Chapter Text
In the lengthy stories that people only spoke of at campfires, good fortune found weak beggars on their darkest and most dreary nights.
A light would brighten the tenebrous sky and wonderful riches would be delivered. Prizes beyond any man's dreams used to decorate previously-woeful hands. The tales proclaimed a fairy would come down from the hawthorn tree's boughs and bless those who had prayed enough. Flowers would bloom in circles around the chosen ones, marking the spot of the loyal people and encouraging others to follow in their footsteps. This was the gleeful ending; only true for children who believed in their imaginations.
Believe in the other, were the words many said after. The people Eret had sat with were lonely and desperate to clutch onto myth, enough to forget the fact that no fae existed within the mortal realm. Not anymore.
Peace and prosperity were well spoken of in these tales, cherished by words that floated whimsically around the warm fires and died within their embers. The humans had driven off the fae, just as they were squandering monster-kind into dark hovels. The world was imbalanced, eternally tipped in the favour of normal man. In a world like this, Eret did not like the campfire stories, because they reminded them of what they could never have.
The desired ending was rarely met when those same stories were woven for things happening on real soil. Mouths could spin pretty ditties, but when torn boots squelched in thick muds and blood mixed with the grime under desperate men's fingernails, fairytales held little purchase on the living. Happy endings did not happen; they did not exist and were as much folklore as the tales of guardian angels who were supposed to look over them.
Any angels on man's earth had long since abandoned it.
In the tales the naive spun, war ended, people flourished, peace prospered. In the real world, where the light of day was strong enough to bleach bones and the acidic rains ate through barricades in the blink of an eye, the final moments of conflict never ceased. There was no recession of death and violence, no tidal wave into great periods of peace and longevity. No matter how much these things were sought-after.
Where men went, destruction and death followed. There were no fairies in this world.
This augury of apocalypse and assured failure was an unspoken scripture that Eret lived with. They carried this weight with them everywhere; everything they touched was sure to fall someday, as sure as any sortilege pronounced upon dead leaves and rotting corpses. Each person they seen walking on the roads would eventually collapse and not get back up, the weapons they clutched in numb hands would cease to be once enough damage was done. Predictions of the future were ludicrous by man's mind but the known truth of all histories repeating upon themselves convinced those who did not shed an ear for a prophet's scourging warnings.
A cold breeze had followed them off the battlefield. It curled tight at their ankles and pushed them forwards when their bones jittered and their muscles ached. When Eret began to waver, the wind hurled them onwards.
They followed this wind to a small country. It was a cold night when Eret walked through the wooden fences of a festering cesspit; their next victim. Wherever they went, rampant destruction became all that was left in place of boisterous villages and innocent hamlets. Where Eret paused their travels, the lives of the people in their near vicinity ceased. Such was the force of their preordained ruination. The wind howled deeply at each loss. Had they covered their ears with their hands, this noise would've sounded like the beat of death, the heave of a skeleton rising from the dead, a beast writhing under the mud. Fate.
In this small hamlet, built of wooden huts with straw roofs, the stench of desperation was cumbersome. Yet, when Eret set foot within the fences, the wind ceased. It did not follow them, no matter how long they stood. This alone, where the wind had haunted them for years upon years, was enough to make them decide that this hamlet would be their temporary shelter, if only for the night. The country they were currently in was not appreciative of monster-kind. Even with their glasses, they needed to be careful.
Children bumbled about, quiet yet loud. The toys some carted around were larger than their thin, small bodies. In lieu of watching the young, mothers instead scurried around the huts, lofting last minute pales of water fresh from the well. Water spilled over brown grass, sure to leave deep gouges where the children would play and loiter. An old man was sat on a large stone along the lake's edge, his fishing rod set in place by a well-shaped stick. The rod was bowed near in two by age and the natural warp that took hold in all branches. The fisherman's face was cast in a shadow greater than the alleged gloom left by the ender dragon's silhouette.
