Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fundy rinsed his mouth, spat out the water, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was unsure how to feel about what he saw. Around his eyes, a bruised black was just visible through the orange fur. His crown, delicate gold with white and pink and blue diamonds, seemed to sit ill on his head. It felt like at any moment he could turn or tilt his head and the crown would fall.

He reached up, adjusted it. Told himself that it fits better now.

He wished he could talk to Eret about his dreams. The eroded places of his past, the appearance of Quackity. How he had told Fundy he could do more, be more, than a prince to a crumbling kingdom. More than a son to a parent who was never around. They say third time’s the charm, but evidence points to the opposite. Then, the countdown. But Eret had been asleep for a while now, so he couldn’t. There was something akin to irony there, in the Greater Dream SMP having a prince who could not sleep and a king who could do not wake.

Still, he could tell them about it, even if he couldn’t expect any answers. He left the room – his room, it’s your home, Fundy – and started to make his way through the castle. The stone was cold and the wood rough as Fundy ran his claws along the wall. After the nightmares – few though they were, with his sleep schedule – it felt good to feel the world. To have something solid beneath his hands.

He passed through the throne room. Even beneath the dust, the gold still shone. How long since it had last been sat in? He should probably clean it. No, he would clean it. Just after he did all the other stuff he needed to do. Which meant he would probably never get around to it, but he could entertain the possibility of productivity.

After the throne room was the shrine. Red and angry, as netherrack always was. Sometimes he would pass by it and it would be a blaze, the heat scorching him even at a distance. Other times it would be a whisper of a flame, barely clinging to life. Today, it was in between. A normal fire, more or less.

Just as Fundy prepared to climb the stairs, he heard someone entering the castle.

His hand drifted to the sword by his hip. His shield – red and blue and white, a gift from Eret – rested upstairs, in a chest by his bed. A foolish move, but Fundy had been known to make those. And the castle hadn’t had a visit in weeks, at least not while he was around.

He crept to the entrance. Was it someone here to steal Eret’s belongings? It used to be a common pastime on the server. Fundy certainly did it all the time. But things had changed. He was Eret’s son now. Would they expect him to defend their home?

Their, plural, he told himself. Not singular. Don’t forget that.

Quackity was standing at the entrance. He had a new outfit. White shirt. Overalls. It was clean, made cleaner by the context of the castle and its dust. Fundy looked to his eye, the one Technoblade had taken Toothpick to, expecting to see milky white, but gold stared at him instead.

“Fundy! My good old friend,” greeted Quackity, voice joyful. “How have you been?”