#among other things asjkldg

[dramaticsnakes]

The Revived - Chapter 1: Alive

Hello! This is a Dream SMP fanfic written by @rainbowbutterfrosting and I. We decided to write it, following Wilbur's revival, and the reveal of Ghostbur's tragic fate. It's highly canon-divergent, because even as we were writing this, canon changed slightly, and the concept is canon-divergent to begin with. We hope you'll find something you enjoy here, because it's going to be a long slowburn ride.

Thank you to @r0w3n-1n-d0ugh, for beta-reading this chapter!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur (briefly), Tommyinnit, Philza

Word count: 3216

Cw: near-death experience, hypothermia, implied suicidal behavior/recklessness, disagreements, crying, mentions of burning, past death mention, eating/food

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn't take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he'd expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn't care. Because he'd be damned, if he spent the life he'd awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn't going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur's past isn't as easy to leave behind, as he'd hoped it would be.

It started a while after his revival. At first, it had been silent. Or well, silent was hardly the right way to describe Wilbur��s mind, at that moment. He was alive! Sensations encompassing his entire being, because he was more than just a vessel, and more than just an endless bystander at a train station. He could no longer hear them passing by in a thunderous chorus, followed by eternal solitude.

He had felt numb at the start, but then he had it confirmed. He was alive! And there was so much left to do, he thought, staring at the sunrise. His sunrise.

He’d avoided most people after that. He wasn’t sure why, but he doubted anyone would be eager to see him. So he stayed out of their way, taking in each sensation he could.

But as the lack of encounters and confrontations grew, it started.

The crying.

He remembered the crying, briefly, watching the familiarly unfamiliar face steaming with tears. As if they were burning him. Watching him getting off the train, in return for Wilbur getting on it, with Dream as the conductor.

But now Wilbur heard it. Vague at first, easy to ignore. Then a little louder, especially during the night when everything else was silent, and he couldn’t get himself to go to sleep. He’d been asleep for so long, after all. Thirteen and a half years at a train station. Crying, then silence. Crying again.

Wilbur didn’t pay much mind to it. He went about his day. When he talked to Tommy again however, Tommy’s voice filled with spite, he heard the voice again. Silent and broken. Betrayed in a sense.

“Wasn’t your fault,” the voice said, echoing in Wilbur’s mind for a minute, “It’s okay”, then followed by a desperate “Please come back.”

Wilbur couldn’t get himself to take it seriously. Wanted to laugh at the broken voice, that sounded like his own, but nothing like his words. Nothing like his intonation.

“Why the fuck are you smiling?” Tommy asked, squinting at Wilbur, “What are you planning.”

And almost on instinct, Wilbur smiled and went “Oh many things Tommy. Many things.” because all his mind seemed to tell him aside from the echo-y voice, was all the things he should be planning, all the things he had to see, and all the things he had to start. Now that he finally realized that he hadn’t truly wanted to die, as he thought thirteen and a half years ago.

Tommy had looked at Wilbur strangely since Wilbur returned. As if he was a glitch and a monster at the same time. As if he wasn’t quite supposed to be there, and as if Wilbur was always mere seconds from claiming the entire world as his own. Or blowing up another country. Memories of that still flickered in Wilbur’s mind. Memories of a sword, and of the noise that had sounded like music back then. Like the coordinated middle, in an otherwise unfinished piece. L’Manberg, his unfinished symphony.

“Wilbur, just go away, will you?” Tommy said, and his eyes had a strange melancholic glow, that Wilbur didn’t associate with Tommy at all.

Wilbur didn’t want to go away, because in silence the cries echoed in his mind, and Wilbur hadn’t heard voices in so long. Hadn’t communicated in so long, and he liked talking now, liked doing what people did when they were alive. But the spark he had within him was strangely fragile, and being told to leave, only made it much more uncertain of its direction. “Why should I?” he asked, “I’m here Tommy, I’m alive.”

“I got that,” Tommy said, shortly. “Why don’t you go bother someone else about it, Wilbur?” his voice was darker now. “L’Manberg is gone.”

“Yes, it is.” Wilbur said, looking around at the crater he was once again present in, “And?”