Throughout the hamlet were gaunt faces and ragged skin. Any small hamlet like this needed to trade with its sibling settlements. Within the same country, known generally as the Country of the SMP, the closest settlement was a city not three miles off, named as the Capitol.
Cracked lanterns sat on posts, dim flames flickering in the unseen hurricane that Eret brought with them. The meek lights barely did anything to brighten the area in the wake of a silvery moon and heavy clouds. At a single glance, Eret knew these fences and weak fires were not strong enough to keep away the vicious mobs that appeared when dusk consumed the lands.
Eret walked into the hamlet called L'Manberg, striding past the creaking sign of its namesake swinging from a broken fence post. They did not need the rumours of the travellers they had passed by naught three days prior to know what would befall this small population.
L'Manberg would fall. Perhaps, not briskly or sweetly, but fall it would. The dirty air that surrounded the dismal hamlet had their stomach rumbling. With their boots touching the mud of its ground, the hamlet's doom was now assured.
Destruction followed Eret, but there was something vile inside them that fed off it the same way the scavengers that followed behind did.
The little boy's fantasy that begged for freedom, rights and civility would be crushed under the Capitol's ire; the final embers of a dying fire blotted out under the ruler's boots, be they carved of gold or steel. This was fact, not opinion nor decision.
Those who reigned over a country very seldom felt the need to be kind to those who dared rebel. With so many countries making up the world map to form the Main Continent, those owning land often held onto what they laid claim to with iron fists.
The self-appointed ealdorman of this hamlet, their leader, Wilbur Soot had rallied for emancipation and led hundreds of civilians off into the forest, making this settlement. He had made the fatal error of bringing no army.
"Who goes there?" Came a young, high voice. The quiver of fear was hardly concealed. A boy with a loose clutch on a dull sword had slipped from the building in the middle of the hamlet and now stood against them. Not one elder came to the child's aid.
It rose a bitter taste in their mouth. Everywhere was the same. Those who should look out for the younglings never did.
A child stood before them. A boy with a sword, a shaking hand and a peculiarly coloured jacket that looked like something dyed by every flower in a prairie. Blond hair stood stark in the night, blue eyes a bright glint under the judgmental moon.
Eret looked into those eyes, past their sunglasses, and saw a fearful child led to a battle by a fool. What sort of leader could not teach his young fodder to properly hold a blade? If he was to die, he should be granted a death of honour. Not one drenched by the pity that came with dropping a weapon moments before death.
"I go by Eret," they explained, faux smile coming to their lips easier than they'd hoped. Ela always said they looked less scary when they smiled. In a further effort to placate, they tilted their bare hands outwards, unable to resist knocking their head to the side. On the fields they had come from, their tilted head would've made the air stagnant. It was an old motion that came out when they were irate, and irate they were - this hamlet was warding off their fated wind but seemed cursed by itself.
To this child, they said, "I am a traveller, seeking board. May I speak to your innkeeper?"
"Don't got one. We're not exactly teemin' with money, are we?"
A brief glance would tell anyone the hamlet was very humble indeed. Eret did not push the matter, though they were slightly amused by the boy's rambunctious nature. It was always the energetic ones who got dragged into things. "The ealdorman?"
"Wil's busy," snuffled the boy, both hands now dropping to hold the sword. He didn't lower it, despite his shameful stance and unsteady clutch. "Anyways, he says we ain't takin' in anyone who won't join up."
As if they're an army, snorted a low voice in their eardrums. Twin giggles followed after.
Eret stood unmoving. They worked their expression into something thoughtful and observed how the hamlet was reacting. Though, no mother nor elder came to the front when the boy did not lower his sword, they all seemed to take his judgement as important word. The clamouring children had stalled, the women backing off and pulling them alongside. Cowardly eyes watched Eret, weary and unsure. L'Manberg was made up of nothing more than paupers who'd gotten a different side of life in the SMP and had not liked it.
There were no fighters here.
