With his cold tone that the crown-prince couldn’t rival in his best efforts, and an expression on his face that looks like it had been carved out on the surface of never-melting ice, the Emperor might look calm to an outside observer, but every child can sense their parent’s anger, and prince Theseus is not an exception. Back and shoulders tense to prevent him from outwardly flinching, he obediently ducks his head and says: “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Following the Emperor deeper into the gardens, Tommy feels eyes watching his every step. Where Wilbur outwardly sneers him, shoving his hands into his pockets with a smirk, the noble guests are more discreet about it. Glances from behind folding fans, whispers and murmurs briefly exchanged ear-to-ear – Tommy is used to these like to the gold tilt of furniture in the palace and howl of the winds in winter chimneys, so Tubbo’s green eyes anxiously flickering over to him stands out in stark contrast.
For a second, Tubbo looks guilty. His hands grip the table cloth as if trying to prevent him from leaping to his feet. Tommy wonders what Tubbo could be feeling guilty of, but then they round a line of trees and the pavilion hides away from their sight, and he is abruptly shoved back to reality.
The Emperor keeps walking. Every step he takes on a gravel path is a painful stab to Tommy’s ears. The crown-prince does not dare to stop, however, keeping up with his father’s pace despite how dread threatens to make him freeze.
"I heard about the incident that happened the other day,” the Emperor says. “Do you have an explanation for your behavior?”
Tommy’s hands, kept firmly to his sides, clench hard, nails digging into his palms. He doesn’t have an explanation – not the one that would satisfy the Emperor, at least. If only Wilbur didn’t take credit for his tea party, he could’ve said that he was trying to make up for insulting Ranboo- but Wilbur did, and Tommy has no other choice but to quiver weakly from anger surging in his veins.
"Don't we have anything more important to talk about, Your Majesty?” he says, irritation sipping into his voice.
“Do not change the topic, Theseus,” the Emperor says. The way he pronounces Tommy’s name makes his heart sink into his stomach. “I made it crystal-clear to you that Ranboo is under my protection. The only thing I requested is that you be kind and patient with him. Now I see that it was too much to ask of you.”
Tommy grits his teeth. “I'm trying my hardest.”
“No, you’re not,” the Emperor snaps. “You could’ve just ignored Ranboo, if it was that hard for you to keep your pride in check. Instead, you publicly humiliated him and brought him to the verge of tears.”
The guilt, curled up deep inside Tommy’s chest, stirs up uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to, but I can’t fulfill my duties if you and Wilbur constantly bring Ranboo up-”
The Emperor turns around suddenly. Tommy fights the urge to physically recoil from the glare thrown his way. "I wouldn't have to bring him up if you could be compassionate for once!”
Tommy shrinks back. “Compassionate?” he asks weakly.
“You’re the crown-prince, and Ranboo is just a poor boy with no parents or friends to fend for him. Don’t you have the slightest ounce of sympathy?”
Tommy falters. He never has seen his father this furious before. The Emperor has snapped at him a few times in the past, but he doesn’t remember ever outwardly getting shouted at. His father’s ignorance is a coin of two sides: Tommy never got praised, but he never got scolded, either.
Tommy could put up with Wilbur’s occasional naggings, could pretend not to see Tubbo’s strained behavior and concerned gazes. The Emperor’s indifference was a bliss – for that it means that he’s good , that his father has nothing to rebuke him for. Tommy was happy , until Ranboo had wriggled his way into the Imperial palace.
It’s unfair. That Tommy got yelled at – and that this argument was the longest his father had spoken to him in the last month. He can handle the loneliness scraping him inside out, but this feeling, burning and tight and overwhelming – is completely new. Just remembering Ranboo’s face makes Tommy shudder with anger, and his jaw, clenched shut tightly, is the only thing preventing a growl escaping from his throat.
‘Don’t you have the slightest ounce of sympathy?’, the Emperor’s voice echoes in his mind. In that moment, it’s as though lightning strikes Tommy, and he knows that the answer is a firm, outward no .
Tommy drops his head, keeping his gaze trained firmly on the ground. They are alone in this part of the gardens, save for the guards keeping respectful distance and motionless as stone statues. Not far away is an arched entrance to the Northern wing. The Emperor interprets the crown-prince’s long pause as repentance, and turns around, as if preparing to leave.
“I’ve told you everything that I wanted to,” he says, taking a measured step, "By the end of this walk, I expect you to return to Wilbur’s party and to publicly apologize to Ranboo-"
“No.”
