Ranboo comes to visit Carl almost every day. Among giant marble domes and columns engraved with gems, he is like a coal char among diamonds, but here in the stables he feels almost at home. Back in Quackity's manor Ranboo's morning used to start with the horses' high-pitched neighs and went by with cleaning and grooming, brushing and saddling, until it was too dark for him to see his own feet.
Animals don't draw a line at nobility and common folk, or former slaves for all that matter. Carl inhales carrots from his hands like they are straw, snorting into his hair when the treats run out. Ranboo chuckles and half-heartedly pushes the stallion's away. Suddenly Carl jerks his head upright, his ears turned towards the entrance behind Ranboo's back.
"You spend a lot of time in the stables, Ranboo, don't you?" A female voice asks.
Spinning around, Ranboo turns rigid. A group of nobles have gathered around Marchioness Beau. A wide brimmed hat, tilting with the weight of floral and laced decorations, shadows her face, matched with dark velvet dress and slick black gloves.
Ranboo's gaze passes more familiar faces, and he resists the urge to cower. It just has to be his luck that he runs into Theseus' subordinates: secretaries coming in and out of the crown prince office on a normal day and lower-ranking nobles that flocked him during the Summer Solstice. At least the prince himself is nowhere to be seen.
"Is there, uh, a problem with that?" Ranboo startles.
Beau exchanges a glance with the other nobles, snickering. "Why, of course not. In fact I believe you could lend me a hand. The Emperor speaks of your kindness highly, surely you won't refuse a small favor."
"Of course! How can I help?"
"We," she gestures at the other nobles, "have planned to take a ride around the palace. Could you saddle my horse for me?"
Five pairs of gazes tear into Ranboo, and he swallows sickly. Here it is again, the feeling of walking on a field full of traps. Tubbo has been teaching Ranboo court norms and manners to the best of his abilities, but it's slow and monotonous labor. He couldn't understand why the order at which you greet nobles might matter or why he would have to wait to be dismissed from the table when he's already full. Some things like titles and bowing have started turning into habits, but the rest Ranboo notes in his journal as a reminder. There is bound to be something written in there that would hint at the meaning hidden behind Beau's words, but the memory book lies in his chambers, and an answer is demanded from him now.
"...Sure," he says cautiously. "What does it look like?"
The snickering becomes louder. Ranboo's ears are practically on fire, and he still doesn't understand what he has done wrong.
"It's a palomino stallion with a white blaze on his muzzle," Beau smiles.
"This one?"
Techno appears behind a corner, leading a horse, and the nobles gasp in surprise. Beau picks up the hems of her dress and curtsies-her hang low, respectful-and the others follow with their bows. Ranboo tries to bend as well, but Techno gestures him to a stop.
"Ranboo, meet your new horse," Techno says, tugging at the reins of a stallion... one that exactly matches Beau's description. The lady's face twitches from where she had barely raised her chin. "We wanted to get you a mount anyway. This stallion is good-tempered and will do well for a beginner. What will you name him?"
"I don't..." Ranboo wants to say that he doesn't understand what's going on, but Techno's calm blue eyes are asking, trust me, so he says, "Um, maybe Buddy?"
"Er, a name as good as any other." Techno shrugs, handing Ranboo the reins.
"Your Imperial Highness, that is my horse," Beau breaks her curtsy before Techno has allowed her to.
Techno glares at Beau, instantly dropping his nonchalant act. Something sinister passes his face; it shudders Ranboo from head to toe and puts a stammering stop to the lady's further protests. Even the other nobles shuffle back a step or two, their eyes turned everywhere but the prince.
"A long journey afoot will teach you a lesson on how to behave in someone else's home," he practically growls. "Get out of my sight."
To Beau's credit, she doesn't falter. "As far as I am aware, this is Prince Theseus' home," she says, picking up her skirts and swirling away. The other nobles follow shortly, and Ranboo watches in wonder at how fast the stables are emptied. Even the stablemen previously lingering somewhere in the corner of his vision have vanished, leaving Techno and Ranboo alone with snorting horses.
"What just happened?" Ranboo asks, absently brushing Buddy's muzzle.
"Saddling someone's horse is the job of a stableboy," Techno says, staring off into the direction Beau had just left. "Nobles serve other more high-ranking nobles as attendants, soldiers and servants, but it's considered mortifying to stoop to working in the stables."
Oh. "They were humiliating me..." Ranboo unseals his lips, voice dropping. "And I didn't even understand."
Buddy, clueless of the whole ordeal, nudges his nose into Ranboo's back as soon as he stops petting him. He seems nice, not as good as Carl but a gentle creature nevertheless. Ranboo pulls at the reins, and Buddy follows, but Techno blocks their way. "Where are you going, kid?"
"I don't want any problems with Marchioness Beau and Prince Theseus," Remembering the tea party, Ranboo looks away. "At least not more than I already have."
"This isn't the first time this has happened?" The corner of Techno's lip twitches down. "Why didn't you tell Phil anything?"
"It would only make the harassment worse," Ranboo shakes his head. "If I endure it now maybe it's not going to be as bad next time."
Beau must be too far for him to catch up to already, so Ranboo places his hopes on that and lets Buddy wander off on his own. When he looks back at Techno, the prince creases his brows in deep thought.
"Come," he finally says. "I want to show you something."
Ranboo doesn't put much thought into it before he springs to follow, first out of the stables then under the rooftops of the palace. He lacks little of Techno's height but the prince's stance is broader and his feet are silent; he drifts through air more than he walks. Where the general is an eagle, Ranboo's feels like a sparrow at best, spinning his head and jittering his eyes out as the eastern wing goes past and marble columns turn to bluestone bricks.
It's Ranboo who first shuffles to a stop before they can pass under an arrowhead shaped arc. Techno turns as soon as his steps cease to follow. "What's the matter?"
"I, uh, don't think I can follow any further," Ranboo says, wringing his hands. "Tubbo told me that the northern wing is for the Imperial family only, and it would be trespassing, so..."
His eyes flicker between the prince and two Imperial guards, in their silvery armor and uniform of sky blue. Under metal helms, they have pale faces barely touched by sunlight and features cobbled out of packed snow. They look nothing like the men in Esempi, who wear no helmets to hide tanned, wind-chafed skin, but even the thought of coming near makes pain ripple in Ranboo's long since healed wounds.
"You're with me, so it's fine," Techno says. His wide palm settles over Ranboo's back, and even if the tone of his voice doesn't change, there's comfort in how it presses him forward, warm and reassuring. "Let's go."
He holds his breath as they pass through. Leaving the guards far behind, Ranboo releases the trapped air from his lungs and finds Techno watching. "Right! What is it that you wanted to show me?"
Techno turns away. "You'll see."
"Now that's not ominous at all," Ranboo mutters, but walks faster to match Techno's pace.
They pass a few more guard posts, each new one with twice as many men and women as the previous. Despite Techno wearing none of his usual armor, instead robed in a long tunic sashed at the waist, people notice the general from afar and stop to greet him. His hair, slithering down to his back like the seafoam of a crushing wave, is starkly more recognizable than Ranboo's grass and bloodrop eyes. Before the palace, he had never heard about albinism. He genuinely believed that Techno had his hair dyed, and one day asked whether its natural color was pale sand like Theseus' or closer to Wilbur's walnut brown. He felt like the winds turned on him when Techno's expression shifted to careful and guarded. "No, I was always like that," he said. Ranboo told him that he liked the color, and the prince went back to looking mildly bored, if not the tiniest degree more relaxed.
When two figures in lazuli uniforms approach, Ranboo recognizes one of them as Wisp. The other is a woman with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes that glow brighter than sunlight reflecting off her armor and sheathed longsword.
"Prince Wilbur is having breakfast with Prince Fundy," Shubble, the head of Wilbur's security, reports. "He was asking about you earlier."
"Tell him to meet me later." Techno turns to Wisp. "What about Theseus?"
"Left for his office shortly after sunrise," the guard reports.
"And Prince Dream?"
"With him."
