Archive of Our Own

When Wilbur first meets Tommy, he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Tommy’s a normal kid—bright-eyed and full of hopes and dreams. He never talks about his past or his family—and Wilbur doesn’t ask because L’Manberg is a place for new starts, a place for freedom.  

Tommy proves his loyalty and passion for Wilbur’s nation ten times over. Soon he’s become Wilbur’s right-hand man, and despite his age, Wilbur trusts him with the responsibility. Besides, he has bigger things to worry about—like Dream’s hostility. The man hasn’t made any big moves yet, but he’s definitely expressed displeasure with Wilbur’s project. 

Wilbur is worried. Dream’s anger could lead to war, and while he’ll fight if it comes to it, he’d rather reach a peaceful resolution. War changes people, and he doesn’t want to see that change in Tommy or Tubbo or Fundy. They’re mature, yes, but they don’t need to experience the horror of death and loss yet. So Wilbur tries to talk it out. 

It…doesn’t go well.

~~~

The moment Dream and Tommy meet eyes, they recognize each other.

“You,” Dream—the Esempi—says, all shock and confusion and maybe something like horror. Then his tone dips into outright hatred. “You.”

L’Manberg flinches back, surprised at the utter vitriol in the other Nation’s voice. Behind him, Wilbur stiffens—and then he’s sliding forward, getting between them, a charismatic smile on his lips. 

“Now, now, gentlemen,” he soothes, “There’s no need for such—”

“Shut up,” Dream says. Wilbur gapes, caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal, but Dream isn’t even looking at him. He’s looking at Tommy. “You. Who are you.”

“I’m…Tommy,” says Tommy, because he knows the other Nation is not asking what he is. “And you’re…Dream.”

Dream stares at him. Tommy shifts uneasily—the other Nation is much older, and the weight of his gaze rests uncomfortably heavy on Tommy’s shoulders. Still, Tommy is a rebel at heart—so he steels himself and stands his ground, refusing to be cowed.

Dream’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You,” he says again.

“Me,” Tommy agrees defiantly. “You got a problem with it?”

Dream’s hand drifts upward, hovering over his stomach. A moment later, it drops and clenches into a fist. “There will be no peace,” he tells Wilbur. “If you don’t take down the walls by sunset three days from now, I’ll come in and burn your country to the ground.”

Wilbur’s too good to flinch, but his eyes widen. “Now wait a minute—”

“There will be no negotiation,” Dream hisses. “Go back to your 'nation'. Take down the walls. If you don’t, there will be war.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides away. His entourage falls into step with him a moment later, though not before exchanging confused looks. Wilbur and Tommy are left standing alone in the Community House.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, “what was that?”

Tommy shrugs. He doesn’t—can’t explain Nations to Wilbur, not when some ancient instinct in the back of his mind shrieks with terror at the notion. It’s self-preservation, perhaps. Warnings from the experiences of past Nations that their status could be exploited. 

“Guess he just hates me,” he grumbles. “Dunno what I did to the guy. Maybe he’s just an asshole.”

“Maybe,” Wilbur agrees, but there’s still suspicion lingering in the word. He doesn’t press, though—just turns away and sighs. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“What’re we going to do now?” Tommy asks. On one hand, he knows he’ll die if Wilbur gives up and disbands L’Manberg. On the other hand, not giving up means fighting.

Tommy was born two months ago from the core of the earth. He was born with the knowledge of Nations and sword forms and language and everything he’d need to function as a proper avatar. He was born with the ability to defend himself. But he’s never fought anything other than mobs before.

Wilbur doesn’t break his stride, but his shoulders hunch before straightening with resolute confidence. Tommy knows his answer before he speaks it. 

“Now,” his Founder says, “we prepare for war.”

~~~

Betrayal. 

Tommy hasn’t been alive for very long, but he’s already well-used to pain. The pain of bruised skin. The pain of broken bones. The pain of tears cried in secret or shared with friends.

But this— this pain hurts worse than anything else. The pain of looking into one of his People’s eyes and seeing them reject him. Seeing them betray him. Seeing them salute and smile and laugh as enemies surround him. 

Nations are born with the knowledge of a full-grown human—the knowledge of how to live, of how to speak, of how to defend themselves from hands and blades. But knowledge does not equal experience, and Dream has years of experience on Tommy. The older Nation beats the younger down with ruthless practicality, cutting off his every escape. He toys with Tommy until Tommy is stuck on the defensive, trying desperately to keep himself alive. And then he strikes—slides his sword right through Tommy’s ribs and into his heart.

Tommy’s sword slips from his numb fingers. His scream comes out as a gurgle. He claws at the blade lodged in his chest, wide-eyed, then looks up at Dream’s face.

It’s pitiless. Cold. There’s no satisfaction or smugness there, just empty rage. Dream jerks his sword out of Tommy’s body and watches dispassionately as he hits the floor. 

Around him, L’Manberg’s People are dying. He jerks with each death and puff of smoke, wheezing as the burning in his chest spikes with every loss. His land is still intact, his people respawning—and so his damaged heart continues to beat, rebuilding itself with every pulse. 

“Go,” Dream says softly. “Run before they realize you’re still alive.”

Tommy tries to rise. He slips in his own blood. He tries again, and succeeds. Around him, Dream’s People are laughing and congratulating each other, their swords still stained with the lives of Tommy’s People. They’re distracted. They don’t realize that Tommy hasn’t respawned.

Tommy ducks his head, presses his hands over his wound, and runs. There’s startled shouts behind them—cries of “he’s getting away!” —but nobody chases him. 

“Let him run,” he hears Dream call. The weight of the older Nation’s gaze burns into his back. “He’s not worth the effort.”

Tommy grits his teeth and sprints onward.

~~~

In the end, Tommy makes a sacrifice. 

He gives up his discs. They’re the first possessions he has that were given to him by his People—the first things he’s owned that he hadn’t made for himself. They hold memories—memories of listening to music with Tubbo by their bench, memories of singing around a campfire with Wilbur and Fundy and Eret, memories of being human.

Dream recognizes this. And so he accepts the trade with bared teeth, thinking that he’s won. He’s forced Tommy to give up a piece of his humanity, the veil that keeps him from feeling apart from those he lives among, in return for the things his People want. 

But Tommy doesn’t need material possessions to prove his humanity to himself. Tommy has his People, his friends, to tell him that he’s not any different from them. Yes, losing his discs hurts—but seeing the joy in his Founder’s eyes is worth more than his discs ever did. So he makes the trade. He buys his independence.

That night, L’Manberg celebrates. Tommy dances among his People and thinks that perhaps this is the happiest he’s ever felt.

~~~

For a few months, there is nothing but peace and prosperity. 

New people join L’Manberg’s ranks, and Tommy’s People grow. He feels more confident. More settled. And so he agrees to Wilbur’s election scheme, thinking that he’s ready for an official government.

Unfortunately, things go sideways very quickly. Schlatt’s betrayal doesn’t hurt anywhere near as much as Eret’s—not until he points straight at Tommy and Wilbur and howls, “Get them out of here!”

And so L’Manberg becomes Manberg, but only in name. Tommy knows this, because he remains himself. His People have not accepted the new name. He is L’Manberg.

It doesn’t stop his heart from constricting with every step he takes. Schlatt’s laughter continues to ring in his ears, pounding a headache into the confines of his skull. Wilbur is eerily silent in front of him, his broad back unreadable. Tommy wants to ask him where they’re going—what’s going to happen—but the cold creeping into his lungs reminds him that he has a much bigger problem to worry about.

Nations can’t be away from their land—or at least not for too long. It’s like there’s a tether in his chest, pulling him back. Every step away tugs at it, and he knows that if he strains it for too long or pulls it too far, something will break.  

