Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shoes clicked against the marble floor, and footsteps laced with urgency and anxiety filled the capacious hallways of the palace. Beams of sunlight from the large windows illuminated the walls decorated with priceless paintings, and the scent of freshly cut roses wafted in the air. Oblivious, servants floated past the knight, preparing for the upcoming annual Antarctic Ball, which was to be held in a fortnight.

Steps halted, and with a deep breath, Sir Sam, Prince Theseus’ knight, nodded to the two knights stationed outside the entrance to the grand throne room. 

The grand throne room was just that–grand. The space had ceilings taller than any other part of the castle, with a large golden chandelier hanging from the center. A striking red carpet ran through the center of the room, leading from the doorway to the thrones placed beneath an old portrait of the imperial family.

Sam remembers the day the painting was created. It took an entire day of posing, and the artist had to remember details from memory as the youngest prince, Theseus, could never sit still. Being four, Theseus was unwieldy; he constantly ran away (which resulted in Sam having to fetch him), whined, or begged the empress to play. Yet, despite the hassle of that day, Sam couldn’t help but smile whenever he gazed at the framed illustration. Except for this time, that is. In years, this is the first time the knight hasn’t smiled at the sight of the portrait. 

In contrast to Sir Sam, Prince Theseus never liked the painting. The countless amount of complaints from the prince was a testament to this. It was a thing of the past, evidence of how the youngest prince’s life used to be. 

How his life was when his mother, Empress Kristin, was still alive, back when she would hold him in her arms and whisper sweet things in his ear. Back when she would tell stories to young Theseus of her and the emperor's adventures and life past the palace walls. Or when she would aid Theseus in his ballroom classes and act as his partner. Back when she would pepper Theseus’ face with kisses and tell him continuously how much she loved him.

Back when his older brother, Crown Prince Wilbur, would play his guitar and sing to Theseus or play hide and seek with him. Back when he referred to Theseus by the moniker of Tommy. (Prince Theseus–after Prince Wilbur called him Tommy for the first time–preferred the name Tommy and insisted Sam would address him as so, and after a bit of convincing, Sam did.) But unfortunately, this was no longer the case; Prince Wilbur has rarely spoken to Tommy in the last decade. However, when he did, it was Prince Theseus, never Tommy anymore. 

Back when Wilbur’s fraternal twin, Prince Technoblade, would let Tommy watch his sparring matches with the young knights in training or show him some new self-defense move he had learned. Back when Technoblade would read Tommy a book every night before bedtime, even if it were often a book the younger couldn’t comprehend. Or when the pair snuck into the palace kitchens. They had consumed as many desserts as their stomachs could handle before getting caught by their mother and banned from desserts for the next week. Now, Tommy enters the kitchens alone, without his brother. 

Back when his father, Emperor Philza, would ask Tommy about his day or help him in his lectures. Back when he would carry the boy on his shoulders and run about the gardens. Back when he would allow Tommy to sit in on his meetings as long as he made the prince promise to be quiet. Back when Phil had to teach Tommy about proper etiquette and how to communicate around others because the prince proclaimed his tutors were boring and wouldn’t listen to them. 

Back when he wasn’t a jewel to only be shown on rare occasions or someone to only be pulled out for appearances. Back when he wasn’t bereft or abandoned. 

Back when he was Tommy and not Prince Theseus to his family.

Back when his family had truly loved him.

It seemed all love for the last prince had died with the empress a decade ago.

A decade ago, seeing Sir Sam was a regular occurrence for Emperor Philza, but now, seeing him standing before him created an odd sense of familiarity. 

“Sir Sam, for what do I owe the pleasure?” Phil inquired from his throne. The emperor’s throne was sat in the center of the room; Wilbur and Technoblade’s thrones were placed to the right of the emperor’s, with Wilbur’s being the closest. To the left of Phil’s remained the empress’ old throne, and–although it was only used for when visitors arrived–Tommy’s throne was the farthest. 

Sam cleared his throat, “Your Imperial Majesty, I apologize for this disruption, but the youngest prince, Theseus, has vanished.”

The three responded to the news with unsurprising equanimity. Technoblade and Wilbur made eye contact, the former rolling his eyes, hoping the knight hadn’t seen as the act was a sign of discourtesy, and the latter merely raised an eyebrow. 

“He does that; I don’t see how I can assist you with this, Sam,” Phil articulated, leaning back further into his chair, evidently unable to grasp the severity of the situation.

How would Phil know how Tommy behaves? 

Sam’s patience was beginning to thin; of course, the family wouldn't have cared about anything regarding Theseus, even if it was his death.

The knight unfurled the loose paper clenched in his fist as he spoke, “Permission to approach, Your Majesty.” 

“Permission granted.”

Phil observed as Sam strictly traveled towards him, hands holding a piece of paper that appeared to be torn out of a book. What does this have to do with anything?

