Back in his office, Tommy finds a white envelope. Somebody must have left it when he and Beau were out for the tea party. Tommy wouldn't even glance at it before tossing it out to the rest of unsorted paperwork if it wasn't for two things: the seal and a grinning golden jester pressed on top of the envelope. The one that Quackity had given him over a week ago should've been still resting in the same place he had left it, but Tommy doesn't find the coin in any of the drawers.
Friend or foe, enemy or ally. Today Quackity decided to send him a gift.
Tommy pockets the letter and strides out of the room.
***
Esempi is well-known for producing precious gems and jewels, so when Dream initially arrived at the palace, Tommy had gone out of his way to assign him chambers that would be appropriate for the nation's wealth. Like most chambers in the palace, it had three separate rooms: a parlor for receiving visitors, a bedroom and a bathroom, coming one after another in this order. One wouldn't be able to enter the latter without coming through the prior, unless they somehow managed to climb up five stories of smooth stone walls and haul themselves into the window.
When Sapnap leads him into the parlor, Tommy notes that most of the furniture - a table with base carved in the shape of a swan, candelabras of pure gold, glazed porcelain vases - are collecting dust in the corners, leaving the middle of the parlor practically bare.
"Dr- I mean, Patches likes to have some space to run around," Sapnap explains.
Tommy nods, slightly lost. Arrangement of furniture is not the only odd thing about the room. On top of a large hand-knotted rug, couches and armrests and padded seats are generously swaddled in cushions of so many different colors and patterns that it hurts to look at them for too long. Pieces of clothing are abandoned all around; Tommy counts three different cloaks thrown on top of each over the back of an armchair. If Dream himself is hiding somewhere in this room, he wouldn't be able to tell, let alone something as small as a housecat.
"Is Patches not here now?" he asks, just in case.
"He and Prince are out for a walk... Or a flight, I suppose," Sapnap says. "I'll see if I can find them. In the meantime, make yourself right at home. Dream should appear shortly."
With those words, Sapnap is gone. For a minute or two Tommy just stands at the doors, shifting from foot to foot, but soon his arms get tired of carrying folders so he moves step by step towards a spruce table. Open books crowd it like moths resting their wings. Dream must have raided the library at some point, but instead of finishing one book he read it to a third at best before getting distracted and moving onto the next one.
Tommy frees some space for the papers he brought with himself. The river routes suggested for the trade with Badlands would require new ships for transfort. Esempi among other things is famous for naval engineering, born and perfected through centuries of ocean travel. King Foolish himself is said to be a talented architect, seeing five to ten vessels to sea each year. Tommy shies to contact him directly... and also secretly hopes that the design will cost them less if a request comes through the king's own brother. Not that the Empire's treasury lacks gold otherwise, but years of managing palace bookkeeping made Tommy mindful of every spending.
The longer he sits there, however, the less he can keep himself concentrated on work. His thoughts keep slithering back to the tea party. Normally nobles would refrain from rumoring around the members of royal families for the fear of kings and emperors' wrath... But it was Tommy who ruled high society in the Empire, and his one comment followed by impassiveness to slandering Wilbur's name was all the approval they needed to keep the discussion going.
He should have left it at that. Maybe even bid his goodbyes early once a few guests were up and the courtertisies allowed him to follow suit without offending or disrespecting the host. The tea party was his plan though, from start to finish, and the harvest tasted sweeter than any pastry he ate at that table. He stayed, drunk on boldness, intoxicated on his triumph, and was there to feel how Tubbo's eyes bore into his. Nobody else seemed to notice when he raised a hand to his chin and made a series of gestures, mouthing the word at the same time.
Five letters, one name. Henry. A stupid name for a stupid-looking toy. Wilbur said that he found him in mud on the streets, abandoned by the previous owner most likely for the lack of one eye and gutted insides. In his chambers Tommy had wooden horses taller than him, swords and axes, armies of tin soldiers and chests filled to the brim with toys that he never touched once, yet he clung to Henry so desperately that a maid that tried to take him it away got her hand bitten and eardrums burst.
