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Assistant: Title: Butterfly Reign
        Author: SilentTeyz SilentTeyz 
        Chapter: 37/40 
        Summary: The royal family of Antarctic empire isn’t exactly close.Emperor Philza is always occupied; Tommy hasn’t seen Techno in months, and even if Wilbur is here, their relationship can be described to be strained at best.The royal family doesn’t need to be close, however, it only needs to be balanced, like the pillars holding the country above their heads – as long as they are strong and steady, the Empire will be too. It’s the principle that held Tommy’s back straight and his shoulders broad through the years of hardships and trials of errors; through yet another formal meeting where his father’s gaze would look past him and where his brother’s words would be filled with poison that makes the deepest parts of his soul ache.At that time, Tommy couldn't know that his family would find a replacement for him in the face of a commoner boy named Ranboo.
  ~🦋~
Tommy's family has replaced him. It's only fair that he gets to do the same.
        Contents: Chapter 37: But you're still looking down from your golden throne
    

    

        
          
          
            Tommy looks at the children again. The oldest of them cannot be over nine, the youngest doesn’t even have all his milk teeth yet. Anger spurts up in him, hot like molten magma. “How can they?” he whispers. “To give them up, just like that…”“It is better to have a living child somewhere far away than a dead one in your arms,” says the old man. Tommy has nothing to say to that, too stunned to speak.
          
        

      
        
          Needs mental fortitude and a strong heart - Vil the beta
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    The regrets begin with a pile of clothes shoved into his arms. Scrunching up his nose, Tommy pinches the top of the dingy fabric and lifts it up as he realizes with soaring horror that this is what his brother is expecting him to wear.“Absolutely not,” he declares. “What if it has fleas?”Wilbur rolls his eyes, and ruffles Tommy’s hair with a smothered half-laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, the clothes are new. I’m almost certain of it.”“Almost?!”Wilbur only smiles at him, eyes twinkling, and vanishes into the trees. Tommy is left alone to fume in his wake.He rakes his hand through his hair to smooth it down, rather fruitlessly. The edges have been growing out a little, enough that the curls wind around his fingers and tickle the back of his neck, but not enough that he could flatten them without the help of a good comb and oils, both of which he had to surrender in pursuit of appearing more commoner-like. Cursing and damning whatever force had possessed him to give in to Wilbur’s coaxing, Tommy hastily begins to change.He joins the rest of the traveling party seething with frustration. The new attire proves to be as comfortable as he had expected, which is not at all. The undershirt drapes down all the way to his knees, over the ratty-gray breeches patched and unpatched countless times, and a woolen tunic is so long that it has to be tucked into his belt like a goose’s tail, which is not even a belt but a fraying strip of fabric. The absence of fleas upon closer inspection is a small comfort; the coarse texture of the fabric causes him to itch all the same.“Not a word,” he threatens the grinning Purpled as soon as their eyes meet across the clearing where Wisp and his chosen subordinates are loading supplies into a beaten-down wagon. Somehow, Purpled’s smile grows even wider.“As you wish,” he says with faux esteem and a little mocking bow. “I will not tell His Imperial Highness that he looks like a glorified potato bag.”Tommy rolls up his fists, and it takes every single thread of self-control in him not to clock him in the face, and only because it is undignified of a crown prince to go around punching people. It took him three years to erupt on Wilbur – one insolent servant will not be breaking his streak anytime soon.He scowls just as his eyes fall on Wilbur helping his son into the back of the wagon. Fundy is picked up by the armpits, and kicks his feet back and forth in the air, prompting a sputtering laugh out of Wilbur. Tommy isn’t sure what causes the sharp twinge between his ribs: looking at them, or looking away.“I’ll ride in the saddle,” he tells Wisp, approaching to inform him to say that they’re ready to depart.He comes to lament that choice after two days of continuous riding plows his rear side into one giant bruise. With a decade's worth of experience under his belt, Tommy likes to think himself an excellent rider, but there is a difference between trekking meadows astride a purebred gelding and clambering up the foothills on a farm mare that cared as much for his comfort as the Emperor cared for his general well-being. Which, on its own, is an impressive feat.The only reason he’s able to climb into the saddle in the morning is Purpled watching him with keen eyes. The smug b@st@rd doesn’t even twitch a brow before he’s mounted again and taking off in swift stride, and if he’s not complaining, Tommy refuses to, either.The roads were empty those days save for an occasional hunter dragging their game home, so the tents growing across the foothills causes turbulence through the travelers that is equal parts cautiousness as it is excitement. The guard Wisp sends ahead to investigate comes back carrying two messages: it’s a merchant campside, and they’re invited to share their fires.Tommy dismounts with far less grace than he intends to, passes the reins to the guard that is the closest to him, and leaves Wisp to handle their lodging while he sits on a nearby rock, enjoying the ebbing rays of sunset. Purpled, who was immediately tasked with seeing what provision they can restock from the merchants, eyes him resentfully.“How come Theseus gets to do nothing all the time while everyone is toiling away like draft horses?” he complains for everyone to hear. “Surely he could lift his royal ass and contribute something for the common good.” “Watch your tongue,” Wisp warns in steel tones. Even without the weapons and the armor, his glance is enough to curb some of Purpled’s temper. Tommy briefly entertains the thought of having Wisp put him to his place, but their squabbles were their own, and besides it wouldn’t be as gratifying as p@ss@ng him off in retaliation. “It’s fine, Wisp,” he says, pushing up. “I’ll join Purpled. Needed to stretch my legs, anyway.”“What?” The incensed look on Purpled’s face puts a smirk to Tommy’s lips. Wisp, however, doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment. “I’d prefer if you remained within sight, Theseus.”“I won’t stray too far if that keeps you from getting worried. Besides, I’m not going alone, am I? Purpled did save my life once already.” Wisp’s expression shows exactly what he thinks about Purpled and his supposed capability to protect Tommy, just as Purpled’s shows how much he regrets not ditching him when he had the chance, and yet neither can offer a reasonable rebuttal. With a grin that wins wars, Tommy turns around and wanders off to explore. Purpled has no other choice but to follow suit. There are about two or three dozen men and women in the encampment, more of a cluster of wayfaring peddlers than a proper caravan, staying together for safety on the road. Traveling from village to village, they sold grain, clothes and furs needed in the harsh winter months to come. In the best spirit of tradesmen, they grasp the opportunity to make quick coins off of fellow travelers. As soon as they walk by, a saleswoman offers, with a smile of several missing teeth, for them to see what she has for sale. “We’re running low on dried meat,” Purpled tells Tommy in low voices. “Some vegetables for a stew would do nicely as well.” “Well, off you go then.” Tommy unclips his purse, counts off a few coins and offers to Purpled. Purpled, upon realizing that he doesn't have any intentions to follow, frowns. “Why’d you go with me if you weren’t planning to help?”“But to annoy you, of course.”Tommy drops the coins with a smirk. Purpled glares at him one last time, forced to pick them up from the ground, and stomps off towards the merchant. Satisfied, Tommy rests his back against some wagon and crosses his arms. He half-awaits someone to point a finger at him, or to fall down to their knees, but only attracts glances of fleeting interest, and eventually a look of outright annoyance from a woman he spends a particular time staring at in hopes of eliciting recognition. Even though it has been the entire purpose of this disguise to have him fade easily among the peasants, he is left with a strange residue, like an aftertaste from a dish that he could not quite figure out if he liked or not. And whilst he is caught up in this unexpected rumination, he is approached by a girl who could not be much younger than his seventeen, if not somewhat older. She wears a skirt embroidered in red and yellow, and her honeycomb gold hair is woven with a gaudy arrangement of metal plates in the shape of rabbits and sparrows. They jingle like a pouch of coins as she sways under the weight of the saddle in her arms.“Excuse me,” she calls out to him with a shy quirk of her mouth, “could you help me carry this?”Tommy holds no desire to act as an errand boy, but promptly discovers Purpled still haggling with the merchant, and nobody else of his own escort in close proximity to pass the task on to. Despite being a commoner the girl still registers as enough of a lady in his mind that his upbringing takes over; he takes the weight off her hands, and asks most courteously, “Where to?”As she guides him around the camp, she keeps a firm hold on his wrist, all the way chatting incessantly about herself and her life. In the short span it takes to arrive at a tent that they’ve already passed twice at that point, Tommy manages to both learn and forget her name, becomes an unwitting audience to her grievances about overly meddlesome siblings, and not even the utter silence on his behalf can dissuade her blabbering. “What is your name?” she leans a little over his shoulder as he’s putting the saddle down, and one of her braids knock against his shoulder. “Theseus.” Tommy straightens up. “Would that be all?”“Like the crown prince?” she asks coyly, decidedly not answering the question. “Like the Theseus of Athens, exiled and thrown down from a cliff into the raging sea. Although, some would argue that he was a wicked, power-thirsty man, who deserved his sorry fate on several accounts of betrayal, abduction and general misdeed.” When the girl only blinks at him, Tommy clarifies, “It’s who Prince Theseus was originally named after.”“Why would they name the prince after a man like that?”“I couldn’t possibly know,” Tommy replies dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”He soldiers past her, carefully withdrawn so as not to have their arms touch, and leaves the girl to her confusion. He is not surprised at all by Purpled waiting for him just around a corner, and even less so by the fact that he was eavesdropping on the whole exchange. “You could’ve been a little more polite. She was trying to woo you, you know,” he says, a little accusingly. Tommy fixes him with a look from the corner of his eye, and frowns when he realizes that Purpled isn’t jesting.“Woo. Me,” he repeats like it might make more sense coming out of his own mouth.“Are you really that dense, or just have to go out of your way to demean others?”“What do you mean?”“Dense, then.” Tommy raises a brow. Purpled sighs, like he’s forced to explain something painfully obvious. “It’s not just your appearance, but your manner of speaking and your entire attitude that speaks that you think yourself superior to everyone else. People can feel it, and it’s repelling.”But I am superior, Tommy thinks, although he withholds that part to avoid starting another argument. “Let them,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t seek any favors with the likes of common peddlers, anyway.”They stare at each other for a long moment, then Purpled walks away with an agitated scoff. “Arrogant prat,” he mutters under his breath, and Tommy echoes, “Insolent churl.”Tommy doesn't hurry to get back to Wisp and others just yet. By now their tents should be ready, which means that Wilbur, who Tommy shares a tent with, should be putting Fundy to sleep. He stalls wandering through the outskirts of the camp until the sky bleeds from dusk to twilight and the first shade of constellations start twinkling overhead. On habit, Tommy locates the Northern star, like Dream taught him to. It seems to shine brighter in greeting a soft yellow glow pulsing in tune with the fragile aching thing inside his chest. When he imagines someone by his side, Tommy isn’t sure who he'd rather it be: Techno, or Dream. Caught up stargazing, he doesn't notice that he was sneaked upon until a deft hand rips the purse from his belt and bolts. Tommy cries out and takes off in pursuit. He follows the hunched hooded figure through the dark, into the tall grass and weeds snagging his ankles, then with a sharp turn toward the campside when the thief realizes they can’t throw him off this way. “Catch the thief!” he shouts, but none is quick enough to stop the shadow that weaves through the tend, like a prairie hare darting from predators. When cornered by several men who spring in response to Tommy’s calls for help, the thief dives under a nearby cart. Tommy, not quite happy with letting them go, jumps on to the cart from a sprint, vaults over the edge, and without losing momentum, leaps to the opposite side where the thief has just emerged and took off again. Fran comes to his aid then. She springs out of the bushes, and tackles the thief. The purse opens and the coins spill out: many full round silvers, shining like miniature moons. Tommy is glad then that he’s listened when Wisp told him not to keep all the money on the body; most of it was split between the saddlebag and under the wagon’s flimsy wooden bench, and the rest not enough to arouse suspicion as to how a simple traveler came in possession of such fortunes. He calls Fran back with a whistle in case she gets overzealous and does more damage than necessary, but she lets the thief go without a hassle. They try to escape once more, but by then Tommy catches up with them and seizes the hapless criminal by the forearm. “Where I’m from, theft is punished by flogging,” he says in low, ominous tones, and they freeze. A pitifully terrified voice says:“Please don’t, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again…”It’s at that point that Tommy realizes that the thief is not hunching, but is just small, and then that she’s a child. He tugs on the hood of a fraying brown cloak, and knows that he’s screwed up when a pair of wet dark eyes looks at him, framed by cropped black curls. He lets the little girl go at once, and she scrambles away, into the back of a covered wagon, where he’s watched by a dozen or so terrified faces. Like a flock of skittish birds, they scoot into the back of the wagon as soon as Tommy’s gaze befalls them. “Please don’t take offense,” says a wrinkled elderly man, coming up behind him. “They’re an orphaned bunch, nobody to teach them any better.”