“I have here a letter written by Prince Theseus, found in his quarters no more than an hour ago. His room remains untouched compared to yesterday sans this document. You’ll find it better if you read it yourself, Emperor.” 

Venomous, curt, belligerent.

A flash of uncertainty consumed Phil before he seized the paper presented to him. 

Hesitant, uncertain, confused.

There was no transition in mood as Sam had hoped.

Impalpable, blank, steady.

As if he were a conditioned soldier, the emperor kept a straight face. No shock, no concern. 

“There is no body,” Sam calmly adds.

A moment passed before Emperor Philza raised a hand and dismissed Sam, who bowed and departed, leaving the three imperials in the throne room isolated.

Technoblade spoke first, “What does it say?” 

Phil gave the missive to Wilbur, who quickly passed it to Technoblade.  

Unlike his twin, Wilbur couldn’t care less about the note. He hadn’t stopped to read its contents, and he didn’t plan to. 

Wilbur was the most closed off from Theseus. Even at formal appearances or balls, the former would avoid the latter. While his dad would address Theseus on occasion–only ever about upcoming appearances or pertinent matters, never anything else–Wilbur kept his mouth shut around the blond. It had been years since the older spoke to the younger, and Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if his brother (can he even call him that anymore?) had forgotten the sound of his voice. But weirdly, he doesn’t mind that possibility. 

If Wilbur were to think about it, he would find that he hadn’t seen Theseus in nearly two months, the last at a dinner party with the monarchical family of a nearby kingdom. But he wouldn’t bother to explore that fact, and if informed of this, the crown prince would simply brush the fact off. 

The imperial family and their knights were the only ones to see the tense atmosphere looming over the formal dining room that evening. Tommy’s presence was requested (Tommy learned at an early age that requested was a polite way of saying required), although he wished it were not. 

He was sick of pretending.

To the entirety of the Antarctic Empire and surrounding kingdoms, they believed the imperial family was one to be idolized. Commoners saw what their emperor wanted them to see. They saw a family that loved one another, a family that cared for each other. They know Emperor Philza, not Phil. They know Prince Technoblade, not Techno. They know Crown Prince Wilbur, not Will. They know Prince Theseus, not Tommy. 

Albeit, no one knows Tommy, especially not his family.

No commoner noticed the extra space between Tommy and the rest of his family or the lack of joy. The countless times Technoblade and Wilbur would laugh or joke while Tommy stood there, ostracized and expressionless, were a testament to this. His older brothers never cared to include him after their mother died. Tommy never knew the reason why.

"Do you believe him?" Technoblade finished reading.

"It's Sam, Tech. As much as I would rather not, we should substantiate this and guarantee this stays between us and the palace. The last thing we want is the commoners catching word and deeming me an unfit father."

Wilbur, sensing that this would be the topic for a while, caved, “Why would they deem you so?” 

“Here,” Technoblade offered the page to Wilbur.

He doesn’t recognize the handwriting. 

By the time you are reading this, I will have joined mother. 

One sentence. 

One sentence that speaks a thousand more.

“He’s not gone; he wants attention,” Wilbur concludes, leaning back in his seat. Theseus was always one for theatrics. 

“Did you not read the note? He killed himself, Will. He’s gone.”

“He’s not, Techno.”

“He is.”

“He wants attention, always has,” Wilbur kept his voice and manner collected.

“What are you implying, Will? He just ran away?” Phil inserted.

If he did, where would he go?

“I don’t know, and I honestly don’t care to find the answer.”

“Shame, you’ll have to find it then,” Phil slyly smirked.

Wilbur stood from his chair, “Pardon?”

“Take George to Theseus’ room. I want you to look for clues as to where he is if you’re so adamant about him being alive.” Techno snickered at Phil’s words. “And you,” Techno’s face fell as Phil looked at him, “Take Nick and locate Sam. We do not want word of this escaping.” 

Phil spoke before the princes could absquatulate, “Tell Clay I would like to see him.”

Techno whispered something about this being Wilbur’s fault as he left while Wilbur remained annoyed. 

Outside the entrance to the throne room stood five knights; George (Wilbur’s knight), Nick (Techno’s knight), Clay (Phil’s knight), and two guards who continuously remained outside those doors. Most knights and guards had codenames or nicknames created early on in their training for fun. For instance, Nick’s close friends called him Sapnap, Clay’s name was Dream, and one of the guards went by Quackity (he never told anyone his real name, no one knew why.) The other guard, Karl, and George, preferred their birth names, but occasionally someone would refer to them by their nicknames, Swirl and Goggles. 

“George, we best be going. Dream, Phil requests your presence inside.” 

With a nod, Dream said his goodbyes and left through the tall doors.

“Have any of you seen Sam?” Techno asked the remaining four knights.

“He departed to your right,” Quackity provided. 

“Thank you. Sapnap and I will see you all later.”

The group parted, Wilbur and George to the left, Techno and Sapnap to the right, and Karl and Quackity remained at their post. 

