Predator (DWT x OC)

75

Every day that follows is empty. Hollow nothingness and dreary minutes fleeting by, sometimes fast, sometimes agonisingly slow, forgettable and dragging and numb. 

Tommy, Niki and Tubbo make it better, but there's nothing that you can do when grief strikes. 

Weather out the storm, curl up in a basement with the shutters closed tightly, trying to ignore the screaming wind outside, how it rips through the world, slamming on doors and tearing off roof tiles, cover your ears and close your eyes until the life you wake up in is an unrecognisable dystopian landscape, until everything is turned upside down and flung in the air. 

It'll never be the same, but it doesn't hurt as much.

I would say it's nice to have people down there with me, but I wish they would never have to face them, I would walk into hell on my own, do anything, go through anything again and again, let that darkness swallow me whole in empty loneliness, just to spare them.

They don't deserve it, and the unfair, awful world has twisted it up with cruel irony and a sick mocking fate, rolling out the red carpet with that familiar gleam. The path has been drawn, and there's nothing I can do, not anymore, except hold their hand and pull them through the other side with me.

Tubbo's healing, slowly, painfully, but healing. I change his dressings everyday, keeping them clean, making sure there's no infection. A lot of it turns out to be surface level, but his chest and face are the worst. I stay with him until he falls asleep, and then I join Tommy on his daily trips to the village. 

He pretends to be annoyed that I always make him wait for me, but he hasn't ever left without me. 

"Wilbur keeps saying you're a traitor." He sighs, striding alongside me. 

"He's just mad I hurt his feelings when I told him he wasn't important." I roll my eyes.

"He doesn't even want to see you."

"He'll get over it eventually."

"Yeah I guess." He shrugs. "Is Tubbo going to be able to walk soon?"

"He'll be able to sit up in a couple days, but it'll still be a little bit before he's able to walk again."

"Is he going to get better?" Voice smaller, more scared. 

"Yes, he is." I tell him honestly. "It's going to be a long time, and he's going to be different, but I promise he's going to out here walking with you, okay? He's not going to be down there forever."

"I just want him to be better already."

I pull him into a side hug, ruffling his fluffy blonde hair. "Yeah, I know, he'll get there." I pull down the collar of his shirt, to see the knotted lump of twisted scar tissue in his shoulder, right where an arrow struck. "Speaking of which, how's this going?"

He yanks himself free, looking very disgruntled. "It's fine, I did a good job you know?"

I smile. "Yeah I know, on you and  Wilbur, looks like you can learn after all."

We stroll into the village with matching grins on our faces, and I can tell he's secretly preening at my compliments. We split up, I find a small apothecary, while he scurries off the the fruit stalls, and open air market that smells like dirt and fresh apples. 

A tin bell jingles when I push open the door, clouded bottles with faded labels stacked high up against the cobbled stone walls, dark oak slats nailed in neat rows. It's clouded in the pungent stench of antiseptic that burns my nose, and the fragrant wafts of burnt herbs and toasted spices.

"Can I help you?" The wizened old man leaning against the crowded counter asks softly, draped in stiff dark green fabric over a beige undershirt, leather cord braided around his neck, decades of laughter and sorrow and anger lining his tanned skin.