All he can do is hope they figure out how to retake L’Manberg soon. 

~~~

During the Manberg-Pogtopia era, the strain of being far from his land doesn’t get too bad.

Maybe it’s because Pogtopia’s not actually that far from Manberg. Maybe it’s because Wilbur, his Founder, is with him. Maybe it’s because he sometimes tags along with Technoblade to spy on the country, and every visit slackens his tether for just a little while. 

Either way, the worst Tommy has is a few brief periods of struggling for breath, and another few instances of terrible, rib-cracking coughs that are hidden easily enough. He spends most of his days alone, anyway, so it’s not like there’s anyone around to get worried.

It’s fine. He’s fine. Soon this’ll all be over, and then he can heal.

~~~

The battle to retake L’Manberg is bloody. Something in Tommy tears every time one of his People die, but he soldiers on. It’s a necessary evil. He can take it.

Schlatt’s reign ends. They rename the country L’Manberg. They celebrate together—and then it all comes crashing down.

When Technoblade spawns the first wither, Tommy’s only thought is no. Not when they’re so close. Not when he’s finally back in his lands, his People alive and safe and no longer fighting for survival. But Technoblade does not care what L’Manberg wants, so he bares his teeth in a vicious snarl and spawns the second wither.

Then the withers attack, and—it hurts, their withering, even when they miss his People and tear into his land instead. Black veins creep up his ankles and bloom across his ribs and one of his shoulders is going numb but he doesn’t have time to look at it before he’s aiming, fighting—they all are—trying to fend off the beasts. He’s side by side with Tubbo, falling into a comfortable rhythm of dodging and attacking when the ground shakes beneath their feet—

The world goes white. 

Tommy’s screaming, he thinks. Every nerve is speared through with electricity, vibrating with agony—his chest caves in on itself, explosions burning him hollow from the inside out, and the withers keep shrieking and at the center of it all there’s—

—there’s a gaping wound where his Founder had once been.

Wilbur is gone. His Founder is dead. Somebody took him from Tommy, ripped him from L’Manberg, and somehow, that hurts worse than anything else.

So Tommy lays there in the rubble and screams and screams and screams while the withers pass overhead and his People gather around him. Tubbo leaves the withers to the others—just straight-up drops his bow and arrow and falls to his knees at Tommy’s side, begging him to take this potion Tommy, please, you’re hurt, you’ll die—

Tommy, as a Nation, cannot die from physical wounds. But as his land burns and his people wither, it sure feels like he is.

~~~

When Tommy resurfaces from the agony, two days have passed and the battle is over. 

According to Tubbo, he’d been hit by a wither. Tommy knows better, but he doesn’t try to correct the assumption. Luckily, the regular treatment for Withering works on him—but he’ll bear the scars of it for the rest of his life. 

Just like his lands. Just like his People.

Still, L’Manberg heals. L’Manberg rebuilds. L’Manberg rises from the ashes and moves on. Peace falls across the land. Things settle into a new normal, undisturbed by skirmishes or wars between factions. New alliances are formed. New routines are built. 

And then Tommy and Ranboo burn down George’s house. Dream doesn’t waste his chance to strike.

~~~

“I want him exiled.”

Tommy doesn’t understand. Dream is another Nation. Dream knows what happens when they leave their lands.

Dream doesn’t look at him. “I told you. Exile, or I build obsidian walls around L’Manberg.”

Realization dawns, followed by cold horror. Ice settles in Tommy’s bones. Dream knows exactly what he’s doing. “What…” he croaks out, unable to articulate his question in its entirety with the humans present. “You want to exile me for…burning George’s house?”

You want to kill me for burning George’s house?

“This is the final straw,” Dream sneers. “You attacked the king of the Esempi—”

“It was an accident!”

“—and given your history of griefing, I don’t believe you.”

Tommy stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Exile is the least I could be asking for,” Dream says coldly. “Really, Tommy. You know you fucked up. Just face the consequences.”

“But I’ll die.” The words slip out—soft, whispered, a confession.

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’ll only be for six months.”

In his heart, Tommy knows he can’t last six months. “Tubbo,” he says, turning to his president. “Tubbo, please. You can’t seriously be thinking about doing this.”

Tubbo doesn’t meet his eyes.

“T-Tubbo?”

“You’re right,” Tubbo says, but he’s not looking at Tommy. Tommy’s heart drops. “Dream, you’re right. I think…it would be best, if, for the sake of L’Manberg, we exiled Tommy for half a year.”

“No.” It’s pointless. Tommy already knows it, but— “ No, Tubbo—please—you can’t—”

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” Tubbo says. He looks away. Tommy turns to Quackity and Fundy, begging, but—though they look upset about the decision, neither of them speak up.

“Nonono,” he whispers. His heart wails as he realizes his People are rejecting him. “No, please, no, you can’t—I can’t last six months, Tubbo please!”

Nobody answers. They turn away. Tommy is suddenly, abruptly faced with the realization that there’s no way out of this. 

He’s going to die. And his friends will willingly watch him walk to his death. 

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. “Come with me,” Dream says.

Tommy is too stunned to fight back. He obediently allows Dream to steer him down the hill and out of L’Manberg, and only remembers to look back when the figures of his People have long since disappeared behind the half-built walls.

~~~

Dream leaves Tommy on a beach with a dirt house and enough food to last two days.

When Tommy wakes up the next morning, his heart aches.

~~~

Dream visits.

He brings him food. He makes him blow up his stuff. Sometimes, he’s in a better mood and sits in silence beside Tommy for a few hours. 

Peaceful cohabitation between two Nations, even if the silence is tense and one is waiting for the other to die.

~~~

“Why do you hate me so much?” Tommy asks Dream one day, when they’re sitting together on the beach.

Dream is quiet for a long, stretching moment. Then, he shifts and pushes himself to his feet. Tommy tenses, waiting for—a blow, retribution, something —but the older Nation just looks out towards the ocean, his back to Tommy.

“Do you know how Nations are born?” he asks.

“Uh—” That isn’t what Tommy had been expecting. “We just. Appear, innit? The nation gets made and that—patriotism or some shit sorta just makes the land kinda—spit us out.”

Dream hums. He unclasps his cloak and lets it drop to the ground. It pools around his boots in a viridian puddle. He turns and steps over it, meeting Tommy’s bewildered gaze. His fingers go down to the hem of his baggy shirt, pinch the fabric, and lift it.

There’s a chunk missing from his side.

Tommy stares, uncomprehending. There’s just a pit of empty space where flesh should be, like someone took a giant spoon and carved into Dream’s torso . Except the wound would be smoother if it was carving—this is more like ripping. The edges are jagged and inflamed and that can’t be healthy, what—

“You did this to me,” Dream says mildly.

Tommy tears his gaze away from the wound to stare up at him. “Wh-what?”

“When Wilbur created L’Manberg, he took land from the Esempi.” Dream drops the hem of his shirt, letting the loose fabric conceal the injury. “He took people from me. Your power, the thing that makes you a Nation—it was taken from me.”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say, so he just swallows and whispers, “Does it…hurt?”

A bark of laughter tears free from Dream, humorless and angry. “Does it hurt?” he echoes mockingly. “Yes, it hurts. It fucking hurts so much, Tommy, and you caused this. So do me a favor and give it back.”

With that, he snatches up his cloak, spins on his heel, and stalks off in a spray of sand and sea-wind. 

~~~

By the end of the first month, Tommy’s coughing fits are near-constant.

By the end of the second, he wonders if ending it himself is better than waiting. 

He jumps. He breaks himself. His Nationhood heals him—slowly, but it heals him. He still can't die.