“All of them?” Tommy asks, turning around. “They might as well be. The white plague has spread to several villages in a fortnight's journey to the west from here. Some are sending their weaker children away, in hopes they’ll avoid getting sick. We’ll bring them to nearby towns, where orphanages might take them in or artisans in need of apprentices.”Tommy looks at the children again. The oldest of them cannot be over nine, the youngest doesn’t even have all his milk teeth yet. Anger spurts up in him, hot like molten magma. “How can they?” he whispers. “To give them up, just like that…”“It is better to have a living child somewhere far away than a dead one in your arms,” says the old man. Tommy has nothing to say to that, too stunned to speak.The nobles would have mentioned it, he argues with a shade of desperation, before he realizes how laughable that statement is. The white plague was a poor man’s disease, rarely ever grazing the nobility in their mansions and manors isolated from the villages where the disease raged nearly every other year; why would they care enough to report such trivial matters? The man walks away. Someone puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Wilbur, he recognizes at once. “They thought that Mother had contracted the white plague from her ventures to the impoverished south, do you recall?” his brother asks quietly.Of course, I remember, Tommy thinks with a hollow in his chest. A few nights a month he wakes up gasping with those memories flashing behind his eyes with clarity of having happened yesterday. “They hadn’t let us see her for over a month before it was cleared with a dozen doctors from Kinoko that it was not the case,” he says. “We were so relieved at the time, all but Father. I understood years later that he would rather have her sick with something known and somewhat treatable than watch her waste away from an unknown cause. All the power and resources in the world, and still, he was as helpless as the rest of us.” “It gave us more time,” Wilbur says. “It is a blessing not granted to many.” He pats Tommy’s shoulder, and adds in softer tones, “come on, I’ve saved up some stew for you.”Tommy glances at the ground, where the coins still lie scattered. Just the thought of touching them makes his fingertips burn. He turns around, and allows Wilbur to lead him away. Later that night, Tommy struggles to sleep. He thought himself to be so tired that he would easily get a full night’s rest, but well past the stroke of midnight, he lies wide awake, daring not to shift nor stir, lest he might disrupt Wilbur and Fundy snoring soundly in the same tent. Every once in a while his eyelids would droop closed, and images flashed behind them again and again like in a spinning wheel. Doors, tall and closed. Wounds that bled golden rivers. When the wheel shows him for the third time a man with eyes like rain and Purpled’s haughty smirk, Tommy creeps past his brother’s and nephew’s sleeping forms and ducks under the tent flap. Crisp morning air rushes to greet him. Tommy gives a brisk nod to the guard standing watch outside. She seems to want to ask him where he’s going, until Fran stretches from beside a smoldering bonfire, yawning with two rows of razor-sharp teeth, and pads in his shadow without any prompting. She’s secured herself the status of his protector, it seems, and took the role seriously. Before long, the river comes into view. Shimmering waters course over rugged terrain, great silver herds prancing merrily upon the rocky channels, bounding down the ridges in hissing cascades and shattering like shooting stars against a hard bed of stone and gravel. He treks to the shore, where a group of soldiers found the place of final rest. Time and the relentless ebb and flow of water have weathered their bouldered forms, grew lavish moss cloaks and beards in obscure faces wrought in cracks and swells of granite. Tommy has a sudden urge to dip his legs into water. He unlaces his boots, kicks them off to the side, and steps on the gravel barefooted, curling his toes in from the cold. A pleasant sort of shiver travels up his spine. He climbs the riverbed, cautious not to slip on wet rocks, and finds one swooping far into the stream that water swallows up his ankles. At first the cold is almost unbearable, but he forces his shoulders down and his breath to even until he can’t feel his legs anymore. He closes his eyes, and feels his presence dwindle, as though he is made of ash and the wind scatters him along the shore. He is in the air, tangling in the gray of Fran’s fur and swishing in the sighing ridges of grass. He is in the soil, burrowing into the decaying leaves and nest of roots to slumber until the spring rains come and wake him. He is in the water streaming through the valleys, narrow and treacherous, placid and shallow, pouring into the lakes and eventually – into the great blue ocean. He is in the shuffling feathers of the creature watching him from the brambles, and in the breath of the one who sneaks quieter than a fox, and is much deadlier than one. “Purpled,” says Tommy, opening his eyes, a thousand pieces of him snapping back together. “Quit trying to startle me, would you?” Purpled seems both surprised and disappointed to have been spotted from ten yards away, but he takes on an innocent look, and closes the distance between them with doe-like grace, making sure to give Fran a wide berth. She pauses to give him a quick soundless snarl, and goes back to digging under some bushes. “Why are you up so early?” Purpled asks. “We aren’t supposed to leave for about, like, another hour.” “I could ask you the same thing.” Come to think of it, he recalls glancing at Purpled’s tent, and seeing him sleeping inside. Or pretending to be asleep. “You didn’t follow me because I left, did you?” “As if,” Purpled scoffs. “I was out for an early hunt.” And he demonstrates the crossbow at his belt, preemptively loaded. Tommy rolls his eyes. “Right.” He turns away from Purpled, and squints at the other shore, where he’s felt another presence: wings, great and powerful. He’s thought it a passing daydream of sorts, but when something shifts in the bushes, Purpled perks up like Fran at the scent of prey. He jumps from rock to rock and climbs a fallen tree trunk forming a bridge across the stream. As he shifts forward and points the crossbow at the brambles, Tommy thinks how amusing it’d be if something was to thwart him now. When Purpled is ready to release the trigger, a large salmon leaps out of the cascade and hits him in the face. If Tommy wasn’t watching him at that exact moment, he would have never believed it happened at all. The arrow whistles off into the sky, while the ill-starred hunter loses his balance and crashes into the river, creating a fountain of splashes. Tommy’s laugh startles every bird in half a mile radius into flight. By the time a very angry Purpled emerges from the surface, he’s bellowing so hard that his stomach hurts. “Shut up!” Purple eyes shoot deadly looks at him from under a lump of wet hair, which only prompts Tommy to laugh twice as hard. There’s silence on Purpled’s end, which should’ve been an alarm enough, but he doesn’t see the danger coming until a hand closes on around his ankle, and yanks him down. Tommy plummets with a yelp. Water rushes into his open mouth, and the river closes above him. The bottom is slippery, and he struggles to find his footing, only for a second, but a second is enough for him to become drenched, freezing, and coughing up the water that he wasn’t quick enough to swallow.“F@CK IT’S COLD!” he yells: loud, and with passion. He whips around to look at Purpled, who grins, standing waist-deep in the water and looking exceptionally proud of himself. “Now we’re even,” he declares in taunting tones and– “You scum!” Tommy, plowing against the current towards him, fists shaking the air. “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to send you back to your f@ck@ng ancestors. You hear that? You’re dead, Purpled!”Purpled throws himself out of the range of Tommy’s blows. “You’ll have to catch me first.” And, entirely childishly, he sticks his tongue out. Bushes rustle back at the shore. A shaggy head, sprinkled with dirt, sticks out of the ferns, alerted by their shouting. “Fran!” Tommy howls. “Fran, get him, girl!”With growing horror Purpled watches Fran take a little run-up and gleefully leap into the water, and then start paddling towards him, swift and confident in spite of the current. “THAT’S UNFAIR!” he screams, pursued by well over a hundred pounds of wet fur and determination. Tommy cackles, until Purpled starts moving towards him. Fran, who’s gained the upper ground by climbing a boulder peeking ever-so out of the surface, jumps and knocks them both off their feet. They tumble in the shoal, splashing, spraying water at each other, wrestling like clumsy bear cubs, and somehow angry cries and curses start to sound more and more like laughter. This goes on until neither of them has the strength to attempt another ambush. Sputtering and greedily gulping air, they crawl out to the shore and crash as soon as they climb high enough not to get swept back into the current. Tommy plops over to his back and squints against the sunlight filtering through the golden treetops. Blood still runs fast and hot through his veins, so he isn’t troubled neither by the cool of air nor the water lapping at his feet.“Why are you smiling?” Purpled mumbles, sprawled next to him like a beached fish, and truly: the corners of Tommy's mouth have drawn so far apart that his cheeks hurt. Winded and chilled to the bone, lying on a bumpy bed of pebbles and gravel, he is utterly, absurdly happy, in the same way that a dog is happy chasing squirrels or a horse rolling around in fresh fragrant grass. Let it be silly, let it be temporary, but he hasn’t felt so close to flying since he undertook the burden of the crown.“Nothing,” He sighs a breathless, abrupt chuckle, as Purpled continues squinting at him suspiciously until he turns away with a huff, and starts getting to his feet. What Purpled doesn’t know is that Tommy notices him battling a grin of his own.A hulking mass of wet fur plods out of the river and joins them at the shore. Tommy sees it coming before Purpled does, but when she starts shaking off, neither of them get far enough to be out of the range of spraying droplets.“FRAN!” They squeal at the same time, jumping. She rolls out her tongue and, looking satisfied, plants her belly on a flat, sun-bathed rock.Tommy shivers, beginning to feel the consequences of soaking so far into the autumn, and as he turns around, he notices Wilbur standing in the shade. He is pitched forward, and yet gripping the bark of a nearby tree, as if some unseen force holds him behind a border drawn in the underbrush by a cluster of mushrooms. His face has an expression of someone who had a butterfly land on them, frozen and holding his breath, lest he might startle the fickle skittish thing into flying off. “Wil?” Tommy half-calls, half-laughs, the smile lingering in his voice. Just like that, Wilbur has come back to life, and launches at him like a hurricane. “What the f@ck were you thinking?! Winter is right around the corner, and you’ve only just recovered from a previous sickness! Are you trying to get sick, you complete and utter dunderhead?!”“It’s fine, Wil. I’m not even that cold!” Tommy protests weakly, but he knows that he’s lost the argument as soon as Wilbur touches his icy hand. “Purpled started it,” he grumbles in an attempt to alleviate his brother’s wrath, and somewhere to his left there is an indignant squawk of, “Did not!” Eventually Tommy resigns to Wilbur’s brooding, letting him drag the wet clothes over his head even though it’d be much faster if he did it on his own. Wilbur makes an attempt at drying his hair with a woolen blanket, which only results in an aching scalp and his curls getting tangled on top of being heavy with water. In the end, the blanket ends up cocooned around him. Having been previously worn by Wilbur, and therefore preemptively warm, the fabric is pure bliss on his ice-cold skin, but–“It’s scratchy,” Tommy complains, wrinkling his nose. Wilbur taps it with his finger and shushes him. