Archive of Our Own

For all it was worth in the end, the original L’Manberg was never all that grand. Past the rose-tinted nostalgia, it was small and restrictive, ugly and stained with the acrid tang of soot and ash and death. Despite all its flaws, though - despite its burn scars, its crater holes, and its air of destruction, Tommy had never felt like he belonged anywhere more.

Here is a well-known fact: L’Manberg was always the people, not the location.

If Wilbur or Tubbo decided to pack up shop and move their dinky little potion-fuelled nation across the swathes of redwood forests and into a terrible, awful swamp, Tommy knew he would follow. Because L’Manberg was freedom, it was liberation, it was family - and Tommy was beginning to fall in love with those ideals.

Tommy had never been in a family before. Hell, he was quite sure they were rather unnecessary before Tubbo showed up. Now, without L’Manberg, he was rather alone, and he realised that family was the one thing keeping Tommy going.

Here is a lesser known fact: Tommy resented New L’Manberg.

It might have been an easy reminder of the home Tommy once had, but it fell short in that it never had the people. Maybe exile made this worse - he doubted that, though. Only certain people could make L’Manberg feel like home, and they were long gone.

Most of New L’Manberg was a bastardisation of the past, if anything. Flags hung mockingly from the walls, dyed ever so slightly wrong. Only Wilbur and Tommy knew how to replicate the pattern perfectly (because apparently, Wilbur only decided to teach Tommy how to make them), after all, and neither of them were particularly available to offer their community service to the vapid nation.

Here is a secret: Despite everything, Tommy was never the true heart of L’Manberg.

Most outsiders seemed to perceive him as its hero, or its protagonist. Sure, he’d taken a few bullets for it, and yeah, he’d traded his comfort items for it, but that was never the truth. The Theseus analogy couldn’t be anything further from fact.
No - if anything, if there really was a heart of L’Manberg, he died on November the 16th to his own father’s blade.

Wilbur should have known that he always had the power to fix L’Manberg, if only he let his family help him a little more. But, then again, Wilbur had always been like his nation - stubborn, reclusive, and stupidly selfless in a fight.

Here is a lie: Tommy doesn’t miss Wilbur.

They were never brothers, and they were never even allies in the end. Wilbur destroyed their bond on the very same day he died. How could he miss such a monster?

(Well, this is how: he misses him with silent tears, secret visits to Ghostbur’s library, and hours in his green-top dirt house spent pretending to play his guitar. The wound of loss remains fresh and dripping for months, and Tommy’s not sure if he ever managed to heal from it.)

Still, though, despite the losses and the deaths, L’Manberg moved on. Somehow, it rebuilt over the scars of memories long passed, and it rose up greater, ascending to new heights. Awful cobblestone builds morphed into neat little spruce wood houses, and lovely little marketplaces with pretty little lanterns. L’Manberg became beautiful.

Tommy thought New L’Manberg was uglier than Dream’s stupid smiley face.

When asked about it, he always deflected.
“Oak is better than miles better than spruce, and this colour palette looks like shit.”
“The lanterns cause light pollution, and it’s really annoying.”
“All the water in the crater makes things a bit too damp, don’t you think?”

Of course, every time he ranted for a little too long, Tubbo would follow up with the same question.
“Is there anything you do like about New L’Manberg?”

And Tommy would stop ranting, and he would think for a moment, before answering the same way every god-damn time.
“Well, yeah. I guess I like the Caravan.”
For a boy that liked to call himself unpredictable, he was awfully easy to predict.

The Caravan was the one part of L’Manberg that remained unchanged. Yeah, it was a replica - of course it was a replica, most caravans aren’t armoured to defend against bombs! - but it was faithful, and it was sturdy.
It reminded Tommy of Wilbur.

Back before the conception of L’Manberg, when Tommy didn’t quite know Wilbur yet, he’d shown him the Caravan, kitted out with potion brewing supplies and everything the man needed to live. Tommy had called him dirty and homeless, at first, and then a creepy drug dealer, and Wilbur had laughed at both nicknames before offering him a loaf of bread and a business opportunity.

They never brewed anything illegal, of course. Most of their potions were strictly medical, created in mind of the disadvantaged. Healing, for those who fought often. Invisibility, for people imprisoned against their will. Non-standard potions like T supplements were brewed for Wilbur and his son, and anybody else who might be in need of it.

For the first few days, it was fun.
(Then Dream showed up, and the rest is History.)