“And that was it.” Tommy said, “That was what we started, and you ended it Wilbur, and now you can go bother someone else.”

Wilbur really wished the implications of that didn’t sting. A powerful part of him wanted to shout that he had nowhere else to turn. Not now. Not without the millions of things that followed.

Yet a part of him looked at Tommy and saw a child. A child Wilbur had played a part in breaking, and turning into a soldier, and perhaps that gave him the right to dismiss Wilbur after all. “I have so much to do.”

“Then go do it,” Tommy said, looking him in the eyes, and it would’ve sounded like a dare if there was even a hint of playfulness in his tone.

“Okay,” Wilbur said. As soon as Tommy turned around, Wilbur stood alone in the crater.

And then, just a little while later, Wilbur slowly wandered in a direction that seemed to call him. All of it was so new, yet so familiar. The sun still rose and set all the same, with the skies turning their blues and pinks along the way, but everything seemed so intriguing. There was Tommy, who seemed to hold a grudge about little old L’Manburg, there was the boy’s outfit- it didn’t have the symbol of L’Manburg on it. Wilbur understood that it had been thirteen and a half years, but the armor that he frequently wore just looked too big and bulky on him. Whenever Wilbur mentioned it, Tommy just tensed and rushed the conversation towards whatever came to mind first. It was frustrating, but Tommy was just a confused kid that would find his way eventually. Maybe Tubbo was doing it to look cool so the other followed suit? He didn’t understand the children, but he tried his best to sympathize.

Speaking of one of the children, he remembered Tubbo told him where they lived just a day or two ago. Time either passed by him too quickly from the change in dimension or the lack of sleep, but both reminded him that he didn’t have a home to rest at. He walked through some of the grass, his boots making soft noises in it along the way. The buzz of cicadas welcomed him as he made his way to a place that seemed second hand to him.

He must’ve spaced out because the next moment he remembered was the soft pressure of snow against his shoes that made him slightly stumble. He softly laughed to himself. Snow. He forgot that he even missed this. He took off his fingerless gloves, wanting to feel it properly this time. He reached out, and scraped some into his hand, feeling the coldness of it, as he shaped it into a little snowball. The water slid down the side, as it slowly started to melt in his hand. Before, he would’ve dropped it and tried to dry it off by now, but the cold sensation, turning his fingers red, reminded him once more that he was alive.

It took almost the full snowball to melt for him to remember that he still needed to visit Tubbo. He grabbed his black gloves, somberly putting them back on before realizing he could feel snow anytime now. No one controlled his experiences anymore. That thought surrounded his mind for the past few days, yet it always brought him the child-like wonder of having a parent extend your bedtime by an hour.

He gently ran his hand through the snow, wishing it a silent farewell as he walked towards the direction of Tubbo’s home. Well- walking might have not been the right word. However, it started out as such before shifting into a speedwalk skipping that morphed into a sprint that soon wore him out even more, before he finally settled on a brisk pace to take him there.

Seconds felt quick to Wilbur with the cold air going in and out of his system. He shivered, but he continued to walk through the snow. It didn’t take him much longer to figure out that he didn’t know where he was. The only path he knew were the footsteps that outlined his arrival to the snowy biome, and even then, the new snow falling covered up some of the first steps.

He squinted his eyes, unable to see any source of civilization nearby. All he could see was a small black dot in the distance. It could have been his eyes playing tricks on him. He tried looking away from the dot, yet, it didn’t follow his vision. He slightly frowned at this, walking towards the direction of the dot, confused as to why it was there. Wilbur knew he wasn’t walking quickly, yet the dot’s size rapidly grew in front of him.

Minutes passed before he realized that the black dot was a small crow. He tilted his head at the sight of it. Why was there a crow in an environment like this? part of him questioned. Regardless, he smiled at the crow as he made his way towards him. As soon as the bird was close enough, he perched onto Wilbur’s shoulder, resting his wings for a moment. Wilbur realized his own exhaustion after seeing the bird.

“Hm, you must be tired, huh?” His voice broke on itself, slightly startling the crow. The bird didn’t directly answer his question, instead lightly rubbing his small head against Wilbur’s neck.