Wilbur had coaxed Tommy into washing him, at least, refilled his belly with soft plush and helped to sew a button in the place of a missing eye. He had asked Father to knight Henry as well, with all the sincere naivety of a six-year-old. Laughter bubbled behind lips drawn all the way back as the Emperor lowered a sword to the toy extended in the prince's hands. Following the occasion, Mother's ladies-in-waiting took to calling him Sir Henry Plush. They haven't abandoned the habit even as he grew to nine and Techno explained to him that stuffed cows, in fact, cannot be knights.
After the Emperor agreed to foster Michael in the palace at Duchess Clara's request, and Wilbur asked Tommy to be kinder to his cousin, he made sure to bring him along whenever he went. Michael shied a lot; in everything, he looked for approval from Tubbo first. With mops of brown hair and small round faces they looked like they could be brothers, but in truth Michael was Aunt Clara's son and thus Tommy's adoptive cousin. Tubbo just knew how to act gentle and quiet enough that he didn't strike the same fear in the skittish boy as everybody else seemed to.
Coming to his chambers one day, Tommy had walked in right at the moment that Michael was reaching for the plush cow slumbered on his bed. His eyes, one a bright red and the other so dark that it was impossible to tell where the iris ended and pupil started, were blown wide in fear. Anger building up in Tommy's scowl evaporated like boiling water in winter.
Ghosting closer, Tommy couldn't help but note how small Michael was. Tubbo, who on himself wasn't a stark example of imposing height, lifted the boy up easily and held him with one arm. He looked so sad too; not just when he glanced longingly at Henry but all the time, swarmed by strangers that didn't care if he would disappear the next day.
"You can have Henry," he said. Michael could hear him just fine, but Tommy still used as much of his hands as he did his mouth. Practice is the only way to achieve perfection, Techno told him and Tubbo, handing them each a small pile of books on sign language. "I'm too big of a man for toys anyway."
Before he could chicken out of it, Tommy thrusted the plush toy into Michael's arms. The boy blinked at him in confusion, then gripped the gift tighter. Tommy saw the moment Michael felt how soft Henry was; where once had been only fright, sunshine of joy came. Michael placed a hand over his lips and lowered it towards Tommy. "Thank you," he breathed. It was the first time anybody in the palace had heard the boy speak.
Almost a decade later the memory is tinted with fog and tastes of bitterness. In the end, Tommy didn't welcome Michael into his family but into a theater play. Half the actors are gone now; the last member of the audience had blown the lantern out as they left, and yet some still performed, losing that border of sanity that separated a stage and real life.
In this story Michael was just a prop, stored away and forgotten if not only for Tubbo bringing him out of the blue... for what? To join in with the chorus of people telling Tommy how much kinder and sweeter he used to be as a child? Or worse - convince him to take pity on Ranboo as he did once with Michael?
Disappointment and anger swells in Tommy's veins. It's supposed to be the moment of his triumph! For once in his life that hollowness in his chest was filled with the sweet satisfaction of vengeance, but now the void is back and claws at him more fierce than ever. Tommy sinks his fingers into his hair and tugs at the roots, if only to distract himself from frustration, when there's a click of a handle twisted and then, "Theseus?"
Tommy shoots upright. "Dream! I, uh- sorry, I didn't notice when you came in."
The prince emerges out of the bedroom. He changed his afternoon attire: tight surcoat and necktie to flowy robes that reach his knees and are slitted at the sides to allow more freedom of movement. A dragon is sewn on a rolled up sleeve of dark gray fabric, and from all the jewelry that normally richly adorns his neck and wrists is only a ruby pendant left hanging on a thin golden chain. Dream jumps over the back of the couch, swift and graceful as a feline, and lifts up one of the parchements that Tommy brought.