Prince Theseus resides on the opposing side of the castle from the rest of the monarchal family to limit his interactions with them. The only people who regularly entered Theseus’ quarters were Sam, his knight, Eret, the bespoke seamstress, and Cara (or Puffy as Tommy liked to call her), the maid assigned to tidy his bedroom. A few random servants came and went but never dawdled long enough for Tommy to learn their names. 

Wilbur abruptly halted in front of his younger brother’s room. He doesn't want to think about the fact that he’s probably only been here a total of three times in the past decade. 

Wilbur knew he hadn’t cared for his brother in years. He hadn’t had a genuine conversation with him since Theseus was maybe eight or nine years old, and he would be, what? Seventeen by now? Who knows when the last time Wilbur celebrated or congratulated the blond on his birthday. Wilbur doesn’t even remember the month in which Theseus’ birthday falls. 

“This is it, correct?” He asked George for clarification.

“I believe so.”

Pushing the doors to his missing brother’s room open, he spends time truly taking in the bedroom for the first time. His bedding is mainly white with accents of gold and red; he notices the color theme repeating itself throughout the room. (Was red his favorite color?) A record player is sat on top of his dresser, an unrecognizable music disk in it. A guitar is propped against a wall in the corner.

Wilbur faintly remembers Theseus asking him to teach him to play the instrument years ago.

Schoolwork from Theseus’ private tutors is messily laid across his desk, and Wilbur can make out some Spanish and French work. The closet door is ajar, and Wilbur can see racks and racks of royal garments without taking a single step inside. 

Across the large room, the bookcase is filled with books, some fiction and others not. Wilbur moves towards it but freezes as he recognizes one of the books.

Techno’s favorite book. 

Theseus was a stubborn child, and only a few things could get him to sleep, Techno’s hushed reading being one of them.

A chessboard lay on the coffee table opposite the couch, Phil’s favorite game. Wilbur remembers when Kristin, Techno, Theseus, and he would desperately try to beat Phil for hours on end. Spoiler, they never could.

The room walls were bare, and the window curtains were closed, the only light coming from the hallway. Wilbur nicely pulled the curtains to the side, surprised to see the raindrops which obscured his view of where the sun was mere seconds before.

Wilbur only now listened to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows.

He explored for ten minutes before noticing an old book, swirls of gold dancing on the cover. Wilbur softly picked it up and opened it to the first page.

There, in black ink, read Tommy’s Journal.

Like a slap to the face, the name left Wilbur wide-eyed. It’s a name he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

Tommy. 

This was his journal.

Tommy’s Journal.

A journal that held every key to every door. 

So there Crown Prince Wilbur of the Antarctic Empire was, holding a journal adorned with gold in his palms.

Chapter Text

Toby, or Tubbo as I used to call him, gave me this journal for my eighth birthday, but I’ve never written in it until now.

The birthday on which I first received this was the first birthday my family had forgotten. And although being exactly eight years ago, today, I remember that birthday as though it was yesterday. 

I remember waking up to Sam and Tubbo singing me happy birthday with a cake from our favorite baker in the castle, Miss Niki. The cake was made of vanilla batter and buttercream and decorated with strawberries–my favorite. Tubbo sat on my bed, shoving me a messily wrapped gift box, and ushered for me to open it. I remember ripping away the red wrapping paper, the golden bow thrown somewhere on the bed. Inside was this notebook, a letter, and a tiny box that hid a simplistic thin golden ring with a band of rubies. 

“Look! I got us matching ones!” Tubbo proudly showed off his corresponding gold ring with emeralds rather than rubies. 

I remember my vision fading as my eyes began to water and embracing Tubbo in the biggest hug ever. “I love it, thanks, Tubs,” I whispered.

I remember the notebook and letter becoming lost in the sea of wrapping paper and pillows while Sam placed a heavy box in front of me. It was a record player and several music disks. Sam continued to demonstrate how to use it and change out the disks for the next half hour.

When I asked where my family was, Sam informed me that Technoblade was training with some knights in the courtyard, Wilbur was in lessons, and Phil (I still called him Dad then) had left for a business trip near the ocean and wouldn’t return for a few days.

( Tubbo’s always wanted to see the ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean. I’ve seen a painting of one maybe once, and I’ve had tutors detail it, but seeing it is something on its own. So if I ever get out of here, I want to explore. Explore the ocean, the village - all the things I’ve never witnessed beyond the castle gates.)

I remember Tubbo dragging me away from my quarters for a breakfast picnic (he told me the cake didn’t count as breakfast.) And with the help of a few servants, he laid out a gorgeous display of foods and desserts mere feet away from our favorite spot in the gardens, right beside the hidden tree with a swing. 

“Look how high I’m going!” Tubbo would exclaim when playing on the swing. Or, “Tommy, c’mere, push me!”

To this day, I can still remember the enormous smile plastered on his face or the way his brown hair bounced as we played tag in the courtyard. 