Halfway through the third month, he decides to speed things up.

So he leaves Logstedshire and sets out into the forest. Moves away from L’Manberg. Strains the tether further, step by step. 

Frankly, he stumbles across Technoblade’s cabin completely by accident—but dammit, if he’s going to die like a dog, he might as well die in comfort. He digs himself a nice hideout under Technoblade’s floorboards, curls up, and waits.

Technoblade finds him two days later.

~~~

Tommy’s head is pounding. His heart feels like it’s being torn apart inside him, pulling against his ribs as his very core yearns for home. A moment later, the burn condenses into an uncomfortable warmth that crawls up his throat. He rolls off his makeshift cot just in time to cough a wad of bloody spittle into his elbow.

The rough stone digs into his back, jarring his spine with every cough. He hunches in on himself in an effort to relieve the pressure. The discomfort is all-consuming, eating up his cognizance of the outside world—and so he notices the crrk-crrk-crrk of floorboards being torn up too late. A moment later, Technoblade drops into his hideout—looks up—and makes direct eye contact.

“Fuh’,” Tommy garbles through a mouthful of blood.

Technoblade’s eyes are wide, wider than Tommy’s ever seen them. Under any other circumstance, he’d be laughing at the normally unflappable man’s deer-in-headlights look. As it is, he feels more like crawling into a hole and hiding.

“Tommy?”

“‘i,” Tommy greets, the first consonant lost in the taste of copper. He spits to the side, coughs a bit more into his stained sleeves, then wipes his mouth and looks up. “Sorry. Wha’s up, bi’ man?”

“You’re coughing up blood,” Technoblade says flatly.

No use denying it when he’s sitting there literally red-handed. “Y’h.”

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Nn.”

Technoblade closes his eyes. Tommy gives him a minute to process—even uses it to spit another mouthful of blood to the side. At last, Technoblade opens his eyes.

“You’re dying,” he says.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, Technoblade looks very, very tired. It passes quickly, though, and then he’s straightening up. 

“I can’t believe you’ve been living under my house,” he says, faux-lighthearted, and then he’s approaching and holding out his hands. Tommy stares blankly at the offered appendages, earning a huff. “Do you need help gettin’ up or should I stop standin’ here like an idiot?”

“Up?” Tommy asks.

“I’m not leavin’ you to die in my basement, Tommy. Corpses bring down property value.”

Tommy is. Confused. Very confused. So confused, in fact, that he automatically takes Technoblade’s hands without much thought, and then he’s being hoisted to his feet and his arm is slung over Technoblade’s shoulders. The piglin hybrid waits patiently for him to orient himself, then begins the arduous process of transporting him upstairs. 

“We’ll fix this,” Technoblade says.

“You hate me,” Tommy reminds him, because he really doesn’t want Technoblade to try and ‘fix’ his unfixable, nonexistent ‘illness’. “Tried to kill me and everything.”

“Yeah, well, like I said. No dyin’ on my property.”

“You want me to go die somewhere else?”

Technoblade stops in his tracks. He stares ahead for a long moment, then takes a deep breath and says, “End, kid.”

He doesn’t respond to any more of Tommy’s questions.

~~~

Two hours later, Tommy is freshly washed, bandaged, and dressed in clean clothes. The effects of a Splash Healing and Strength buzz through his veins, eradicating his fever and leaving him feeling more—awake? Alive?—than he’s felt in a while. He’s maneuvered to a chair in the dining room, where a chunk of bread and a glass of water await him. Technoblade promptly sits down across from him and drops a thick tome on the table. He pries it open, revealing pages full of tiny text and images of plants Tommy doesn’t recognize.

“So what’s the problem?”

Tommy takes a sip of his water. Stares into the glass. Considers his answer. 

“Homesickness,” he says at last.

The flat stare Technoblade sends him would’ve made a lesser Nation wince. “I mean your symptoms, Tommy. What’s happenin’ to you?”

“Nothing you can fix.”

“So you know what’s wrong.”

“Yeah. My body’s giving up on me. And you can’t fix it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know the cure. It’s impossible to get.”

Technoblade’s eyebrows furrow. Tommy remains stubbornly silent—it’s not worth it for Technoblade to try to save him when all it’ll do is prolong his death. His organs are quite literally failing within him, no longer sustained by the love of his People and the history written into his bones. No amount of Healing or Regeneration can fix that, and Tommy doesn’t want to draw out the suffering any longer than necessary. 

“What’s the cure?” Technoblade asks slowly. “Why is it impossible to get?”

“…It’s in L’Manberg. I’m exiled.”

Technoblade’s face goes through a series of complicated emotions. “Why don’t you just…sneak back in and get it?”

Because it’s more complicated than that. It’s not just the distance killing him—it’s the rejection. His People no longer recognize him as their Nation. It’s only a matter of time before he’s replaced—before another avatar takes his place. Even now, his Nationhood is being leached away—perhaps being given back to Dream. More likely, it’s being transferred to a new vessel—one still forming beneath the ground. One day, Tommy will die. On that day, the new L’Manberg will spring from the earth, the last of Tommy’s lifeforce forming the impetus for their birth.

Tommy can return to his land—but L’Manberg’s heart is its People, and as long as they reject him, he will tear himself apart from the inside out. It’s not something that can be fixed by sneaking into L’Manberg for a couple of days. Besides, he’ll need to pass through the Esempi to get there—and Dream will sense him the moment he sets foot on the mainland. 

“Can’t move it,” Tommy settles on. “I have to stay there.”

“So you can’t move the cure,” Technoblade says. His voice is skeptical. “What exactly is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tommy tells him. He takes up his bread and begins picking at it. It’s the first thing he’s eaten since he got to Technoblade’s house. “Just stop looking and let me die in peace.” 

“No,” Technoblade says. “I don't think I will.”

He goes back to flipping through the book. Tommy nibbles at his bread and quietly resigns himself to his fate.

~~~

Ghostbur shows up at Technoblade’s a week into Tommy’s stay. 

Tommy…doesn’t know how to feel about the ghost. He’s not his Founder, nor is he one of Tommy’s People. He’s just…an echo. A memory. There’s a bond between them, like the bond Tommy would have with any one of his citizens—but unlike with his citizens, Tommy never feels anything from the other end. Some days he forgets it’s even there—at least until his tether to his lands pulls especially tight. Then, the bond will go cold as ice.

Ghostbur greets Technoblade and Tommy with the vacant cheeriness he meets most everything with. Technoblade greets him back and goes on a long-winded explanation concerning how he found Ghostbur and saved him from the snow. This continues for a little bit, right up until Tommy gets blindsided by another coughing fit.

Now Ghostbur won’t stop staring at Tommy. 

“What?” Tommy finally snaps, irritated. 

Ghostbur’s gray skin is pale. “You’re…dying,” he says.

“It’s just a bit of blood,” Tommy grunts. They’re sitting in the dining room. Technoblade has pointedly placed a plate of sliced gapples in front of Tommy. Tommy is pointedly not eating them. “I’ll be fine.”

Ghostbur shakes his head. “I can feel it,” he says. “You’re dying.”

Tommy stills. “You…can feel it?”

“Yes. Your…your life. It’s—here.” Ghostbur cups his hands over his chest. “I can feel it. Inside.”

Tommy inhales sharply. A quick glance over his shoulder assures him that Technoblade is still in the living room, occupied by yet another medicinal tome. He can’t hear their conversation. 

Tommy leans closer to Ghostbur. “You can feel—feel my life in you?”

“I’m draining you,” Ghostbur says miserably. And Tommy—

—Tommy slumps back into his chair. The air in his lungs tears free with a ragged exhale. This—this is the final nail in the coffin, the last confirmation that he’s indeed slated to die. His power isn’t returning to Dream or a vessel in the earth—it’s being transferred to Ghostbur.

Ghostbur will become the next embodiment of L’Manberg. And Tommy…will be gone.

He looks at the ghost. Ghostbur is easily manipulated. Forgetful. Unable to cope with any and all negative emotions. He’s not a fighter. Not a rebel. He does what others tell him to do.

Is this what his home has become?

Ghostbur is still staring at him with that horrible, horrible look on his face. There’s guilt there, and grief, and something dark and raging. His hands, still pressed to his heart, are not stained with blue. 

“I don’t want this,” he whispers.

“We don’t have a choice,” Tommy answers. “It’s never our choice.”

Ghostbur has no reply for that. And so they sit in silence—the Nation and his successor—until Ghostbur’s grief fizzes away. When he blinks at Tommy and asks what they were talking about, Tommy pastes a smile on his face and pushes his plate across the table.

“Don’t worry about it, big man,” he says. “Take a gapple slice.”

