Imma share some of my passerine quotes that hit far too hard, to deal with the fact that I'm sobbing:
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Iâll write our song tomorrow.
âThis oneâs my favorite,â he added as he gently tucked the flower behind Technobladeâs ear, the one that had the emerald earring that Wilbur had found so familiar, âbecause it means friendship.â
âI would feel too much like a traitor if I abandoned it now, after all these years with it. It is my one constant companion, more loyal than most.â
Tell the boys Iâm sorry.
At fifteen years old, Tommy was the oldest heâd ever been, but he never felt so young.
âI want to help you. But I donât know how. Nobody ever taught me how.â
At 17 years old, Tubbo was the oldest he'd ever been, but he had never felt so young.
âFor my kingdom,â she whispered to the empty cave, and let the fire fall.
Nikki hoped, at the very least, that they would plant the prettiest flowers flowers over her grave.
His Tommy, lying so still in his brotherâs arms. His Tommy, who braided his hair with sweet-smelling flowers. His Tommy, who was quick to anger but quicker to laugh. His Tommy.
âYour lullaby,â Wilbur sobbed, his tears hitting Tommyâs cheeks. âItâs the lullaby I used to play for you on my guitar, when you were younger.â And just like that, everything that came before was forgiven and forgotten and âgone. But was that such a bad thing? Rest would be nice. If it meant his lungs would stop hurting. If it meant his chest would stop aching. Sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep wasââI miss your music, Wilbur.â
Death. Such a small word for such a big thing.
And then, eventually, Wilbur spoke. âIt really was meant to be."
Forgiveness came easily with brothers, after all.
A single strand of hibiscus-pink hair. A wrinkled hand still clutching a bloodstained broadsword.
Tubbo could almost see himself shaking the prince awake. And the prince would blink drowsiness from his eyes, ask Tubbo who he was, and Tubbo would say, âA friend,â and maybe in another life that wouldnât be a lie.
âOnce penned,â Wilbur said shakily, âan ending cannot be restored,â and he plunged a dagger straight into Technoâs back.
Immortal life. That should be an oxymoron.
Half-sobbing, half-laughing, he fell against his chair and closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. He could see, in his mind, a field of flowers under an open skyâa place made for waiting, where all the finished stories went, where he would go someday, too.