The Caravan was the one part of New L’Manberg’s shell that still reminded Tommy of the past. Perhaps it was the only reason he (was) still a citizen. Or, maybe it was all futile, all pointless in the end.
For what it is worth, New L’Manberg was never all that grand anyway.

-----

Tommy was sure that Pogtopia was haunted, or something. It was never all that hospitable even in its prime, winding pathways and closed spaces coming a little close to reminding him of his claustrophobia, but now it was miles worse.

If he had to give it an endearing nickname, he’d call it the “Trauma Tunnel”. Or the “PTSD Highway”. Or the “Social Reject’s Special Breakdown Dungeon (for Nutjobs and Children)”. Any of those would fit, probably. Tommy had never been all too good at naming things, but he was very good at hitting the nail on the head with expressions.

At least, when Wilbur was alive, and the revolution was ongoing, the tunnels were filled with chatter. Maybe the buttons were a bit of a creepy design choice, and maybe the Pit was still stained with dried blood, but the chatter kept it from feeling like a coffin. Now, though, it was empty (just like New L’Manberg) and if Tommy listened too hard, he could hear the anguished whirling wailing of someone he ought to recognise.

Here is a well-known fact: Pogtopia is unsafe.

It was once a place of recovery, where Tommy and Wilbur hoped to reclaim their real home, but it fell into disrepair. Tommy only revisited it once, desperate to hunt down a sense of closure, only to find out that the once-warm oil lanterns had burnt out due to disuse. Once upon a time, the place was spawn free, filled with the aroma of baked potato and herbs.

Now, it stank of sulphur, and burnt wood, and a disgusting mix of freshly spawned monsters. Tommy’d set one foot in Pogtopia before he had to turn around immediately, just in case he lost his stomach on the stench of gunpowder. He wasn’t eating enough as-is - couldn’t let his lunch go to waste on the dead.

Here is a lesser-known fact: Pogtopia was the real New L’Manberg.

While the people of New L’Manberg seemed to attach themselves to the crater of the late Manberg, Tommy couldn’t agree with them. L’Manberg was never about the geolocation, after all - it was always about the people. After Schlatt sent the old place into a state of ruin, and L’Manberg’s heart escaped into the ravine with Tommy - well, it’s no surprise that L’Manberg escaped with them.

Despite being obvious, though, nobody caught on - not even Wilbur. Tommy only clued into the realisation after the adrenaline rush of nearly shooting Schlatt between his eyes finally wore off. L’Manberg never became unsalvageable. It simply moved without anyone realising, following its leader to its untimely demise.

Here is a secret: Tommy wishes he could’ve done more to help Wilbur.

Tommy couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he managed to stop the explosions. After all, they’d met in the void, and Tommy had found that death had been all but kind to his brother, darkening his eye circles and leaving him lean and exhausted. If anything, Tommy knew he’d failed the one person he would have died for.

"I'm glad I'm dead," Wilbur had said once, head low and eyes shadowed. He'd smiled at Tommy, but the grin was forced, and tired.
"You're a prick," Tommy had spluttered, caught off guard by the look of guilt in his eyes.
Instead of getting upset, Wilbur had simply wheezed, a semblance of laughter, lighting a cigarette from nowhere. "I know," he'd said, and before Tommy could comment on it, he was shuffling a deck of cards.

Pogtopia reminds Tommy of this - he finds himself walking down it after he is resurrected. The dark, dark hallways remind him of the void, and of falling, and of his brother’s hyena-like cackle. Despite everything, Tommy would do anything to hear it again.
But, Wilbur is dead. And Wilbur will stay dead, because he is dangerous, and he wanted it, and it’s for his own sake.

(Because Tommy failed him, even if all his friends tell him otherwise, and he can’t bear to face that fact again.)

Here is a lie: Pogtopia is abandoned.

Sure, it is haunted, and yeah, it’s pretty cold and empty, but it is not abandoned. Not yet, at least. There are rats that have taken to living in the walls, and possums in the Pit, and - most importantly - Tommy has taken to renovating it.

Well. Renovating is a strong word. He’d overseen the construction of a simple vault in there - something simple, far out of the sight of the people. He wasn’t sure why his first thought was to use Pogtopia, but perhaps something still drew him towards it. (Maybe the spirit of L’Manberg lived on, echoed by the ghoul of its founder. Tommy didn’t like that thought.)

The renovation isn’t the point, though. Tommy liked to slip away alone to continue the project, out of the eyes of his peers, and yet - he never seemed to be alone. The darkness seemed to shift around him, with eyes that could see into his soul, and though Tommy ought to be scared of this apparition, he never found the drive to be.