~~~

Tommy starts taking Technoblade’s treatments, if only so the man will stop hounding him. He’s pretty sure he’d start drugging the food otherwise, and Tommy knows he can’t starve himself to death, so he might as well save himself the stomachaches and take the potions and gapples and whatever manner of pasty substance Technoblade whips up.

Doesn’t mean he can’t do it in bad grace, though. He makes sure to complain about the taste. And the texture. And the smell. And everything, really. Technoblade makes the funniest pinched expressions of frustration, but he doesn’t stop.

Neither do Tommy’s coughing fits. If anything, they grow more frequent, more severe, until even breathing leaves a dull ache in his chest. Tommy’s noticed other parts of his body failing too—he can’t keep down much more than a couple of bowls of soup in one sitting now. He’s always cold. His limbs are constantly trembling. His skin is taking on a distinctly gray pallor. Sometimes his heartbeat feels too slow, too laborious.

It won’t be long before it stops.

~~~

Tommy stares at the plate sitting on his lap. 

He’s propped up on a stack of pillows so his body doesn’t have to support its own weight. There’s a fluffy quilt tucked over him. Technoblade has brought him another plate of sliced gapples—ineffective as a cure, but the piglin hybrid knows Tommy likes their taste. It’s all disgustingly domestic. It’s all so confusing.

“Why do you care?”

Technoblade stops short in the doorway. His hand, resting on the doorframe, spasms. 

“It’s…” he begins, then stops. Tommy can’t see his expression, not when the piglin hybrid’s back is to him, but he sees the way his shoulders slump. “It’s not right,” he finally says.

“What,” Tommy says, “me dying?”

“You dying like this,” Technoblade corrects. “It’s—not right.”

Tommy…understands. He remembers Technoblade’s words to him on the day L’Manberg was torn apart. He’s always thought he’d die like a hero—in a glorious blaze, making a last stand for the independence of his People in a future centuries away. Now, though, he’s wasting away far from his homelands in the care of a warrior who despises the very thing Tommy embodies. It’s not glorious. It’s not inspiring. It’s just sad. Pathetic. Pointless.

The Tommy five months ago might’ve raged, might’ve hurled insults at Technoblade for daring to pity him when he’d been the one trying to kill Tommy not long ago. The Tommy of now, whose very being has decreed him unwanted and unneeded, accepts his reasoning with a quiet huff of air.

“I get it,” he says to Technoblade’s back. The genuine understanding in his voice must startle the man, because he actually turns around and looks at him. Tommy doesn’t smile, but there’s no condemnation in his eyes when he meets Technoblade’s gaze. “But you can’t fix this.”

Technoblade’s lips thin. Without another word, he turns and leaves. 

~~~

Soon, Tommy is too weak to stand.

“I snuck into L’Manberg,” Technoblade begins, looming over him. Tommy sinks deeper into his pillows and doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “Looked everywhere. Turned your house upside-down. Didn’t find anythin’.” Frustration threads into his voice. “Tommy, you’re actually dyin’—just tell me what the cure is, I’ll figure out a way to get it—”

“There isn’t one,” Tommy rasps. “I was—lying, ‘bout L’Manberg.” Quieter, he adds, “Just wanted to see home one last time before I died.”

For a minute, the only sound in the room is Tommy’s labored breathing. At last, the shadows spattered across his eyelids shift. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Technoblade’s footsteps rings against the walls, followed by the ka-chrrk of the door shutting. 

Tommy would worry about what the piglin hybrid is thinking, but he’s much too tired to stay awake.

~~~

Over the next week, Tommy barely sees Technoblade. The man used to check on him every two or so hours—now, he only drops by to help Tommy choke down some stew or fruit at mealtimes and to make sure he’s amply supplied with entertainment (books, which Tommy has found are surprisingly interesting) and clean tissues for the blood. He seems…distracted, occupied with something else. Tommy doesn’t really mind—he spends more time sleeping than awake these days anyway. Even when he is awake, he doesn’t really have the energy to hold a long conversation. 

Their new routine ends abruptly when, five days after Tommy told Technoblade he’d lied about the cure, Technoblade strides into the room with a bowl in one hand and something vaguely chair-like dragging from the other.

Tommy—with some effort—sits up. “The fuck is that?” he rasps.

“Mushroom stew,” Technoblade tells him, unceremoniously planting the bowl in Tommy’s hands. 

“No, that— ”

“Drink your stew.”

Tommy spitefully shoves a too-large spoonful into his mouth, almost chokes, and swallows it down with some difficulty. Technoblade nods, satisfied, and spins the chair-thing around so Tommy can get a better look at it.

“It’s a wheelchair,” he says.

Tommy looks at it. It’s crudely made and pieced together from scraps—he’s pretty sure Technoblade sacrificed one of the couch pillows to make the seat—but it seems functional. “What’s it for?”

“I’m takin’ you to L’Manberg.”

Tommy’s head snaps up. “You’re—what?”

Technoblade doesn’t meet his gaze. “So you can see…home. Before you die.”

Tommy stares. Technoblade is—Technoblade wants to—take him? To L’Manberg? “Why?” he blurts. It’s one thing to try to cure Tommy. It’s another to try to fulfill his last wish, especially when Technoblade loathes L’Manberg. 

Technoblade exhales. “Listen, Tommy, I’m not a good person. I’ve done a lot of bad stuff in the past. But…I’m not a monster.”

When Tommy just keeps staring at him, he huffs. “Nobody should die as young as you, kid. If you want a last wish, you get a last wish.”

There’s a lump in Tommy’s throat, and for once it doesn’t hurt. He blinks rapidly against the burning in his eyes. 

Technoblade’s demeanor shifts from solemnity to slight panic. “Uh—does—we can go tomorrow, uh, if you feel up for it. I’ve already got enough invis to hide us for a few hours. Or if you want to wait—”

“Tomorrow’s good,” Tommy croaks. “It’s—please. Tomorrow.”

Technoblade nods. “Tomorrow.”

And so it’s decided. 

~~~

The next morning, Technoblade dons his armor, fills his inventory with potions of invisibility, and loads Tommy and his wheelchair—separately—into a dogsled for easier transport across the arctic snow. Once they reach the paved roads in the nether, Technoblade abandons the dogsled and leaves the dogs to wait at the portal. The rest of the journey is done by wheelchair—which Technoblade pushes without complaint. Tommy hates how weak he is, but his excitement to finally see his lands again eclipses any disgust he feels. He can feel the tether loosening with every rotation of his wheels, the strain on his aching body easing until the pain falls to a level he can almost ignore. He begins to sit up straighter as they reach the exit portal. Technoblade takes a moment to render them both invisible, checks that both of their communicators are silenced, then hoists Tommy up and over the lip of the portal and into the Mainland. 