The Emperor stops. He turns around half-way back, frowning, “No?”
Tommy tilts his chin up. His eyes, narrowed down to sharp slits, stare at the Emperor with stubborn defiance. "I will not make myself a laughingstock for Your Majesty's whim."
"It's an order. And as a prince, you are obliged to comply."
"The crown-prince has no obligation to apologize to a lowborn pest,” Tommy cuts in, “and he is not someone to be disrespected, even by His Majesty.”
Normally, Tommy would’ve backed away at this point – or never spoke back to his father in the first place. He feels like he had stepped on a brittle bridge – but the fear isn’t enough to fight off his anger, one that twists his lips into a snarl and tightens his throat until the air gets in and out in harsh whistles.
Two pairs of blue eyes lock on each other. Tommy refuses to be the first one to look away, and watches the expression on the Emperor’s face morph from irritation to surprise and to something grim and complicated. His father looks like a person who was bitten by their docile, loyal dog: not angry, not yet, but the deep teeth mark on their hand make them question, for the first time, if the animal they had taken in was as harmless as they thought it is.
"Why did you change so much?” the Emperor says.
He stays right where he is, yet Tommy feels like a slap lands on his face. Just like that, all of his anger and courage is gone, and all that is left of him is his trembling, weak form, and stinging in his eyes.
Tears are a weakness, and not to be spilled in front of other people, so Tommy whirls around on his heels and runs.
***
Deep in the palace gardens, there is a section that Tommy never brings other people to, hidden away from a stray glance with high walls of woven branches. Thorny shrubs, splattered with dull green leaves, seem to soften and part slightly to let the crown-prince through.
In the clearing, a small building stands. It’s an orangery made from dull, white-tinted glass that looks almost orange in the light of the evening sun. Tommy has been visiting this place almost every other day for over six years now, but never has it become less painful to see a silhouette of a person moving inside. Straight, elegant stature, splendid dark curls and black pearls of a woman’s eyes all seem real, up until he opens the door and finds the orangery empty.
Empress Kristin has commissioned the build. Tommy isn’t sure if even the Emperor is aware of its existence, but as long as he remembers, he was the only one Mother ever brought here. Tommy liked it that way; to have a little secret between them that Wilbur and Techno weren’t included into. Over the years, Tommy will grow to have many secrets from his siblings, and they will no longer be fun to keep, but at the time it made him feel special.
The orangery used to bloom beautifully, a piece of a rainforest encased in glass, with a fountain in the very center. Even in the harshest of winters, a complex pipe system with hot water, cleverly hidden under the ground and between the trees, keeps the plants warm. Among giant green leaves and vines, colorful wings flutter. Blue morpho butterflies were the first one in the orangery, but throughout the years, several other species were added, and Tommy was taught how to care and look after each one.
He once asked Mother why she loves butterflies so much. The question had taken her by a surprise. A big orange monarch sitting on her index finger was carefully placed back on a flower. Picking up her robes, she sat down with Tommy on the ledge of the fountain and pulled him into a careful hug.
“You’re my favorite butterfly,” she smiled, brushing a hand through his soft curls.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“I don’t think I look like a butterfly.”
Tommy squirmed, trying to get comfortable, and settled down with his cheek pressed to Mother’s neck, his head tucked under her chin. He was ten at the time, but he felt like a toddler again, wrapped up safely in her warm arms: nothing else in the world mattered as he closed his eyes and concentrated on slow rises and falls of her chest.
“They remind me of home,” she then added, so quiet that the boy wouldn’t hear it if her lips weren’t just above his ear. Tommy knew for a fact that none of these butterflies inhabited the Empire, but it was when the Empress was already not in good health, always pale and tired, so he wrote it off as the haziness of her mind.
The memory of them sitting together, in a comfortable silence interrupted only by the murmur of the fountain and flutter of butterfly wings, was one of the last happy ones that Tommy had. The Empress soon had become too weak to move around the palace on her own, and was always either sleeping or resting in her bedroom.
Sometimes, the three princes were allowed to visit: Techno would bring a book to read to her aloud, or Wilbur strummed his guitar to help her fall asleep on the days when the chest pains got the worst. On that fateful day, the Emperor had come to escort them personally. The terrible helplessness in his eyes would haunt Tommy’s nightmares for years to come – it was the expression of a man knowing that his children would be left without a mother.