I don’t think he truly understood what had happened that day.

Admittedly, I don’t think little eight-year-old Tommy understood either. I don’t think he realized how much one day could completely alter the rest of someone’s life–his life.

And despite the halcyon events of that day, there lived an everlasting cloud of ineluctable sorrow. No matter what Tubbo did to help me forget about my family, that cloud persisted in continuing to rain, leaving me to drown in the downpour.

I don’t know what's worse: drowning in heartache or living through it.

I haven’t celebrated my birthday since that day; I never liked birthdays anyway. 

Today, April 9th, there was no waking up to Sam and Tubbo singing me happy birthday with a cake from Niki. There was no Tubbo urging me to open a messily wrapped gift he had shoved in my hands moments prior. There was no picnic and no sneaking away to bother Puffy. 

There certainly was no Phil to ruffle my hair, Technoblade to teach me a new self-defense move, or Wilbur to sing me one of his latest songs because none of these things have happened in a decade. 

And of course, there was no Mom either, but I understand that one. 

I don’t deserve to have her here, anyway.

A light knock on the door.

“Your Highness?” Sam. Of course, it was Sam; Tommy could count the number of people it could've been on one hand, after all.

Without thinking, Tommy shut his notebook and shoved it quickly beneath the pillows on his bed. Then, he stood up, brushed off his clothing, and opened his bedroom door. “Yes?”

A deep breath.

In and out.

“His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”

For what?

Tommy’s eyebrows creased, eyes fixated on the reflective marble floor. “Alright. a moment, please, I must change.” He couldn’t give the emperor another reason to detest him.

Sensing that would be all, Tommy began to close the door, but Sam interrupted, “Oh, and Tommy?” Tommy looked up. “Happy Birthday.”

The blond boy’s lips formed a slight, barely noticeable smile. “Thank you, Sam.”

At least someone remembered.

I still think about it, you know. As much as I don't want to, I can’t help the growing thoughts of wonder from occupying my mind for hours, even though it makes me nauseous.

Absentmindedly, the imperial changed.

Where did I go wrong?

Genuinely, what did I do?

You all get to have fun and be loved while I sit alone, with walls muffling cries, unloved. 

My life is tainted by the absence of you, and even a decennary later, you won't tell me why. 

Tommy quietly departed his quarters, Sam at his side.

I know this is going to sound terrible, but why do you get to be happy? Why do you get to just forget about me and fill the hole that I created while the hole you left me only grows larger?

Is this karma? I mean, you always joked that I was loud, so maybe I was too annoying or noisy. But tell me, do you feel guilty? Do you yearn for what we used to have?

So why do you get to be happy while I got to be tossed to god knows where? Why do you get to be free while I got to be handcuffed? Why do you get to experience life while I have to survive it? Why do you get to be happy?

Akin to an abandoned apple, you’ve left me to rot in the absence of you.

I hate you. 

Every single one of you.

Philza, Technoblade, Wilbur.

All of you.

And I would love to let the wildfire that is rage burn me, but drowning in a frozen lake makes that difficult. I have to remain collected and cold in the presence of others. It’s always better to not speak, not show feelings than to. The moment I allow the heat of fury to set me ablaze, I risk setting fire to everything static in my life. My reputation would torch; my presence would be put out by the snowy land that is the Antarctic Empire. 

And somehow, I always feel colder than the icy weather outside. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to spark that forest fire that is revenge and ferity. Perhaps that’s why I've never been able to figure out the reason why my own blood shunned and abandoned me, storing me in a place far away. 

I’ve grown cold. 

I used to radiate energy. Much like a blanket, a sense of warmth would wrap around anyone near my younger self. 

It was a complete paradox; my present and my past. 

From a ball of sunlight, someone who wanted to hug you and never let go, the golden child who smiled with enough energy to melt the snow in the gardens. 

To a frozen statue, someone who would rather drown in their irrationality and tears, whose coldest secrets are trapped beneath even the worst of avalanches. 

Where red was my favorite color before becoming replaced with blue. 

I never bothered to replace my red bedding or the red pillows on my couch in my bedroom. Or the red ring on my finger, or the red dahlia flower bouquet that somehow becomes replaced every time it wilts. I feel like a part of me needs those things as a reminder. 

A reminder of how my life used to be.

It’s self-destructive, I know that. But there’s a gaping hole in my chest, and someday, it will swallow me whole.

Tommy wanted to be swallowed whole.

The pure sight of the imperials nearly forced his legs to buckle from under him, a carpet getting swept from beneath his soles. He wished just to collapse, limbs descending to the floor with a thud. 

A flood of memories cascaded through Tommy’s vision, and he wanted nothing more than to allow the waterfall of tears loose. 

Oh, I want to be loved so badly.