“Me too.” Wilbur shared a quiet moment with the bird. “But we’re alive aren’t we…” Wilbur’s voice shifted to a whisper near the end, the words hurting his throat.

Wilbur held vague memories of a time before everything, before war and white lies in letters, where the sight of such a crow would’ve been a sign of a familiar presence. Though this crow seemed alone, much like Wilbur himself, and he was unsure if he could rely on anything familiar at this point. He felt the bird’s feathers on him, and he couldn’t help but smile, just a little. The bird made a small jump on his shoulder, followed by two high-pitched joyful chirps. Wilbur laughed. “Hm?” he tried, knowing full well that he wouldn’t receive a helpful answer. Wilbur felt as if he heard faint hesitant laughter in the back of his mind, though it could’ve been a trick it played on him.

Then the crow flapped its wings, and Wilbur moved his head to the side, to give the crow space to take off. With one determined flap, the crow flew up in the air, and Wilbur stood there, alone in the snow once more.

And then, he really had no other choice than to keep walking. So he did, moving through the snow, slower and slower, the landscape appearing less appealing each moment. He was back. He was alive, and yet the snow was holding him back. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if he was back at the train station, clawing at the walls to get away, but the sky was watching him this time. He could see it, and each beat of his heart reminded him that he wasn’t eternally watching the trains pass by anymore.

The sky became darker and darker, as he trotted through the snow. His fingertips turned colder, and he was trusting his sense of direction less and less with each step. It had been so long. So long since he’d used the legs that were now shaking dangerously.

That was when he spotted a figure in the distance.

He didn’t recognize it at first, though as he approached, the features became clearer. The figure approached Wilbur too, with a certain level of caution, and before he knew it, the face was entirely visible. The wings came out the back, and Wilbur was looking at someone he knew all too well.

The holder of the sword, and the one who’d wrapped his wings around Wilbur to give his son a moment of comfort in the past.

Phil, Wilbur’s father and past executionist, froze.

Wilbur froze too, looking at him. The man looked older somehow. His eyes holding less life, and less of a spark, or perhaps that was just what he looked like, looking at Wilbur now.

Phil looked as if he’d seen a ghost, which was an ironic metaphor to use in this instance. A crow was sitting on Phil’s shoulder, and Wilbur put two and two together quickly, and perhaps he should have earlier.

They weren’t that far away from each other, perhaps 60 feet or so, and Wilbur could see his father so clearly now. He noticed Phil, mouthing something. Wil if he wasn’t mistaken. And Wil was him, before everything. Before thirteen and a half years ago.

“Ph- ph- phil,” the words were silent to himself, his shivering and dehydration interrupting any sound he could have made. “D- dad…” he tried louder this time, the action still just as silent but painful unshed tears formed in his eyes.

He moved his feet from the snow, making it two steps before his legs collapsed from under him. He breathed in sharply from the fall, which only reminded him of how much his body needed to rest.

The once peaceful snow felt like small daggers coming from every direction. His shaking body only seemed to make it worse as the daggers would painfully shift across him.

Suddenly all at once, he was on fire, the heat burned through his skin and hit his core, making him squeeze his eyes shut and try to pull away. “Wil, Wilbur, you’re gonna be alright, mate. Just don’t close your eyes, it’ll all be fine.” Phil- Phil was there. Wilbur opened his eyes, the action feeling laborious to him. Phil seemed stressed? No no, he shouldn’t be, Wilbur was alive! “I- I’m a- a- alive,” the hoarse whisper was unbearable to feel, but when Wilbur tried to swallow he winced even more.

“Fuck, fuck, where is it…” Phil muttered. Wilbur looked over, but nothing connected to him. There was something warm against him, it was on his shoulders at first, but it shifted as he heard some items moving against each other. Yet, even only having one bit of warmth was too much, even if he knew it was Phil making him feel it, it was so bad to the point where he almost wished he was back at the train station. Almost.

Phil gasped and said something Wilbur missed, holding a yellow orb in front of him. He squinted, despite everything feeling blurry and missing to him, and realized it was glowing. “Wh- what?” he managed to croak out.