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”And Wilbur speeds off, no doubt to gather every blanket and piece of clothing to smother him in, and the warm and glowy thing on Tommy’s chest leaves him wondering whether he minds the fretting all that much. Flushing, he looks at Purpled, expecting to be met with relentless teasing, but finds Purpled staring at him with something so familiar that it’s like gazing through time at his reflection; brought to when he first watched the Emperor be more of a father to Ranboo than he’s been to Tommy in years. Bitterly envious… and longing. As soon as their eyes meet, Purpled wrings away with his shoulders mounted to his ears and lips pursued into a thin, frigid line. “You have freaky scars.” His attempt at distraction is as subtle as a swinging hammer. Tommy touches the edge of discolored skin revealed by the blanket slipping down his shoulder, and pushes it back up. “Those are birthmarks,” he corrects automatically, while his eyes heed Purpled in a way that he hasn’t done before. He’s trembling, and Tommy isn’t sure that the cold is entirely to blame. Shielded by a crass attitude and armed with a repertoire of snide remarks, he never gave Tommy a reason to delve beyond the outer shell– until this moment. Through a weathered crevice in his defenses, something fragile shines that prompts the crown prince to ponder if, perhaps, they aren’t so dissimilar after all. What Tommy does next is as unexpected to him as it is to Purpled. He scoots over and drapes one side of the blanket over his back, like a wing. “It’s warmer together, innit?” he blurts out in response to Purpled’s baffled look.There is every chance that he’s judged the situation wrong and Purpled might sneer in his face or retreat, as if scalded by boiling water, back into his impenetrable shell, but–“Whatever,” Purpled mutters, and draws the corner of the blanket over his chest. For a brief moment Tommy can’t help but feel a glimmer of elation – lasting for all of two seconds – before Wilbur appears again in the trees and finds them looking like sharing a blanket is the worst thing to ever occur in their lives. ***Ranboo has been visiting the treasury almost every day, and still wasn't able to see everything. It consisted of many rooms, most locked, some open and stacked to the brim with chests and crates full of gold. Under the watchful eye of guards, scribes count off coins into pouches for daily spending: the kitchen for cooking meals, hay for the stables, paper and ink for the archives, and a hundred other things steadily eating away at the yearly budget. An efficient, tuned to perfection routine that has Theseus' name written all over it.A small cough from the treasurer reminds Ranboo of where he is. He smiles a little guiltily, and hurries off after the man down to the maze of corridors until they reach a door as tall as two men and as thick as the entire length of a forearm. The treasurer produces three different keys, and shoves them into the locks in some specific order obscured from Ranboo’s sight by his broad back and shoulders. After a sequence of screeches and groans, the door opens with no little effort from the treasurer pushing on it with his entire strength.“Can I assume that my lord is going to take a while today too?” he asks impassively as soon as the crack turns large enough to fit a person. Ranboo blushes from the neck to the ears, mutters a hasty I’ll try to be quick and slips inside.This room is unlike any other room in the treasury. Each item here is placed on its own, lavishly illuminated pedestal. Since it is deep underground, any light here has to come from a complicated weave of lanterns that used special burning oil many times more expensive than regular candles on the grounds of being imported all the way from Badlands. Techno had explained when Ranboo was shown around here for the first time that in the event of an intrusion, the doors between different sections would slam shut and the vents blocked, effectively trapping the intruder for however long it’d take to notify the emperor. Which, at times, meant that the hapless thief was likely to suffocate sooner than they were arrested and brought before the court of law.Ranboo shivers, imagining himself in their shoes, and appreciates in full that he is here with the Imperial family’s permission. There’s something about this specific room that makes him tread slowly and cautiously along a long gallery packed with all sorts of gems, his breath hushed, like the gentlest disturbance of the air could affront the serenity of those walls. Earrings, rings, necklaces, diadems, and brooches of all sorts rest upon the shelves and behind glass cases, but one thing remains constant: precious stones of a deep, rich green.The crow’s emeralds, they are sometimes called, for none but the Craft dynasty could access the mines from which they were extracted, and only they had the exclusive right to wear them in accessories. They are a symbol of their ruling alongside, if not stronger than, their sigil. The seal of the Emperor, the twins’ earrings, Theseus’ elaborate emerald-and-silver crown – each Antarctic royal had once picked one item from the treasury as a token of their belonging to the Imperial family, and now it is Ranboo’s turn to do the same.However, what should’ve been a quick decision drags out into several days of careful pondering. It’s not that Ranboo hadn’t found anything to his liking; the treasury is full of beautiful heirlooms, but each had been already worn by at least one royal, and came with history attached. Gems that once belonged to such-and-such emperor, who forged the first alliance between the Empire and Kingdom of Drywaters. Belonged to such-and-such princess, who Ranboo knows was infamous for marrying a common servant and losing her rights for the throne in the aftermath. How could he choose without subjecting himself to the burden of unattainable expectations or a life marred by his predecessor’s actions?Phil told him not to think too much about it and trust his instincts. It doesn’t have to be final, he said when Ranboo asked for advice, overwhelmed with the number of options.“I’ve worn different heirlooms for almost two decades before I found the one that is truly mine,” he said. But can that sentiment apply to him, who was not born into the family?Someone like Theseus might wander those corridors with immense pride for the great emperors and empresses of the days long past, but each time Ranboo lays his hands on another piece of jewelry, he feels like a stranger, like his touch is violating their sanctity. Not even the thinnest drop of blood connects him to the names engraved in gold and silver. His own ancestors reside far, far across the sea, likely regarding Ranboo with scorn and disapproval, if they even bother to care.He was so determined today entering the treasury, but half an hour later of pacing back and forth, he isn’t closer to making the decision than he was days prior. With a sigh, he slinks down the wall and lets his forehead fall to his knees with a quiet thump. Maybe he should just ask Techno or Phil to choose in his steed.That is when Ranboo notices it. A little chest, tucked into a corner where he hadn't noticed him once before. At such an angle light shimmers on silver patterns, and they seem to move like foam on the crest of waves. Ranboo scoots closer, and gingerly flips the lid back. Inside, placed on a soft pillow, is a brooch, or a clasp for a cloak, with an emerald the size of a chicken egg. It is perfectly circular, with a glowing yellowish core split by a single, large imperfection of such a perfect shape that it resembles a cat eye.He knows, with the stone resting in his palm like it was always meant to be there, that he’s made his choice. The treasurer gives him an odd look when Ranboo exits the room with the brooch clipped to the front of his shirt, and says nothing. Through the rest of the morning he caught distant looks on himself that seemed more judging, more scrutinizing than usual. Theseus’ aide, Lady Beau, who would usually scoff and turn away at the sight of him, stares for a long time across a hallway until Ranboo walks away first. Still, not once he considers parting with the brooch. Only tucks it under his clothing, and hurries off to the stables, where he knows Techno would already be waiting.

The wild expanse of a forest beneath them seems to be on fire. Red maples blaze against shedding oaks, and the grass is gilded golden wherever the eye can reach. Captivated by the scenery, Ranboo doesn’t notice that they’d arrived until Techno asks him with a smile in his voice, “Are you going to sit there all day?”He flushes, and dismounts in a jiffy. Riding out on morning walks almost daily now, getting in and out of the saddle has become second nature, as did many other things that once used to be insurmountable challenges. Less and less often does the etiquette instructor reprimand him for a faulty bow, or the history tutor for confusing two emperors’ names. Ranboo considers the absence of remarks to be the highest degree of compliment, considering that the same stern set of teachers had once taught younger Theseus, and naturally compared them two.They leave horses to graze, and begin their ascension up the slope until they end up at the top of a foothill. From up here opens a bird’s eye view of the palace, and the woods, and the open wide field laid out between them like a tablecloth. At the moment, it is trampled by a hundred carpenters working tirelessly on wooden platforms that are to become spectator stands in near future.“I can’t believe that all of that is just for my coronation,” Ranboo admits.“It is not every day that the Empire hails a new prince,” says Techno. “Delegations will come from every nation on the continent and every noble house in the Empire to pay their respects. With all the festivals and ceremonies the celebrations are to last two weeks at the shortest.” He glances at Ranboo, and tapers off. “I am unnervin' you, aren’t I?”“A little.” Ranboo wrings his hands when Techno raises a brow at him, and sighs, “No, actually, um, a lot. I get the shivers just thinking that thousands of people will be watching me, listening to whatever I say… with that much pressure, I’m guaranteed to make a blunder so terrible that I’ll go down in history as the Prince Who Made a Fool of Himself on his Own Coronation.”“Nah, that title forever belongs to Wilbur. He heard from somewhere that honey can help boost the hair’s shine, and had me dump an entire bowl over his head the night before his investiture. It took three servants and a lot of crying to get him unstuck from the sheets in the mornin’, and he was snivelin’ all the way to the throne where our father was waiting with the crown, because he was afraid that it’ll get glued on, too.”Ranboo slaps a hand over his mouth. “Poor Wilbur,” he says in-between stifled laughter, and feeling terrible about it. “I take it that you didn’t let him live that down?”“Never,” Techno says, like he was speaking of some solemn brotherly duty. Maybe it was.They sit down in the grass together and fall into a silence that is neither comfortable nor tense and just… is. Wind swishes about in the bushes scrambling with their roots and thorns to stay upright, and plays with the strands of Techno’s hair, little beads woven into his braids clinking against one another softly.“We used to have picnics here,” he says. “Every year, several times from summer to early autumn. No servants, no guards in close proximity: just me, Wilbur, our parents, and Theseus too once he was born. Dad always insisted on preparing the meals himself. ”Ranboo can scarcely imagine it. “Philza, the ruler of the great Empire, cooking?” “Why not?” Techno asks with a hint of amusement. “Let me guess, the royals can't enjoy anything or be passionate about simple pastimes, and they're not really human at all.”Ranboo turns a light shade of pink. “Still,” he argues. “I'd expect sparring, hunting, even collecting jewelry… but cooking?”“History is used to putting us on a high pedestal, but at the root of it all, we are people just like everybody else. I can appreciate a good book. Niki's made pastries for as long as I can remember. Wilbur aspired to be a bard at some point, and Theseus knits every once and then.”He smiles a little as he says it, but the mention of both his brothers quickly puts the mood to gloom. Ranboo can tell that Techno is immersed into his own thoughts; while most of the time his face holds no expressions, worry is as obvious on it as a splash of red on white.“Still no word from them?” Ranboo asks.Techno's silence is an answer of its own. By now it’s been a week since the last crow arrived from his brothers, and Ranboo could see how the lack of news on the behalf of travelers has been making him restless and high-strung, like a bird stuck inside a cage.That comparison might not be too far off from the truth, considering how little time Techno has been spending indoors. Ranboo has half a guess that it has to do with him being an avian, mind and body existing at a dissonance where one longed for the sky and the other was fettered to the ground by chains of gravity. Roofs and ceilings must be an oppressing weight on someone who wanted nothing more than to take flight. Techno always knew what to say to make Ranboo feel better. Ranboo wishes he could do the same.There is something he can do, however.