big oak tables, and with one hand swept everything off of it and onto the floor. He placed the book dead center on the table.
It was time.
Wilbur had been dead for a long time. The cold train station that surrounding him was a prison; his own personal hell. The cold seeped into his bones, into his mind, until he was numb to even the pain that filled his entire soul.
Occasionally, he would get company, to break up the lonely expanse of death. A train would pull into the station, not to ferry Wilbur away to something different, but to drop off another passenger. It was always Mexican Dream (a very strange character that Wilbur had only met in his afterlife) or Schlatt, neither of which Wilbur would chose for company if he was alive, but beggars can’t be choosers. It was better than nothing, anyway.
But one day (Wilbur had no idea where in the many years of his death it occured; he had lost track a long time ago and time wasn’t exactly the most worrying thing to him anymore), something strange happened. A train stopped, but neither the ram hybrid or the spanish speaking annoyance got off. The doors didn’t open at all.
Interested and curious, Wilbur got up from his seat on the floor next to the routes display and went up to peer into the windows of the train car. In the vast emptiness of the station, his footsteps echoed ominously.
Pressing his face up to the cold glass and shading his eyes against the ambient red light, Wilbur looked into the car.
What he saw made his heart drop and shatter somewhere on the steel of the train tracks.
Tommy. Tommy was sitting there, idly kicking one of the standing poles. But it was wrong, everything was wrong, because there was blood and way too much of it. It leaked from his nose, his mouth, dripped down from his hairline, cascaded down his arms to form a puddle on the floor beneath him. It almost looked as though he was sitting on a throne of it, the way it coated the seat behind him.
Tommy was dead.
Wilbur screamed.