Displeasure appears in Techno's expression, as quick to pass as a crow's shadow. "Very well." Back in his monotone, the prince speaks to both captains. "Let me know if anything changes."
The conversation clearly isn't meant for Ranboo's ears. He hangs his head low, feeling guilty for listening, even though it's taking place right before his eyes. There is no such thing as privacy in the palace, Tubbo had told him. At the time Ranboo thought he meant the possibility of servants listening in to his every word, but now he sees that there might have been more to it than he initially assumed. Isn't it a bit too much that Techno tracks where and with whom his brothers are, or is it just another thing in the palace that he isn't meant to understand?
To avoid thinking about it too deeply, Ranboo looks at a painting on a wall. It's a full-body portrait of a young woman, framed in gold, around Techno and Wilbur's age or slightly younger. Soft blue glow emmits underneath a curtain of thick eyelashes, dark auburn hair cascading from her shoulders and down to her ankles, but the most notable detail is the pair of black wings criss-crossed behind her back. If Ranboo didn't know for sure that this was a painting he'd touch the canvas to see whether the feathers felt as soft and silky as they look.
"Founding Empress of the Antarctic Empire," Techno says, materializing behind his back. Ranboo flinches and nearly reels a foot away, but Techno doesn't seem to notice - or pay any attention to it.
"Wouldn't that make her your ancestor?" Ranboo asks, and when Techno doesn't attempt to correct himself, he glances between him and the portrait.
"But... she has wings."
Instead of an answer, Techno nudges him away from the portrait. They take a turn at a hallway that Ranboo didn't notice before, and as soon as they go through, the ceiling surges up and up until it hurts his neck to look at it. Windows slotted with puzzles of tinted glass are gone, and blue eyes trace Ranboo's every step - crows with ebony black wings clench large emeralds in their talons.
The symbol is familiar. It stares at him from the back side of every golden coin, hiding in the furniture of every room. Now, it is on proud display of tapestries mounted high on the wall. Perhaps the painted crows once used to be as black as ink, but the fabric has faded with time, someplace scorched or stained brown, and the edges of long ragged tears are hastily sewn together. It's such a stark contrast to white floors mopped to the creak and the scrupulous cleanliness of the rest of the palace, that Ranboo forgets to look where he's going and nearly bumps into Techno's back.
"Have you never heard of avians?" The prince suddenly asks.
"Winged humans?" Ranboo asks, retreating a few steps back. "In the books you gave me, a few times, and then I've seen the statues and portraits and the fretwork," Then it dawns on him what Techno implies, and he glances back to see the portrait, but it's already far out of Ranboo's sight. "Wait... But I thought they were just pictures."
"Not pictures," Techno corrects. "History."
Giant spruce doors cut their walk short, two massive rings hanging from the doors at three quarters of their height. Techno takes one and gestures to the other. Ranboo approaches reluctantly; his hands are barely big enough to coil all the way around metal. On the count of three, they both start pulling. Ranboo's arms nearly pop out of their sockets, and the door barely even budges. Veins bubble up on his skin, but he huffs and plants a firm, stubborn step back. Little by little, the door bestirs and with an ear-stabbing screech, opens half of the way. Techno, who is already done with his side, pats his shoulder. "You can let go."
They step through the gap, one after another. Soft soil folds underneath Ranboo's feet; he finds himself frozen in a courtyard. It's small and houses just a single oak, but one that is so big that three men wouldn't be able to join hands around its trunk. The roots arching at the bottom are each the thickness of his torso, and leaves dot branches so close to another that barely any sunlight spills from a glass dome above. Just thinking about how old that oak must be has Ranboo's head spinning.
But it's not the sheer size of the tree that makes his steps and thoughts skid to a halt. Hundreds, no, thousands of tiny chains stream down from the branches, feathers hanging at the end of each one. Most are black as night, but if he looks closer he can notice a few that are different: rounded and white, spotted brown and sharp-edged, and even delicate pieces of pure silver and gold catch light, sunspots dancing in the leaves.
"Family tree," Techno says, answering the question half-formed on Ranboo's lips, but he already comes up with another:
"Are those real feathers?"
Techno hums, a low sound of affirmation, invitation, or both; he gestures shyly shuffling Ranboo closer to where a silver chain hangs down from a branch. So it wasn't a trick of light and shadows. Ranboo has collected feathers before, wrapping them up carefully in an old scarf, but he has never seen one that would be the length of his forearm. If that is a single feather, how big the creature's wings must be?
"It's a tradition," Techno says. "When a child comes of age in the Imperial family, one of their loose feathers is used on the tree. And if the person is not an avian-"
"The feather is forged out of metal instead," Ranboo concludes, voice full of wonder.
Techno nods, barely noticeably.. "Gold is for blood relatives. Silver for adopted children."
A thousand questions spin in Ranboo's head, but when he tries to vocalize a single one, his voice refuses to obey him. Surrounded by walls on four sides, there is no wind in the courtyard, no whisper of leaves in the treetop, only Ranboo's own breathing and rare clink of metal against metal akin to the toll of tiny bells.
Techno doesn't show a lot of emotions on his face, but there is always certain uneasiness, familiar tension in his movements inherent to somebody who is used to staying alert at all times. Regardless of whether it's the silence or the warmth that eases ice out of his eyes, but settling under the tree with his legs crossed, Techno looks the most peaceful that Ranboo has ever seen him.
As much as he hates to disturb the prince's idle rest, there is one thing that he feels like he needs to know. Tenderly, Ranboo sits down on the cross of two roots, legs slung down, and asks:
"If there had been so many avians in this dynasty alone, how come I never met one yet? What happened to them all?"
"War," Techno says simply, and goosebumps patter down his back. Their eyes meet - pink on green and red, and Ranboo nods at him to continue.
"Hundreds of years ago, every fifth citizen of the Empire - or Kingdom, at the time - used to be an avian. When the old kings discovered that one soldier in the sky is worth ten on the ground, a small northern kingdom started quickly expanding its borders. An army of avians swept over the continent like a scythe over dry grass, raining arrows and swords, and nations bent their knees one after another before the first Empress of the Antarctic Empire."
A heavy cloud drifts over the dome, and the courtyard no longer seems a paradise of peace and endless summer. In the gloom mist of darkness, black feathers move into grotesque shapes, and every little creak of a branch spikes tenfold in Ranboo's hearing. Suddenly, it doesn't feel like they are alone anymore.
"The Kingdom of Esempi refused to surrender like many did before them, however. They knew where the strength of the northern army was. And so the hunters became the hunted," Techno says, his voice akin to a rattle of lightning. "Do you know what a harpoon is, Ranboo? Southerners took them from their whaling ships, shaped the barb differently and pointed giant crossbows to the skies. Once impaled, the avians were dragged down from the skies with the chains and ropes attached to harpoons..."
"Stop," Ranboo quietly orders. He has seen a harpooned whale once. It was still alive when it was hauled on the beach, keening pitifully and spouting crimson with each breath. Ranboo couldn't bring himself to watch further after the ship crew came, axes slung over their shoulders. To imagine that the same was done to people makes him feel sick.
Techno raises his eyes, crimson fog blinking away into sunset pink, as if he only now realizes where he is and whom he is speaking to. Clenched jaw relaxing, he releases a deep sigh and looks at Ranboo."My apologies. I got carried away."
"It's fine," Ranboo says, bringing his hands over his arms, compressing himself into a tight coil. He just doesn't deal well with speaking about death, especially when animals are involved in any way. Quietly, he adds, "How did the war end?"
"Neither of the sides admitted to defeat. They signed a peace treaty, but at that point most avians were already gone. The Antarctic Empire and Kingdom of Esempi went to war with one another a few more times, but never to the same extent. Throughout the last century the number of avians continued to decrease, so much that now they are under the law and crown's protection. Most are taken to be fostered or adopted by noble houses and the Imperial family. That happened with the late Duchess Clara, the Emperor's sister."
A striped tan and brown feather rustles softly among four golden arrows. Techno said the late Duchess, and the question of where Clara is now falls out on his own. It always seemed to Ranboo that the palace housed too many workers and too little of Phil's actual family. He wondered if they had more relatives living in other parts of the Empire... Five feathers, hanging from a lonely branch, are his answer.