“I have something for you.” Techno watches curiously as Ranboo fumbles with the bag slung over his shoulder and produces a contraption with many belts and clinking metal bits. “Is that a torture device?” “Depends on how you look at it?” Ranboo asks, a little sheepish. “It’s a corset designed to support your back better with the consideration of the additional weight. Those straps go over and around your wings to keep them out of the way, and you can adjust them however tight or loose you like so that they’re not crushing, or too restricting.” Tubbo was the one who gave him the idea. Ranboo was scribbling mindlessly in his journal for ways Techno could hide the wings under clothes without numbing them to oblivion when Tubbo glanced over his shoulder and offered a few corrections, and even sketched the final design that was eventually proposed to Aimsey during the seamstress’ latest visit to the palace. It was a nightmare to explain the purpose of the invention without accidentally revealing Techno’s secret. Ranboo still cringes at the memory of his half an hour spiel about why the guards need a corset with a hewn-in space for an arrow quiver. Though, seeing as Techno takes the gift with a grunt – the highest degree of acknowledgement that he can bestow – he thinks it was well worth it. He pauses for just long enough to make sure that they're truly alone, but anyone who tried to approach them would have been seen from miles away. When he unbuttons his cloak, it's like clouds tumble from under an awning, as soft and white and billowing, and shining like freshly fallen snow. It's been only a little over a month since Ranboo began healing Techno, but the difference couldn't have been more stark. Scars that marr his skin like scratches on a cutting board have paled a few shades, and aren't as nauseating anymore now that a thin, shy layer of down peppers his shoulder blades, the back of his neck and the bridge of his spine. Techno begins to spread his right wing. Joints pop and feathers fan out, shining almost blindingly bright in the high noon. It visibly pains Techno to push it any further, yet there is a sweetness to it, like a good stretch the morning after an exhausting day. “I could swear they’ve grown an inch or two,” Ranboo murmurs. “It may look like it because of the new feathers growing in,” Techno argues, ever-the-skeptic. But when air hits the wing, ruffling the feathers, and he gives it a slow, gentle flap, a croon starts up in his throat. “Can I…?” Ranboo asks, and Techno pushes his wings towards him in place of permission. Ranboo takes a deep breath, and switches his vision.Charlie has helped Ranboo to discover this particular ability. He just showed up one day shortly after his healing session with Techno was over, and told him that you're not seeing in the most judging voice he's ever heard from the fae. He then proceeded to slap his hand across Ranboo's eyes despite his ongoing protests, which ebbed as soon as the hand was removed and Ranboo realized that the world around him flared like festival lights. It happens again, as he sits there under the open sky, surrounded by wilderness: a myriad of glowing strings of warmth flowing all around him like many channels of springwater. Tiny clusters in the bugs crawling in the dirt, and long wide stretches in the soil below the trees where complicated root systems run, in all shades golden, always moving and never staying still. What are those? he asked Charlie as he marveled at his own glowing fingertips, and he'd responded with one of the mysterious smiles of his and a simple, life. Ranboo forces himself to focus on the bundle of gold in front of him. People, he's discovered, tend to glow the brightest, but Techno in particular – not nearly as much as he should be. He has strings that lead nowhere, so many fraying ends, gaps and chasms, despite how much Ranboo has already fixed. As though drawing a path in the sand with a stick for sea waves to run through, he funnels the flow of gold to his hands, until the heat in them is nigh unbearable, longing, singing to be let go. Ranboo pushes it into Techno's wings. In the beginning he used to shove it in billows in hope that something would stick. Now he lets thin tendrils spread, poking and prodding for what needs to be fixed sooner rather than later. A crooked duct here, gently realigned. Ruptured threads there, having threads curled in out of Ranboo's own, quilting tissue together. There are scars that Ranboo cannot mend, but he can direct the gold colliding with dead ends through different conduits. Techno grunts as he works on untangling a particularly stubborn knot. Ranboo pauses, and glances over his wing to find his brows pinched together. “Does it hurt?” he asks, worried. “It’s… odd. Warm, sometimes burningly so, but not in a bad way.” Techno falls silent, pondering on a better explanation. “Odd,” he repeats again, giving up. And, what Ranboo expects the least for him to say next, “What does it feel like to you?” Ranboo doesn’t need to look for the answer. Rather, it finds him on its own. “Like walking barefoot through the woods in summer,” he says. “Or finding something you lost years ago, or coming in from the dark into the light-filled porch. It feels…”Like coming home. But it doesn't leave his mouth. I am home, Ranboo tells himself, even though in heart he knows that it wouldn’t be the full truth. Dizziness washes over him without a warning. His fingertips dim, like some gates inside him snap shut, the same instinct that makes a man pull his hand away from fire, or step away from a steep edge. Ranboo withdraws, and sags to the ground timely so as not to get a mouthful of mud. “Ranboo?!”If using his gift feels like flying, stopping is akin to crashing through the clouds and into unforgiving ground below. Sweat drips from his temples, and as Ranboo blinks, the pulse of light before his eyes turns to a worried-looking face, and a pair of wings fluttering like Techno could not decide whether they need to be tucked away, or hovering over them both. A handkerchief soaked in cool water comes to wipe at Ranboo’s forehead, and he makes a sound that is half-appreciation and half just him letting Techno know that he’s still alive. “Thank f@ck.” Techno draws in a loud breath. “Don’t scare me like that, kid.”“I think I’ve overdone it,” Ranboo admits. Lightheadedness begins to wane. Techno helps him rest his back against some rock, and he shivers, feeling its coldness through three layers of fabric. “Why didn’t you tell me you were overexerting yourself?”Ranboo recognizes that Techno doesn’t mean to sound accusing, but his heart twists all the same. “I didn’t know that I was.” Two months ago he didn’t know that he could heal at all. Another three months prior to that the only thing he knew of himself was his name. It’s frustrating. Every day he learns something new about his own nature, and those discoveries don’t turn out pleasant every time. Ranboo knows it’s selfish and ungrateful to want more than he was already given, but he just wishes there was someone like him so that he wouldn’t have to stumble in the fog – Charlie excluded, because he wasn’t entirely there and his cryptic clues only left Ranboo with more questions that he’s originally had. “We can’t go on like this without knowing the consequences of your gift,” Techno says, frowning. “Take a break. Healin’ me every day is unnecessary.” Sooner than Techno finishes speaking, Ranboo is already shaking his head. “You don’t know what I see.” Remembering the terrible words Theseus shouted in the heat of anger, his mind adds, you don’t know what I know. “It took you nearly collapsing just to ask for my help. And I don't need to remind you under what condition you agreed to accept it further.”Techno’s wings twitch. As cruel as it might be, Ranboo needs him to understand – they’ve come so far already that he’s so desperate not to let it go. But against his better judgment, instead of getting angry, Techno just sits back with a weary sigh. “Ranboo,” he says, in a tone that makes Ranboo’s stomach curdle in preparation. “How do you think I was plannin’ to get by prior to meetin’ you? I’ve lived without your help for four entire years, and I’d planned to keep my secrets for decades if that is what needs to be done to secure my brother’s place on the throne.” With a softness akin to padding a blow, he says, “It’s not your responsibility to fix us.” “Is it not?” Ranboo asks, knowing that his eyes are shimmering. “If I am to become family, will it not be my responsibility to look after each of you?”Techno looks away. It seems like he’s mustering up a response, until his gaze falls on something on Ranboo’s neck. He stills. “What is that?”Ranboo raises his hand to his collarbones. There, revealed by the shifted edge of his jacket, is the emerald brooch. “I’ve chosen it from the treasury. Is there something wrong?” he asks, seeing as though Techno suddenly looks uncomfortable. “We should’ve warned you,” he says finally after a long strained pause. “This jewel is called Eye of Ender. It’s the most famous prize of war seized from the northern fae ruler at the time of the Founding Empress’ conquests. The land that belonged to them at the time is our current southeast, from L’manburg to the borders with the Kingdom of Esempi. Their monarchs have requested in the past for the jewel to be returned, but the relationship between the nations has been strained enough that there wasn’t enough of an incentive. ”“Oh.” Ranboo clenches the brooch. It feels warm on his hand, like it’s alive. “That’s why I was getting all those looks earlier.” “It is… a sensitive matter. It would do you good to choose something else.”He picks up his cloak and drapes it over his wings in one swift motion. He has stood up and turned away, ready to call Carl over, when Ranboo asks, “Does it bother you? That I’m a fae?” There is silence. Techno looks over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter where you came from. You are one of us now.” He pats Ranboo on the shoulder, perhaps to lighten the atmosphere a little. “Come on, we need to get back to the palace before someone misses us and comes lookin’. I’ll tell Tubbo to clear out your schedule so you can have some rest.” Ranboo follows, and even smiles a little to play along, but a heavy stone rests upon his heart for the rest of the day. And in the evening, when he has a chance to visit the treasury again, he just… doesn’t. Lying in bed, he holds the Eye of Ender to his heart, glowing a glow that nobody else can see, the closest thing to home he’s had ever since he stepped foot into the Empire. ***It happens the next day as they’re breaking camp and bidding goodbye to the merchants. A flake of iridescent, glowing white lands on Fundy’s nose, and he sneezes.Sprinkling small at first, akin to powdered sugar that melts sooner than it touches skin, and then by noon clouds have overrun the sky like a drove of plush-coated hares. They ride in one straight line, tail to head, so as not to lose the sight of one another in the thickening blizzard and to plough the path for the wagon closing the procession.To where, Tommy isn’t sure. His toes have been numb for hours by now, the reins still clenched in his hands only because he could not let go unless he really put in the effort. Which might be a blessing in disguise because he’s starting to nod off, and if he falls asleep in the saddle, he’d rather do it knowing that he won’t wake up from diving head-first into a snowdrift, or worse yet, a hidden chunk of ice.His mind helpfully supplies an image of his skull bashed open like a cracked egg, and Tommy doesn’t have the muscle control nor the willpower to suppress the flinch. He squares his shoulders against the blustery winds threatening to eject him out of the saddle, and looks up over his horse’s ears, scouring the frigid wasteland for a tuft of fur, or a flash of citrine eyes. It’s been hours since Fran scurried off in pursuit of some scent, and the heavier the snow got, the more Tommy’s stomach curdled with the worry that she won’t be able to find her way back to him. Up ahead, there is nothing but an endless, dazzling whiteout… The horse under him plants a firm hoof into the frozen ground, jostling Tommy. The whole procession has come to a halt. He leans sideways in the saddle, squinting into the blizzard for the reason behind the stop, but it’s nigh impossible to see anything beyond the puffs of hot vapor rising from the mare’s flaring nostrils.He nudges her forward, and she complies with a displeased huff, dragging her hooves past three more riders, one looking worse for wear than the other. They slouch forward with fatigue, boots dangling in the stirrups, faces slick with sweat and melting snow. It’s remarkable how a few hours of starving someone of warmth and color can so ruthlessly snuff out their spirits. “You’re alright?” Tommy asks from Purpled as he rides up to his raven.“F-fine,” Purpled produces through his teeth’s vigorous chatter. More than the color of his lips matching his name, the lack of sarcastic input goes to show how cold he must feel. “Hur-r-ry up, and see what th-the fuss’ all about.”First Tommy finds a horse that is missing a rider, then a chain of footsteps descending a steep-looking slope. He dismounts, too, and covering his eyes against the harsh lashes of the wind, follows them to a silhouette darkening against a heap of rocks.“What is it?” he yells, trying to outcry the tempest.“A cave!” Wisp shouts back, and now Tommy can see it too: a dark, yawning mouth, wide enough for a person to walk through with their arms outstretched, and spanning further than the light slouches that are by a lantern gripped in Wisp’s hand. They look at each other, share a small nod, and enter.The cave expands to twice the size it initially appeared as soon as they make it through. Almost immediately the howl of the blizzard quietens, and Tommy is caught off guard by how easy it is to stand now that there is no snow constantly pushing him in the chest. Tension and cold water trickle down his spine, and his shoulders sag.“Could’ve been a bear den at some point,” says Wisp, who shines light on some animal bones scattered around the floor, splintered and gnashed to the point where it could belong to a hare or to a deer, and nobody would be able to tell the difference. “Seems empty now. We could hunker down here until the blizzard dies down.”Tommy gnaws on his lower lip. The prospect of spending the night in a cave doesn’t appeal to him at all, but more importantly… “And if it doesn’t? Should it keep snowing for a day or two, we’ll just get walled in.”“We would,” Wisp agrees, and says nothing else, but his gaze draws back to the tempest streamlining a row of hazy silhouettes. They flicker in and out of existence, just on the verge of fading completely, and Tommy understands that either they run the risk of getting walled in or of perishing to the force of nature. Fran tumbles swiftly into the cave, claws scraping the stone floor. It takes a moment for Tommy to recognize her under all the snow and flakes of ice dusting her fur, but she surely does recognize him, because she beelines past Wisp and towards him, wagging her tail. Relief at seeing her safe and unharmed overshadows the revulsion of a dead hare dropped at his feet."For me?" Tommy asks with a nervous half-sputter, kneeling to run both hands along the glazed furs of her mane. The tail wagging intensifies. As he smiles lopsidedly, his own words to Purpled from a few days ago surface in his mind like a shimmering visage on a lake. His people…Tommy turns to Wisp, and sighs. “Can we get the horses in too?”The cave gets noticeably more cramped after all of them file inside. The blizzard bellows and howls outside, banging, scraping at the alcove, as if enraged at the travelers for seeking shelter, but it can’t do no more than drive an occasional gust of wind to muss someone’s hair and make them wrap up tighter in fur coats.A long, chilling howl cuts through the canvas of the blizzard. It’s unlike any other sound Tommy’s heard from an animal, too deep to be a wolf’s, especially not Fran’s, who lifts her head and pivots her ears towards the entrance, decidedly silent but tense.