But the part of my heart reserved for love has shrunken for lack and cannot be filled. Unlike the bouquet of vivid red dahlias on my dresser, my heart didn’t become replaced as it began to wilt. It didn’t regrow; no seeds I could plant, no sunlight, water, or soil that would make it lively again. And I couldn’t go to the castle gardener and request a new heart. But if I could, perhaps I’d want to stay a little longer to see it bloom. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to watch my body rot in the place of a garden.

Tommy managed to remain still. Just as he learned at a young age, the blond prince kept his emotions hidden and his tongue bitten. 

Straight spine, shoulders back, chin up.

Tommy’s etiquette tutor’s words were long burned into his brain.

Feet shoulder length apart and flat on the floor, knees negligibly bent. 

Physically composed, never mentally. 

And making eye contact with Phil lacked aid. 

“Theseus,” the emperor spoke. His golden crown remained atop his head, the jewels complementing his forest green garments.

Theseus, never Tommy. 

Tommy desired to correct him. He despised the moniker Theseus. However, Prince Theseus was even worse. He wanted to hear Phil, Technoblade, Wilbur, and his mom and Tubbo call him Tommy again. But, as of now, the epithet solely exists for Puffy, Sam, and Tommy himself.

“Your Majesty,” Tommy felt small as he voiced and dipped his head in respect. Sure, it was an empty gesture built of annoyance and discourtesy, but anyone besides himself saw a prince formally addressing his emperor out of civility.

The young prince watched as Phil took a moment to trail him up and down, noting his appearance. Tommy remained equanimous; his eyes were fixed on the elder, unable to glace at the twins evidently staring at him. Yet, even under their gaze, he didn’t let himself cower. You’re fine. You’re okay. You can do this, he regurgitated over in his head. 

“As you know, the seasonal regale is to be held in a month’s time,” Phil started as Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t know that. How was he supposed to know the regale was that soon? This is the first time Phil has spoken to him in months; how did he expect him to know? “Your presence is requested at the dinner,” Phil continued, “and I expect you to be well-behaved and dressed accordingly.”

Wilbur mockingly sniggered, and Tommy peeked at him, disregarding the thought to remain still. The crown prince darted his eyes away, avoiding eye contact with Tommy. Tommy turned back to Phil.

“...assistance but will have Sam convey you when needed. Have I made myself clear?”

Despite registering maybe half of what was said, Tommy swallowed and nodded, “Yes.”

He was not looking forward to the regale. The dinner party is a tradition assembled by Empress Kristin years before the twins’ birth. It happens annually, although on a drastically different date every year. Royals of all kingdoms are invited, many dropping everything to attend. It is held in a ballroom explicitly used for the feast, which remained empty the rest of the year. There’s dancing, food, and music. A place for sovereigns to enjoy themselves and mingle with others. It’s for monarchs to announce important things, make speeches, or give thanks–a way to maintain the tranquility between kingdoms and avoid war. It is also one of the only instances in which Tommy is seen with the rest of the Antarctic Empire’s imperial family. 

Last year’s party went smoothly, but how would Tommy know? He hadn’t been invited nor informed of the dinner, and it was after Sam asked if he was supposed to be in attendance that he realized. And apparently, when asked, Phil said that he was ill and abstained from speaking of his youngest son for the rest of the night.

That’s why Tommy was a little surprised when his presence was requested.

“That is all, Theseus. You may return to your quarters,” Phil dismissed, placing his hands in his lap. 

Years ago, the boy would’ve begged to stay, anything to spend time with Phil and the twins, but now, he finds himself yearning to leave, go anywhere they aren’t. Maybe he does want to stay, but Tommy pushes down that thought before it has a chance to fully manifest.

A part of Tommy, an old piece of him, hoped that Phil would wish him a happy birthday. But, realistically, he knew that wouldn’t happen, and all hopes crumbled after the ruler’s dismissal. It’s okay, though; Tommy never liked birthdays anyway. It was the last time he saw Tubbo, after all.

The only thing that hurt me more than my eighth birthday was Tubbo’s ninth birthday. It was eight months after I turned eight, on December 23rd. It had just managed to stop snowing, so Tubbo and I ran outside in the freezing air to build a snowman whose name I cannot remember.

We had spent the day together; another cake from Niki, some hot chocolate, birthday gifts, everything was perfect. 

Until it wasn’t.

It started that evening. First, Tubbo lost his ring, the one akin to mine. We spent an indefinite amount of time retracing our steps, the only place we couldn’t look being in the gardens as it began to snow once again. Ultimately, Tubbo gave up looking for it. I was too tired to protest.

We fell asleep in front of the fireplace in my room from exhaustion. 

The memory’s hazy, but I can recall waking up around an hour past midnight. The fire had died–it’s never done that before; Sam always added more firewood. It was then I noticed Tubbo was gone. He wasn’t asleep on the carpet, he wasn’t on my bed, and he wasn’t on the couch. He was missing. 

Sam was gone too, so I groggily trekked through the halls alone, searching for Tubbo or Sam. 