Perhaps the shadows were a manifestation of Wilbur’s real spirit, protecting him from the dark. Maybe it was a hallucination, caused by one too many Golden Apples. Tommy didn’t quite care. Hopefully the void would keep Pogtopia safe.
(And, if the monster levels started to drop after Tommy moved his stuff in, well. He wouldn’t snitch.)

-----

Logstedshire was never meant to be a real home, to be honest. Constructed by Ghostbur and destroyed by Dream, it was more like a morgue, a funny little funeral home for all of Tommy’s hopes and dreams. (Add in the amnesiac ghost of the brother you wish never died, and suddenly, it sounds like Hell on Earth, even with the picturesque beaches mere metres away.)

Sure, Tommy hated New L’Manberg, and was terrified of Pogtopia, but this hell of a location was far, far worse. He found himself taking avoidant routes after being revived, just to never see the stupid crater ever again. (Tommy hoped Dream would rot in hell for it.)

Maybe it was a little pathetic to turn into a stuttering mess when separated from society, but Tommy was never all that good at survival, alright? He didn’t exactly have a dad to run him through the basics of not dying in the hardcore wilderness, and Dream most certainly wasn’t going to start being helpful among all of his manipulation.

So, he sort of kept existing through pure sheer force of will. It worked, for the most part, up until that started running out, and when Ghostbur disappeared, but at least the logs kept him dry from the rain.

Here is a well-known fact: Nobody ever visited Logstedshire.

At least, it never felt like they did. If people passed by, it was always to gawk, to look and point at the poor exiled boy and his smiley man friend. Oh, look at how he’s suffering! Is that dirt in his hair? Get some rest, tall child! Tommy was reduced to their pity tool, a person to visit if they didn’t feel charitable enough.

So, no, nobody visited Logstedshire. Not really, not genuinely. It was him, Dream, and the tent, in the end, and he couldn’t even keep the tent. (So much for being an escape.)

Here is a lesser-known fact: Tommy always woke up drowning.

Not dream-drowning, though he was sure that would be an equally terrifying experience, but real, actual, life threatening drowning. The water would fill his lungs, cutting off his air supply, and Tommy would sputter and choke as he clawed his way to the surface, heaving the water out of his chest in shudders.

He never did find out why he did that, or why it stopped as soon as Logstedshire burned down. Perhaps the place was cursed, or maybe Dream did something to him. Still, whenever he looks at the cursed log structure, Tommy feels his lungs constrict, and his chest heave, and if he’s not careful, his body tries to throw up the water he should have swallowed.
(That’s a good enough reason to stop using stripped logs, right?)

Here is a secret: Tommy still dreams of Logstedshire.

Sometimes, he closes his eyes, and he is in the ocean. He treads water to his old base, and mines for what feels like hours, barely feeling the fatigue set in as Dream tries to make light conversation with him. In his foggy haze, he doesn’t question the fear of pain he’s developed, or the strange and sudden friendliness of the masked man. He’s lonely, and sad, and he’s quite happy to have anybody by his side.

Then, he wakes up, and Tommy opens his eyes to his dirt roof with his heart pounding. He’s not who he used to be, Tommy thinks to himself every time. Dream isn’t the same as he used to be, and Logstedshire isn’t safe. It was never safe. The reassurances never work, and he doesn’t move for the rest of the day.

Here is a lie: Tommy was glad to see Ghostbur go.

The ghost was nothing but a disturbance, a recollection of a worse past. He stained the logs with his blue whatever-the-fuck, trying too hard to cheer Tommy up with words he knew wouldn’t work.
But, for all it was worth, at least Ghostbur was there in the beginning, and at least he was genuinely kind. After his departure, Tommy considered running after him, losing himself in the snow until he caught frostbite and joined Ghostbur in the spirit realm. Then, maybe they’d be happier together. Maybe Tommy could see his brother and apologise.

He never did, though. Instead, he stayed in the dry, and he pretended he didn’t care about Ghostbur so his leaving hurt less.

Logstedshire was always fated to die, Tommy thinks. It’s surprising that he was never fated to die with it.

-----

Running from Logstedshire was the best thing Tommy ever did, but running to Techno was the worst. He couldn’t exactly revisit the cabins now even if he wanted to, with the terrorists of the world all congealing in their halls, but once upon a time, Tommy had been one of them, searching for a place to belong.