Tommy feels it instantly—the presence in the air around him growing hostile. The weight of another Nation’s attention presses down on him. Dream knows he’s here. He shudders, pressing himself further into the wheelchair—only to blink when something heavy and warm is draped over him.

“Here,” Technoblade says gruffly, tucking the corners of his cape around Tommy’s shoulders. Then he sits Tommy up so he can get the cape under him, turning him into a sort of cape burrito. “You’re shiverin’.”

“Thanks,” Tommy mutters. He snuggles deeper into the cape, relishing its warmth. It’s surprisingly soft, even better than most blankets Tommy’s owned. He should’ve tried stealing one of Technoblade’s capes back when he could still walk. 

Eh. That’s fine, this one’ll just be his now. If Technoblade has problems with that, he should’ve known better than to just hand it over. 

After another application of splash invisibility, the two of them set off towards L’Manberg. For something so shoddy, the wheelchair is surprisingly quiet—other than the occasional rattle when the wheels strike an uneven section of the path and Technoblade’s grunts as he lifts Tommy over the stairs, the journey is fairly silent. Tommy doesn’t mind; he doesn’t have a lot of energy to talk, and he’s too busy drinking in the sights to really care either way.

They’re still perhaps about ten or so minutes out when Tommy’s gaze catches on movement in the distance. He instantly snaps a shoulder back to nudge against Technoblade’s hand. “Wait. Stop.”

Technoblade stops. “What?” he asks, voice gruff but low with caution.

“Someone’s over there.”

There’s a pause as Technoblade presumably scans their surroundings. “Ah,” he says. “I…think that’s…Punz? Kinda hard to tell from this far away—nope, nevermind, definitely Punz. He’s comin’ towards us.”

Indeed, Punz is striding towards them. He’s dressed in full armor, which is par for the course on the Esempi, but the alarming thing is his walk. It’s brisk, purposeful; Punz is headed somewhere, and it’s to do something important. For a moment, Tommy is afraid that they’ve been discovered—but Punz just stalks past them without a glance their way.

“That was close,” Technoblade begins, only to fall silent again when another figure appears on the horizon. This time it’s Bad, also armed to the teeth and hurrying straight towards the Community House with single-minded purpose. He’s not even five feet away when Tommy spots another person passing by them at a diagonal, abandoning the paths in favor of efficiency. 

When both of them are out of earshot, Technoblade speaks up. “Maybe it’s just me, but I kinda get the feelin’ something’s goin’ on back there.”

Tommy grunts in acknowledgment.

“…Do you want to go check it out?”

This time, Tommy hesitates. On one hand, he really really wants to see L’Manberg. On the other hand, something big is going on—and the timing of it all, less than half an hour after he reentered the Esempi, is suspicious. Besides, it’s not like L’Manberg is going anywhere. He and Technoblade can snoop around a bit, then drop by L’Manberg before heading back to the arctic. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Probably a good idea.”

Technoblade silently turns the wheelchair around and begins the trek back towards the Community House. On their way there, they see others—all headed in the same direction. When the Community House itself comes into view, Technoblade actually stops in his tracks. Tommy lurches at the abrupt halt of his wheelchair, but he’s too busy gaping at the jagged, uneven silhouette rising in the distance to really care.

“Uh,” Technoblade says, “I’m guessin’ that’s not a new remodelin’ job.”

“What the fuck,” is Tommy’s eloquent response. 

“I’m takin’ that as a no.” Technoblade begins to push forward again, this time with a bit more urgency. As they draw closer, the figures of a large crowd become clear among the rubble. With a quick headcount, Tommy realizes that almost everyone on the server is here. And yet only two prominent voices can be heard as they near the commotion—Tubbo’s weak, stuttering one…and Dream.

Tommy’s damaged heart begins pounding with strength it doesn’t have to spare. He wrangles a whimper into a sharp inhale and draws the cape tighter around himself. Technoblade doesn’t seem to notice, because he wheels Tommy closer and closer until they’re feet from the wreck. They come to a stop just in time to hear Dream shout “—ust look at what Tommy did!”

“What,” says Tommy. The sound of the rushing water covers his voice, but Technoblade is close enough to hear him.

“My thoughts exactly,” Technoblade says. “Did you do this?”

“I—what the fuck, no!”

The last word is spat with a bit too much vehemence. Tommy suffers a short coughing fit, which Technoblade politely ignores. “So,” the piglin hybrid drawls when Tommy’s regained some control over his breathing, “what are we goin’ to do about this?”

Tommy…doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how the Community House got like this, or why Dream’s blaming him for it. Dream knows he hasn’t been to the mainland—he’d have sensed him if he did—so he knows Tommy is innocent. But he’s still insisting—still telling Tubbo and everyone else that Tommy destroyed a priceless landmark—

Oh.

Oh.

Tommy knows what’s happening. Dream had likely thought he’d discorporated and returned to the earth in the way Nations did upon death. When Tommy’s power hadn’t returned to him, he’d assumed that L’Manberg had gained a new avatar—and focused on searching for the newborn Nation rather than waste time confirming that Tommy was dead. But then Tommy had returned to the mainland—had revealed that he was still alive—and so now, Dream is making the final push. He’s trying to drive a wedge between Tommy and his People, to break the strained bond between them and kill Tommy for good.

Tommy can’t help it—he laughs. And laughs. And then he gathers every last bit of strength left in him and hollers as loud as he can, “FUCK YOU, DREAM!”

Heads around the Community House snap in his direction. Through the film of water, Tommy sees the way Tubbo’s eyes go wide.

“Tommy,” Technoblade groans.

Tommy pushes past the sharp pain in his lungs and croaks, “Might not see home today, but it’s good to see my friends one more time, innit?”

Technoblade sighs, but Tommy sees the cloud of Invisibility particles move around to the side of the wheelchair. “Can’t bring a wheelchair in there,” the piglin hybrid informs Tommy. “I’ll have to carry you.”

“Drop me and I’ll make you regret it, bitch.”

Technoblade sighs again. A moment later, strong arms slide under him and lift him, cape and all, out of the chair. Tommy squirms briefly to get comfortable, then settles into the hold. Technoblade carries him into the wreckage, maneuvering around the waterfalls and chunks of torn-up flooring. 

“—wouldn’t bother to hide himself if he was innocent,” Dream snarls. “He did this—”

“No I fucking didn’t,” Tommy cuts in. His voice is hoarse. 

“Then why are you invisible?” Dream asks. “Why are you sneaking around?”

“Because I’m fuckin’ exiled, idiot. I’d get attacked if anyone saw me.” A glance downward reveals that the potion effect is wearing off—he can feel the tingle across his skin as he slowly fades back into visibility. “I didn’t destroy the Community House, by the way. You’re spreading lies and slander. Very not-pog of you, Dream. Un-pog. Simply despicable behavior.”

“Hate to agree with this gremlin,” says Technoblade as he also fades back into the visible spectrum (startling several people in the process), “but yeah, that’s pretty messed up.”

“Technoblade? T-Tommy?”

Tubbo sounds horrified. Tommy doesn’t blame him; he’s not exactly a pretty sight. He’s a shadow of his former self—a step up from a corpse, really, and only because his heart still labors on.

“As you can see, Tommy is kinda unable to blow anything up at the moment.” Technoblade’s words are sarcastic, but there’s an edge of real fury to his voice that has several people recoiling. “Seein’ as he’s, you know, dying.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy rasps. A chill passes through his rattling bones, and he curls deeper into Technoblade’s cape. “I can do so much stuff while dying. I can blow shit up. I’ll blow up your face.”

