BLIND | DreamSMP

XXI - False Promises and Present Assurances

"There's someone outside I think you should meet."

Tommy's heart leapt to the base of his throat, pounding with fear as he grabbed his sword from where he had left it, making an attempt to prepare for the sudden attack he was so sure had arrived.

"What?! Is Quackity here already?!"

"No, no, it's not him." Techno sounded strangely distant to Tommy, his intonation quavering with an indistinct emotion somewhere between sadness and confusion, lost in a world of lucid memories.

"Then who?"

"It's... Wilbur." 

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The sun dripped like candle-wax through the pines, staining their needles with hues of orange and yellow as it melted into the forest, leaving the sky a brilliant gold that reflected onto the snow, the beginnings of night encroaching on the edge of the horizon as the flame sank lower and lower.

Friend nuzzled at Ghostbur's arm, coarse fur roughly brushing his translucent skin, looking for attention from the ghost. Frustrated when he received none, the belligerent sheep bleated in annoyance and shoved his snout into the snow, digging into the frost, rooting for the grass hidden beneath.

Ghostbur had been waiting outside the cottage as the sun finished its crescendo and soared gracefully towards the horizon, nothing to do or say as he stood in the shade of a pine tree that protruded a distance from the woods, like a dog that had wandered too far from home and lost its way. He felt a kinship with the tree in such a way; that both were devoid of their people or tree-folk in a way that so utterly separated them on a physical and emotional plane.

But the wizened pine had memories: of warm sunlight and clear starlight, of years of plenty and months of barrenness, of the occasional companionship with a small creature that might choose to nest in the branches or trunk of its sturdy body, raising its young under the watchful, benevolent eye of the tree.

Ghostbur could not remember his past.

He couldn't remember why he was so despised by strangers. He had no clue how he had appeared on that grassy knoll, seemingly formed from the early morning dew and fog that gathered above the earth.

Why that robed man he had met, gliding softly down from the hill, had turned from him in shock, stringy blonde hair soaked in dirt and blood framing his mature features, horrified eyes continuing to follow him even as Ghostbur cheerily waved hello and continued on his way. Why everyone had refused to speak to him, only uttering an astonished "holy shit" or "what in the hell?" and occasionally "Wilbur?".

He told them his name wasn't Wilbur at all. He was someone different; they must be confusing him for a similar-looking man.

In truth, he had not known his name, but he was sure he couldn't be a man whose name was spoken with anguish and bitter disgust. He was confident he wasn't like that.

But then, what identity did he have?

Unwilling to release his hold on this minuscule bit of information– for he knew he was dead, and that someone, this Wilbur, had occupied this body and mind before him, and though he had no desire to relate himself to the previous tenant, he took on a portion of the title, calling himself rather simply after what he understood to be true: that he was a ghost who was formerly a Wilbur.

Unlike the old pine, Ghostbur did not have a history, or even the beginnings of one.

Dead things weren't supposed to be more than dead. Only what they accomplished while alive was remembered and chronicled.