"Time to go back," Techno says. When Ranboo looks up, the prince is already looming over him, a hand outstretched. Ranboo takes it and nearly yelps when he is yanked to his feet. Techno waits until he steadies himself, and nods him towards the exit.
It couldn't have been more than half an hour since they've entered the courtyard, but to Ranboo it felt like an infinity. They don't meet anybody on their way back to the hallway, and a thought occurs to him that maybe it's because they've not been allowed there in the first place.
Ranboo stops in his tracks. "Why?" He asks.
Techno glances at him. "You'd have to elaborate on that one, kid," he gruffs.
"The tapestries, the tree... It's obviously really private to the Imperial family and not something that you'd be showing any stranger." Techno raises a brow, and Ranboo adds in a hurry: "Don't get me wrong, I am very grateful that you did! It's just- I don't understand what I did to deserve that."
Techno is silent. It's either that he has been caught off guard by the question or there is something wrong with what Ranboo had said, and as the pause stretches his heart starts hammering in his chest. He is on the verge of spitting unsensible apologies in case he somehow angered the prince, but then Techno says, "I'll be leaving the capital soon."
Ranboo doesn't process Techno's words immediately, but when it happens, something pangs painfully in his chest.
"Oh," Ranboo says, trying not to sound too upset, but it comes out strangled. "When... How soon are we speaking?"
"The late Empress' death anniversary is in a few weeks. After that, there is no reason for me to postpone my departure any longer."
Ranboo nods - it makes sense. Techno is not just a prince, after all, but head of the military in the Antarctic Empire, and he has better things to do than teach some kid how to ride a horse or help him pick out a new portion of books in the library.
Ranboo is no one to Techno. Not a blood relative, not a close friend. So is it selfish that he's going to miss him?
"Hey," Techno says, his hand suddenly on Ranboo's upper arm, patting awkwardly. "You're a good kid, Ranboo. Maybe I'll be stating the obvious here, but Phil cares about you a lot. Wilbur, too, though he doesn't always go the best way about it," Techno sombers in response to some inner thought, and then looks back at Ranboo. "You know you can always trust them to help if anybody ever tries, say... to threaten or harm you?"
Ranboo forgets how to breathe. His heart stops beating one moment and starts pounding madly the next. Palms and hands covered in scars slowly slither up into his pockets and out of Techno's view. Ranboo is a terrible actor, and he hopes that at least a small smile on his lips doesn't look too obviously forced.
"Thanks, Techno," Ranboo says. What he never does say is I will.
***
The palace has two entrances facing the east and west sides of the world. Both of them have a heavy steel gate that stays down at most times, and a massive gatehouse that is filled to the brim with guards. They won't let anybody in without an invitation sealed by the Imperial family, but from his time living in the mansion Ranboo knows that alternative ways exist for servants, arriving food supplies and alike. His entire plan is based on the blind hope that he can get merged with people coming in and out without flashing his face or identity.
Ranboo tugs his hood up and ducks his head. He came by a few guard posts already, and none have noticed a slim caped figure sneaking under the wall. Even the servants in the palace wear pristine shirts, perfectly ironed aprons - something that would only make Ranboo stand out drastically. The clothes on him have been patched up so many times that it's a wonder that the seams are still keeping them together, but they are his, and he can't get punished for stealing if the worst is to happen and he gets caught. To imagine Phil's disappointment in him... The possibility scares Ranboo more than any potential injury.
But if he is being honest with himself, Phil would be disappointed either way, wondering why Ranboo would leave after he was given a place to call home. Because, despite everything, that's what the palace had become to him: with Tubbo and his less than reasonable ideas of entertainment, Wilbur's ramblings that were nice to listen to when he himself didn't want to talk, burning candlelight in the library until Techno's light tap on his shoulder would bring him out of his slumber, nose nearly buried in the book. Even if every night his sleep was cut short by the cold claws of a nightmare, he knew for when the darkness passed light was going to wait for him.
Ranboo doesn't want to leave.
But Dream-!
During his time in the Esempi, Ranboo has never seen King Foolish, let alone his younger brother Dream. Rational part of his brain knows that there is no way that the crown prince of the Kingdom would know who he is, but fear thrusts into his veins every time he catches a look of the prince's mask. That smile and the feeling of a gaze glued to the back of his neck haunted Ranboo during days and nights alike, driving him crazy. What if Dream does know who he is? What if all this is just a cruel game of cat and mouse, where Ranboo flounces and thrashes not knowing that he is already trapped between the predator's teeth?
"I'll be honest with you, Ranboo. You are nothing," Quackity had told him a few weeks back, after the special banquet . "You have no name of your own, no place to return to and no family to protect you. The Emperor's fondness doesn't overexert his duties. If a word gets out that you a runaway slave from the Esempi, he would legally be obliged to deport you back. As soon as the court gets bored of discussing the scandal that is sure to follow, nobody will even remember that you have ever existed."
Ranboo shudders, rubbing his hands up and down his forearms. No matter what happens, he can't go back. Not after all the kindness he's seen, and the entirely different life that he experienced. He wishes he wasn't so naive back then and didn't take Niki's warning lightly. He wanted to believe so much that this is it, this is the reward for all the suffering he endured, blind to how his past slowly was sneaking up on him. If Ranboo listened to Niki, maybe he could live his life comfortably away from the palace, pretending that his previous life only existed in nightmares. That would be a lie, of course, but at least he would only be lying to himself.
He doubted this decision until the very last moment. Even when Techno told he'd be leaving, Ranboo clung to the hope that Phil would stand by his side. He saw how many questions Tubbo wanted to ask yesterday morning, when quivering Ranboo had collapsed into his arms. When he shook his head and said, "I c-can't. I'm sorry- you can't help." his friend only patted Ranboo's back and smiled with a sad look in his eyes. "History repeats itself, huh?"
Nevertheless, Tubbo hadn't questioned why Ranboo took a sudden interest in laws of the Empire. Just brought him the books and scrolls he needed, and took them back the next evening when Ranboo asked. For several minutes he stared at the door Tubbo just left through and debated with himself whether he was about to make the most foolish decision ever since the time he rejected Niki's advice. But Ranboo trusted Tubbo, and if they were to never see one another again, he wanted his best friend to at least know why.
Ranboo ran after Tubbo. He found him a little short of the library entrance, on the floor among scattered books, surrounded by a group of lesser nobles. When Ranboo arrived, Tubbo attempted to stand up, only to get violently shoved to the sound of less than noble guffaws.
For the first time since his arrival to the palace, Ranboo had raised his voice. He demanded them to go away - his anger was chortled at, and only when he threatened to get the Emperor involved that the most bold of attackers were sushed and led away by their friends. Unknowingly, they demonstrated what Ranboo should've learned from the very beginning: he is nothing in the palace without Phil.
"Why didn't you fight back?" Ranboo asked, helping Tubbo to his feet. His voice was thick with worry and sorrow, and unshed tears burned behind his eyelashes. Ranboo was upset for Tubbo, and somehow it hurt more than all the times he cried out of pity for himself.
"That's how things work," Tubbo said simply. "Nobles are like a pack of unleashed dogs. Point them at a target and they're ready to tear it to pieces, and I... I've always been an easy bone to chew."
Ranboo wishes he could say that he didn't understand. The mansion, and Esempi in general - childishly, foolishly, it seemed like the source of all evil, and that as soon as he escaped he left it all behind. Seeing how other people went through the same treatment, albeit on a different scale, opened his eyes to the fact that unfairness and injustice exist wherever he goes.
"I'll put the books back myself," Ranboo said, clenching Tubbo's hand. "Take some rest, let this be your short day. Say hi to Lani for me, yeah?"
Tubbo nodded, but before he left he squeezed Ranboo's hand back and looked in his eyes. "You'll have to make a choice at some point: to be like me, or like them. For your own sake let it be the latter."