“The soldier's curse,” whispers the guard who is closest to him.“The soldier's curse...?” Tommy asks, and because suddenly every other person becomes interesteding either in the floor or in the cracks in the wall, turns to Wisp.“Supposedly,” the captain begins with a hard pinch of his brows, “at the time of the expansion of the Empire's borders into Esempi's lands, an entire battalion has been subjected to a blood curse by an exceptionally powerful fae. It is said that when the moon rises, the maledict are forced to roam the land as vicious, mindless beasts. Skinchangers, they called them. Some believe that when the number of casualties continued to increase, every single one of them went into exile somewhere in these mountains.”Tommy thinks about the howl, so powerful that the snowstorm could not silence it, and shivers.“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Your Highness,” Wisp adds. “It’s an old gossiper’s tale, used to dissuade village children from wandering around at night.” And he pins the guard who brought up the curse with a stern look.Tommy decides that he does not want to think about bloodthirsty beasts hunting them in the blizzard on top of already being worried about them getting stuck in a cave for longer than their supplies will last, so he picks up a lantern that doesn’t seem to be in active use, and heads further into the cave. He creeps past Purpled taking care of the horses and crouches next to Wilbur, who’s picked up the abandoned carcass and clamps a finely-crafted blade between his thumb and index finger.“That’s my dagger,” Tommy points out.Wilbur lifts up the hare by the base of its ears. “Would you like to do the skinning, then?”Tommy makes a sour face. “On second thought, you can hold onto it for now.”With a that’s what I thought kind of expression, Wilbur puts the hare back down. Fundy arrives then, carrying a bucket almost half his size, filled to the brim with snow. He’s already panting with effort, but puffs up with pride even more when Wilbur accepts the bucket from him with a cheerful, “Thank you.”The sparks in Fundy’s eyes wilt a little as he notices Tommy, and while Tommy’s chest dips, like someone has pushed on his sternum and let go all within the same split moment, Wilbur shrugs off his coat and lays it on the cold floor.“Come, sit, both of you,” he says as he rolls up his sleeves. “Theseus, hold the light for me?”Fundy complies first, and after a stretch of silence Tommy perches on the very edge. He feels the boy’s gaze on himself as he lifts up the lantern to illuminate a circle around Wilbur but refuses to meet Fundy’s eyes, afraid of what he might see.Apprehension would hurt. Loathing – double down and bury him under waves of self-detestation. But fear would shatter him like a glass figurine hurled ruthlessly at the floor.So, he doesn’t look, and he doesn’t have to know. Sitting only an arm’s length apart, they might as well be standing on the opposite edges of a fathomless gaping chasm.Wilbur scoops up a handful of snow from the bucket and rubs it thoroughly into the hare’s fur, and for some reason into the stone he places it on. It startles Tommy when he takes one of its paws, and twists it in a way that produces an audible crack and has the whole thing detaching. Before he knows it, Wilbur is reaching for the next leg and repeating the process.Tommy’s stomach twists into knots. He glances at Fundy, who doesn’t seem to be phased at all, poking at the discarded paws with keen interest, so he swallows down and wills himself to stay composed – and he does, even as Wilbur slots the dagger into the base of the hare’s neck, and with a pivoting motion chops the head off.What makes his chest spasm in an aborted retching motion is when Wilbur makes a precise cut to the back of the hare, and peels to the two sides of the skin as easily as on a baked apple. His hand, holding the lantern, jolts, causing the light to rock back and forth across the ground.“You’ve gone very pale,” Wilbur says as he pauses and looks up to find Tommy clutching the fabric of the coat and gazing decidedly anywhere but his brother’s hands. “I thought you’ve been on plenty hunts before?”“Of course, I was,” Tommy bites out through gritted teeth. He’s half-sure that if he opened his mouth any wider, bile and his last lunch would come rushing out. “You can’t create all connections just by dawdling at tea parties, and some nobles are exceptionally passionate about poking wild animals with sharp sticks.”He grimaces, and adds, somewhat less miffed, “I’ve seen plenty of game die, but never stayed for the butchering nor dressing. I find the whole concept rather… macabre.”“And where does the meat on your table come from? And the lining in your winter clothes?”Wilbur is looking right at him, and it doesn’t feel as much like judgment as curiosity, or a gentle nudge.Tommy touches his coat, feeling for the soft fur around the collar. It’s not a thought that just casually comes to his mind while he’s busy fretting over how to moderate table conversations in a way that won't have anyone insulted or have his reputation any less than impeccable by the time that the servants come to gather the leftovers.He never wondered about how they’re disposed of before, either. Another wave of nausea caves his stomach as he thinks about all the food that is discarded from the palace feasts, or even from their dining tables on a daily basis.“Getting someone else do the deed for you doesn’t eliminate it,” Wilbur says, seeing right through his turmoil. “I prefer to do the slaughtering myself. It feels almost like… showing the animal proper respect, for the lack of a better word. You can mourn it, and appreciate it. That’s what I try to teach Fundy, anyway.”“I suppose,” Tommy mumbles, swallowing saliva with a distinct aftertaste of acid. Wilbur gives him a reassuring smile and gets back to dressing the hare.The rest of the skin is peeled off, revealing tender pink flesh underneath, marbled with fat. Though Tommy’s stomach churns in protest, he can’t make himself look away from the newfound precision and delicacy in Wilbur’s movements. The version of him that Tommy knew – the torrid, rash, calamitous Wilbur – had only shown such care when winding new strings on his guitar. Too focused on watching Wilbur, he doesn’t notice his nephew scooting over until a knee bumps into his thigh, and the rusty mop of Fundy’s curls bounces in the corner of his vision. Tommy’s breath falters, like the very blood in his veins froze over.“It’s not hurting,” Fundy tells him solemnly, slotting the little paw into his palm – this boy not even full six years old, who has a far more peaceful relationship with death than Tommy, whom it was dedicated to follow like a loyal shadow. He’d append it to Fundy encountering death in far less violent and intimate ways than he did… but that isn’t entirely true anymore.“That day,” he says only ever-so above a whisper, and knows he cannot continue. Waves of trembles travel down his arms to the tips of his fingers, and he resolves to set the lantern down before he drops it. “That man…”He shuts his eyes tightly, but even in the dark, there is no peace. Gold lives behind his eyes, gold and blue and closed doors to his father’s office, cold earth yearning to hold him, calling his name. There is a thing inside him that is oozing and festering, and when Wilbur cuts into the hare’s belly it is him who spills flies and maggots and all that feasts on things long rotting.“You killed him,” Fundy whispers, the push that Tommy needs to stumble back into his body, and take a step. In more literate means, he squeezes Fundy’s palm.“I was scared,” he admits. “Scared for you and your father. You know that I wouldn’t… I’d never hurt either of you.”Fundy studies him for a silent second. “Alright,” he says, and rests his head against Tommy’s arm – that easy. Like it hasn’t been tormenting Tommy for days how he’ll make amends over something that Fundy isn’t old enough to understand and he isn’t trusting enough to share.Perhaps he’s so used to his relationships shattering due to one poor occurrence, he hadn’t expected that they can be mended just as easily if both people are holding the seams together. He half-hugs Fundy with one arm, as cautious as he would be reaching for the flowers of crown of thorns, but he is neither prickled nor pushed away.Wilbur has finished the dressing. He puts the whole carcass aside, and uses the rest of the snow to scrub his hands clean. His fingers, neck and ears are all flushed red with cold. Tommy springs from place, Fundy squeaking in protest, and promptly swings Wilbur’s coat back over his shoulders.“It’s not that cold,” Wilbur whines, as Tommy is almost certain it is meant to imitate him from yesterday. He flicks his brother across the forehead out of spite.“Now all of this is well,” says Purpled, who’s been long since done with the horses and been pretending to be occupied so as not to wedge into heartfelt conversations, “but how are you gonna start a fire to cook that?”“We could dismantle one of the supply crates to use as firewood,” Tommy suggests. Purpled opens his mouth to argue with him, then closes it as he actually considers his words, and is forced to admit that it’s not half a bad idea.Wisp gets the fire going after some fumbling with flint and steel. Flashes of scarlet and orange shimmer across stone. Sometimes they look like unprecedented beasts with maws stretched wide and claws curled into sickles, sometimes faces beautiful and grotesque, and sometimes laughing maidens jumping over the flames, skirts flaring like sails at sea. Tommy hasn’t realized how cold he was until heat breathes feeling back into his body. His teeth clatter in appreciation when Wilbur fetches another blanket out of the wagon and tucks it over his shoulders. The hare is roasted whole, strung on thin long rods of wood. When the meat crisps and darkens, beads of fat dripping off and sizzling as they hit glowing cinders, Wisp takes it off the fire and begins to cut off slices with a sharp knife. A leg is handed to him, so hot that he has to pass it from hand to hand to avoid burning his fingers. If there is some hesitation due to seeing the same hare skinned and whole, his body is quick to shut down the mind's resistance and dig in his teeth.The explosion of rich, savory taste takes Tommy by surprise. Earthy, tangy, with a resemblance to black walnuts, the meat's texture is not that dissimilar to fowl, but leaner and not so easily torn through.A tiny portion of the meat has been charred, just enough that ash crunches between his teeth and his breath smells of smoke.Then it is like a cavern opens up in his stomach. He attacks the rest of the meat with zeal unprecedented even to himself, biting faster than he chews until it inevitably leads to him choking. While he coughs, a pouch appears in the corner of his vision. He downs the whole thing, cold water a pure bliss on his burning tongue.“Thank you,” he sputters as he hands the pouch back to the guard on his left. As their fingers meet, the absurdity of the situation strikes Tommy in daybreak clarity: he, the crown prince of the great Antarctic Empire, shares a meal with people so below him in status they shouldn’t be able to look him straight in the eye. Sounds like a joke, but the punchline is that Tommy is devouring food with bare hands like some uncultured savage.He thinks of every teacher and every tutor he's had up to this point who hammered proper etiquette and decorum into him until his head rang, and imagines the horror they would've felt if they saw him now, dressed as a common pauper, with greasy hands and face smudged in soot; the contempt and disgust of nobles he's toiled so hard to prove his worthiness to. For a split second such a powerful wave of shame and revulsion overcomes him that he briefly considers thrusting his hands into the fire, to feel his skin sizzling and bubbling, melting off his bones…A gust of the wind quickly changing direction flows into the cave and blows them cold. Fire writhes like an angry cat, hissing at the snow that tumbles into the flames, and for a moment it becomes dark enough that the silhouette in the entrance casts a shadow. It grows before their eyes, with its dark stiff fur bristled like needles, so huge that the blizzard fades behind it. Wisp reaches for the knife at his belt–Fran bares her teeth and growls–Wilbur rises, ready to put himself in front of Tommy and Fundy–And they all look incredibly foolish when a woman clad from foot to head in bearskin stomps through. She regards their startled faces with a hard frown, hands at her sides, and asks, “Well? Are you going to stay here, or would you rather spend the night under a real roof?”***There are still months until the coronation, but the first gifts began arriving so early that it is nearly impossible to walk through the drawing room without stumbling with the gaze on one. The servants that place them around on tables and stools peer at them with obvious interest, and Ranboo offers them to help with unpacking without a second thought.Just a few weeks back the mere suggestion would horrify them (“We wouldn’t dare, we’re not allowed to–”), but after almost daily routine of coaxing and urging them to come sit and have tea with him, they only look at each other, waiting for someone to object first, and when that doesn’t happen, settle into chairs and sofas.And there is much to see. Precious stones, earrings and bracelets of various sizes and colors, fabrics so soft that they streamed through hands like water, painted tea sets, a hand mirror in a fine silver frame, a coat of sable fur, oil paintings half his height and so much more. While the servants gasp, showing him one thing or the other, Ranboo chews on some sweets from one of the boxes and pores over the letters that came with the gifts. They hardly differ from one another, so he wonders whether it would be offensive if he wrote the same exact gratitude to all. One of the maids has been pulling out a glass vial out of a green box, and drops it on the floor. Fortunately, it does not break, but rolls across the floor to Ranboo’s feet. He puts the letters aside, picks up the vial and twirls it around. Viscous liquid sloshing inside is colored of dawn, pink and shining gold.