"Oh, Foolish will love this," he says, plopping himself on the couch next to Tommy. Leaning forward and patting his shoulder in what is becoming to be a common show of approval from him, Dream says: "You did well. With this and the tea party alike."
Warmth blossoms in Tommy's chest. He sinks his gaze to his papers and tidies them up, just something to keep his hands busy with while he habitually suppresses the urge to smile.
"It's just the beginning," he says. "The tea party will seldom serve as a warning, but knowing Wilbur... He won't back away so easily. If there's something that he never lacked, it's stubbornness."
"Then a more permanent solution is called for."
Tommy fumbles with the button of his coat. "Well..."
Dream's eyes flash with interest. "So you already have some ideas, then."
"Scarcely so." Tommy pulls out an envelope out of the inner pocket and hands it to Dream so that he could inspect the shape of a fish pressed in dried wax. At least, it's supposed to be a fish, but resemblances end with vaguely oval shape and crooked fins. Somehow the head ended up being bigger than the rest of the body, and none of the scales was of the same size or shape. Michael could draw better at the age of four.
"Prince Wilbur's own design," Tommy explains. "He thought to mock great noble houses and their crests by having Lady Sally seal her letters with this... salmon."
"Remarkable," Dream snickers. "A prince married to a commoner."
"Prince Wilbur adores his wife. He acts all sweet and lovesick around her, it's disgusting," Tommy scrunches his nose up. "I suppose Lady Sally is what you'd call Prince Wilbur's biggest attachment."
Dream twists the letter around and hands it back to Tommy. "You have your hands on a valuable asset, then. How are you planning to use it?"
He looks at Tommy - it's a long, inspecting sort gaze that Techno would have watching him trying a new weapon or a sword move. After months worth of humiliation over his clumsiness and previous lack of skills, steel was finally starting to obey Tommy's command. Newfound confidence in his movements birthed pride. Techno knew that those shy flames were easy to stomp over, so he let them spread and gain heat. Impress me, would be written over his stoic expression.
"I'll preventit from reaching the original adresse. Prince Wilbur is surely to get alarmed when their exchange stops abruptly. No harm done to either side if Prince Wilbur returns to his mansion in the south a few months prior to the normal date."
If Quackity was able to intercept one of the letters, then he can do it with many more. The question is what he'd want in exchange, and Tommy has a feeling he already knows the price.
"And when he's back and wondering as to why an entire patch of letters from his wife had gone missing?" Dream asks.
"You know how secretaries are," Tommy carelessly waves his hand. "A letter lost, or two, or twenty. Who can blame them, with the heavy flow of paperwork?
Dream hums, thoughtful. "And if the matter does come to that... the last person anybody would suspect to mendle with Prince Wilbur's letter exchange is his younger brother and heir to the Imperial throne."
"Not Prince Wilbur though," Tommy points out. "I'll be first in his list of suspects. But two weeks of journey there, two more back, and I'd Imagine Prince Wilbur wouldn't be as desperate not to enjoy some time home before he sets his sights back on the capital. A lot of things can happen in a couple of months, can't they?"
"True," Dream says, not without approval. Tommy can never get used to how easy Dream hands out praise- or get enough of it, for that fact. Like a starved beast he scarfs down every word, stores it away like dried flowers between old crusty pages. Years would come and he'd occasionally pick up a heavy book and scroll through to look at the petals, as bright as the day he collected them.
It has a downside of his own: the more Tommy craves to be approved, the more he is afraid of disappointing. His heart plummets to his feet when Dream says,
"Though there is one thing I must disagree with you about."
"And that is...?"
A ghost of a smile passes through Dream's lips. "I think that Wilbur's biggest attachment is you."
Tommy's throat clenches. "What?" he husks.
Dream's answering gaze is unexpectedly still and long. Tommy's entire soul lays bare before the other prince, through his widened eyes and echo of his voice, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.