As Ranboo watched him Tubbo go he felt the same thing that he did three years ago in the Kingdom of Esempi. Defiance. Nobody could force him to make that choice. He still had this much control over his life, even if this control was running away from the palace in the middle of night.
Ranboo ducks behind the entrance of a hedge maze as another pair of guards passes by, carrying a lantern. He waits until the sound of steps and clank of metal armor go completely silent before he straightens up and shifts weight from the heels to the toes of his feet.
"Hello, Ranboo from Esempi."
Ranboo nearly cries out of surprise and stumbles away. A hand is slapped over his mouth, silencing him, and he bites it out of instinct. The person reels away, and Ranboo is free again, darting away from both people - the one who spoke, and the one who grabbed him - and spins around, heart thrashing in his ribcage like a wild animal.
"What the fuck, man," Quackity grumbles, inspecting a bite mark on his palm, lips pulled apart in a grimace of disgust.
"Wait! Quackity, I... I wanted-"
"Quiet," Quackity says, and Ranboo splutters. The man keeps his voice low, eyes trained on something over his shoulder. "If you don't want anybody to come and start questioning why are we sneaking around like thieves."
Ranboo cautiously traces the path of his gaze and notices a light flickering nearby. Unwillingly, he makes a few steps closer to Quackity, practically brushing shoulders with him as he clamps his mouth shut. He nearly gets spooked a second time when a silhouette comes unattached from the bushes. Save for a few leaves stuck to his clothes, Charlie is the same that Ranboo had seen him a few months back: rectangle glasses screwed up on his nose just a degree bit off, an ivy green hat trampling brown hair and a never-dimming grin stretched between his ears. The smile that in the light of the day might've seemed welcoming and friendly, basking in moonlight and with glasses blazing white, made Charlie look like a character of someone's nightmare.
The first time Ranboo had met Charlie was three years ago, shortly after the incident when Enderchest... shortly after he had stolen silverware from the mansion. Nobody cared about a piece of fabric or rotting leftovers, so it was the first time Ranboo had ever been punished for stealing. The gashes on his arms were deep and oozed blood; he was given no medicine to soothe the pain with, nor could he properly bandage his injuries without writhing in agony. Most of the time Ranboo felt like his skin was pressed to seething metal. He could only sleep outside, where he'd crawl up next to the fence to feel the cold breeze wafting away the worst of the burning.
It really felt like he was going to die there. Maybe he would, if it wasn't for Charlie appearing on the brink of the third day. He knelt on the other side of the fence and threw his hood off to reveal brows concernedly roofed together. Ranboo had no energy to scurry away, and pressing his forehead to the bars was the only way he could keep himself in a relatively upright position.
"It looks like it hurts," Charlie had informed, leaning closer. "Oh, I think I can see a bone!" He sounded weirdly excited about it. "I am Charlie, by the way."
"R-Ranboo," he husked, fighting to keep his eyelids open. He lifted a dazed look at Charlie, and missed the moment when a jar had appeared in his hands. Once the lid was popped open, the smell of something herbal poked at his nostrils. "It's going to help the pain," he said.
Ranboo couldn't imagine hurting any more than he already did, so after a brief moment of hesitation he let the stranger smear some of the light green substance over his arms. At first contact nearly made him scream, but all the sensation quickly drained out of them, replaced by a blessed chillness. He breathed out in relief, shuddering. Exhausted of hurting and crying in equal degree, he was ready to sink into a sleep without dreams, and then Charlie said the phrase that would turn Ranboo's entire life upside down. Do you want to get out of here?
"Charlie, stand a guard for us while we talk, would you?" Quackity says.
Charlie jerks his head upright. "Sure thing!" He chirps cheerfully and prances away. Quackity watches him go, smiling faintly when he turns to Ranboo.
"Come on," Quackity says, "Let's have a chat."
Ranboo had seen the hedge maze in the gardens from afar, but never entered it. The bushes are almost twice as tall as he is, neatly trimmed into rectangular walls. The skies are a drape of black cloth and shimmering stars, sinking in and out of drifting clouds; it's a beautiful night, and Ranboo might have found himself enjoying it if his companion for this walk was anyone but Quackity. Ranboo crawls after him like a man to be hanged, a head lower than his real height with how much he hunches his shoulders. The silence weighs down on him and the adrenaline from their encounter earlier makes his senses sharper, tension having him tugging a loose thread of his cape.
There was a time when Ranboo was grateful to Quackity. He was the one to send Charlie, after all, with the message that a ship would be anchoring nearby soon if he wishes to leave the Kingdom at once. A new chance, in a different country where nobody knows who he is. And Ranboo... He was tired of waiting and exhausted of hoping. I'll take my chance or die trying, and with that desperate thought, he refused to look back a single time and dived off an unfenced cliff.
When Ranboo was pulled up on the ship, gasping for breath and shaking, Quackity had helped him to his feet and clapped a coat over his shoulders. Quick to laugh, always smiling, and everyone's friend, commoner and noble alike - it was hard not to trust him when he first aided in the escape of Ranboo and a couple of dozens other slaves, and then brought them all to his manor nearby a port town of L'manburg. Ranboo had a warm place to sleep, ate until he was full, and was free to roam around the premises whenever he wasn't working. Caring for the horses and doing some other minor outdoor jobs seemed a miniscule pay for all Quackity had done for Ranboo. Most people stayed to work for the baron for one debt owed or another: they were loyal and grateful, ready to fulfill any of his wishes. Ranboo thought himself the same, but he wasn't ready for Quackity's wish to be a murder.
"Just so you know, that stunt you were about to try wouldn't work anyway," Quackity speaks up suddenly, his back turned on Ranboo. "Palace guards are as much protectors as they are wardens. They question every person who passes the gates no matter the direction."
"Isn't the purpose of guards to keep people out of the palace, not inside it?"
Quackity lifts him a long, knowing look. "This is a gold-gilded cage, Ranboo. I'm sure you're starting to realize that."
"There has to be another way out," Ranboo catches up to Quackity's pace, walking with him side-by-side.
"Well I could always tell the Emperor that I wish to return to my premises with my 'brother'... But I'm not doing that."
Ranboo is flooded with frustration. "Don't you see that I don't belong?" He fists the sleeves of his shirt, bristling. "I'm not as smart as Wilbur, or knowledgeable like Techno, and certainly nothing like Theseus. I only recently learned to read, and now you're saying..." his voice cracks. "What? That I should become a prince?"
He had tried to call for Quackity's voice of reason, but it turns out that they speak different languages; the man's face drops all its previous friendliness.
"Alright, alright, let's imagine that you manage to leave. Where are you going to go?" Quackity advances on him, and Ranboo takes a step back. "To live on the streets? You're old enough that no orphanage would take you in, and the Antarctic Empire is no Esempi. When it snows in a couple months time you'll die either from the cold or starvation. That is, unless you get caught first."
Ranboo retreats, his stifled breath crispy and loud in the night. He can't move any further. It's a dead end in the maze, and the only escape is through Quackity stalking the aisle.
"And even if you don't, what kind of life is that?" he continues. "Crawling from day to day," branches screech and cry behind Ranboo's back, "fearing your own shadow, waiting for the day that somebody comes and says-" Quackity snaps his fingers. "Time's up!"
Ranboo nearly falls through into a bush, yelping, at the last moment planting the toe of his foot for purchase, whirling around Quackity and booking it.
"Are you not tired of running, Ranboo?" Quackity raises his voice after him, and he sweeps sharply to the right.
Whoever designed the maze wasn't content to let it be just a decoration. There's no wall for Ranboo to hold until it leads him to an exit. Taking turns at random, staggering when he swoops into another dead end, Ranboo runs with little idea where he's going. Another wall, more frustration building up in his throat. A rock in the ground that he doesn't notice nearly sends him flying. Please! Ranboo cries out internally. Where is the exit? And Quackity's steps continue to dent the grass, leisurely and tortiously slow.
When there's suddenly an opening ahead, Ranboo takes one desperate leap. The sudden disappearance of the walls puts his pace to stutter, and he crashes to his knees just in time to prevent himself from diving head-first into a pond. Bush walls are trapping him from all sides. He's in the middle of the maze; one passage should lead into the center and the other out of it, but no matter how much he spins his head, he can see neither.