“Is that perfume?” he asks from Tubbo sitting next to him. His friend doesn’t reply, staring off into some point in the distance.“Tubbo?”Tubbo jostles, and looks at him like he just realized that he was spoken to. “Yes?”“Do you know what this is?”Tubbo takes the vial from him, shoves his hand into the box, and plucks out a small vessel, shaped similarly to an hourglass. A candle squats at the bottom, and at the top is a small porcelain bowl. Tubbo pours some water in, unplugs the glass vial and tips it gently so that a few drops fall, then lights the candle with the flame of a chandelier.“An oil burner,” Tubbo explains when the sweet aroma of jasmine and chamomile wafts through the air. “The candle heats the bowl, slowly vaporizing the liquid, which causes the smell to spread. It’s quite a rarity in the north of the Empire. One of those vials should last for as long as an entire month.”“A good gift,” Ranboo agrees, glad to finally receive a present that is both tasteful and the extravagance of which doesn’t jump at his face to the point where he is embarrassed to accept it. The bowl is carved in the shape of a bird’s bath, and intricate patterns run along the walls that are pleasant to trace with his fingers. “What does the sender say?”Tubbo glances at the short note clipped to the vial. “I hope that you will accept this as a token of my heartfelt congratulations and support. Sincerely, Lord I.” Tubbo flips the note over to make sure that there is nothing on the other side. “Do you know anyone with such initials, Ranboo?”“No,” Ranboo says, “but I could’ve forgotten. I’ll skim through my journal later to see if anyone comes to mind. Would you bring this to my bedroom, please?”He passes the oil burner to the servant, and once she completes his request sends all of them on a break, handing them a cutout from the fabrics and a small pearl each. He wanted to give more, but Tubbo had warned him that it would be misinterpreted as disregard towards the gifts and their senders rather than a gesture of generosity, and Ranboo didn’t want to upset the nobles even before he got the chance to meet them in person.“So. What’s going on?” Ranboo asks after the last of the servants file out of the exit.“What do you mean?” Tubbo, predictably, feigns ignorance. In all the time that they’ve known each other, getting him to talk about his thoughts and feelings never stopped being similar to cracking a buckwheat nut with bare hands.“You’ve been distant all day, and the day before for all that matter. I didn’t want to press, but clearly, you’re bothered by something,” he takes Tubbo’s hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You can tell me.”Tubbo’s shoulders draw upward and fall down with a long, weary sigh. “It’s just my sister,” he confesses in ashamed tones. “Lani was in the city watch for the past few weeks with her mentor, and maybe she caught something from the new arrivals, but she’s been bedridden sick for the past days. Because father sent her home to recover, and it’s a long drive, I couldn’t visit her, and I– well, I’m worried.”“Lani doesn’t live in the palace?” Ranboo asks.“Not all year round. Our family owns a small villa in the fringes, me and Lani grew up there. That’s where we spend the holidays, and our days off.”“Then you should go there right now, and see how she’s doing.”Tubbo blinks at him, hope battling with duty behind his eyes. “But… What about you? I can’t just leave when your to-do list is two feet long.”“Would you like us to go together?” Ranboo suggests. “Then you won’t have to worry about leaving me behind. That is, if you want me there, of course!” he adds in a hurry, seeing the look on Tubbo’s face. “The last thing I’d want to is to impose–”“You’re jesting, right?” Tubbo blurts out. “She’s been asking after you almost every day!” “It’s decided, then,” Ranboo says with a smile.Two hours later they drive up to a two-story building of white stone, surrounded by a tall fence and a grove of lush trees. Tubbo hadn’t exaggerated when he said that it’d be a long journey. Far behind was left the heart of the capital with its bustling markets and fancy shops lined up like soldiers along carefully designed streets; nature prevails over civilization in this little nook carved into the very forest, where humanity seems an accidental guest, rather than a triumphing victor.Tubbo fishes out a set of keys out of his pocket. It takes a lot of fumbling and a forceful push on the rusty gates, but they squeeze through and end up on a narrow stone path shadowed by fruit trees. Branches hang low under the weight of plump apricots and shining apples, and squirrels chitter, prying the seeds out of the fallen fruits that aren’t already brimming with ants. One of the cherry trees stands askew, bearing a scar where it had once lost one of its greater branches – to a wrathful storm, or to a boy picking the ripest fruits from the top for his little sister, and underestimating his weight.Sprawling ivy hugs the side of the villa; next to it a secluded garden hides with backless wooden benches circling a pond overrun by green algae. Paths run in the lawn trampled by countless forays to the berry bushes, and, sheltered from the rain by the ridge, are three sets of faded lines chasing one another up against a wall.“It isn’t a castle per se,” Tubbo says, coming up behind him, eyes downturned and cheeks flushed. “One of my ancestors had received the land and the title in return for loyal service to the crown. Our great grandfather had built the villa, which my father inherited later down the line. There are guest rooms, but most of those are locked from autumn to spring to avoid having to heat extra space. We don’t keep many servants, and frankly the garden could’ve been better taken care of, but– it’s home.”Ranboo brushes his fingers against the brightest line, standing at about Tubbo’s current height. “It’s lovely,” he says earnestly. Tubbo fixes his gaze on his feet, but the ghost of a smile brushes his face, and a blush touches his cheeks that isn’t of shame but warmth. “Come along,” he says, tugging him by the sleeve. “My mother will want to meet you.”They get inside the house, and Tubbo announces their arrival. It isn’t often that he talks about his family, so Ranboo is taken by surprise when a lady enters the hallway with the kindest voice he’s ever heard, and a face to match.Even more surprising are the changes that happen in Tubbo the moment he steps through the doorway and into his mother’s greeting embrace. Withdrawn, aloof, stiff Tubbo stays behind the threshold like a stand of armor, and his place is taken by Tubbo who is small, fragile and trustful. As Ranboo watches worries melt from him like foam, a realization occurs to him that has strangely evaded him until now: Tubbo is young. I’ve already seen this somewhere before, Ranboo thinks as he pictures blue eyes instead of brown, filled with bitter tears and not joy of reunion. Theseus and Tubbo grew up together; it makes sense that they wear the same exact armor pieces, but if Tubbo had a place of safe shelter to shed them from time to time, what does it say about how Theseus felt in the palace that his got permanently glued-on?Tubbo’s mother does more than greet Ranboo, and about half an hour later he finds himself with a stomach full of fruit and a collection of stories from Tubbo’s childhood that he’ll shelf for later teasing. He wanted to hear more, but Tubbo declared that he’ll get a stomachache if he eats another pear, and shoved him out into the corridor leading to Lani’s room. He pokes his head through first to make sure that she isn’t sleeping, and then throws the door open.“Oh Laniii–” he sing-songs, “guess who I’ve brought!”“Would you do me a favor and shut up? I feel like my head is going to burst.”The curtains in the room are drawn shut, so it’s by the voice alone that Ranboo identifies the big shape by the corner as the bed, and a figure lying bundled on top of it as Tubbo’s sister. The room is bigger than the servant quarters in the palace, but much smaller in comparison to Ranboo’s drawing room, let alone the bedroom, and has floorboards that squeak like dying mice at every other step. “I would curtsy, Your Future Highness, but I don’t think me face-planting on the floor would do you any honor.”Lani sits up in the bed, vehemently refusing Tubbo’s assistance, and the three of them chat for a while about the latest palace gossip. Ranboo has expected to sideline for a bit as the siblings catch up, but as soon as they’re done bickering, he gets barraged with questions: ‘was the date for your coronation set yet?’ (No, not yet), ‘when do you reckon you’ll be assigned personal guards?’ (No idea), ‘hey, you should pick me! Nobody would assassinate you on my watch’ (Alright? Wait, what did you say about assassinations–)It’s clear that Lani is bored to death having to stay bedridden because of what she claims is just a little cough. She seems paler than usual, a little quieter despite the bravado she’s putting up, but otherwise her same enthusiastic self. Tubbo reasons with her that getting looked after at home will help her recover faster, and Lani remains unconvinced until he strikes a bet that he’ll top her in ax-throwing as soon as she’s back on her feet. He makes it sound like a common pastime, and Ranboo mentally notes to never make enemies of this family. And while they’re bickering, he glances at Lani with different eyes, just to ease his own worry. He discovers that Tubbo and Lani shine a similar, radiant shade of amber, and that sicknesses have a different effect on the person’s pattern than wounds do. The strings around her chest are dimmer, slower, and there’s some dark spot where he would expect the strongest glow. Ranboo peers closer, frowning, when the door suddenly opens and nearly startles him into falling off the bed. “Lani needs to rest now,” she announces. Ranboo scrambles upright, heart hammering in his chest, but nobody seems to have noticed anything aloof. Tubbo only chortles at him, while Lani pouts miserably as they file out of the door. “Don’t forget, you promised to make me part of your guard!” she cries out in lieu of a goodbye. “And visit me again soon!”The sun’s drawing to the evening now, but neither of them is quite ready to leave. They take turns skipping stones into the pond, and when that loses its spark, loiter around the garden, snacking on raspberries plucked fresh from the bushes, their fingers turning red and sticky with juice. When Ranboo crouches to gather more, he finds a sword hiding under the leaves. He passes it to Tubbo, who doesn’t seem to be at all surprised by the discovery. “It’s one of our father’s,” his friend explains. “Lani must have been sneaking out to train, and forgot to put it back.”He carries the sword to a sparring circle outlined on the ground with rocks, but when it comes to placing it on the stand, Tubbo hesitates. He adjusts his grip on the handle a little and cuts the sky in a wide smooth arc. Ranboo loses his breath, captivated by the tongues of sunset flame skating across the metal like golden dragonflies – until Tubbo shoves the sword into the sheathes, as if afraid that they would leap off the blade and burn him.“Do you ever regret it?” Ranboo asks. “That she has taken in your father’s footsteps, and you didn’t?”A crimson shadow falls across one side of Tubbo’s pinched face. “Yes,” he says. And then, like a confession both to Ranboo and to the whole world, “No.”As Tubbo wrenches his eyes shut, Ranboo bears witness to something monumental – the fall of a colossus, a century-old fortress splintering pebble by pebble into a roaring landslide – and raw like an exposed wound.“In truth, I don’t know,” he says a little brokenly. “I don’t know if it’s something that would’ve brought me satisfaction, nor if I have what it takes to dedicate my whole life to knighthood. For as long as I remember, I was escorting others on their path of finding a purpose, but I’ve never been afforded the opportunity to seek my own.” His voice, which has pitched into high, desperate notes, plummets back. “Maybe that is my destiny, to always be someone else’s follower.”Ranboo remains silent. What could he possibly do to solace this decade-old grief, other than let it run its course like a spring river that cleanses itself of silt and mud?“Have you thought about what you’ll do once I’m crowned?” he asks when Tubbo exhausts the list of woes to spill and detachment threatens to envelop him once again.Tubbo whips his head around, wide-eyed and maybe a little frightened. “You don’t want me serving you anymore?”“That’s not it,” Ranboo rushes to say. He’d never let Tubbo think that he’s abandoned, or unwanted. “Of course, I’d be elated if you decided to stay… but it’d pale in comparison to knowing that you’ve finally begun living for yourself.”“Even if it means parting ways with you?” Tubbo asks.“Especially in that case,” Ranboo tells him firmly. “You deserve to be someplace that makes you happy.”For a moment it seems as though Tubbo forgets how to breathe, but then he exhales like dropping the weight of the sky from his shoulders. “I’ll think about it.” He goes to put the sword into its place, and half-way through looks back with an earnest, easy smile. “And Ranboo? I think you’ll make a good prince.”The ride back to the palace is long and quiet. The carriage rolls through the dim-lit streets, and after a while Tubbo begins to nod off. Ranboo takes pity watching him startling himself awake each time his head tilted to the side, and offers himself for support.As Tubbo drools all over his arm, Ranboo thinks of him, Lani, and what it means to be a sibling. They might brawl and threaten one another as much as they like, but if something were to occur to one of them the other would fight tooth and nail to keep them safe. Ranboo is sure that Lani will be the first person to support Tubbo should he decide to ditch both his family's legacy and current place at the palace and decide to pursue some third, unrelated dream, and that both reassured him and struck him with sorrow he had never known before. He did not bicker with Wilbur at the dining table for who gets to eat the last sweet roll, or came whining to their parents when Techno pushed him too hard while playing, or – through gritted teeth and bitter history – be a subject of Theseus’ reluctant care. He was a kid that most of this family liked, and maybe loved, but he’ll never be one of them, or be someone they grew up with and cherished from the day he was born. And that bothered him. He can never have that with anyone. He was robbed of it the day he was separated from his family, and tossed into that wretched manor like a forgotten, useless toy. Ranboo thinks if nothing else, he at least deserves to know why. ***Tommy is brought down from the dreaming world by an ear-splitting shriek of some bird. It isn't a morning roll call of sparrows, or the croaky grunts of crows. Rather it sounds like the bird in question is being cooked alive. He jolts upright, his heartbeat soaring and legs getting tangled in a blanket, and realizes a few things. One, he'd drooled all over his face. Two, he was sleeping on the floor. And three, and arguably more importantly, he has no idea where he is. “Finally, he awakens,” says a woman's gruff voice, and Tommy whips his head around to find its owner examining him with an obvious edge of disapproval. Although awake, he is not entirely coherent, and the first thought that sparks in his panicked mind is that he has been kidnapped, or taken hostage. A dozen memories rush through his head of Techno preparing him for this exact scenario, and the training he'd been given ranged from how to undo most of the rope knots with limited mobility to turning the first item in hand into a weapon.