"You used to be very close before, weren't you?" It feels like Dream already knows the answer, but the grief that comes tolling in is so strong that Tommy has to take a moment just to squeeze his eyes and force himself to breathe.
We used to be brothers, his heart keens, or so I thought.
"How can you tell?" Tommy asks, peeling his eyes open once he can trust his voice not to crack again.
"Don't forget that I'm a brother myself," Dream says. "I know what it feels like to care and to love... and to feel jealous, too. Tight clutches all around me, pressing stronger every moment, and a small voice at the back of my mind, whispering to me of the things I must do."
Lanterns flicker. The light in the room suddenly seems dim compared to the green fire of Dream's eyes. His voice, edging a whisper, thunders in Tommy's ears: "Tell me, Theseus, what does your voice say?"
Which one? Tommy thinks. Over his shoulder stands Prince Theseus; his grip tight and bruising. In the dungeon of Tommy's mind he's the warden and the executioner; he sings of justice and punishment and revenge like they're three strings of the same instrument.
Let him know what it feels like, he hisses. To be tossed into a pit and have nobody to pull you out. Wilbur never has been as stoic as Tommy is now. Where it's taken years for him to show a faint sign of falling apart, one strong blow is all that's needed to crash the older prince. That's what has happened with the Empress' death. He just needs to make sure that neither Lady Sally nor anybody else is going to help Wilbur to recover from it.
The hair at the back of Tommy's mind stands upright when a howl surges through the dungeon, rattling iron and reverberating in walls. Even Prince Theseus falls silent while stone shudders under their feet. Lips tight and brows creased, he can't hide how anger cracks and shatters in icy blue eyes when he looks into a corridor swallowed by black. On the other side a heavy spruce door coated in iron, Tommy would find the other voice.
It doesn't talk. It just cries.
Tommy ignores it.
Dream is still waiting for an answer. Each second of Tommy's pause he looks more and more curious. Tommy's throat feels too tight, his mouth too dry. A hurricane has gone through his mind and turned all thoughts upside down. He forces his lips apart and coldly says,. "If you're implying that I might have some brotherly feelings left for Wilbur... I assure you, I do not."
Dream backs away; in more ways than just physical. The odd light in his eyes is gone, and an easy smile sweeps away the remains of a sinister expression he had a moment ago.
"I just want to make sure that you're not feeling pressured into something that you're not sure about," he says. "Besides... Wilbur's jealousy can be exploited. The thought that his younger brother has replaced him will have him act careless and emotional."
"In fact, I wish he was my younger brother," Wilbur said during the opening ceremony of Solstice celebrations, ruffling Ranboo's hair. "If it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable, you are welcome to address me as your big brother."
"Replaced," Tommy tries the word on his tongue, and it feels like it isn't quite real. Replaced is what you do with objects. Something too old, what you're no longer attached to, or just utterly useless. Tommy was none of these things, and it didn't stop his family from throwing him to waste.
It's surprising how much a collection of sounds can give somebody despair... Or hope. Absently, Tommy places a hand on his chest, rubbing it lightly over his heart. Could this really be a way to get back at his family for replacing him with Ranboo?
"Suppose, I agree," Tommy says. "Who would I replace Wilbur with? Sir Wisp? Maybe Sapnap? I think Beau would make a good fake brother too."
Dream makes a sour face. "I am sitting right here ."
Tommy can't help a small grin. It falters soon enough. "I just didn't- I didn't want to assume-"
"That I would be willing to fill the role?" Dream prompts. He doesn't sound offended or mad. His calm expression is not void of certain warmth, and it serves to ease Tommy's pounding heart a bit while he draws out proper words to say.
"It's just-" he shudders on a breath, "Would you really be okay with that? With being a replacement?"
Tommy sounds tired, even to his own ears. He feels tired too. He blames it on the weariness of the day finally catching up to him, the comfort and warmth of cushions around beckoning his exhausted body to sleep. Tommy wraps arms around himself and leans forward, the furthest possible from them.