Ranboo fists grass, dirt clogging his nails. A stray tear slips down his cheek and dips down, a crystal drop dimpling the mirror surface. A couple of carp fish jiggle closer, and not finding any food, scatter again with disinterest.
When ripples finally cease, one reflection turns into two. Quackity sits down on one knee beside Ranboo. They could truly seem like brothers at that moment, with the same raven black in their hair and how Quackity puts a hand over Ranboo's shoulder, surprisingly tender.
"I know," Quackity starts and pauses, like he just realized the true weight of the words he's about to say. "I know what it feels like, to be looked down upon your whole life, and to be an object of everyone's anger and disgust," No humor, no hint of a smirk or a smile in Quackity's mouth as he clenches and unclenches his jaw. "Dear late Baron would rather waste pitiful remnants of his fortune on gambling than clothe his bastard son. My future was to be thrown out by a half-brother almost twice - twice! - as young as me once he inherited the estate. If I didn't die from a drunk man's fist first, that is."
Quackity inhales, drawing in air noisily as if the tie coiled around his neck is suffocating him. "Well, look at me now," he stands up, tugging his collar free, coat straighter, rings on his fingers sparkling: diamond, jade, sapphires printed at the back of Ranboo's eyelids as he squints away from their glares. "The same people who have once gloated over my position are now afraid of the sound of my name," Quackity grins, white-teethed and triumphant, but the brightest of lights can't make bronze look like gold. To Ranboo's ears, Quackity isn't celebrating a victory; he's plotting a revenge. "In my estate, I'm treated like a king. But it's nothing in comparison with what you can achieve."
Ranboo is pushed standing before he can protest; or maybe Quackity's speeches are taking effect, and he doesn't really want to. "Think about it. You'll never lack anything in your life again. Money, fame, power - you name it, you can have it." Quackity turns Ranboo towards the pond, hands on his shoulders. "Prince Ranboo of the Antarctic Empire, first of his name... how does that sound?"
"Like a dream," Ranboo says honestly. "Or a nightmare..."
His reflection blinks at him from the pond, and suddenly Ranboo doesn't recognize himself anymore. Who is this stranger with dazed eyes? A future prince who only lacks a crown to prove his status, a fool deceived by his own wishful thinking, or a scared boy tangled in a game far too complicated for his understanding?
"I never wanted any of this," Ranboo says weakly, wrapping arms around himself. He's exhausted, like he was running with an invisible weight around his neck this whole time. "All I ever wanted is to be safe." Enderchest comes to his mind. Ranboo wrenches his eyes closed, mumbling, "To be in a position to protect those who I care about."
"If you become a prince, the power of law will be on your side," Quackity says. "Should anybody, even other members of the Imperial family, try to harm you, they will be prosecuted for treason."
To hear that someone might get punished because of him wasn't something that Ranboo expected or wanted, and had the opposite effect of calming him down. Placing the pads of his fingers over his closed eyes, he presses until sparkles come alight in his vision.
"Tubbo is currently serving you, isn't he?" Quackity says. Ranboo pauses, removing his fingers and cracking an eye open, finding the man at the very limits of his peripheral vision.
"Why do you ask?"
Quackity shrugs unceremoniously. "Whoever you choose to stand by your side is going to shower in your light and suffer your falls. Naturally, serving a prince is a much more honorable position than to tend to a commoner."
Ranboo wishes he would have understood the real weight behind Tubbo's choice back when his friend had first announced it. There were personal reasons for him to abandon his old job with Theseus, of course, but he feels responsible like one of the variables that affected where his friend had ended up now. Even if partially, Tubbo gave up his position for him. Could it be that Ranboo can give it back?
"I am on your side, Ranboo," Quackity throws his arms out, palms up, trust in everything from his open position to a relaxed smile. "Let me be your ally and I'll show you how to make the steps between kneeling under the throne and sitting on it. In return I only ask that you don't forget my humble service once the crown is yours."
Ranboo turns to Quackity on shaky feet. He imagines Wilbur's confidence, Theseus' rigidity and the flat bar of Techno's voice - imagines and drops like a scalding kettle, because Ranboo is not them, and never will be.
"If you want to help me, it'll be on my terms," he says. "Nobody must get harmed. Spreading false rumors, blackmailing and lying- none of that. You need my permission to take any action or otherwise the deal is off."
Quackity pretends to muse his words over, but the decision is already made - on both sides. "It'll be a tough one," Quackity smiles wider, bowing, "but I think I can work with that, Your Imperial Highness."
***
The table stretches from one side of the room to the other, a bulky thing of northern darkwood no less ten times of Tommy's own age. Habitually tracing a fretted sword with the tip of a bitten-down nail, he wonders how many different people have sat in those very same chairs before them. The late Emperor's council, no doubt, had bent their necks under the heavy lift of ruling a country, and his father's before him, and his grandfather's, and his great grandfather's and so on.
A huge gash lay across the table, slice of a longsword if Tommy reads the length and the thickness right. Maybe the weapon belonged to a rash general angered by an Emperor's decision, from the time that a war map was still strewn across and dotted with figurines of soldiers, mounted, winged or barefoot. In peace, however, there were no maps, no legions to command and men sent to die, only ministers waiting for when it came their turn to speak words off folded papers and rolled-up parchment.
What hasn't changed, however, is the chair at the head of the council. It arches up towards the ceiling, with the back shaped to look like two giant wings that trap the sun between sharp blades of silver-gilded feathers. Tommy starkly remembers the time when he attended the council meetings in the Emperor's steed, when his father laid in bed and nobody knew if the next sunrise would be his last.
The chair seemed enormous to him at fourteen years old, the rest of the world - downright terrifying, but Tommy couldn't allow anybody to think that the ruling family was weakened. People came to see a son distraught by his father's state and met the future Emperor instead. It was obvious in the jewels of his crown, in the cape draped over his back, in the scepter clenched in a white-knuckled grip - but more than anything in the gray void of his eyes and a face honed of stone. On top of a throne, ten feet above all, Tommy did not look a boy anymore.
From the moment that the crown prince made his entrance and the ministers rose to greet him, in a dozen pairs of eyes he could starkly feel just two - burnt sugar and charred coals. Council gatherings are no family dinners; nobody must be closer to the Emperor than his heir, and yet...
"Prince Wilbur, I believe you might have chosen the wrong seat."
Wilbur leans back leisurely in a chair that Tommy has been occupying ever since he had been titled a crown prince. "Have I?" Wilbur feigns surprise. "Well, I'm feeling quite comfortable here. If a need arises for me to swap places with somebody, Father will surely let me know."
It's been a couple of days since the tea party, and the serpent is back with new poison dripping from his fangs - and, if the smile he humors Tommy is any indicator, seeking vengeance. Both know well that the Emperor wouldn't care about Tommy's rights or cares. Whatever Wilbur wanted to do, their father would enable. Drawing out of a chair sparsely decorated with fretwork and bands of silver, Tommy busies himself with inspecting the papers that Baron Sneeg passes him from his right, clenching his teeth just a little stronger behind sealed lips. Let Wilbur demonstrate his insolence for all the ministers to see. If he wishes to be a clown, Tommy won't be joining his circus.
The meeting starts as soon as the Emperor comes through the doors and takes his place at the head of the room. Here, at his rightful place, Emperor Philza's posture is rigid and uncoiled. No matter how many times Tommy has seen the twin silhouettes towering over the man's shoulders, the sight of him never fails to put his heart to tremble.
With every new minister speaking, the shadows silently grow darker. When the Emperor's voice is finally heard, it's leveled and calm to the ear but drops on them like thunder in open skies.
"Over two hundred avians, gone without a trace. Why am I only hearing of this now?"
A crease of his brows, so faint that one might take it for a wrinkle, and hands folded under his chin... these days the man with a golden crown on his head feels more like a stranger to him than a father, but this expression Tommy knows too well. The Emperor is worried, and rightfully so.