All four of them entered the bedroom tenderly. The heavy blue curtains were closed, and in the darkness only stirred by the trembling light of candles, they saw a woman lying amongst soft pillows. The Empress looked so weak that it seemed like she would dissolve into sea foam at any moment, but to Tommy, she was the most beautiful person in the world.
They approached. Wilbur and Techno, pale as the bedsheets the Empress was wrapped in, squeezed each other’s hands as she gently stroked their cheeks.
It was then Tommy’s turn to approach. Despite her weakness, with the Emperor’s help, she was able to push herself up into a half-sitting position. Mother pressed a kiss to Tommy’s head and murmured, quiet enough for him to be the only one to hear, “The garden is yours now. Can you promise me to take good care of it, butterfly?”
His voice wavering, and lips trembling, Tommy said, “I promise.”
The Empress passed away that night, and the first few days after, Tommy spent in a weird haze. It was both a blessing and a curse that he couldn’t remember anything from the funeral, except for a one brief second where his gaze focused on Wilbur’s face.
Empty and pained, it made something twist in Tommy’s guts. He always knew when something wasn’t right with Wilbur, and that internal voice was screaming his ears off. At the time, Tommy thought that his brother was scared of his newfound responsibilities – Wilbur was the crown-prince, after all, and with the Empress’ death, the empire and their father would need him more than ever.
That night, Wilbur ran from the palace, nothing but a bag of coins in his pocket. He bought a horse in the capital outskirts and left the city before dawn came. In two days, he reached the closest seaport, found a ship that was about to sail to a different continent, and convinced the captain to take him aboard.
The ship never reached its destination, however, and was caught in a storm several days later. No-one from the crew survived the crash except for Wilbur, and his weak, but still breathing body washed up to the shores of L’manburg, the southernmost town in the Empire, where it was found by a young woman named Sally. The story of how a runaway prince fell in love with a musician will inspire a lot of ballads, true and not so much, that will be sung in the taverns and shared in front of traveler campfires.
None of it will happen for a long while, however. At the time, the only thing that people knew was that in the span of three days, the Empire lost both its Empress and its crown-prince. Techno wouldn’t stop searching for Wilbur for years to come, but the Emperor couldn’t afford the luxury of believing in the best outcome. The Empire needed an heir.
Tommy turned fourteen, and was the crown-prince for a total of three years, when Wilbur returned to the capital, a woman with bright red hair by his side and a toddler in his arms. He had expected a teary welcome, a tight hug and forgiveness – and he received it, from every remaining member of his family except for prince Theseus. When they finally met, the boy might as well have been an ice wall.
“I’m glad that you’re alive, brother,” Tommy said, dipping his chin in greeting, and left it at that.
For the few months following his return, Wilbur wouldn’t leave Tommy alone. Trying to talk to him, interfering with his duties.
“You’re different, Theseus,” Wilbur said, staring at the crown-prince as he wordlessly signed another document.
“You weren't like this before,” he snapped, when Tommy refused to have dinner with him.
“Why did you change so much ?” Wilbur raised his voice.
All that he saw was Tommy’s indifferent expression, and then the door was closed right in front of his face. What he didn’t see was the tears glinting in the crown-prince’s eyes, and how he waited, biting on his hand to stifle out the sobs, until Wilbur stomped away, before he allowed himself to break down in an empty room.
***
And then something wakes Tommy up.
It takes a minute of slowly blinking for him to start making sense of where he is. Marble under his arms is cold and sucking out the remains of warmth in his body, and his limbs feel stiff from where he fell asleep, leaning on the fountain. Tommy merely moves his legs, stretching them to one side, and his muscles already scream at him to stop.
Tommy isn’t sure how long he has been sitting here before he fell asleep. It couldn’t have happened so long ago – when he touches his cheek, a fresh tear stains his fingers. Unless he started crying in his sleep, which becomes more and more likely as he throws his head back and sees a starry night sky.
Huh.
It’s been at least three or four hours since Tommy’s fight with the Emperor. Wisp must be looking for him right now, along with servants and secretaries. A good decision would be for Tommy to get himself together and return to the palace – but he hasn’t been making a lot of good decisions today, and he isn’t planning on starting now.
A part of the crown-prince’s mind is already scolding him for talking back to the Emperor, and shames him for crying because of something as stupid as a single phrase. But slumping down the fountain until he almost lies on the ground, Tommy can’t bring himself to care.
He is tired. Diving into memories like that always exhausts him like no paperwork can. Tommy looks around the orangery; it’s pitiful in comparison with the images of its previous glory. Half of the plants either withered away or are in the process of it, and the ones that survived look sluggish and dull, their leaves shrinking and huddling close.