The plain iron sword shook and shifted closer to them. The boy took a deep breath, though it helped very little. He was afraid and young; set to pass very soon. A boy without armour and training would be unable to touch anyone with a blade he obviously could not wield. Even had he been a master of the sword, he would not have been able to touch Eret. Tonight, they had eyes bristling in every lick of skin. They were on edge from sleepless nights spent walking too far for too long. It was difficult to rest when the wind deafened them.
"Ah," they said. There was no pity, nor disappointment. Their voice was cold and rigid: Eret had seen the fate of this hamlet and had accepted it, just as they always did. "And what do you fight for?"
"Eman-sipi-pation!" He butchered the words worse than they had their first hare.
Eret didn't know what he meant until emancipation was whispered in their skull.
Freedom, said Elaina, her voice sweet like cherries in Eret's aching head. They had originally decided to stop here for the night because they were tired and thirsty, but now that they'd gotten a taste of the mildew in this little hamlet, they were feeling partially inclined to stay. For just how long would L'Manberg remain standing? They could spare a few moments from their unending travels if it meant they would get to feast on the chaos that fate would leave behind after these huts fell.
"Right," Eret nodded along. "When will your ealdorman be available?"
"You makin' fun of me?" The kid barked, voice loud enough to stir even the drowned dead. Young; arrogant; stupid. "I'm obviously the one in charge with Wil gone!"
Taking that in stride, Eret nodded along. "Well, I'd like to join."
Their lack of animosity and apparent successful recruitment caught the boy off-guard. He blinked at them for a long moment, almost as though he was sizing them up.
"Right, course you would." He finally murmured, a giddy grin pulling at his lips. With this, he seemed to no longer deem them a threat and his meagre sword was lowered and clumsily sheathed at the hip. The loose belt that kept the leather by his side looked uncomfortable. L'Manberg had no weapons master nor blacksmith, by the looks of it. Of course they didn't, if they had no innkeeper or inn. "You can wait here with me and Tubs- Wilbur'll be back with Fundy in an hour. I'm Tommy. Tommy Innit, best fighter of the land!"
If you're the best fighter, can the others even hold a sword?
Eret gave a short nod. They ignored the hand the boy stuck forward, waiting for a handshake that Eret would not give. They did not make it a habit to touch strangers, never mind those who pointed swords at them.
"Nice to meet you, Tommy Innit. May the moon shine favourably on this night."
Tommy's smile was too bright for him to have understood the ill-fitting joke Eret had made. Perhaps, that was only a joke Jameskii laughed at.
The moon never held anyone's favour. It was as fickle as the roaring tides.
Wilbur Soot arrived an hour and fourteen minutes after Tommy Innit said he would. A bad thing, considering things like rebellions were time sensitive events that needed to be wrapped up quickly. Or, if not with speed, then precisely. Eret nodded and smiled where necessary, silently watching the bushy eared fox-hybrid boy that stood in the man's lanky shadow.
The man was hardly old enough to be considered an elder. He was an eadorman in only the leading aspect, not the age. They had yet to see if he held the wisdom of an old man, but they doubted a young man like him could compare to a true holder of the title he flouted. In their short meeting, he quickly boasted the shabby hamlet would blossom into a mighty new nation, seemingly overnight. He was a sweet-talker and a charmer, but no less a self-proclaimed ealdorman than he made himself out to be.
"Wilbur Soot, I wish to join your revolution," they said brashly, after the duo had stopped in the little hut in the center of L'Manberg's fenced lands but just before they could throw suspicious glances to them. It was most likely that the majority of travellers avoided them in favour of going to the Capitol, hence the caution of the people. L'Manberg probably hadn't seen an addition to their forces since the paupers had picked up their things and stormed out of their first walled city.
The man's face lit up. A hand gripped theirs, soft and unused to war, fingertips roughened only by an instrument. The joy seen in the tall man's face was irritating to see. It nearly annoyed them worse than they way he grabbed them. "Excellent! We've been needing more fighters, your name?"