Avians, symbol of their nation's power and glory of the past; every following decade the ancient race is closer and closer to becoming history. The fact that his father's wings are stone where flesh and feathers should be is a prime example that blood doesn't show itself in every generation. The few avians that are born like snowdrops in late winter are taken into protection of noble houses, fostered and brought up to serve their heirs. To know that both them and the Emperor's people failed to notice the woe until now... it's a troubling thought.
"Most of the missing cases originate in the Imperial family's domain, Your Majesty. People simply didn't know whose help to seek and who they should be reporting to," Baron Sneeg speaks up, shuffling his papers. The Emperor gives him a nod as a signal to continue, so the man clears his throat. "Ever since the tragedy that happened with Duchess Clara, the land has been without a Protector, and thus greatly disorganized... I believe it's the issue we must resolve first lest any dire consequences appear."
"What of the late duchess' son?" A minister asks.
"Michael, the poor boy," Another man shakes his head. "Orphaned so young. As far as I remember, he's currently studying in an academy under the Imperial family's sponsorship."
By my personal initiative, Tommy thinks, but pointing out details like this would only make him sound petty. He shifts in his seat, unease creeping up slowly like cold fingers trailing his spine. Hopefully, Wilbur is not looking, otherwise he might notice how Tommy's eyes flicker to the doors, suddenly wishing to be on the other side.
"With all due respect, Michael is a mere boy of eleven, and a mute one on top of that."
"Still. If anybody has the most rights for the Duchess' title, it would be him," Baron Sneeg argues.
"Is the Imperial family so scarce of other candidates that we trust matters of governance to the hands of children?"
Wilbur hasn't spoken since the start of the meeting, and beyond the insolence of occupying Tommy's seat, his presence was barely noticed. Now, all attention in the room surges to the prince. Even the Emperor, who was previously listening to councilmen in contemplative silence, casts a long look at Wilbur.
Was there at least the slimmest of chances that Wilbur is genuinely concerned for their cousin? No, and Tommy didn't need to muse over the way he worded his question to know that. Whispers from a brother to a brother, ones that sank so deep he still remembers them almost a decade later, will you be a brother to him, too?
What hurts the most is not that Wilbur lied but that Tommy had believed him.
Of all reactions that Tommy could have at that moment, laughter is one he least expected himself. It bursts through his lips, a quiet toll of silver bells and bitter grind of a bow against snapped strings; in their stunned silence, nobody can tell one apart from the other.
Airy whiff of confidence around Wilbur turns to cracked glass.
"What's so amusing?" he asks, mouth twisted.
"My sincere apologies..." Once his laughing fit subdues, Tommy takes a moment to press a handkerchief to his lips, but even then his grin is too wide to conceive. "I just thought for a moment that by one of those candidates you mean yourself."
Wilbur clenches his jaw tighter. "I see no reason why not. I'm the secondborn son of the Emperor, and his crown prince for over ten years. If there is somebody best fitted for this role, it would be me."
"You have been the crown prince for twelve years, indeed," Tommy says, folding the handkerchief back to his pocket. "But where is that crown now?'
Finally over their surprise of hearing Tommy laugh, councilmen start to exchange glances. He doesn't need to look to know how slowly but steadily, an invisible army grows behind his back.
"Prince Theseus, if you have something to say, let us hear it," comes the Emperor's clipped response.
Tommy shrugs. "Oh well... I am only one person. What would be my opinion against that of a majority, or even against my dearest brother's? By all means the Emperor should be taking these wise noblemen's advice into account."
Tommy knows that he is well appreciated among the ministers; it's a direct result of his strict work ethic and brilliant reputation in high society. If anybody had seen the best how an immature and fickle boy was shaped into the crown prince he is today, then it would be the councilmen.
"With all due respect, installing Prince Wilbur as the Protector would lead to a number of predicaments. Perhaps His Imperial Majesty shouldn't hastle with this decision and weigh the options carefully," Pete says.
Murmur of approval rises in tides, and soon the whole council speaks the same thought in different voices. A look passes Wilbur's face as though something rotten was shoved down his throat, but he knows that even the Emperor - clearly the person whose support he had been hoping for - can't go against the majority's wish. Nobody dares to openly support Tommy, but he can see it, how some councilmen are insulted that Wilbur even thought of laying a claim on the Imperial lands.
Today they might be Emperor Philza's people, but tomorrow they will serve Emperor Theseus. A few will come and go of course; it's only natural that one man leaves his seat and the other comes to occupy it. There is no more powerful and honorable status in the Empire than of a councilman, the Emperor himself aside. It's in the best interest of those people to try and keep their positions when Tommy ascends the throne and changes the government to his own liking. Baron Sneeg, the Minister of Internal Affairs, Pete, the Master of Treasury... Tommy has a few people in mind that he wants to keep closer to himself, and Wilbur is not one of them.
My throne, Tommy thinks. My reign. Some of those ambitions must have been written plainly on his face, because when he looks back at the Emperor, the man stares him down. There were days before when Tommy would much rather inspect the tips on his nails than look directly in the man's eyes, but now, more than ever, he is aware of their resemblances. Every line of their faces is painted with the same brush and colors but slightly different strokes. For the Emperor, it's like fighting his own reflection.
We match now. Are you happy?
Judging by the Emperor's expression, he is anything but.
***
Sam is a strange man.
They share lunch today, as they had recently taken a habit to, and as soon as Sam puts down his fork he announces that he wants to see the palace gardens. Following the rules of hospitality, Tommy doesn't refuse him. A lot of people come to see the fountains and the giant pine trees, to take a walk over the bridged ponds or take a picnic in numerous pavilions; all in all it's not an unusual request, but the way Sam behaves... That certainly is.
He stops to look at almost every step, and not just to poke around, no. That Tommy was used to. Every once in a while a group of highborn kids would stomp the meticulously groomed grass into mud, or a lady would tear a pretty flower to spin it around in her hands for a minute and then throw it away, and Tommy would watch with gritted teeth and inconspicuous desire for murder. Sam, however, is surprisingly careful. He always asks Tommy permission to approach first, and that could be explained with the fear of touching anything poisonous - there are a few bushes around that could make one's skin rashy and itchy for days - if Sam wasn't asking questions. What is that grove of trees over there, or how often does a certain flower bloom, as if Tommy has more knowledge about the gardens than the gardeners themselves. And he does, but there is no way that somebody would know that.
"Badlands is a bare land for the most part of the year," Sam says, sensing Tommy's confusion. "Only fleeting spring showers can make red poppies sprout in dry grass, but even they grow dim in comparison with your gardens, Your Highness."
At first his responses are short and clipped; he isn't used to people having this much interest in plants (not since Mother passed away; Tommy shoves that thought as far to the back as his mind as possible) but the compliment warms him up as if he had personally grown every strip of grass in the eastern wing. What so if he's feeling a tiny bit excited? Tommy is being a good host, and that's all.
"I didn't know orchids could grow in the Empire," Sam says, palming the flowers gently.
"Only during summertime," Tommy explains. "They are moved indoors when autumn comes. The cherry trees, however, will bloom beautifully in a few months..." Sam stands up, and follows Tommy further down the path as the crown prince explains that they're from Drywaters originally, and the saplings were a gift from the late King that Empress Kristin had brought back from one of her diplomatic missions.
"And here we have the blue roses. They are not actually blue, of course. It's the special fertilizer mixed with the soil that gives white roses a different color. I never can remember the name, so I call it just that, blue. Me and my brother had once gotten our hands stained in it, and it wouldn't wash off for days," Tommy laughs to himself, more of a bark, face heated up and hands gesturing wildly. Wilbur tried to get some of the blue in Techno's hair too. Techno threatened to shave Wilbur bald in his sleep if he did. "You should see them early in the morning, when dew forms. They look prettier than the night sky-"
Tommy turns around to look at Sam without thinking and it strikes him, with the man's dark eyes focused on him and carefully listening, that he just said all of that in front of another person. His ramble breaks off like had just taken a gulp of water.