Shouting flowed from the opposing side of the palace; I couldn’t extrapolate what was said. 

I fled back to my room. 

Tubbo never returned.

Tommy fled to his room. 

Tubbo wasn’t there.

Tommy’s back crashed against the recently slammed door.

It was too much, from seeing the imperial family to being forced to attend this year’s party. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see any royals. He didn’t want to see Phil, Wilbur, or Technoblade. He didn’t want to act as part of some picture-perfect family. He didn’t want any of this.

He wanted Tubbo and his mom. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be forgotten.

He wanted to pull out his hair, cry, and scream loud enough the whole world would shake.

Bile rose in his throat as his legs turned to liquid. Backsliding against the door, Tommy fell to a seat. His heart may as well rip through his chest with its harsh pounds, and sobs may as well cause his throat to bleed. 

He couldn’t do this.

You’re not fine. You’re not okay. You can’t do this.

It was more than the people currently sitting in the throne room; it was him. He did this. He is at fault. 

But, what did I do?

Where did I go wrong?

Without an answer, Tommy bawled. He cried for his mom and Tubbo, but most importantly, he wept for himself. 

Perhaps he would cry tears of joy on his next birthday.

Chapter Text

I just want him to love me. 

I wish he loved me like dads are meant to love their sons. He once told me I would always be his little boy, and I protested, exclaiming something about being a big man. He laughed and said that no matter what, I would forevermore be his little boy, even when I was as old as he. 

God, what a lie. 

I can’t recall when everything flipped off its axis, nor can I pinpoint when Tommy became Theseus, when the imperial family became a group of three, or when any verbal expression of love became silence. I just woke up one day, and the privation of interaction with them felt normal as if that’s how things always worked. Seeing them was now anomalous rather than the contrary, and being talked to by one of them was even more infrequent. 

I always hoped for a word, but they never said anything. I longed for a single word. That’s it. Just a comment to tell me they don’t hate me, or possibly a word of acknowledgment to show that I’m not some ghost to everyone and that I actually exist—because sometimes I feel like I don’t. 

Can they hear me?

Do they know I’m here?

Why won’t they notice me?

Will they remember me when I’m gone?

The youngest prince awoke the following day to sunlight illuminating his face. 

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Sam greeted whilst pulling open the shut curtains, exposing the early sun rising in the distance. 

The newly seventeen-year-old stirred and groggily muttered a greeting back to Sam before sitting up and digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

It is way too early for this , Tommy thought. Despite heading to bed before dusk, he was more tired than a day ago, a rare feat considering he was always tired. Maybe it was the fact that it was barely daybreak or that he hadn’t eaten since ereyesterday, he didn’t know. (He didn’t mean to not eat, he just wasn’t hungry—that’s all.) 

“We must get you dressed,” Sam proclaimed, opening Tommy’s wardrobe doors wide. The prince’s garments sat on the settee at the closet’s center—courtesy of Eret and his apprentice modiste, Tina. Today’s clothing bled of light blues, whites, and golds, contrasting yesterday’s navy and black. Sam looked at them and added, “Hastily, please.”

At this, Tommy vacated his bed and walked into the closet, asking, “Whatever is the reason for the early awakening? I do not believe I have any–”

The sound of knocking interrupted the prince.

“–lessons scheduled.” 

“A moment, please,” Sam excused himself and quickly left the wardrobe, leaving Tommy and the unanswered question alone. It reminded the imperial of the countless nights in which he approached Wilbur, wondering if the elder would educate him in guitar playing or some other question. By all means, Tommy could’ve requested a tutor to teach him, but Wilbur had been distant for a few weeks, and the blond wanted his brother back. Also, in addition to guitar playing, seven-year-old him would request the crown prince’s aid with a game or honestly just anything to get Wilbur to spend time with him, but Wilbur remained indifferent. At first, the crown prince would tell Tommy he was busy until it evolved into just flat-out nos or yelling. 

On the other hand, Technoblade never yelled. He was the quieter twin, yet for some logic, he had spoken more words to Tommy than Wilbur has in the past ten years—not that Tommy was counting or anything. So while Wilbur—before he stopped talking or acknowledging Tommy altogether—shouted and slammed doors in his face, his twin opted to ignore him. Or just ignore everything, really, and solely speak to Tommy when needed. It hurt all the same, but at least Technoblade wasn’t creating insincere excuses.

Tommy hated excuses. A life filled with them would do that to you. ‘ Why did you not tell me Tubbo passed sooner?’ ‘We forgot.’ ‘Wilbur, would you sing me one of your songs?’ ‘I am busy, not now, Theseus.’ ‘Technoblade, could I attend your fencing match?’ ‘You are far too young.’ ‘Father – ’ ‘I have business to attend to.’ Excuses, upon excuses, upon more excuses. Tommy was more irritated than the day he caught the three playing chess without him. 