"You can call me Eret," they said, something lying sweet on their tongue as they surveyed the hamlet with fresh eyes. "I'm honoured."
At least with them here, this little rebellion would not be too prolonged. It was always the poor children that suffered.
Revolution was not for the weak; rebellion was. Rebellion was sticks and stones in the water, whilst revolution was iron and steel and armour. Sharp swords and heavy axes.
The children's fantasies that kept L'Manberg alive were sleepily made up of netherite armour, sharpness five enchantments on axes and the illusive thought of mystical fortresses in mountains. Though not on the level of campfire stories, the people of L'Manberg were just as naive and stubborn as all those who believed in the fairies coming down to bless the poor.
L'Manberg was not ready for any of the true aspects of war, not even those which they dreamed up. This much was clear with how miserable a sight the hamlet was, even if Eret was lenient with their eyes, considering how it was in the midst of a rebellion. The ealdorman was dreadfully underprepared, refused to touch a weapon, and the people were widowers and children. When a war had no soldiers, there was no war. The children were much too young, most crawling around in the dirt, and those who could walk had mothers trailing after them. Mothers who would not let a young ealdorman steal their youngsters away to fight, never mind how charming he was. Though, with Wilbur Soot's lack of skill in wielding, Eret doubted he could train even a glade of grass to cut.
The sheer destitution of the people made their fight seem childish, turned their glory and vigour into senseless squabbling. Like an unruly child throwing a tantrum.
Most pressingly of all, Wilbur Soot was not ready for what he thought his war would be, with his red and blue coat and silver tongue that hummed lyrics. None of the L'Manbergians were. Not Fundy, with his redstone projects and his hand-stitched jacket. Not Tommy Innit, with his shaking sword or his boisterous laugh. Most definitely not Tubbo, with his bees and jars of honey and the ramshackle treehouse that sat so deep in the forest no untrained eye could see it from afar.
These four made up the backbone of the hamlet's 'war'. They were the main fighting and planning force, despite the numerous others present within the fences. When a fight was left in untrained hands, it was sooner lost than won.
Was this where history repeated itself?
Years ago, there had been a horrid war of avarice and conceit. Two kings had clashed over trade routes, over shared roads, over too-slim borders. They fought bitterly, sending their armies out into their border fields to be slaughtered by each other. When their experienced troops had run low and refused to fight, mercenaries were used. When the hired men quit, the kings both turned to more cruel ways of continuing their fighting.
They pulled children off the streets. As child soldiers grew and frothed upon the shared fields the war waged upon, the rest of the Continent cast a blind eye upon the fighting. The quarrelling kings were held in high regards with the other countries, and no one wished to antagonise them, even if the cost was the life of children who had not yet reached the age where respawn was unlocked.
King Skeppy and King Squid Kid had fought by way of their orphans. The children had split apart the fields, took to them with axes too large for their hands and painted them in horrid shades of red and rot. No matter the wins, regardless of losses, it was an endless fight; gaining fields back, losing fields, losing friends, losing hands, losing, losing, losing. Both wished to be able to say they had won, but in the end, neither could.
Across the sea, away from the Main Continent, was another landmass. The land was home to a then-small kingdom that stretched over the expanse of ice and snow. This was the Antarctic Kingdom, held steadfast by two kings who ruled with a passion for warmongering.
It was the Antarctic Kingdom that rose up after years of war destabilising the Main Continent. The Kingdom stormed Skeppy and Squid Kid's palaces and held them hostage, effectively putting an abrupt end to the bitter warring and simultaneously accelerating the Antarctic Kingdom into what was presently known as the Antarctic Empire.
With the book of Skeppy and Squid Kid's war written and shut, Emperor Technoblade had offered aid to the remaining soldiers, most of whom were children or just barely adults. Any remaining army members who had willingly partook in the recruitment of younglings, such as Generals and most high ranking officers, had been punished by as many deaths it took for them to give up. However, both seized lands had done their best to hide the full numbers of just how many children had been used and how many had died vain deaths. Fearing repercussions after their own inactivity, the surrounding kingdoms had turned their heads away from their borders and allowed the unmitigated migration of the abruptly-lost soldiers into their lands in an effort to hide how terrible the war had truly been.