"I am the one proposing this, Thes," Dream says softly. "As your friend, I want to help you in every way I can. We are best friends, right?"
Tommy makes a noise of confusion. "Thes..?"
"Well, I think that Theseus sounds a bit too pompous for one friend to address another with. I'd like to have something less formal to call you, if you don't mind."
Tommy, something inside him whines, desperately clawing its way out. As if scalded by a kettle of boiling water, he springs to his feet and almost stumbles on a pillow. Dream stands up to catch him; Tommy reels away, and the older prince stops himself, his hands raised placatingly.
"Did I say something wrong?"
He looks apologetic, and guilty. Tommy wants to tell Dream that it's not his fault. Not his fault that even the slightest thought of somebody knowing made him so damn hopeful. That Tommy's stupid heart has assumed, that even for a second, he can trust another person like this.
Theseus, Techno had named him, a sound of a betrayal yet to be done. For him and Father he had been Theseus, for Mother - her butterfly and for Wilbur a songbird, but all of them were clueless that he already had a different name. Each time Tommy considered telling somebody, he would remember an oath given to the memory of a dead woman. Eleven years of a secret kept to the confines of his own mind, so why in the world, at that moment, did he falter...?
"I'll need some time to think about your suggestion," Tommy says, looking down as he wrestles his expression into something that doesn't scream of feeling overwhelmed and confused.
"Take your time," Dream says. Wary from Tommy's reaction earlier, he doesn't make an effort to come closer. "Goodnight, Theseus."
Tommy nods, turning away to leave. On the threshold, he pauses to look over his shoulder, leaning one arm along the doorway. It's easy to change his mind - one step and he'd be gone, words dead before they had a chance to take form and sound, and yet...
"Dream?"
"Yes?" Dream still stands at the same spot, watching him leave. Friends, he had called them. Tommy doesn't deserve that title, the praise, the time or the effort, truly. But Dream was the only one to ever bother, and hope is an addicting feeling, so much that Tommy says,
"You're free to address me as Thes, if you want."
***
The dog was choking on its barks, threatening to knock Ranboo off his feet with each rear. The only thing that the boy could do was curl further around the basket in his arms and shout at the animal to go away. It was of no use. At thirteen, Ranboo was as thin as a twig, all bone and no muscle, and the dog that stood equal his height on two paws was merciful not to bite the arm that was stubbornly shoved between the basket and its drooling jaws.
The amount of noise that they were making was bound to attract attention soon. Aside from slaves like Ranboo, there were a number of other workers in the mansion, paid and free to go about as they pleased. He had been told that the building jutting over a cliffed coastside belonged to the King of Esempi; if that was so, then the King must have too many mansions and too little time to visit them all. No servants knew what he looked like; some claimed that he wore a mask of gold to conceal his face and others that it was his skin that was gold and that he had emeralds for eyes. Ranboo found it ridiculous, but there were no portraits in the halls to prove them wrong.
"There used to be lots, of the late King and his children, until the Tyrant had seized the throne and commanded to destroy every paper and canvas that depicted his sister's faces," an old cook once told Ranboo as he had been helping to scale and gut fresh fish in the kitchen. "When Queen Caroline came to rule, she established the custom of masks to symbolize the years she had spent in hiding."
The cook was on the kinder side, with all sorts of stories served with an occasional slice of bread, but the person that heard the dog first was not him. Thundering on heeled shoes and spitting curses came the main housekeeper; skin yellow from age and illness and glued to her bones like a grape sucked dry, her appearance didn't do any favors to her temper. "I work for the King," she always repeated pridefully, as if saying it enough would make the sun plummet from the sky and crown her too.
She scuffed the dog like a misbehaving puppy and yanked so hard that it fell limp, whining. When she let it go with a hard kick and a shout, the animal scurried away, tail tight between its legs. Ranboo took a step back, naively hoping that he could get away while the woman was distracted, but a hand on his wrist stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Where do you think you're going?" she screeched. Ranboo didn't dare to look in her eyes. The hand squeezed harder when he staggered with an answer, so he nodded meekly at the basket in his shaking arms.