There are a handful of days Tommy wished to forget. The day his mother passed, the day of her funeral, and every anniversary of her death. The day Tubbo vanished, the day he received news of his demise, and the day he held a funeral for him, alone minus Sam, outside in the freezing snow. There was the day Tommy tried to leave this world, and then there was the evening eight-year-old Tommy caught Wilbur, Technoblade, and Phil playing a game of chess without him. It stung—as if he tumbled into the sizable bee-infested rose bushes which bloomed outside in summertime—because chess was a game they used to all play. He swiftly retreated to his quarters, disregarding the original intention to enter the library, and shut the door in Sam’s face. 

The imperial family played chess on two separate boards that evening.

Tommy’s eyes caught the closet doors, and he trod to them, opening one and leaving to check who had been knocking on the entrance to his bedroom but was forborne the second he emerged. 

“Your Highness?” Tommy questioned bewilderedly as Technoblade and his knight, Sapnap, stepped into the room.

I should've told Sam to kick them out, lock the door, just anything to get them away from me and my room. I did not want to see them.

“Theseus, is there a reason for why you are dressed the same as yesterday?” Technoblade’s monotonic voice hoarded the air. 

Tommy was very aware of how disheveled he must have looked. He was too exhausted to change into sleepwear last night, and the untidy tossing and turning of slumber made it look like he had partaken in a rough horse racing tournament. “My apologies,” he didn't elaborate. The young prince could tell Technoblade didn’t care.

The twin took a breath. “Hurry up and get changed. I shall wait here.” 

Tommy wanted to ask what for but decided on saving the inquiry for later in hopes of not annoying the other. So instead, he muttered a phrase of understanding and reentered the closet.

I know I exist; tell that to nine-year-old me, though, and he wouldn’t believe you. That boy would rather cease to exist than survive in a world unaccompanied by his loved ones. It’s unfortunate how life works, how that child had no clue just how downhill things would spiral from there. He would lose his affinity for practically everything, and his personality would grow insipid—I wish I could’ve warned him. But, obviously, that’s something of fairy tales, and trust me when I say that fairy tales are made-up ideals written, for they cannot transpire in the real world. Namely, dragons, goblins, elves, gnomes, or fae aren’t real, and there are no happily ever afters.

(Unless you’re dead.) 

Tommy switched into whatever outfit was laid for him and tossed his worn clothes to be gathered by Puffy. 

Traveling to his vanity, the prince took note of the permanent darkness and bagginess of his under eyes. His face looked sunken in, and his skin was washed pale. Long gone was the bright sky in his eyes; the thunderclouds had conquered years ago. 

Tearing his eyes away from tracing every curve of his body, Tommy combed his hair quickly and reopened the doors. And, to the imperial’s great dissatisfaction, Technoblade remained as he was moments prior. The blond blinked a few times harshly to ensure he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. 

He wasn’t. 

“Follow,” Technoblade spoke laconically. Tommy fiddled with his necklace as he observed Technoblade turn and amble out the door and down the corridor, no care if the younger prince was after him.

There’s a tipping point to it all. A blinding flash capsizes the boat, and everything seems to sink and drown from there. You can’t breathe. You can't do anything except allow the waves to drag you under. The rush of water hauls your body further and further down to a place barren of light. 

Besides, it was already hard when it was just you and me, Tubbo, stuck on that boat alone. But when the ship flipped and lost you in the wreck, I had to mourn from the unforgiving depths of the ocean. I was undisputedly alone. There was no one to create jokes with; no one to play chess with; no one to build snowmen alongside; no one to get me out of trouble with Sam; no one to tell me all about bees; no one to sneak off to the stables beside; no one to aid with or conduct pranks—no one to love or be loved by. 

You—or more, your death—was my tipping point. You stranded me like a shipwreck survivor would become; cold, wet, and isolated. You left me on my own. You left me to drown in the caliginous abyss of the sea, with no light, hope, or motivation to swim back up. It’s futile anyway, as nothing above the surface is worth coming up for. And regardless of how exhausted my limbs would become due to the pressure created by the depth, I would at no time return unless I drowned and floated back up.

Death’s an ineffable thing; there’s no way to describe it. But, as I’ve found, grief can be elucidated: the slow descent into a loss of sanity, a canyon in your chest, or how your heart slices and becomes stuck in your throat – it’s all so much.  

I lost a piece of me in you, Tubbo. Yet, I pretended I was okay; I acted as though the whole of me was alive, with no missing piece, an unshattered heart. 

If only gluing a heart back together was easy. 

Frankly, I wish you were here one last time so I can thank you. You were not only my best friend but my brother and an angel, and I thank you for that. Thank you for being there when no one else was, for bringing a smile to my face, and for being the reason I got out of bed in the mornings. Thank you for all the laughs and cries, for the good and the bad. 

Thank you for everything. 