“Please don’t,” the piglin hybrid deadpans. Tommy snorts, only to break off into a coughing fit. He wipes the blood off his lips with the corner of Technoblade’s cape.

“Hey,” Technoblade says, disgruntled. “Stop that. Bloodstains are hard to get out.”

“‘S my cape now, I’ll do what I want to it,” Tommy grumbles. He forestalls Technoblade’s protest by beating weakly at his chestplate. “Oi. Lemme down. I need to talk to Dream.”

“You can’t stand,” Technoblade points out like the annoyingly logical person he is.

“So hold me up.”

Technoblade sighs. Loudly. Still, he gently lowers Tommy until his feet are touching the ground, then holds him up so his legs don’t fold under him instantly. Tommy grabs onto Technoblade’s arm through the cape and uses it to steady himself as he finds his footing. He might be dying and unable to stand on his own, but at least he’s standing. If he’s going to talk to Dream, he’s going to do it with his head held high. 

When he no longer feels like he’ll fall over at the slightest shift, he looks up at Dream. “I didn’t do this,” he says.

Dream’s sneer is audible in his voice. “Just because you’re sick—”

“Have some respect for the dying, c’mon,” Tommy cuts in before he can finish. “For Prime's sake, man, I can’t even stand on my own. The fuck makes you think I can lay TNT?"

“If you didn’t do it, then who did? You aren’t even supposed to be here—and yet here you are, sneaking around with Technoblade—”

“Can we cut the crap?”

Dream goes still. Tommy ignores the implied threat.

“Look. Dream. Big D. I’m gonna be honest. Your plan isn’t going to work. It’s kinda stupid, actually.”

“Oh?” Dream asks, voice dangerous. 

“Yeah. Like—waiting for me to die? That’s working. But if you want your land back, this isn’t the way to do it.”

Dream snorts. “Who said anything about wanting my land back? We’re talking about how you blew up the Community House, Tommy. Stop trying to change the subject.”

So they’re keeping up this farce—hiding their Nationhood for their audience’s sake. Tommy grits his teeth.

“You won’t win,” he tells Dream.  “L’Manberg won’t die with me.”

“But you will die,” Dream says. “And it will be your own People’s fault.”

That spears Tommy right through the heart. He flinches back into Technoblade and opens his mouth to argue, but—those aren’t words rising in his throat. He clamps down on it just a second too late—and then there’s blood dripping down his chin like a macabre waterfall, staining the front of his shirt and spotting the soaked floorboards with red. 

“Oh,” he says, or tries to say. The world tilts dizzyingly, but strong hands catch him and lower him to the ground. 

“—ommy! Tommy!” Technoblade’s suddenly all up in his face, eyes white-rimmed with panic. “Breathe—you have to breathe through it—”

This isn’t something Tommy can breathe through. His heart, it’s—it’s being shredded apart, stuttering, losing the strength to continue its rhythmic beat. His lungs are withering away. The roar of blood fills his ears, growing high and tinny and distant. He’s vaguely aware of his limbs spasming this way and that, body seizing as it tries desperately to patch itself back together, to hold on to life.

This is it, Tommy realizes. I’m finally dying.

His vision has gone fuzzy at the edges. Static crowds the peripheries. His eyes roll wildly, seeking out one last glimpse at his People—at his friends—but land on Dream instead. The older Nation stares straight back, dispassionate. Cold. Unfeeling.

There’s a sizzling noise in the air, then cries of alarm and confusion. “Ghostbur—?” Technoblade asks, and then he’s all but shoved out of Tommy’s frame of vision by a blur of blue and yellow. 

“No,” Ghostbur hisses, angrier than Tommy’s ever heard him. “You don't get to give up, L’Manberg.”

I’m tired, Tommy tells him. Or, he tells all of them, really. A Nation has always had a connection to its People, and the People recognize his voice. He hears a sharp, wounded noise from somewhere near the edge of the commotion—Tubbo, maybe—but he doesn’t turn his head to check. There’s no point. He’s fading.

“NO!” Ghostbur shrieks, right before pure energy floods Tommy’s limbs. He seizes up, every nerve alighting with—not pain, but a burning heat that washes away the agony. Ghostbur is glowing with power that Tommy realizes now is his—or had been his. 

“I don’t want to be L’Manberg,” Ghostbur cries. Parts of him are melting, eaten away by the waterfalls surrounding them, and steam wafts from the tears streaked down his face. “You can’t go yet, we still need you!”

“St-sto—” Tommy chokes out, but he can’t make his lips form the words. Ghostbur is returning what he’s lost, returning life to his damaged organs. It’s too much, all at once, and it’s keeping him alive but it’s not fixing him either because his People still hate him, still want him gone and out and away from his own land—

“Tommy!” 

Tubbo’s on Tommy’s other side. Tommy reaches out on instinct, wanting to wipe that horrible, horrible look off his President’s face—but Tubbo just clasps both of his hands around Tommy’s spasming ones and falls to his knees. 

“Tommy, please,” he begs. “You can’t die. You can’t—we need you. I need you.”

Fundy settles in on his other side. “I have no idea what the fuck is happening,” he declares, “but I don’t want you to die.” 

“What he said! You’re not allowed to die, Tomás, you hear me?!” Quackity’s hands cradle his head, preventing him from hitting it against the damaged floor as he seizes. The man doesn’t even look up at Technoblade, who’s crouched mere feet away—his attention is all on Tommy, trying to keep him alive.

Tommy looks at all of them around him and realizes that—his people want him. His People love him.

For one terrible moment, everything in Tommy lurches like a minecart on a quick turn. And then he’s breathing again—sucking in great, heaving breaths as the blood drains from his lungs and the agony in his chest dulls. His Nationhood settles back in his bones, drawing on the love of his People and the call of his lands to repair the damage within him. 

Ghostbur leans back. The ethereal glow of Nationhood fades around him, returning to its first owner. Tommy exhales and closes his eyes. 

“Tommy…?” Tubbo asks hesitantly. Tommy squeezes his hand in acknowledgment, then pulls free and begins the process of pushing himself up.

Several people protest this. Quackity even puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to pull him back down, but Tommy shakes him off easily. After weeks spent in bed, he’s suddenly overflowing with energy. His skin tingles and sparks. He gets to his feet and slowly raises his gaze to meet Dream’s. He knows his irises are shining bright, electric blue—a sign of his glorious inhumanity.

For a moment, all is still. Then slowly, deliberately, Dream reaches up and removes his mask. His eyes glow a toxic, radioactive green.

“L’Manberg,” he snarls. The name is drawn out—coiled like the sinuous twist of a snake preparing to strike. “You just never know when to give up.”

“Yeah, well,” Tommy grinds out as he wipes blood from his chin, “ you just never know when to stop being a power-hungry bitch.”

“You stole from me!”

“I didn’t fucking ask to exist. Stop blaming me for shit I can’t control!”

The Esempi takes a step forward. L’Manberg matches him, undaunted. The Esempi takes another step—but this time, L’Manberg is not the only one who meets him. Tubbo steps up beside him—then Quackity and Fundy, and Ranboo, and Technoblade, and Ghostbur’s hovering behind Tommy, his ghostly hand clammy but supportive on the young Nation’s shoulder. L’Manberg’s People are rising to defend him. Tommy’s friends are rising to defend him. 

Dream stops. His face twists into an ugly sneer. There’s rage and disgust and fury in the set of his lips—but in his eyes, there’s nothing but desperation.

