He woke up in his bed. It was a wide bed, but never lonely. It was where his memories of them were strongest. He slid out of bed, a wisp of his former self, and descended downstairs. Even after all these years, the house was vibrant, covered in paintings, decoration, lights… he remembered decorating the kitchen like yesterday. The old man stumbled out of Morrow house, gnarled hands gripping his sword, the point digging into the ground as he leaned on it. The other one was still within the ever present tattoo on his wrist, faded with age.
He pressed his wrinkled palm to the mossy waystone, all covered over from centuries of people coming and going, and after a brief moment of focus, a refreshing chill bit into his bones, and the sounds of laughter and family were gone.
The hedge surrounding his first holiday home was wildly overgrown, with the fence within it barely visible. He took slow steps up to the door, swinging as if it recognised his touch, pushed it open. It was as he remembered. The small kitchen, the two beds at the end, the soft, bison-skin rug. The ladder up to Strawberry and Mia’s room. Despite its age, it smelt fresh. A few hundred years ago, he’d remembered to take off the bedding, so it wouldn’t go musty. Next to the bedside counter, he found an old backpack, stuffed with emergency food, armour, weapons, anything he knew he’d need in his youth. The memories of when he woke up in the valley brushed his mind, and he chuckled.
Wilheim ran his hand over the green chair that was at the end of the bed, the fluff now turned spiky with age. It may have been a long time, but his memory was still sharp. He remembered the events that transpired here. Breeding tadpoles, to enable the old froglight farm. Bringing Blossom and Ghost here, when Ghost turned into a child egg. Gosh, that was a frustrating day. Decorating the room with Strawberry. Gathering snow leopards for the entrance, giving them a permanent home and food. But now, the water beneath the hut had frozen over. The footprints left by Blossom and Ghost had been long gone, the holes in the ice re-solidified for maybe a thousand years now. The house, still decorated, but the colours faded. He sighed, and turned, out of the door and closing it behind him.
Once again, he pressed his hand to the waystone, and the Marketplace appeared before him. The folks from Dawnstead had populated a lot of the valley now, and many of them had taken over the stores at the Marketplace, but they all knew the old residents of the valley. They were always welcome. He wandered the paths, looking at what each place had become. The library still stood tall still, the old cherry beams holding firm. It was filled with more ordinary books now, although the odd enchanted book sometimes stood out. Dear Rosi’s tea shop, slightly adjusted into a cafe, had a lovely green lawn for people to relax on, with tables to watch the buzz of those walking by. The A&A store had progressed into a full network of streamer holes, Esports teams, and rooms for private gaming. A number of stores had faded over time though. The old snail shop had gone to ruin, and Cary’s vegeble shop had been replaced with a quaint little grocery store. The memories were still there though. Wilheim wandered slightly further, pausing at the empty space where the Wanderer’s silly machine had been, and came across the looming silhouette of IKEA in the distance. A figure approached from the entrance, and Wilheim looked at them, his faded red eyes glittering in the light of the setting sun. The Wanderer approached him, looking the same as they did when he returned from his final assignment for the Provider. This was an individual that helped defeat Salvius. They nodded to each other, and didn’t exchange a word, not until- “I spoke to you earlier.” The Wanderer remarked. Wilheim turned, his sword making a tink sound as he halted. “Is that so? When?” “The day after Hazel was born. I’ve never seen a happier man.” The Wanderer chuckled. Wilheim smiled, and it faded slowly. The Wanderer looked at him, his eyes creasing at the edges as he understood what Wilheim was thinking. “Is it time?” Wilheim nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”
The final place he visited was his old house. The beach hut had been taken care of by Ulysses and Ren, who’d taken from his storage in return, as well as getting payments of whatever they desired. But they’d not been around for thousands of years. And in those years, it had slowly rotted away, the sand and sea reclaiming the old wood. He stood for a moment, looking at the waves. “Hello, my love.” He whispered, the words being snatched away by the wind. Using his foot to brush some sand away from a piece of driftwood, he brought his foot down on it and he was downstairs. It wasn’t as busy as he’d left it. The furnaces had lain cold and empty for ages now. The chests, rusted shut, barely a few things left inside. The utility room, armour sets covered in dust, blood pool dried up, bookcases empty. The living room furniture was covered in sheets, protecting the grey couches from age. He walked back through the tunnel, and ran his hand along the wall in the storage room, where he found the hidden catch, releasing the door. He gave it a push, and his old bedroom lay before him. The walls were empty, since he’d taken the large majority of his things to Morrow House, there was one thing still remaining, preserved by the magic of the frame. Some flowers, given to him by Marie. Wilheim removed them from the item frame, and breathed in their scent, as if they were picked that morning. There were notes of her in it. Tears welled up in his eyes. She had lived a long time. Longer than he’d even expected, but he knew there would be a time. He made sure to age as she did, and Rosi did the same. But after hundreds of thousands of years, they grew tired.