"I- my apologies. I shouldn't labor Your Grace with such nonsense," he says, ducking his head low.
"You're glowing, Your Highness." Tommy looks up in surprise, wide-eyed, and Sam is smiling at him warmly. "Please, do go on. It's my pleasure to listen as one talks about what they're passionate about."
But the moment is already gone; Tommy feels silly about his small ramble. His cheeks feel hot, but now with embarrassment rather than excitement. "They're just flowers," he says, eyes dimming, bitterness in his voice that's not directed at Sam. They continue walking, leaving it all behind: the orchids, the cherry trees and the stupid blue roses.
"I'm the same about architecture," Sam suddenly says.
Tommy eyes him warily. "You... are?"
"I can talk about my building projects for hours, regardless of whether somebody asked for it or not. My ward says it's annoying, but he always stays to listen," Sam smiles. Clearly, he cares about that person a lot, enough for his eyes to be filled with fondness... For some reason, Tommy feels a pang in his chest.
"They must be very lucky to have you as their teacher," he says, looking away.
"Thank you," Sam says. Even though Tommy doesn't see his face, he has an impression that, for a moment, his expression had gone sad. "What I want to say is that no ruler is just a ruler. We are artists, musicians, warriors, scholars... Just like any other person, we have our passions and are allowed to have lovers beyond our duties."
Tommy scrunches his nose up. "I'm wed to paperwork, and my office is my wedding aisle," he sighs, griefful. Sam laughs, and Tommy keeps his own smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. "But I do see your point... Where this palace stands now used to be a castle. My great grandfather had renovated it for peaceful times, but there are still some parts where you can see the traces of old architecture. I could show you if you'd like so."
"I will gladly take upon that offer some other day," Sam nods. "Right now, though, it's better if we start heading inside. I can smell the rain coming."
Leaves sway in the wind. They've grown large and bright in three months of open blue skies, and bushes lay leisurely like cats warming their hips in the sun. No matter how deep Tommy breathes in, he can't feel the smell of rain, but he'll trust Sam's judgment.
"You can go without me," Tommy says. "I have one more thing to do."
***
The last time Tommy had come to tend to his greenhouse, it was in the evening a few days after the banquet. The lantern he brought with himself was dim enough that Tommy didn't have to see the sorry state of the plants. He downed some water over a bush wilting with thirst, cut some dead branches and flew straight out as leaves shook in disapproval.
Sam's words had stirred up something in Tommy, and today he comes in, steps light and shy, into the sun-bathed garden. He takes a slow look around the threads of lifeless vines. He is used to seeing the garden like this, and it stung, but what else could he do but nurture the dying flowers and hope that they'll gain the tenth of their previous beauty? Tommy had been tumbling down a hill and into the pit of his own misery, and the pitiful state of the greenhouse was just another thing he'd spill tears over when he came here to cry his pain out.
There was a time where he would spend almost entire days just tidying up the gardens. Sometimes, embarrassingly, he would sing to grass, because Mother once said that it helped plants to grow faster. Young Tommy took her words to heart, but started to have doubts as he grew older. And then he turned eleven, and Mother fell bedridden, and he never asked her whether she was telling the truth or lied because she wanted to hear him sing.
Butterflies swarm around him habitually. Some sit on his shoulders, a few stick to his pants and one of them lands on his face and crawls up on his cheek. We missed you, the fluttering of their wings seems to say.
"I missed you too," Tommy whispers back, eyelids drooping.
He opens his eyes again with a deep sigh. With one hand still out of commission, Tommy can't properly tend to the plants, but he owes them as much as some watering and attention.
"Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor," he starts up quietly, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Tommy picks up a bucket, abandoned on the ground during his last visit, and scoops up some water from the fountain.
"All in the Downs that night for to lie." The state of the garden turns out to be not as terrible as Tommy had thought. Underneath dry leaves, new sprouts are reaching towards the sun. He picks up seeds scattered on the tiled floor around the fountain. Tommy plants them and lets water trickle between his fingers and on top of freshly patted soil.
"Then it's stand by your stoppers, steer clear your shank-painters," Tommy hums, moving a large fern out of the way. A dozen caterpillars wiggle out in all directions. They hide under plants and duck into shade, but one crawls up Tommy's finger, around his wrist and then settles idly on his palm. In a few weeks' time, it will turn into a cobalt-winged butterfly.
"Haul up your clew garnets, let tacks and sheets fly..."
Summer never ends in Tommy's garden, but for the first time it faces a spring.
***
Sam wasn't wrong in the end. When Tommy comes out of the greenhouse, the skies promise a long, weeping rain. Air is frigid, frozen in that long, breathless moment before the sky is done holding back the tears and letting them patter a scornful song. Tommy likes it when the world husks down to dull grays, and the true beauty of nature shines through - emerald trees and jade grass and flowers beaded with rainwater - but he'd rather not return to the palace soaking wet and shivering like a cat nearly drowned, so he hurries to start on a bouquet done soon. Sam probably doesn't realize the true impact that his words had on him, but the least Tommy could do is thank him with a gift.
A familiar squawk rattles through the air, and then Prince lands on his shoulder, careful to keep his talons from sinking in too deeply. Tommy scratches underneath his chin, and Prince coos.
"I should really tell Dream to stop sending you in such weather." Prince nibbles at his ear. Tommy bats him away light-heartedly. "Oi, Dream knows better, I get it! Keep me company while I pick some flowers and then we'll go to see your owner."
Tommy finds exactly what he needs in a patch of chrysanthemums. He plucks a handful, folding them one to another, when Prince takes off his shoulder without a warning. Tommy turns barely in time to see him disappear in the trees. What could have spooked him so suddenly?
A three-tapped step twists Tommy's stomach into braids. "If the crown prince has time to spare on tea parties and collecting flowers, maybe he's not as fatigued as he wants himself to seem."
Tommy clenches the stem of a chrysanthemum, nearly snapping it in half. Suddenly he feels like he needs a handful more of the yellows. He adds the flowers one by one, stretching each movement for as long as he can without betraying that it's intentional. When Tommy knows that the thread of Emperor's patience has neared snapping, he draws the blue ribbon out of his hair and uses it to tie the bouquet together. He didn't collect all of those just to throw them away or let them wither void of purpose.
"Make sure that these are delivered to Duke Sam's chambers," Tommy tells Wisp, standing up from his knees.
The knight clasps the bouquet tenderly between his palms and bows his goodbye. Only when he's out of earshot distance that Tommy turns to the Emperor, swiping grass blades off the hem of his surcoat. Same simple trick can't be done to mudded shoes and pants.
"Your Imperial Majesty, it must be an important matter that made you seek me out personally," Tommy bows, arm tight across his heart. He may seem no better than a soiled gardener at this moment, but he'd carry himself with dignity no matter the state of his garments or body. Bleeding or on the verge of collapsing, boiling in anger or consumed by grief, Tommy wouldn't let anybody forget that he's a prince - the Emperor first and foremost.
Philza seems to understand that. He studies Tommy for a moment. "Follow," the Emperor says, whirling around, so Tommy does.
As they walk, Tommy has to adjust his pace to the Emperor's slow and heavy steps. He careens heavily to the side, right hand clenched on the top of a cane. Made out of rosewood and painted in black with a curved silver handle, it's the only thing keeping the Emperor upright. His old injuries don't bother him much on a regular day, but Tommy knows that just like how the wind sweeps through the empty towers of the palace, his once broken leg is howling with pain.
Tommy's fourteen had taught him two things: fathers are mortal, and emperors, too, bleed red. The crown prince stood numbly as his father's injuries were listed out like a funeral march, and only when one of them regarded Tommy as "Your Imperial Majesty," did he snap out of his state and coldly tell them that for as long as his father breathed, he was no Emperor.
It'd take a miracle for him to live, they said. The nights Tommy spent at the Emperor's bedrest, begging him to wake up, didn't count as one, Wilbur's sudden return did. Within a month after the prodigal prince made his reappearance the Emperor was in a clear mind. Three years later all the broken bones had healed up without a trace safe for a limp on a rainy day.