“Morning, Theseus.” And then he notices Wilbur and the rest of their traveling party staring at him from around a rough wooden table and the last night's events click into place. Hiding his flushed cheeks, Tommy wipes away the drool from the corner of his mouth, rips the blanket off his feet, and swaggers to an empty space freed up by Wilbur putting Fundy on his lap. He pointedly ignores Purpled smirking at the far side of the table and straightens his shoulders, as though he sat a throne and not a creaky wooden bench. The woman fixes him with a long heavy glare. Trading the bear hide for a coif and a starched apron does little to assuage her intimidations. She stands almost as tall as Wilbur despite her shoulders hunched with age, broader than some of the soldier's. With her robust jawline and a broad, flat forehead, skin dotted in tiny troughs of smallpox scars, sagging eyelids that gave her a permanently surly look and arms large like wooden logs, she looked half a man, and half a bear. Tommy doubts that even Wilbur, skilled in the art of flattery, would find a single feature in her that is praiseworthy. She turns away, and strides toward the hearths in the middle of the room, where a simmering steel pot is suspended by the handle. Tommy was so exhausted last night that he could hardly tell the difference between the ceiling and the floor, so he takes this opportunity to take the first proper look around the house. There is little furniture beside the dining table – just some cumbrous-looking chests, an old wardrobe glowering in a corner, and cupboards full of earthenware – and yet it so cramped that someone larger than Tommy would have to duck and squeeze in through sideways in order not to snag one of the dry herbs hanging upside-down. Straw is strewn about the floor and flattened thoroughly, and the roof held up by a range of sturdy beams and timber cruxes is so charred that if Tommy brushed his finger against it, it would certainly come off smudged black. The corner of a bed peaks from behind a linen curtain that survived more than one moth infestation, and there is no shape of a door to another room anywhere an eye can see. Tommy would take the liberty of assuming that this is because there isn't one. The woman comes back after scooping up the contents of the pot with a ladle, and drops a chipped clay bowl on the table in front of Tommy. Everyone else already has one, and seeing as though Fundy plays a good knife and fork, he perks up, only to cringe and peel his upper lip when he finds himself face-to-face with a dish full of some viscous, sticky, lumpy sludge of color reminiscent of vomit. “What is that?” tumbles out of his mouth but he only gets to say the 'wha–' part before Wilbur's hand claps him on the back with so much force that his face nearly hits the table. “Eat with your mouth closed,” he chastises, bringing his voice up in volume. “Yes, Theseus, where are your manners?” Purpled snickers, clearly savoring the use of his first name. Tommy tries kicking him under the table, but misses and whacks one of the guards in the shin instead. The man makes a strangled noise, and Tommy, with a guilty churn of his stomach, uses that distraction to scrub the sludge off his bowl and into Fundy's. Glancing over her shoulder, the woman finds the guard a little red in the face, Purpled desperately holding down laughter, Tommy pretending to be very interested in the engineering of the crooked spoon, Fundy blinking confusedly at his bowl, and Wilbur glaring them all down like a bunch of misbehaving kids. However, when he notices her looking, he breaks into an amiable smile. “I don't believe we had the opportunity to ask for your name in yesterday's turmoil,” he says in his.“Hedda,” she replies in a tone that sounds like it is being pried out of her cold dead hands. Wilbur’s smile is impervious. “Well, Hedda, on the behalf of myself and my companions, I'd like to thank you again for letting us stay here last night.” “Thank the bones of the Founding Empress that I've been close enough to notice the fire. What business do you have this high up the mountains, anyhow? A few days ago, it was bandits, and now you lot.”“Oh?” Wilbur asks casually despite everyone else around the table growing tense. Tommy and Wisp exchanging a look. “Bandits, here?”“They introduced themselves as traveling merchants, but I can very well tell the difference between an honest trader and a bandit sniffing around for loot. We drove them off like the scum they are.” She scoffs, and then squints at them, not at all secretive about her distrust. “You’re not here to steal, are you?”Tommy has to bite his tongue from asking, do you even have anything worth stealing?“Hardly,” Wilbur replies with easy laughter, “Not much pillaging you can do with a child and a brother so queasy he cannot watch cattle slaughtered. As for our companions, well, those are dangerous times: it is safer to travel together, as proven by us by hardly getting away from highwaymen just a few days ago… You must have heard of the white plague spreading through the lowlands, yes? Towns and cities are shutting their gates to those fleeing from villages in hopes of avoiding contracting the disease. We have family in Snowchester that we hope would receive us and our friends. I'm afraid we got a bit lost trying to take a shortcut, however.”Wilbur is a good liar, but he is even a better storyteller. When not in the aggrieved party of his schemes, Tommy can even marvel a little at how he creates a believable narration out of half-truths and ambiguities. Hedda, who has no idea of knowing that the plague is nowhere as widespread as Wilbur makes it sound, seems to even soften a little.“You haven’t strayed too far,” she admits grudgingly. “Snowchester is only a day and a half's travel away from here, but you'd perish trying to find the way in this storm.”Wilbur hums. “May I ask then that we take advantage of your hospitality until it dies down?” That returns the frown back to her face. She stares them all down, crowded around her tiny table in her tiny dark house. “Too many mouths to feed, and that’s not even accounting for your horses. You’ll go through my winter supplies like roaches.”“We could pay you.” As much Tommy cringes at the idea of spending another hour in this hut, it was better than living in a cave. He slides out a coin out of his poach and rolls it between his fingers to let it shine and glimmer sweetly in the dim candlelight. Money seems to shut down all complaints and questions anywhere on the road, so it takes Tommy by surprise when the woman looks at him with a taken aback sort of incredulity. “I have no use for your silver, boy.” Hedda’s gaze returns to Wilbur, and Fundy, who reads the room very well and pulls up his best innocent adorable child look. She seems thoughtful for a moment. “But I suppose there is always a need for strong able hands around the village.” Whatever Tommy expects to happen when she leads them all out of the house and into the biting cold, it’s not a bunch of shovels thrown at their feet, and an instruction to clear paths between a dozen stone-and-spruce buildings squatting in two feet of untouched snow. In comparison to how shabby some of them look, Hedda’s house seems almost like a palace. “Clearing snow, while it’s still snowing? Is this some kind of a joke?” Tommy scoffs as soon as she leaves the hearing range. “On the contrary,” Wisp says, picking up a shovel, “It is better to shovel it while it’s fresh, rather than waiting for the bottom later to freeze and become nigh impossible to break through.” Strangely, none other than him seem to have any qualms with toiling away on someone else’s front yard. Wilbur, well, Wilbur doesn’t surprise him, but Wisp, an esteemed captain, and Imperial guards, each a knight in their own right, taking up the tools like they don’t find it insulting to their skills and years of vigorous training to do a peasant’s mundane work.And then Tommy is reminded, rather unpleasantly, that they are peasants. It’s been long since military servitude was barren from anyone who was not of noble birth, and his guard is composed in large from offspring of common artisans and farmers. To think they don’t take up at least a little pride from being raised so far from their birth standings… Tommy scoffs, and turns away. He finds a precarious-looking wooden fence, and climbs on top of it, arms crossed, watching the guards deciding with little discussion to disperse and start from different places. Admittedly, there isn’t much to decide, even in the snowfall Tommy can see the stripped wooden pole marking the border of the village. In the shadow of Hedda’s house, Fundy is trying to build a snowman. He seems so determined that Tommy decides not to break it to him that he needs the snow to melt a little under the sun in order for it to stick. He caves both hands around his mouth, and calls, “Fran!”Shouting turns out to be unnecessary when her sleepy head breaks through an inconspicuous snowdrift right next to him. He was worried that she might get cold when Hedda wouldn’t let her into the house last night, but she seems well and happy, shimmying out of the snow and wagging her tail in greeting. With a coat as thick as hers, it must be a blessing not to be overheated for once. He strokes her between the ears, and apologizes when she searches his gloves for treats and doesn’t find any. “You’ll probably have to hunt for yourself again.” “What’s the matter, Theseus?” Purpled calls out to him from a little away, leaning on his shovel like a cane. “Afraid of a little labor?” “It takes little intelligence to poke the ground with a stick, so I’ll leave that task to you.” He basks in the satisfaction of hearing Purpled sputter, up until he goes to rub a snowflake out of his eye, and as soon as his hand comes down something hits him in the chest. Tommy swings his arms in a futile attempt to regain his balance and topples back-first into snow.“HEY!” he hollers, scrambling to his feet, as smirking Purpled is already drawing his arm back again. Tommy ducks, and the snowball hits the fence instead. “Oh, you’re on.”He scoops up some snow, rolls it up, and throws it. Purpled dodges to the left, but the next one ends up grazing him on the shoulder. He hurls two at the same time in retaliation, and Tommy swivels around so that they would hit him harmlessly in the back. The snow is still fresh, almost powdery, so most of their snowballs fall apart before they reach their target. “Your aim is not half-bad,” Purpled admits as they get closer with the same thought of increasing the force of their attacks, circling one another, projectiles at a ready. “That won’t save you, though.”And he charges forward like a bull, taking a direct hit in the stomach and face, before he gets close enough to tackle Tommy. Tommy doesn’t have enough time to get away before he gets a fistful of snow jammed and rubbed into his face. Spitting and sputtering, he wrestles Purpled’s hand away, and tips them into a roll. Everything goes in this fight, elbows and knees, kicks and punches. The bruises Tommy has scored tumbling down a hill a few days ago ache fiercely, but the pain is muffled down by the thrum of blood in his ears, and the heat that flushes to his cheeks from cold. Each time he thinks he has Purpled pinned, Purpled weasels away and does the same to him back, and the brawl renews. It doesn’t help that Fran decides that she should be included and runs around them in circles, pouncing sometimes to bite shallowly at their boots. Fundy, who’s abandoned the ever-crumbling snowman, flings armfuls of snow over them, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight!”“What do you think you are doing?” Hedda’s voice booms. Tommy lets Purpled leg go in surprise, and Purpled, in turn, stops trying to wipe the ground with his face. Huffing and panting, faces slick with sweat and melting snow, they cower in the face of two towering figures. Even Fran tucks her tail between her legs and ducks. “Uh, getting back to work?” Purpled suggests meekly. Hedda pins him with a stern look. “If I see you slacking off again–” “Yes, ma’am.” And Purpled is gone, body and spirit, and Tommy is left alone with the intimidating bear lady. Tommy is not… afraid of her, per se, no way that a prince would be afraid of some lowborn old woman, but when he looks into her eyes, an unbidden chill darts down his back. “That is a wolf mix.” She nods at Fran. “Yes, I’m aware.”“Wild animals are not to be trifled with, boy. I’ve known someone who convinced them to be harmless, and paid greatly for it.”