The woman took one look at the folded clothes, stained with the mud from the dog's paws, and backhanded Ranboo. "You useless piece of shit," she swore. "Have this rewashed at once."
Ranboo considered himself lucky that she didn't put much force into the hit. It probably wouldn't even bruise much. He darted away, the basket bouncing with each flying step. When something stirred underneath the fabric, Ranboo shushed it gently and picked up pace.
The laundry room was tucked into the far side of the mansion, half-buried into the ground and only accessible from a creaky old door at the bottom of crumbling stairs. He flew over the threshold, heat and smell of soap enveloping him like old friends. All around him, sheets were dunked into big tubs, rubbed against washboards, squeezed and plopped into baskets to be carried away and hung outside for drying. Ranboo manevouried out of people's tracks, stumbled and nearly fell into a steaming basin. He reeled away, all too vividly remembering how badly it burned when boiling water sprayed all over his torso.
Slaves came and went for a new load, all familiar faces but unknown names. For all years of working in the same mansion, Ranboo exchanged barely five words with most of them. Each quick look that happened to stray his way made him want to cover up his face. If my eyes freak you out so much, at least stop staring, he wanted to say, but his cheek, still stinging from the fresh blow, made him think better of it.
Ranboo was at least five years younger than everybody else and the only one who couldn't answer the simple question - what for? Thievery, burglary, involuntary manslaughter - for others, iron shackles jingling at each step were a reminder of some mistake that stripped them of their freedom. Months would go by and with them arrived papers with the royal dragon seal; pardon for one man or the other, they came steadily for everybody unless they tried to run away or the crime was too heavy to be forgiven. Ranboo faintly remembered the first time he stood in the slatted shadow of iron fences as another former slave left without ever turning back. Soon that would be me, he hoped then. Seven years later, he was still waiting for the faceless king's graciousness.
Finally, Ranboo reached the far side of the room, where dirty clothes were piled and sorted. Behind an old tub cracked in half, he put the basket down and lifted up the cloth. A furry soft muzzle buried itself into Ranboo's hand. He leaned in to stroke the cat's head. She purred, almost climbing out of the basket fully to nuzzle into his fingers. Ranboo grasped the cloth and gently put the bundle on the floor, mindful of the cat's round belly.
"You can stay here," he told her. Nobody would care if a piece of old fabric went missing for as long as it didn't happen too often. Ranboo collected enough to form himself a thin mattress stuffed with straw so that it wouldn't be as hard to sleep on the ground. "But you have to be very quiet, okay? Please don't wander around, or both of us are going to be in trouble."
Ranboo risked bringing the cat here. He wasn't allowed to own a second pair of sandals, let alone a pet. But it was the ocean on one side of the mansion and miles and miles of wilderness on the other. If the dogs didn't get her, then some other predator would. He fished a dry piece of chicken out of his pocket. His own empty stomach grumbled as he handed it to the cat. Enderchest -he suddenly decided - swallowed it at once and licked his empty fingers, her tongue dry and scratchy.
"I'll see if I can find something else for you later," Ranboo whispered. "And some water too."
He returned deep at night, his body aching and knees wobbling. A stripe of makeshift bandages torn out of his own clothing had already turned crimson and stank of copper. He had dropped a plate on the floor in hopes that he could keep the scraps and take them to Enderchest, but hadn't anticipated that the housekeeper would get so furious she'd stomp on his hand as he was collecting the shards. Getting the porcelain out was painful, but the burning of cuts when he cleaned them in saltwater was far, far worse.
Ranboo climbed up onto his mattress and let his head fall. Enderchest hadn't refused the leftovers, but yellow eyes stared at him from the darkness with what felt like sadness. When the cat shuffled closer and bundled under Ranboo's chest, tears started brewing silently in his eyes.