"Are the trading negotiations between you and Duke Sam going smoothly?" Phil asks, drawing Tommy out of his memories.
"We've held a few meetings with the Minister of External Affairs and the Minister of Trade," Tommy nods. "Unless there is some delay on their behalf you should be receiving a report tomorrow."
They continue like this for some time; the Emperor asks questions that he already knows the answers to, and Tommy pretends not to know that he's being tested. That, for one, is nothing new. Worthy or not worthy, a prince or a failure - it's up to the Emperor to tell which one Tommy is.
Where are your wings, little crow? Duchess Clara would ask. Standing in front of a mirror, Tommy used to inspect his back for signs of bone and muscle growing under pale skin. At seventeen years old he is still firmly bound to earth. Avian blood isn't strong in Tommy after all, and he wonders if it's just another thing that he had disappointed the Emperor with.
"People say that you and Prince Dream have grown close recently," the man says as the clouded skies shift into domed ceilings.
People, Tommy internally scoffs. I didn't know that we regard Wilbur in plural now. In all fairness, Tommy and Dream have been spending time almost daily now, and it's possible that the Emperor had noticed it without any pointers, but with the council meeting earlier today he doesn't believe that Wilbur isn't involved somehow.
"Prince Dream thinks that his current visit is an opportunity to overstep through our past feuds and tighten the knot between the Antarctic Empire and the Kingdom of Esempi."
The Emperor never has stopped looking in Tommy's eyes. "And what do you think?"
"The current state of the Empire provides favorable conditions to build diplomatic relationships on," he says, his gaze just as sharp. "Even though the war between us has long since ended, there is some strain to how two nations see each other. What is a better way to set an example to people if not through the friendship of future monarchs?"
They stop before an entrance to a tower, where a simple spruce door hides a staircase. Along the walls, torches smolder, filling the air with the smell of burning coal. The steps are narrow and crumbled at places; the Emperor wouldn't be able to climb the tower with his bad leg. Habitually, Tommy reaches for his cane, but before he can take it, he is sliced by a blue-eyed gaze.
"You have your mother's ambitions," the Emperor says. "Shame that none of her kindness."
The hollow walls echo, shame, shame, shame... The tower comes alive to gloom over Tommy as his entire world tilts on its axis. A deep breath yanks it back upright, but a horrible void in his chest stays, and not even squeezing it can make the feeling go away. "Lack of a heart doesn't deprive one of their ability to be hurt, Your Imperial Majesty," Tommy says quietly. Ever the obedient prince, he takes the Emperor's cane and lets the man slung an arm across his shoulders.
The Crow's tower is one of the oldest parts of the palace - and so are its inhabitants. For centuries, a special breed of crows with blue eyes, bigger and smarter than their wild brethren, has been used by the Imperial family for delivering letters. When they reach the end of the staircase, the Emperor leaning on him heavily for support, they are greeted by a cacophony of noise. Hundreds of crows perched around the tower caw and flap their wings. Tommy hands the Emperor his cane back just in time to get out of the way of the diving birds. They settle on the man's both shoulders, on the fingers of his outstretched hand. One of them cocks its head to the side, bright blue eyes focused on Tommy.
"Child," It declares. As a boy, Tommy used to climb into the Crow's tower a lot. Techno would follow him to make sure that he didn't break his neck on the staircase. Crows always pecked his older brother less and didn't bristle at his petting, and Tommy whined that it's unfair that they liked Techno more than him.
"Shut, child," Techno said, lightly shoving him in the nape of his neck, and the crows had taken a habit of calling Tommy that ever since.
Emperor Philza brushes a knuckle underneath the crow's chin. It rumbles a low noise of delight, fluffing up its feathers and leaning closer into the touch. "Crows are magnificent creatures," the Emperor says, his voice filled with honest admiration. "In winters, they roost for warmth in such numbers that tree branches bend under their weight. If one crow has been wronged, they will return in great numbers to take their vengeance." The Emperor strikes a look at Tommy, but there's no need for that when he already knows where this conversation is heading to. "You have a thing or two to learn from them about the power of numbers and unity of blood."
"Blood," a crow repeats. More join in, and the tower explodes with a chant: "Blood, blood, blood!"
I am more of a parrot person myself, Tommy thinks. He crosses his arms behind his back and withholds the Emperor's gaze coldly. "If one crow tries to gouge another's eye out, should it just stand and watch?" he says.
"Wilbur had made a few foolish and unfortunate decisions," The Emperor snaps. "But it doesn't change the fact that he is your brother and my son."
I am your son, too! Something desperate screams in Tommy. He fists his hands at his sides.
"You take Wilbur's side as if it wasn't him who lied to Prince Dream and put the relationship between our nations at threat. But do you know what he truly didn't do?" Tommy advances a step forward. "He didn't rule over the Empire in your stead. He didn't manage the Imperial lands when Duchess Clara passed away. He didn't step up in the Empress' shoes and stand by your side when you needed him the most."
The Emperor stays unmoving, but a few crows scatter away, cawing anxiously. "Choose your words carefully, Theseus," he warns. "Just as I had placed a crown on your head, I can take it back at any time."
Tommy knows then; his words have striked their mark. The Emperor always seemed so strong and unperturbed that it had never occurred to him before that he, too, might be wearing a mask. Once golden hair turned almost fully gray, leaning on a cane with hands etched deep with wrinkles, Philza looks like he did three years ago - an old man who can't keep cheating death forever.
"There's no point in growing a tree if you're not going to reap the fruits," he says, not advancing anymore, but not moving back either. "All the effort that you have put into Wilbur... it all was wasted when he ran away. Even three years later, nobody had forgiven his treason." Tommy lifts his gaze. "I am not WIlbur." Lightning flashes outside. "I won't crumble."
The tower falls into grave silence. Not even the crows dare to move, frozen on the Emperor's shoulders, waiting for his verdict while rain and wind continue to howl their song outside sealed windows. Tommy sees himself in the reflection of Philza's eyes - blazing, bright as sunset fire, fierce as an ocean storm and yet no less rigid than his father. Standing on the opposite sides of an invisible battlefield, they both realize a simple truth: if Philza is an emperor before he is a father, then Tommy is the crown prince before he is a son.
To the rattle of a distant thunder, the Emperor gives in. "Perhaps I'm in the wrong to keep a sapling out of soil when it's so eager to sprout roots," he says, shifting weight to his cane. He nudges the crows off his shoulders gently and turns back to Tommy. "It's decided, then. At the end of the month you'll pay a visit to the Crow's Keep and investigate the issue of missing avians. Wilbur will come with you. I want you to speak with Michael and weigh the options carefully. Upon your return, you will make the final choice of who is to be the next Protector of Imperial lands."
Tommy straightens up. Part of him doesn't believe what he just heard; dreadful, distrustful, it curls up in a corner and bares its teeth. "Just me and Wilbur?" Tommy asks before he can stop himself, "What about Ranboo?"
The Emperor seems to be surprised with Tommy's question, too. "You don't have to concern yourself with Ranboo from now on. I'm moving him to your old chambers in the northern wing."
Another lightning, and this one feels like it had just landed on top of Tommy's head. Northern wing, the place where only the Imperial family resides. The Solstice feels like it had happened ages ago, but suddenly Tommy remembers vividly the first time he had ever spoken to Beau.
"Your Highness, is it true that His Majesty is going to adopt that peasant?"
"My old chambers?" Tommy realizes that he sounds like one of the crows now, repeating words after the man, and quickly recollects himself. "The Emperor does as he pleases. I have no care for what happens to Ranboo."
The Emperor doesn't call him out on his lie. "Then you may go now." Tommy bows and paces towards the staircase, but before he can take a first step down, the Emperor speaks up again, "And Theseus?"
"Yes?" he turns.
As if on command, all the crows startle from their perch. They dive from the ceiling and circle the emperor in utter silence; black masses of their feathers live and move in grotesque shapes. The wind whirling up from their flight blows off all the torches. In the darkness, the crows almost look like Philza's wings.
"Don't forget that some flowers are purely decorative."