In no possible world did the hissing match and rising tensions between the SMP and L'Manberg ever equal that long war. Neither had the means to commit to such in the first place, although L'Manberg was certainly flaunting a burgeoning lead with its own lackadaisical child soldiers.
Perhaps, they were stupid to have even thought to compare the two situations for a moment.
Eret had seen war. They had fought until they could no longer see past the red on their hands. Their eyes were stained white, a sign of curse to the fearful but a blessing to the warmongering. White eyes meant death on the battlefield. White eyes meant pitchforks and angry villagers outside of battle, meant sleeping in the root cradles of trees rather than getting a comfortable night in an inn's bed, meant thick sunglasses that didn't come off during the day or night when there was supposedly polite company nearby.
Their sword's sheath was heavy with history, thick with the dirt of battles long stripped from the murmurs of history and forgotten about. Their blade was thinning from too many strokes over the whetstone, nearly broken despite the mending enchantments and the sharpness four they'd scribed into the metal with their own blood and dripping fingers.
They had seen war and death. A lesser man would have been molded by it, wrapped up by violence and threats in their youth and left as a wreck of himself. Eret had been rocked to sleep by it all as a babe, then pushed onto the fields and told to fight. Their first memory of their childhood was fighting, of standing in soggy fields that were lush with bodies and blood and staring down at people they should've known. Fighting was all they would ever know.
Eret had been born into a war. It only made sense that, in times of peace and murky tensions, they grew restless.
On the thirteenth day of being with the L'Manbergians, Eret decided to go for a walk.
Their walk took them into the SMP, deep into lands the L'Manbergian's hated with all their might. They found themself standing outside the Community House, a common locale for the country's ruler, Dream, and his crew to hang out.
It was an open house - a bar, of sorts. Pool tables stood to one side of the first floor, a long sweeping table of marble along the furthest corner, sparkling water fizzing in glasses. Upstairs, Eret knew there were beds and extra resources that the chests lining the entirety of the right walls did not have. Their earlier recon had been made in the dead of night, with an invis pot safely nestled by their hip.
There were three people inside, all sitting on little extending barstools. Dream, with his green hoodie and white mask. Sapnap, with his bandana and flame emblem shirt. George, colour-blind glasses perched on his nose, motion-deep in moving to throw his sparkling lemonade over a cackling Sapnap. These were the main ruling body of the Capitol; a largely informal force that the people seemed to respect and communicate freely with.
Upon Eret's entrance, the three men turned to them. Dream's head tilted in a curt greeting. He was the name in charge and acted like it only when the need arose.
"Those colours aren't welcome here," the man said, tone sharp and brittle. George set his glass on the counter with a thump as Sapnap got to his feet and cracked his knuckles.
Eret smiled at them. They did not fear these amusing displays. "I'm aware. I'm not too sure who designed their wardrobes, though I'm sure it was one of the children."
Seemingly put off by their statement, the infamous Dream Team remained immobile. Sapnap sneered at them, shorter by a few inches but more than willing to make up for it in attitude. He made quite the sight, long hair curled in twin buns, teeth grinding together as his fists bunched by his sides. He was a fierce man and held that fire in his eyes.
"I'd understand if it was one of the kids out here looking stupid, but you're old enough to have a bit of sense. It's a Capitol Offense to wear those rags on these lands."
"Oh my," That startled a laugh out of Eret, which only seemed to make the trio more angry. "If I knew that, I would've left this in the fireplace."
"What do you want?" George hissed, nose scrunched. Eret watched as his hands wriggled towards the bow on his back, making sure to keep their own hands idle and away from their own blade, Ted's Wrath, who sat eagerly on the hip opposite their tucked-away potions.
"I come with hopes of a proposal."