Phil slowly pushed the spherical item into Wilbur’s mouth, the shivering man trying to pull back, but Phil held him tightly. Reluctantly, and subconsciously, Wilbur bit into the item, before realizing how sweet it was in his mouth. It tasted like the cookies Phil would make when he was a kid, halfway melting into his mouth because they just came from the oven. Wilbur didn’t realize how much he missed them as he continued eating the food, Phil helping him along the way.

Wilbur finished eating quicker than he started, he would have frowned and asked for more but he already felt full. He cleared his throat, thrilled that he didn’t feel the typical pain he associated with it, “Phil? Why are you here- Awww, did you miss me?”

Phil gasped, and pulled Wilbur into a tight hug. Although both acknowledged how tight the hug was, it didn’t hurt Wilbur in the slightest. He honestly felt better than he ever had before. It didn’t make sense to him though, Phil’s cookies never made him feel like that before. Of course, they made him happy for a sugary treat, or would even give him nostalgia of the past years, but he wasn’t even shivering from the cold anymore. Maybe he truly was immortal now, food giving him all the power he needed to thrive in his world.

His thoughts were sharply cut off by his father’s sobs as he clenched Wilbur’s coat. Phil tried to speak, only for more cries to exit him. Wilbur was shocked from the exchange and gently rubbed his father’s back, a habit that Phil would do with him as a kid to help calm him down.

After moments of the two sitting in the snow, Wilbur broke the silence. “I uh- got a little lost” Wilbur quietly chuckled, “Oh hey, did you know snow doesn’t give you any landmarks, even if you ask nicely! It’s ridiculous really.”

Phil only grabbed Wilbur tighter, “...you’re back.”

Wilbur nodded, guessing Phil could probably feel the nod over his shoulder, “Nobody can get rid of me that easily.”

Phil softly sighed, “Don’t run off and kill yourself again.” The sentence was said as if it was a playful remark, but it came out of a place of sorrow and remorse.

Wilbur rolled his eyes, “I can’t promise anything really.”

Phil pulled away from the hug, eyes stone-cold in a way that made Wilbur terrified for the first time in years. “Wilbur Gold Soot.” His words were laced with a wave of reserved anger that Wilbur rarely heard in his childhood, solely made for when he needed his message to not be misconstructed in any way. “You’re going to promise me that you aren’t going to go do something idiotic like last time and- do we even know how many lives you have?”

Wilbur firmly stated, “L’Manburg wasn’t idiotic. It was the laws around the server that were.”

Phil’s glare didn’t change, “It’s idiotic if it’s what got you killed.”

“Everyone dies to something.”

“Do they die three times to the same thing?”

Wilbur spoke quietly, “You can’t say that without admitting you killed me as well.”

Hurt spread across Phil’s face, one that made Wilbur start to apologize, but Phil softly confirmed, “I- I know I hurt you.”

Wilbur shrugged as he smiled wide, "Eh, life comes and goes. I've had quite a bit of time reflecting, and it doesn't bug me too much! I just find it ironic that you forgot to mention it."

Phil attempted a smile in return, but it came out flatter than Wilbur’s with worry behind his eyes. The expression sent a strange spark through Wilbur, and he wasn’t certain what exactly it was it meant, and he didn’t have time to consider it before exhaustion took over his mind once more.

Phil looked Wilbur up and down, and Wilbur suddenly felt warmth again on his shoulder, spreading through his veins. “Wil... A-are you alright coming with me? You look… You need rest.”

Perhaps he did because Wilbur felt as if the entire world was spinning around him in a fog. Endless piles of snow, and an endless dark sky. Though the trains were gone, he reminded himself once more.

“Here…” Phil said, and Wilbur felt the wing around his back, like a protective shield from the wind. A shield that somehow made Wilbur feel more exposed than before. He didn’t need the protection. Life was so unbearably fragile, he realized, and letting others protect it, was a mistake beyond all else.

But he was tired. So so tired… And as an arm was wrapped around his shoulder, he found himself allowing Phil to lead him, because perhaps he was just a little bit prone to mistakes.