There was one last thing he had to check here. Walking back up the stairs, one at a time when once he might have flown up them, he tapped his foot on the elevator three times more, passing through the empty villager hall, and there he was. Rows upon rows of pedestals. Empty, but present. Aside, it seemed, from one. A neptunium sword, that reminded him of an exchange long ago. “A Drowned’s Might.” He uttered, a shimmer running down the blade. An exact copy of the sword he’d gifted Dill. Wilheim took the handle and held it aloft, the blade as sharp and clean as the day it was made. His heart twinged, from missing his friend, but re-placed the sword anyway. Someone would take it one day.
He strode back up the stairs, sword clinking on the ground as he took his steps, and tapped his other foot on the ground, rising to the top. Hobbling back to the waystone, Wilheim pressed his palm to it once more, and appeared at a location that was relatively new. He was at the crest of a hill, a well placed bench planted at the top, with someone sitting in it already. Wilheim took a seat, and Strawberry shuffled up, taller than him. Wilheim sighed, and smiled, looking into the sunset. “My boy.” “Yes, Pa.” “You’ve done so well in this life, you know? You’ve been such a fantastic brother to your siblings. Such a fantastic son to your parents.” Wilheim let his sword fall to the ground, and he put an arm around Strawberry. “I couldn’t be prouder of you.” With a sniff, Strawberry leaned towards him, resting his head gently on Wilheim’s shoulder.
“Pa, does it ever get any easier?” Wilheim looked down to him. “Does what?” “Losing people.” He smiled sadly. “No, my son. I’m afraid not. But you learn.” He turned back out to the sunset. “You learn to mourn them in the moment, and celebrate them for ever. You’ll see bits and pieces of them everywhere.” He thought back to the flowers in his old bedroom, and the tea shop, and the sword in his basement. “It doesn’t matter who you lose, where they go- what matters is that they’re alive in your memory.”
Strawberry nodded. “Hm.” He drew a piece of rotten flesh from his pocket, and absent mindedly started chewing on it, the odour from his body beginning almost immediately. Despite being used to the smell by now, Wilheim’s nose wrinkled instinctively. “What’s all that for?” Strawberry sighed. “Suppose… part of me thought it would be us forever. Wim and Strawberry.” Wilheim laughed, but mostly to hold back his own tears. “Gods, I’ve missed hearing you call me Wim.” “First it was Usie, then Aw- Ren, i mean, and Dill, and eventually, Ma and Pa Rozy.” Strawberry sniffed again. “I just wish I could see them all again. Just once.” Wilheim squeezed his shoulder. “One day, my boy.”
Footsteps sounded behind them both. Wilheim didn’t turn, but Strawberry did, looking slightly perplexed. “Gummy?”
The God of Rot took a seat next to Wilheim, on the end of the bench. He didn’t say anything. The three of them sat there in silence, as the golden sun drew further and further past the horizon.
“How’s Swamp?” Wilheim broke the silence. “He’s well. Still looking after as many children as he can.” Wiheim nodded. “Good.” After a pause, he added “And Ghost?” Gummy was silent. “The same. She sends her love.” While the age had taken Wilheim, Gummy’s form had remained fluid, the bodies going one by one, only the trademark peach ring still continuing.
“I would have liked to know about your family, had I the time.” Wilheim remarked, casting a side eye to the God. “There’s still time.” Gummy said, not without urgency. “You could take another day-” “No. It has to be now.”
Bracing himself on the back of the bench, Wilheim stood, as the final light of day disappeared. Strawberry rose as well, and Wilheim wrapped him a hug, so tight that he thought he’d never be able to let go. All of Strawberry’s arms held him, stronger than him, and after one final squeeze he let go. Wilheim kissed him on the forehead. Turning to Gummy, he held out his hand to shake. “Goodbye.”
The God took it, shaking it once, firmly, and as it reached the bottom of the shake, Wilheim was nothing but golden particles, glimmering as the moonlight hit the hill.