The Esempi has always seemed bigger. Greater. More powerful. Yet as Tommy looks at Dream, he sees the vulnerability shining through the cracks. Dream’s choice to destroy the Community House is a double-edged sword; as a Nation based on its wealth of history and important landmarks, the destruction of the oldest structure on the server has hurt him. Tommy can see blood slowly but surely spreading past the edges of his breastplate.

It’s a sobering sight. 

“Dream,” Tommy says. “You can’t keep going like this. I know you think killing me will fix this, but it’s not.”

Dream laughs at that—a dark, crazed thing that raises every hair on Tommy’s arms. “You know nothing.”

“Ghostbur was going to become the next L’Manberg,” Tommy says. “I told you, already. L’Manberg won’t die with me. Not as long as its People believe in it.”

“Then I’ll just kill your People.” Dream leans forward. “And when I’ve slaughtered them all—”

“Your People won’t let you,” Tommy interrupts. “They might not be mine, but they have friends here. Allies.”

Something in Dream’s face shutters. He bares his teeth to cover it. “My People don’t hold any power over me. If I want to kill you all, I’ll do it.”

There’s an odd note in Dream’s voice that has Tommy’s heart lurching with… familiarity. It’s the same note he remembers in his own voice as he begged Tubbo to reconsider exile. It’s the special breed of wretched agony that’s made itself at home between Tommy’s ribs and gnawed him apart from the inside out these past few months. 

“Dream,” Tommy says. Slow realization dawns on him as he looks at that face—that emaciated, half-mad face, clearly hungering for something. “Dream, where are your People?”

Dream’s eyes flare. “I don’t need them. I need my land back.”

Tommy stares at the older Nation. The expected rush of terrified anger never comes. Instead, all he feels is…pity.

Dream’s People have been rejecting him for a long, long time. And though Dream is not nearly as dependent on his People as Tommy is, no Nation can survive when its own People despise it.

The Esempi was hurt by L’Manberg’s creation. Tommy acknowledges that—the gaping wound in Dream’s side is evidence enough. But in trying to fill the void left behind, Dream has driven his friends away. It’s self-destruction of the worst kind—a sick kind of obsession that blinds and blinds until the creature left behind can only fixate on its goal because it has nothing else to live for. 

“It’s not too late, you know,” he says quietly. “They’d still want you back if you tried to make amends.”

Dream reels back like he’s been slapped. The venomous glow in his eyes gutters out like a candle in the wind. 

Tommy pushes on. “You fucked up. You fucked up a lot, and I hate you just as much as you hate me, but that doesn’t mean you gotta keep fucking up.” He presses a hand to his chest. “Exile hurt, yeah. Being away from my lands was killing me. But—not having my People—that hurt the most. Without friends—without Techno, I would’ve faded a month ago.”

He hears someone inhale sharply at that admission, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Dream. Dream, for his part, is very, very still. He does not seem to know how to respond. 

“They’d still want you back,” Tommy says again, gentler now. He glances towards Sapnap, then Bad, then Sam, then Puffy. Dream tracks the movement, his own gaze flickering across the people he had once called his friends. “You know they do.”

“No,” Dream says. Tommy doesn’t know what he’s saying it to, but the wavering flatness of his voice shows that something is getting through to him. “No, that’s—”

He cuts himself off. His eyes dart across the crowd surrounding him. The last of the poison-green drains from his irises, leaving nothing but a sort of dazed confusion behind. He looks—lost. Unmoored. Adrift at sea without land in sight. 

Slowly, Dream lifts a hand and presses it to his breastplate—over the wound left by the destruction of the Community House—over his heart. He’s frowning now, more confused than displeased, like he’s not sure why everything inside aches.

Tommy knows, though. Tommy recognizes that gesture from nights spent alone in Logstedshire, curled into himself and clutching desperately at his ribs in the hopes that the bone-deep pain gnawing at his heart will magically disappear. “That’s loneliness,” he tells Dream. “That’s why it hurts.”

Dream opens his mouth. Closes it. His free hand clenches and unclenches. And then, without a word, he turns and staggers out of the ruins of the Community House—not quite fleeing, but defeated all the same. Nobody tries to stop him.

In the ensuing silence, Tommy turns back to his People. They stare back at him, wide-eyed. For one heartstopping moment, Tommy finds himself back on the day of his exile—him standing apart, alone, awaiting judgment. That day, they’d turned away from him. If they do so again, he’ll break. After so long spent an ocean away from his People, he can’t take another rejection, can’t take another—

Tubbo takes a step forward and pulls him into a hug.

“Oh,” Tommy says dumbly. He slowly raises his arms and returns the gesture. “Um. Tubbo?”

“What the fuck,” Tubbo says into Tommy’s bloodied shirt, and then he starts laughing—big, heaving cackles that shake his entire frame and sound too close to sobs to be entirely happy. “Tommy. Tommy, you—you’re—L’Manberg.”

“Yup. That’s me. Good ol’ L’Manberg.” Tommy looks up, his eyes automatically sweeping across their audience. Everyone’s looking at him like they see more of him now, the part that’s beyond his humanity, and it’s so fucking weird. “Still Tommy, though. I’ve always been Tommy. Just like how Dream’s the Esempi.”

“What the fuck,” Tubbo repeats. “I—you—I exiled you from yourself, you—is that why you were dying?! Fuck—”

“Yeah, that was kinda a shitty thing to do.” Tommy winces as Tubbo flinches. “I’m, uh, all better now, though. Mostly. I’m not dying anymore.”

“Anymore,” Tubbo echoes weakly, right before he collapses and all but drags Tommy to the ground with him. Tommy lets himself be dragged, falling into the half-embrace and returning it with his own hug. 

Someone clears their throat nearby. “Well,” Technoblade says, and Tommy’s head snaps up just in time to see him inching towards a gap in the waterfalls, “I’ll just see myself o—”

Tommy disentangles himself from Tubbo and bodily hurls himself at Technoblade. The piglin hybrid makes an aborted movement between dodging and raising his arms to defend himself, which means he’s too slow to stop Tommy from wrapping his arms around him and clinging on like the world’s cuddliest octopus. 

“Erm,” says Technoblade. He makes no move to hug back, but he also doesn’t try to pry Tommy off. “Tommy? L’Manberg?”

“Tommy,” Tommy says, muffled by Technoblade’s shirt. “Still me.”

“Right. Okay. Tommy. What are you…doing?”

“Don’t go.”

“Tommy. Kid.” Technoblade pauses. “I’m—I’m not…one of yours.”

“No,” Tommy says stubbornly. 

“Tommy—”

“No.”

“I tried to destroy you. I was making a plan to destroy you.”

“Are you still gonna kill me?”

Technoblade actually recoils at that, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Stay,” Tommy pleads. “We can talk it out. I know I—betrayed you. I’m sorry. We can make an agreement. I don’t—I don’t want to stop being friends, Techno.”

Technoblade is silent for a long moment, clearly fighting an internal battle. At last, he sighs and slumps.