“I don’t recall asking for advice.” Tommy digs his fingers into Fran’s nape, and she leans into the touch like any affectionate pet would. The pinch of Hedda’s forehead layers on top of the wrinkles of old frowns. Clearly, people rarely speak to her this way. Tommy imagines that he induces the same feelings in her that Purpled did in him: agitation beyond measure, and an urge to put the annoying little bug back in place, but at least in their case it was warranted. If only he could reveal who she was actually talking to, her attitude would be completely different. “Most dogs will flee at the smell of a wolf, but not those bred to hunt them, or to guard livestock,” she speaks once again. “It’ll do you good to keep her away from both. Give me your hands.”“Why?” Tommy challenges. That haughtiness drains from him with a yelp when his hand is grabbed without a warning and tugged for closer inspection. “Soft, almost like a lady's,” she concludes with a tsk. Heat rushes to Tommy’s ears. He wants to say that it’s untrue, he has scars from sword training, but they feel like a freshly rolled out piece of paper in comparison to her crumbled-parchment skin.He rips his hand out, glaring, as Wilbur approaches and scoops Fundy up into his arms. “My brother was born so frail of health, we feared subjecting him to hard labor.” And Wilbur tousles his hair fondly, much to Tommy’s displeasure. He swats his brother’s hand away with a hard scowl. “He can help around the household then,” Hedda says, like Tommy hasn’t spoken at all. “No one’s ever died from dusting and sweeping floors. Normally the neighbor’s girl would follow me around, but you’ll have to do.” And she seizes Tommy by the scruff as if he was a misbehaving pup, and drags him unceremoniously toward the house despite his protesting shriek. ***An Emperor dressed in simple linen robes and an apron makes for a bizarre sight. The serving girls and the cupbearers make excuses of carrying dishes to linger past the small corner vacated for the supreme ruler of the Antarctic Empire and for the soon-to-be fourth prince. The head cook stomps over and puts a swift end to the gawking, although Phil asks him with a good-natured smile not to reprimand them too harshly for their curiosity.“I'll admit, when you asked me to spend some time together, I hadn't expected this,” he says. Ranboo wasn’t able to see Phil the same ever since his conversation with drunken Theseus in the gardens, and those words he’s overheard from his and Wilbur’s argument prior to that. They still spoke almost every day, dined together and went on long walks around the palace galleries, yet Ranboo found himself watching him closer, more intently, as if something he said or did could've revealed him knowing that his youngest son had tried to kill himself.“Techno told me that you enjoyed cooking in the past, and you've seemed so tired recently that I thought you could use the distraction,” Ranboo says without a stutter, which, perhaps, is more suspicious for him than if he stumbled over every other word.Phil doesn't seem to sense anything amiss. He brushes his hand over a table, lingering on some scratches on the wood as though he recognized them out of the thousands as similar to one another as drops of water. “It's been a while,” he agrees with a kind of aloofness, then turns around and clasps his hands together with an enthusiastic smile. “Let's get started, shall we?”While Ranboo agonizes over the ridiculously long ties of his apron, Phil leaves and returns several times from the pantry, balancing bowls of ingredients in his arms and placing them around a long wooden table.“I was thinking we could make a rhubarb crumble,” he says, returning once again with a small basket full of reddish stalks and a cutting board tucked under his armpit. “It shouldn’t take too long, and the recipe is very simple. You can start on the rhubarb for now. Wash them over at the basin, remove the leaves, and cut the stems into chunks.”In the manor at the Esempi, Ranboo was never trusted enough to cook food, at most helping to carry the dishes to and from the table. Washing and rinsing is a minute's work, but it's when he gets to the cutting that Ranboo breaks a sweat half from the effort of keeping the knife as far from himself as possible, and half from the weight of the knowledge of what he's planning to do. Phil comes back after fanning the coals in the oven, and moves several ingredients on the table closer. “Now to the filling,” he says. Flour, sugar, and salt get turned over one after another into a large wooden bowl. Phil rolls up his sleeves, and turns to wash his hands in the basin, when Ranboo blurts out, “Wait!” Phil waits, a little surprised. “Your ring,” Ranboo forces himself to say in spite of his throat threatening to seal itself from guilt. “Aren't you going to take it off? You might drop it.”Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded suspicious, but it is the fact that nobody expects foul play from Ranboo that makes him the perfect thief. Phil only gazes at the emerald briefly before he nods, “You're right,” and tugs the little silver band off his finger. He slips it into the pocket of his apron. Ranboo stares at the shape of it at the bottom of the pocket until it feels like the image is burned into the back of his eyelids, and forces himself to look away. “Who taught you all of this?” he asks as Phil begins mixing ingredients in the bowl as confidently as if he's been doing this for years. “Your parents?”Phil chuckles, like the thought of it amuses him. “Not at all,” he says. “I can only guess what the late Emperor and his wife have enjoyed doing for leisure, since he sent me away to Snowchester when I was scarcely seven years old.”“Why would he send you away?”“He thought I'd be safer there,” Phil replies with a shrug, slicing some butter and adding it to the mix. “As my father's only son and heir, it was important that I make it into adulthood. Though, unfortunately, he was not aware of the true state of affairs in the family abode, and that the grandmother in her frail health and age could not rein in negligent servants. I suspect that they've taken over the correspondence too, because all the letters I've ever received were of how glad he is that I'm doing well. When my grandmother eventually passed I was left to my own devices, so cooking was just one of the things I had to learn to, well, survive.”He speaks of it so casually that someone watching but not hearing would've never guessed that he recalls fending for himself as a child just a couple years older than Fundy, in a distant castle three weeks' journey away from the rest of his family. “That's... horrible,” says Ranboo, once he manages to get his mouth to work. “It's been a long time ago,” Phil says, rolling the dough into a ball. “Besides, I've made many pleasant memories in Snowchester. Sparring with the father of your friend Tubbo, for one, or walking with my sister at the shore of the lake.” He pulls out the ring to rub it idly between his thumb and index finger. “I've married the love of my life there under the first snow.”His eyes take on a distant, glassy hue. The smile is still there, but it is sad and full of sorrow.“What was she like?” Ranboo asks. He's heard so many things about the late Empress, words of praise and love and admiration, it seemed that she's left an imprint of her presence everywhere from giant palace gardens to the tiniest alleys in the towns that Ranboo's traipsed in the week of his wanderings between running from Quackity and meeting Phil. Yet, it now occurs to him that he's never heard the emperor mention her, in passing or otherwise, other than that single instance when he summoned the entire palace staff to inquire about a lost jewel. Phil places the ring at the edge of the table, and looks Ranboo in the eye. It's an emperor's gaze: ice and steel and graveness that makes his words seem like an oath, some kind of sacred vow. “I'll tell you,” he says. “When she passed by, everyone held their breath, because they respected her that much and because she had that impact on people that made them want to cower in awe. When she talked, people listened: old and young, foolish and clever, noble or not – it didn't matter. She walked into danger for the sake of others like she had other lives, and yet when it came to protecting those she loved you would not find a knight half as courageous and fierce. Waking up in the mornings, in pain, seldom breathing, the first thing she's always done was ask after the children. That is the kind of woman she was.”“I wish I could've gotten to meet her,” Ranboo says. Phil smiles at him, eyes twinkling. “I think she'd like you a lot. Now, how's that rhubarb going?”Caught up listening, Ranboo forgot he was supposed to be chopping. There are still half of the stems left, and those that he did cut turned out to be all crooked and of different lengths. He flushes in shame, but instead of getting annoyed, Phil comes around the table to stand next to him. “Let me help you out a little, mate.” He grasps his left hand over Randoo's right, clenched on the knife as if it were a rabid animal raring to go. “Move your thumb just past the base of the handle. Yes, just like that. Now, you want to be firm, but not overly tense. Start from here and make your way down. Try to keep the chunks at about the length of your thumb, but it's fine if you end up cutting a little short.”Phil has a soothing voice, the kind that brings comfort to a kid woken by nightmares or the blast of a thunderstorm. Listening to his patient instruction, Ranboo remembers meeting Phil for the first time: stumbling out of the forest and into his carriage's way. How could he ever doubt him, who was such a kind man and emperor so as to give up his place on the inn bed to some pauper he's picked up on the road? How can someone who treats someone else's child so well be a bad parent? “Now we need to let it simmer,” Phil says when all the chopped stems are moved into a pan together with sugar and shoved into the oven. He goes to wash his hands again, but not before he turns around and notices Ranboo's look. “Is something the matter?”“Not at all,” Ranboo rushes to say. “I was just… wondering about what my duties would be, after the coronation.”“Because our family is so small, we were withholding from long distance travel for decades. The west of the Empire would benefit from a royal attending to some territorial matters, and King Karl of Kinoko Kingdom has long been inviting the Empire for a diplomatic visit. But there is no need to rush. You have time to learn more, gain experience, and get to celebrate your first birthday within the family.”“I don’t know when my birthday is, though.”“Then you can choose whatever day you'd like. I'm perhaps not the most experienced when it comes to planning festivities, but I'm sure that Wilbur would be more than willing to lend a hand.”The thought of it excites Ranboo. He's never celebrated a birthday as far as he can remember. “I need to make sure that it doesn't coincide with any else's. I already know when Wilbur and Techno were born, and Theseus…” He frowns, realizing something. “When is Theseus' birthday?”“Spring,” Phil replies, as he's rinsing his hands. “But which month? And which day?”Phil pauses. His back is turned, so Ranboo can't see what kind of expression his face holds. There is a silence as dreadful as though before a freefall, and the longer it stretches, the further Ranboo's heart sinks.  Reasons spring readily in his mind. It could've slipped his memory; Phil is the Emperor, after all, he's got a lot on his plate, or maybe Theseus is not particularly keen on celebrating birthdays, but none of those excuses can vindicate what Phil says next:“Is it important?”“I suppose not,” Ranboo squeezes out. “I… there is still a lot of flour left. I'm going to go and put it back.” He takes the bowl, and as he brushes past, swipes the ring off the table. It lands soundlessly into the flour, and he carries it away sooner than Phil can turn around and notice the disappearance. His heart is pounding by the time that he makes it to the dark corridor that leads to the pantries and storage rooms. Dizziness comes and goes, his mouth turns dry, and the bowl trembles a little from his hands shaking without control. The worst thing is, Ranboo thinks with a pit the size of a canyon in everything he knew about this man he almost came to think of as his parent, and the boy that he's, I still don't want to believe it.He hates how easy it is to see. Every smile that he'd garnered as easily as sunlight, and was bereaved from someone who stood shadowed in line for years. Every harsh word, twisted and barbed to hurt, that he attributed to his less-than-noble origin, when there was a much simpler reason for Theseus to abhor his presence. Broken things get replaced...In hindsight, Ranboo should've seen it from far off. The only times Phil spoke well of Theseus was of how he used to be, never past the years of sweet childhood innocence, as though he spoke in the loving memory of a deceased boy and not of his breathing, living son.Ranboo have been aware for a long time that there were multitude of Theseus', depending on who was asked, but he hadn't thought until now that it means that multiple Phil's can exist, too: a loving caretaker, a mighty emperor, and a father who alienated his own child over accusations of decadence, while flaunting Ranboo's better treatment in his face like some kind of cruel jeer.He whirls into the closest pantry, barely closing the door behind himself before he needs to lean on something. Hiding behind some crates and sacks, he plucks the ring out, rubbing off the flour until the emerald shines. In the corner of his vision, he’s being watched by keen, vibrant jade eyes.Ranboo crouches, holding his hand out. Dream slithers out of the darkness, revealing his newest shape: an animal with long supple body and short legs, twice as large as a housecat, and covered from head to tail in coarse, reddish fur. He pounces forward, but Ranboo closes his fingers faster than he can sn@tch the jewel.“I’ve been told that it kills fae to break a deal,” he says. “I sincerely hope that it is true.”The animal blinks slowly, and nods. Ranboo opens his fist. Razor-sharp jaws lock around the silver band, careful not to graze his palm in the process, and then with a slick brown tail vanishing behind the door, he is gone. 
  
  

    
      
        
        
          Two years anniversary of BR let's gooo'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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