He wished that somebody would come and tell him that he didn't deserve it, that all of this was some cruel misunderstanding, that somebody would come to take him away. They'd have golden hair, and their eyes would be red or green or of no color at all, but radiated warmth and ached of familiarity. Somebody out there cares for me, Ranboo told himself through wet sobs, even as he knew it wasn't true. If anybody ever searched for him, they had given up on it years ago, but hope was all he had to ease the pain and lull him to sleep.
He dreamed the same memory he always did. Ranboo was six, and they were running, little boy tight in his sibling's arms. People shouted, steel screeched as it was drawn out of sheathes, and there were hands yanking them from one another to the chant of "Seize the traitor!". Through the blur of tears Ranboo saw a slouching figure taken away in chains.
Something squirmed underneath Ranboo's cheek. He opened his eyes to a tiny nose poking his face blindly. Enderchest dragged away her squeaking kitten and tucked it in-between her belly and tail. Ranboo reached out in awe and petted the new-born under the mother's watchful eye.
At first it wasn't very hard for Ranboo to hide two cats in his small corner that nobody bothered to look into, but Enderpearl, as he named the kitten, grew fast. He went from crawling to waddling around and Ranboo dreaded that one day he would scurry out in the open and either get noticed or snatched by the dogs in the backyard. Enderchest and Enderpearl needed a proper owner, somebody that could feed them something better than scraps off servant tables, or be somewhere that they could fend for themselves.
Ranboo delayed the goodbyes for as long as he could, until he eventually pleaded with a servant that they'd take the Enderchest and Enderpearl with them on their next trip to a village and drop the cats there. The price that they set had Ranboo consider trying his luck with a fisherman instead. With his secret at stake, however, he had no other choice but to slip a piece of silverware underneath his shirt. It was light enough that it could be balanced on two fingers, yet it felt like he had never carried a heavier weight. In every voice Ranboo heard accusations of treason and every sound was of metal scraping against metal.
He ran to the laundry room the first opportunity he got, but the cats weren't there anymore. The kitten that would attack his legs on sight and claw at the iron clasped around his right ankle was gone, and so was his softly purring mother.
The air was suffocatingly hot, yet Ranboo never felt dread as cool as in the moment when he came running to a cliff over to the side of the mansion and saw a guard thrusting Enderchest into a tattered bag. He who only cowered and whimpered in undeserved beatings and was afraid of raising his voice above a mutter, screeched like grim death and lunged forward. His nails shredded the guard's face to bloody stripes before a punch knocked him over his feet. Ranboo's back kissed the ground and the piece of stolen silverware flew out for the gathering crowd to see.
Before the stars faded from his vision, there were more punches and kicks: to his stomach, to his head and back, until all he could feel was pain and his mind begged for it to stop. He peeled a swollen eye open to see the guard, four red stripes across his face, raising the bag again. Enderpearl's tiny paw poked out of a hole. He saw Ranboo, and there was a moment when the kitten's scared whimper turned into a hopeful plea.
"Please-" the boy breathed out.
The bag was flung into the ocean below, gone with a splash in roaring waves. Ranboo's shrill cry was silenced by a kick and the crack of a snapping bone, and the world had turned to black.
When Tubbo comes in haste, alarmed by the sound of something crashing, he finds Ranboo fisting the bed frame, quivering over an overturned chair. Night gown he had gone to sleep with is torn at the collar, as if he had ripped it in an attempt to get more air into his lungs. A pattern of scars knits his neck, trailing down, down, branching to his shoulder and back. His gold-ebbed notebook is clutched in one hand so tightly that nails left deep ragged marks on soft leather.
"Ranboo?" Tubbo calls, not sure if he should come closer or stagger a step back. "Wha- what happened?"
Oh so slowly, Ranboo turns his head. He resembles a ghost with how blank and wide his eyes are, red and green starkly bright on a face paler than snow and slick with sweat.
"I remember," he says.