He thought he hated Technoblade, and with all rights, he probably should. But, for some reason, the damned boar is just like Wilbur - and Tommy’s efforts to hate him fall flat. Instead, he is just annoyed. A bit peeved, maybe - or a little snappy. Maybe they were destined to be happier without each other.
Tommy wondered if Wilbur would agree with Techno’s efforts, especially because they were done in his name. He hoped not - the idea of him clapping for the far crueler destruction of his nation was enough to make Tommy feel ill. Perhaps Wilbur would have sided with them, or maybe he would have run away, or - even worse - he would have leapt into the explosions, trying to go down with it. (Tommy hates that his brother was so stupidly and predictably martyr-like.)

He doesn’t really remember much of Techno’s cabin, anyhow, having blocked most of the memories out. At first, it was just a way to get out of the cold, but then Tommy was being drafted into a revenge game, and then suddenly he was on the fast track to betraying his closest friend, and then -
Well. Things happened. Stuff exploded. Tommy and Techno stopped talking. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, sometimes.

Here is a well-known fact: Techno likes the arctic because it’s difficult to fight in untrained.

Once, Techno explained to Tommy that it was a retirement base, strategically picked so that any assassination missions would be completely hindered by the thick layers of snow. Tommy had been in awe at the idea of it, blissfully unaware of the scuffle that had just happened.

Here’s the thing, though - the snow is also very, very annoying. Tommy very quickly found himself trudging through metres of the stuff, chilled to his knees and shuddering, and it was awful. Perhaps it was worse than New L’Manberg and Logstedshire. Suddenly, he was reliant on Techno for snow boots, or being given pearls, and staying in the cabin became a nightmare.

Here is a lesser-known fact: Tommy’s secret den wasn’t sound-proof.

Techno liked to think he was smart when he started recon with Phil about the future of L’Manberg. They spoke via voice message, calling each other over communicator, and Techno liked to do so in the basement - just in case of anybody breaking in. Well, that placed him right above Tommy, who had the misfortune of listening to every little bit of their plan. Every time Techno namedropped Wilbur, Tommy felt like crying.

“Minor terrorism”, they said. Tommy had hated New L’Manberg more than Dream, but the idea of seeing Tubbo hurt for it was a million times worse. Still, though, he didn’t speak up, because Tommy was out of places to run, and he didn’t exactly have any options past Techno. So he tried to communicate his boundaries, and hoped for the best.
(The best is never good enough.)

Here is a secret: Tommy and Techno were almost like brothers at one point.

Disagreements aside, they got along like a house on fire, and Techno - bless him - at least tried to help Tommy out with his extensive list of problems. Tommy would never admit this out loud, but he once thought he’d actually made it pretty good with their friendship. If he talked Techno out of the L’Manberg thing, maybe they could live together or something. They could get the discs back, and regroup in the arctic, and live happily away from the shell of Tommy’s former nation.

Techno called them “bedrock brothers” once, after finding the rare substance together. Tommy had immediately made fun of him, only to turn the stones into amulets in his spare time (he’d picked up tinkering from Tubbo before the L’Manberg war). Though Techno never said a word about it, Tommy caught him wearing it not much later, touching it with a faint smile, and he thought that he’d found happiness.

History repeats itself, though, and Tommy found himself losing more family in the blink of an eye.

Here is a lie: Tommy regrets trusting Techno.

Tommy knows he should, at least - why did he expect to be able to change the mind of the most stubborn man on the server? He couldn’t even change Wilbur’s mind, after all. Being on Techno’s side hurt Tommy so much, and yet - he misses it.

Perhaps something in Tommy yearned for a brother. They’d been closer in the earlier days of Pogtopia, after all, back when Wilbur was still repressing himself, and Techno was a little quieter, and things had seemed alright. Wilbur would play the guitar while Tommy and Techno either cooked or trained, and they’d banter, chatting about family and future and whatever the hell they thought of.

Tommy had wanted his stay in the cabin to be exactly the same as that. When he found it wasn’t, he wanted to be upset about it.
Instead, he just felt empty.

Perhaps Wilbur was the missing key. Maybe when his brother died, the rest of the world turned gray. Maybe L’Manberg - the real L’Manberg, not the phony one - was the thing keeping the server alive, and now it was being left to decay with its heart rotten.

“You’ve got to live for Wilbur,” Techno told Tommy once, when they were having a heart to heart in the snow. “That’s what I intend on doing. He wouldn’t want you sulking over him.”
And, despite everything - despite Techno’s destruction, and his power, and their estrangement - Tommy intended on following those words.

-----

Here is a truth: Tommy misses the past, but he will continue to fight for the future, because it's all he's got left.