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“Wha- what are you?” Dream scurries back on the ground frantically, stuttering and shaking in immeasurable fear. Wilbur’s eyes darken as he looks upon him with rage, his ebony wings stretch to their full length and reach out for the sky as they tower above the two men.
Wilbur chuckles dementedly. His voice sounds as if it has been broken into pieces and spread throughout the valley, bouncing around in search of their source as each layer echoes over another. The sound holds an elegant and refined danger. It is as bewitching as it is terrifying.
“I am Wilbur Soot,” He takes a step towards Dream’s cowering form, “son of the Lady Death and her Angel.” Another step. “I am the Demigod of song and ash!” His voice is louder than the rolling thunder. He takes another step. “I am the Prince of the Underworld!” Wilbur takes another step. He is now directly in front of Dream.
He crouches down to Dream’s level and pulls him closer by the collar of his shirt. Their faces are inches apart. He smiles darkly as the false King raises his wet eyes to meet the living terror before him.
“I have one more name, Dream,” Wilbur’s voice, although still celestial and layered, is now a whisper. Despite the decline in volume his tone has somehow become even more dark and bitter, “and I can see it in your eyes. You know who I am. Tell me, scum. Who am I?”
“You- you’re,” Dream sucks in a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut, as if not looking into the eyes of decay will somehow allow him to spit out the title. Wilbur, displeased with his cowardly action, moves a hand to grasp his jaw and squeezes. The blonde gasps and opens his eyes.
“You have already lost your power, don’t make it worse by giving up your dignity as well. Who am I, Dream?”
The storm pauses, as if nature itself is eager to hear the words. The words that have gone unspoken in almost 200 years. The whole world has halted in anticipation. “You’re the Angel of Death!”
The words are rushed and rasped out in a loud whisper but they are audible enough and in the last second before the storm begins again, the Angel of Death hears three bewildered gasps sound behind him.
The Angel of Death’s smile stretches. His teeth have grown sharp and his once warm, brown eyes have now gone completely black. His fingers, that he uses to elegantly strum soft lullabies on his guitar, have become dark, deadly, talons.
“I’m the Angel of Death.” The sky is illuminated with lighting. The boom is so loud that everyone but Dream and the Angel of Death rushes to cover their ears. The Angel’s words are a divine declaration. An acknowledgment of his legacy, the gift from his father. The utterance is so powerful that the very heavens have bowed to his whim and begun to sing for the Earth’s newest guardian.
Dream screams as the Angel of Death increases the grip on his jaw. The sharp talons cut into the delicate flesh of his cheek. His wails grow louder as the skin under clawed hands begins to turn a dark gray color. He writhes in the Angel’s hold as the rot spreads and his skin flakes away. The Angel of Death does not move as the pathetic man his grasp decays before him.
The screams quiet, the storm stops, and the Angel stands. His wings fall into a resting position and his hands return to their normal state. He turns. He takes a step. He doesn’t even realize he is falling until two sets of familiar arms catch him.
He catches a quick glance of yellow and pink before his head falls and his eyes shut. The vibrant colors confirm that the ones who caught him are his brothers.
His brothers shout out for him simultaneously. “Wilbur!” Oh, he thinks, I scared them. He tries desperately to lift his head and open his eyes but his bones feel like they were just rearranged and his skin burns with the forgotten feeling of sickness. He is too heavy, too tired to move. Everything feels like it’s a million miles away. His head is under water.
Distantly, Wilbur feels a cold and steady hand press against his cheek and forehead. He leans into the cool touch, desperately chasing the feel of something other than his overwhelming exhaustion.
“He’s burnin’ up.” Techno. Why is Techno so cold? It doesn’t really matter, he can’t get sick. But he can still experience suffering. Wilbur should make a note to get Techno some warmer clothes (he would have done it sooner but so much has happened since Techno… woke up). If only he could move enough to reach his communicator.
“What does that mean? Is-- is he sick or something? Is he gonna be ok?” Tommy. Thank the Gods it’s Tommy. He’s ok. They're both ok.
“He’s fine, Tommy. He just put himself under a lot of physical stress. He needs to rest.” If Wilbur didn’t know him as well as he did, Techno would sound more like he actually believed his own statement.
“Techno, what just happened.” Tommy’s voice is wavering slightly and Wilbur can feel him shaking. Whether it’s in fear, or a byproduct of standing in the wind and rain with nothing more than a T-shirt and cargo shorts, he doesn’t know.
"Tom--.... --ommy, Tommy…" Wilbur's words are no longer distorted by a passionate anger. His tone, although tired and slurred, has returned to the warm melodic croon he always has when talking to the young blonde.
“Wilbur!” Tommy sounds relieved. That's good. He doesn’t like it when Tommy’s upset.
“Hello, Sunshine.” He says. Brunette curls fall over his eyes as his head falls. Tommy and Techno begin to pull Wilbur along, towards the bewildered group of onlookers.
“You scared the shit out of me, Wil.” The blonde says as he lowers his older brother onto the ground and clings to his wet and muddied sweater.
Wilbur can feel Tommy shiver as he clings to him and he tries, desperately, to wrap his wings around the boy but the feathered limbs have been weighed down by water and exhaustion and barely move an inch before slumping against the damp grass.
Techno, seemingly aware of what Wilbur was trying to do, unclasps his cloak to wrap around Tommy’s shoulder. The red cloak is wet and cold from the rain, like everything else, but it’s better than nothing.
“Wha- What do we do now…?” Tubbo’s shaky voice disrupts the moment and sends a thousand thoughts running through Wilbur’s tired mind.
What do they do now? They’ve spent years fighting Dream and Wilbur has just eliminated him in a matter of seconds! What if he isn’t really gone? What if Techno goes back to sleep? How are they supposed to just-
“We go home, and work from there.” Techno says as calmly and confident as ever. Gods, Wilbur missed him. Somehow, his brother always knows what to say. Even if he is extremely awkward in most social situations.
“I mean, as long as Wilbur wants to.” The pinkette quickly corrects himself and looks down towards his older brother.
“Yeah,” Wilbur says. “Let’s go home.”