The thing about butterflies, they don’t live very long. In the orangery, caterpillars hatch, turn into pupas, and then winged beauties emerge from the cocoons, all in the span of a few days, weeks, or – in best case – few months. Tommy knows how long each of the species is supposed to live, and he inevitably notices when he finds more insect bodies that he is supposed to.
Butterflies died all the time ever since Tommy started caring for them. On the day of Wilbur’s disappearance, he cried both with fear for his brother and over the motionless bodies. (After his coronation, there were more dead butterflies in the orangery than there were alive.)
In the summers, Mother used to let some of the insects out of the orangery. They would scatter around the palace and bring smiles and laughs to servants and nobles alike. Nowadays, Tommy is too afraid to go for such a risk, for as long as there is at least a single butterfly alive, he doesn’t break his promise.
Tap-tap , glass echoes dully. Someone is knocking on the door. It’s the same sound that woke up Tommy in the first place. For a second, his chest wrenches in fear. Then, his gaze focuses, and an already familiar green bird tilts his head at him from outside the orangery.
Tommy breathes out. Everything’s fine, nobody has found him. He stands up on his shaky legs and drags himself across the orangery.
“Hey,” he says softly, kneeling and putting his palm against the glass. “How are you so good at finding me?”
The parrot squawks and taps on the door with his beak again. Tommy puts his hand on the handle, but doesn’t twist it yet. “I can let you in, but only if you promise not to try and eat any of my butterflies.”
He said it without really expecting the bird to understand. To his surprise, the parrot stares at him and nods. Tommy doesn’t think that their bloodline had any mad people, but maybe he will be the first one – because against better judgement, he opens the door.
The bird hops on Tommy’s arm. He is heavy, and the crown-prince has to shift his weight a bit so that they don’t both end up toppling to the ground. Tommy walks back to the fountain and sits down on the ledge.
The parrot jumps to his lap. Tommy rubs his head and smiles, “Thanks for coming to see me.”
As the last two times, there is a note tied up to the parrot’s leg. Tommy struggles to unfurl it with his unbending fingers, and has the time to remember that in his last letter, he had asked for the bird’s name.
Does it need a name?
You can give one if you want to.
“Guess it’s up to me to decide, then,” Tommy chuckles. The crown-prince studies the parrot closely, but green eyes have already beat him to it, peering up at him close. It’s not the dumb look of beady bird eyes Tommy is used to see, but a penetrating gaze of an intelligent creature that, for somewhat reason, seems sad.
“Did… Did you notice I have been crying?” Tommy asks.
The bird coos and presses his head to Tommy’s cheek. His feathers are softer than silk, but at the same time so warm that it makes him shudder.
Tommy can’t handle it’. He bites his lip and pulls away. “Stop it, you’re going to make me cry again.”
The parrot scoots closer and presses himself to Tommy’s chest. The crown-prince freezes, unable to breathe. The bird only snuggles closer, spreading his large wings over his shoulders with an encouraging trill.
Slowly, Tommy relaxes. He puts down a hand on the parrot's back, and when he doesn’t protest, wraps his arms around him carefully. Green and white feathers are so fluffy and soft to the touch that Tommy has to physically stop himself from burying his nose into them.
“This is my secret place,” he admits in a low murmur. “I come here from time to time to cry my feelings out. Nobody knows about it, and I’d like to keep it that way, alright?”
The bird coos. They sit like this for a little longer, until Tommy gets afraid that he might be irritating the bird. He pulls away, and the parrot picks on the note crumpled in his hand.
Tommy is grateful for his habit of carrying a quill and ink in a sealed bottle with him at all times. He takes the old note and turns it the other way around and puts it down on the fountain ledge. A name for a green bird with haunting intelligent eyes. Tommy would have suggested something simple and predictable, like Emerald, but he wants to somehow thank the parrot for comforting him.
A simple hug didn’t fix all of Tommy’s problems, but it feels like a great weight has been lifted from his chest, and the perspective of leaving the orangery and facing the Emperor doesn’t seem as scary anymore . Tommy won’t apologize – he meant every word that he said then, and he won’t take them back now.
The Emperor is right about one thing, however. Tommy is the crown-prince, and no-one can replace him at that – not Wilbur, not Techno, and especially not Ranboo .
Tommy grips the quill tighter and writes,
The bird’s name shall be Prince.