"Oh, yeah?" Sapnap huffed in their dramatic pause. "Don't stop there, unless its another marriage one for Dream - in which case, we've had thirteen this week already and none of those pretty girls got accepted. If it's one for me, on the other hand-"
George threw an empty glass at Sapnap, who hurried to catch it. It shut him up quite well.
"I'm a new member of the L'Manbergian's fight for independence," they said in this momentary lull, watching the men with a lazy gaze hidden behind their glasses. "They talk a lot and certainly know how to perform, but I'm quite bored of their game."
That drew the men's attention, the tension going stagnant as both George and Sapnap perked up. They were like creepers, hissing and bubbling in wait for a weakness and a moment to strike. Dream was unmoving, flimsy mask painted with black paint boring into Eret's very soul. He wouldn't gain anything by trying to intimidate them.
Quick to ride the coattails of their temptation, Eret slowly added, "I'd also enjoy being on the winning side."
"We're going to crush the rebels - that's no game!" George snapped, lips twisting in a parody of a snarl. He was painfully human. "We're serious about this war."
How interesting. Did the SMP truly see this as a war? In Eret's eyes, it was nothing more than a challenge to hopscotch. The L'Manbergians could not fight and the Capitol could not invade their own lands; it was a playfight wrapped up in posturing and words.
A civil war was what these people wanted, but would never get. At most, L'Manberg could be labelled a terrorist settlement and then wiped out, but not without great advocation from the civilians within the Capitol and clear evidence of L'Manberg's actions. It was hard to turn people against children... unless they were different.
George got to his feet and prowled over, leaning on the bench beside Sapnap. His tense shoulders gave away his nonchalant act. "And who exactly are you? You're extremely arrogant for an insurgent standing in the enemy's home."
He mustn't have appreciated Eret's lingering gaze. They had never been a big talker, preferring to stare and wait. Some people, like now, got antsy when they didn't speak.
"A human?" Eret echoed lightly. Three cackles circled their brain, heard only by them. Their participation made Eret feel a bit more lively, so for the shifty SMPer's sakes, they put their hands on their hips and offered them a smirk.
The motion did little to soothe the jumpy trio. Sapnap pulled his crossbow off his back, levelling it at them.
At this, Eret pouted. "Hey, now-"
A sharp echo pierced the hush of the room. The bolt flew towards them, dagger-tipped and dangerous. Muscle memory responded and Eret drew their sword. Without a thought, they tilted their blade to the side and flung the bolt into the far wall with a flick of their wrist. The bolt sank deep into the wood, inches from a dainty plastic clock. Simple motions like these were easier than breathing. The sharp screech from the deflected bolt bouncing off their blade thrummed in their ears.
When they blinked, everything was red. The wooden floor was gone, replaced by soiled grass, reddened hands, sobs of pain. The world spiralled, shaking tremulously before they blinked again. As quick as that, the real world clicked back into focus, colour spilling back into their skin as their ears went quiet.
The paused conversation left a roaring silence in the room. Eret idly checked over Ted's Wrath for any scratches before sheathing him, pleased he was unharmed. Sapnap gawked at the bolt embedded into the wall as George fumbled to wipe his glasses, as though someone could dare imagine something so bold. At his friends' stunned silences, Dream hopped to his feet and rolled right up to Eret. He was the same height as them but something in the way he stood made it seem like he wanted to look down at them.
"What's your name?"
"You may call me Eret," they said. Dream reached forward a hand to shake and Eret noted, with great amusement, that the man stopped halfway before withdrawing his hand. Instead, he offered a quick, almost languid nod. Behind Dream, George was still peering at the deflected crossbolt but Sapnap stared right at them, something akin to awe in his fiery brown eyes.
The ealdorman hummed, seemingly satisfied with the night's events. His mask glinted in the bright lamp light, the painted black smile the marking of a new era.
"I'm Dream, this is Sapnap and George. Now tell us, what do you want from this partnership?"
They smirked. The pieces fell into place like a well-solved puzzle. "What can I get?"