𝐦𝐜𝐲𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 !

achilles | wilbur + ph1lzA

cw: blood, death, yadda yadda

a/n: i look pretty good 4 a dead bitch

here's an outdated draft. forgive me, i'm not at all up to date on smp lore and i don't know if i ever will be again, but here's my version of this iconic scene. hope it breaks ur hearts <3

to those who've stuck around, thank u all for ur support. it means the world :)

-

wilbur does not fear death.

death is something that affects those who feel. those who tie their hearts to everything that crosses their path and play startled when it's wrenched from them. wilbur forgot how to feel eons ago. when he lost his country. his power. his home.

the mocking cheers of his comrades are distant, barely-there whispers against the roaring in his ears. he is weightless, he is god, he is nothing at all. sin plagues those who feel guilt. wilbur does not feel.

he turns to leave, muttering some bullshit promise of return, and nobody notices. their eyes cloud with hope, blinding them from truth or rights or justice. they are deaf to reason, dumb to the horns that encircle toby's head like a halo. in the right light, they disappear but wilbur knows they're there, he knows it, he knows it, he knows-

hands into fists, wilbur slips away into the sun.

he knows this path better than any other. he's retraced it an infinite amount of times, slipped out of their hideout in the ravines, risking death with every step just so he can feel in control again. clay watched him go, of course, mask winking eerily under the moonlight, but he never stopped the older. simply sat on the precipice of the tower, a statue in the night.

it was day now, and the sun scorched gold into the ruined city but to wilbur, it was swallowed. the tunnel entrance held no mercy to light. each step echoed along the space, a constant reminder that when it happened, he would be completely alone. a kindness. he cannot feel, but watching his son turn to ash before his eyes is a sight that would turn him in his grave.

he scoffs, and the cave laughs back at him.

will they hold a funeral for him? mourn him, resent him, forget that he ever existed at all? will they curse his name into oblivion? or will they understand that he's only helping them. means to an end.

it doesn't matter now, it never did. their hearts will break, and they will mend, and they will move on. he'll succeed. he always does in the end.

the mad scrawls that paint the room greet him as he steps into his very own, tailor-made, final control room. minimalist, one chair and one cataclysmic button, no need for anything insufferably ostentatious. eret's box was so droll, so textbook. cinematic, sure, but nothing more than that. a crowd-pleaser. his curtain would be so much more.

wilbur sits. he is calmer than he's ever been, more alive than he's ever felt. he's finally in control, and power thrums through him, silent glory. the feeling is ecstasy, and he tips his head back to revel in it. his hand rests, trembling over the wooden indent in the wall and, for a moment, he is the most important thing in the universe.

"what are you doing."

wilbur's shoulders tense, muscles tighten and earth freezes over because that voice, that low, mellow voice is impossible. maybe they're all right, maybe he's finally snapped and gone completely insane because there is no way, absolutely no way that this is happening to his perfect ending. his final bow. it's one thing nobody is allowed to ruin.

not even his father.

and yet, as he contemplates insanity, white flashes in his peripheral and it's so real, so tangible that it hurts.