“Fine, kid,” he says. “Let's talk.”

~~~

Surprisingly, having the literal Nation himself request to become a commune makes the entire process of government abolishment very easy. Everyone’s pretty accepting of the change (though a few take some more convincing than others), and when it’s all said and done, Tommy doesn’t feel any different from before. He’s still connected to his People, still conscious of his lands, still the avatar of L’Manberg; the only thing that’s changed is the superfluous legal structure that Tommy hadn’t much concerned himself with in the past half-year. 

The change, however, paves the way for a flourishing relationship with the Antarctic faction—which proves to be a valuable alliance. Soon, L’Manberg gains a satellite settlement near Technoblade’s home—dubbed Snowchester by its only permanent resident, Philza. The rest of the houses serve as overnight residences for visitors (mostly Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo) who don’t want to brave the long trek back to the mainland at night.

For the first time in a long time, the land knows true peace. There’s no tension. No fighting. No disputes over land or resources or property. People strike up new alliances and friendships and slowly learn to heal.

Then about two weeks into the reconstruction of the Community House, people begin to wake up to find chests outside of their door. In these chests are objects—more specifically, precious personal belongings that they'd thought lost. Armor. The Axe of Peace. And pets, too—left in buckets or tethered to a stake—miraculously alive and healthy despite their time spent missng. 

Tommy is the exception to this event. In the dead of night, just as he begins to doze off in his bed, he feels Dream step onto L’Manberg soil. He bursts out of bed and all but sprints across the plaza to Fundy’s house, expecting the worst—only to find Dream staring down at the chest he’s just placed on Fundy’s doorstep.

The older Nation looks up as he approaches. He doesn’t seem surprised to see him. Tommy stops several feet away and keeps his crossbow leveled at Dream’s face. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Returning Fundy’s things,” Dream says. “And Tubbo’s. And Ranboo’s.”

“And why do you have their things?”

“I stole them. I’m giving them back.” Dream studies him for a moment, then says, “I have Henry hidden close by. Do you want him back?” 

“What the fuck,” says Tommy.

“I’ll lead you to him.”

Tommy considers it. On one hand, this could be a trap. On the other hand, Dream doesn’t exactly have a lot of allies to back him up if this goes awry, and Tommy has a crossbow pointed at him. If something goes wrong, Tommy can just shoot him. A headshot won’t kill the older Nation, but it would probably incapacitate him long enough for Tommy to restrain him. 

“Try anything funny and I’ll shoot,” he warns, tapping lightly on the trigger. Dream just nods, turns, and heads west at a sedate pace. After only a moment of hesitation, Tommy follows.

It’s not a trap. Dream leads him straight to a copse of trees, where they find Henry dozing in a temporary pen. His lead is tied to a stake in the ground. Dream squats down, picks apart the knot, then rises and turns to Tommy.

“Yours,” Dream says, handing him the lead. And then he pulls out Mellohi and Cat and offers them as well.

Tommy stares at the discs. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Giving back the things I took.”

“Why?”

Dream is quiet for a long moment. At last, he sighs. “I was planning to use it all as leverage. Make my People come back to me. Maybe even give it to them and claim I found it by chance so they’d accept me again. But…it’s more than that.”

Tommy waits as the other Nation pauses to gather his thoughts. 

At last, Dream laughs. It’s a quiet, humorless thing. “I thought,” he says softly, “that if I took people’s things, I could feel more…human. Closer to them.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.” Dream holds out the discs again, practically pushing them into Tommy’s hands. “I get it now. I took your discs because I thought they made you human. But you have your People to do that. Keeping this is pointless.”

Tommy accepts Mellohi and Cat. He doesn’t put them into his inventory; instead, he clutches them to his chest—like a shield between him and the Nation that had tormented him for so long. “What are you going to do now?” he asks.

“I’m going to leave. Not—not my lands,” he clarifies when Tommy blanches, “I’m not exiling myself. I’m just…moving further away from everyone else. I need to give myself some time to think. Alone.”

“I meant what I said,” Tommy says. “They’d still want you back if you tried to make amends.”

“I know.”

Tommy raises the discs. “This isn’t what I meant by making amends.”

“I know,” Dream repeats. He lets out a sharp breath, his shoulders slumping in on themselves. “I know I should talk with them face to face. But. I need some time to—reflect.”

“And set up a life for yourself far away so you have somewhere to run in case everyone decides they hate you?”

Dream’s face pinches, but he doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.”

“You’re a coward,” Tommy says.

“…Yes.”

“A bastard. A wrong’un.”

“Do you plan on standing here insulting me for the rest of the night?”

Tommy glowers. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Why the fuck are you being so weird?”

“Call it character development,” Dream says, an odd half-smile tugging at his lips. “I…shouldn’t have tried to kill you.” 

It’s not an apology, not exactly, but it’s the closest thing to one Tommy will ever get. The Esempi hates L’Manberg; that’s not something that’s going to change anytime soon. But there’s a difference between a Nation’s hate and a person’s hate. Dream strongly dislikes Tommy, sure, but he doesn’t hate him. Not anymore. Dream knows that Tommy’s not at fault for his own creation. Dream’s no longer trying to drag everyone down with him in a self-destructive spiral or inflicting his own misery upon the world. He’s…stepping back. Removing himself. Letting things settle and change on their own time. 

It’s so different from everything Tommy’s known of Dream that he finds himself unable to do much but stare.

“Well,” says Dream, when the silence drags on for a bit too long, “I’ll…be going now. I still have a few things to give back.”

“Yeah,” says Tommy. “You…you do that.”

Dream turns to go. Just before he steps into the treeline, Tommy calls, “Wait!”

Dream pauses and half-turns, his head tilted in silent question. Tommy wets his lips, hesitates, then huffs.

“Don’t die,” he says. “I don’t want to deal with another guy acting as the Esempi.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dream says. Then he turns, steps forward, and melts into the shadows.

Tommy stands alone in the clearing with his discs and Henry for a long, long time. It’s only when the first rays of sunlight spill through the leaves that he begins the trek back to L’Manberg—his steps heavy, but his heart light.

~~~

Things come full circle a few months later.

It’s a cold, clear night in the arctic. The crescent moon scatters a layer of shimmering silver across the snow. Tommy’s in the middle of preparing dinner for himself when the door to his Snowchester house slams open and Tubbo shouts, “Tommy, we stole a child!”

“You what?” Tommy asks, stumbling out of the kitchen with a bread slice in one hand and a jam-covered knife in the other. He stares as Tubbo and Ranboo usher a partially-zombified piglin—probably around two or three years old, if his size is any indication—through the door. The kid is bundled up in winter clothes and half-concealed behind Ranboo, clinging to the enderman hybrid’s pants and burying his face in his own striped scarf in an effort to hide himself from Tommy’s gaze. 

“This is Michael,” Tubbo announces cheerily. “Phil found him wandering outside his house, so Ranboo and I are adopting him!”

“What?” Tommy repeats, bewildered. The kid perks up at the sound of his voice and peeks out from behind Ranboo’s legs. Their eyes meet, and something clicks in Tommy’s head. 

“Oh,” he says blankly. “Oh, you’re Snowchester.”

Tubbo looks at Ranboo. Ranboo shrugs. Tubbo looks back at Tommy. “Like, uh, you?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. His throat feels strangely clogged. “‘e’s like me. A Nation.”

 Michael’s wary countenance brightens, shifting into a wide, gummy smile. He extricates himself from his new parents and toddles towards Tommy, previous shyness forgotten as he babbles in a mishmash of Piglin and English. Tommy looks down at this innocent child who looks up at him with such unearned trust and admiration—and can’t help but think of his first meeting with Dream.

The Esempi had tried to destroy L'Manberg for taking what he viewed as his. Michael is, for all intents and purposes, taking what Tommy could claim to be his. The toddler's existence means that Snowchester—meant to be an extension of L'Manberg—is developing autonomy and gaining its own reputation as a separate entity. Tommy might even have to share or lose some of his People to Michael when the Nation gets older.

But frankly, Tommy doesn’t give a flying fuck. He’s going to be the best uncle and spoil the shit out of this kid if it's the last thing he does, because Snowchester is a child who's probably only a day old and deserves so much better than Tommy got. So Tommy crouches down so he's level with the toddler and grins, wide and warm and as full of genuine happiness as he can fit into one smile.

"Hi, Michael," he says. "I'm L'Manberg, but my friends call me Tommy. Would you like a jam sandwich?"