I often wonder if death is painless; you deserve to be at peace, to rest in an idyllic fantasy, to be floating in tranquility, and not worry about what you often did. (The tick of a clock, the footsteps of a servant, the swing of a door, every little thing made you nervous like you were scared something would jump out at you and consume you alive. I always thought you were just being paranoid, but now I'm unsure.)

Sam finally notified me in early January, a fortnight after your disappearance. (Phil had asked him to tell me, probably because he couldn’t dare to look at me himself.) How they found out, I don't know. I still don’t know many things, like why you left in the first place. Some things about that night failed to make sense even now, but despite the bizarre nature, the news took a toll on me. I cried in Sam’s arms that night and alone for the weeks following.

One evening, Sam had said that you were too angelic for this world, so they sent you to heaven, and I’d like to believe that to be true. Hopefully, you’re happy up there. But is it as beautiful as Sam described it would be? Are you at peace? Is it all you could ever want? I can’t wait to join you and find out.

As an eight-year-old, I significantly understood death and its meaning, but I wish I didn’t, for maybe your death wouldn’t have affected me as much. 

What made it all worse was that I never received or gave a proper goodbye. I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much you mean to me or how grateful I am for you, nor did I get a farewell from your delicate voice. I think the most heartbreaking words were the ones left unsaid, and in a way, I’m a little thankful I never heard them aloud as I don’t know if I could stomach that, but I would rather hear it coming from you than to imagine it from above your grave. 

I held a funeral. It was just Sam and me in attendance, but a funeral nonetheless. I had a headstone built at the foot of the tree with the swing. I haven’t been able to bring myself to see it in five years. I’m sorry. 

I’m so so sorry.

But one day, I promise, I will give you a big hug on the other side.

Tubbo, it was meant to be you and me until the end, but I guess the universe couldn't handle us together anymore.

“Did you forget you were to aid in the preparations for the soirée?” Technoblade asked when Tommy caught up to him in the hallway. Sam and Sapnap followed behind but out of range to hear what was being communicated between the two imperials.

“Not at all, Your Highness.” Tommy had no recollection of his needed assistance in the first place, so it was technically the truth. Perhaps the emperor had discussed it with him yesterday when his mind was elsewhere, or it slipped his mind.

The older prince stopped, startling Tommy. “There is no need for such formalities, Theseus. I am your brother. Please, call me Technoblade.” 

‘I am your brother.’—Then why don’t you act like it? 

Why don’t you fucking act like it?

Why don’t you love me like a brother? Why don’t you care about me as a brother would? Why weren't you there when I needed you to be? Why, why, why?

I hate you. I need you to stop talking. Leave me alone. Go away.

Tommy deeply inhaled and turned to the elder. “Of course, Prince Technoblade.”

At least now I know that you know my presence and our blood relation and haven’t forgotten entirely of my existence. But unfortunately, I cannot say the same for Wilbur or Phil. 

Technoblade ran a hand through his pink hair and breathed deeply. “Just Technoblade is fine.”

The blond looked at the painting hung above Technoblade. The empress adored this one, a picture depicting a stunning scene of flower fields. “As you wish,” Tommy feigned compromise as the pink-haired prince turned to catch a glimpse at the painting in which Tommy stared. The younger would continue to address the other formally whether the elder liked it or not. 

Just because he is paying me attention does not mean we can be as we were a decade prior. 

I will not be made a fool. I won’t be their puppet; I won't let them pull my strings and dance me against my will. I shan’t give them forgiveness. I will not leave my heart on the line, not when the last time it was stolen. I won’t bypass the grim rememberings of these empty years simply because they have invited me to the regale. I shan’t respond with open arms or be a brother nor son to strangers. 

After eight years, I finally came to terms with being alone. I prefer it now, for I cannot stand before my old family without wanting to rip out my own throat or take a blade against my pale skin, but a part of me— a ridiculous part —was still craving their love. 

Why should I care more about them than they care about me?

“Come along then.” The twin began strolling towards his destination again, and Tommy’s mouth formed a straight line as he followed suit. The two princes walked in silence. 

Why should their absence affect me if they were not affected by mine?

They arrived at the grand ballroom to be quickly approached by a maid. “Your Highnesses,” she curtsied respectfully. Tommy and Technoblade bowed their heads. “We have the sample bouquets ready if you would like to finalize the party's picks.”

Technoblade turned to Tommy, and Tommy prayed the other prince could not see that he was in the middle of an internal anxiety attack. “Theseus,” the blond snapped his head from his shaking hands to Technoblade and moved his hands behind his back, “would love to. I must see that the guest list is set.” The pink-haired prince nodded to both Tommy and the maid. “My sincerest apologies,” he excused himself, then he and Sapnap weaved their way through servants and out of sight.

“Shall we?” the maid requested, and Tommy dipped his head and gestured an arm as if to say ‘after you’ as he did not trust his voice. 

The prince was at a loss of oxygen. He could not seem to catch a full breath as he had no inkling how. He’d never prepared for a ball or soiree before. He didn’t know how the palace should look; the empress or twins usually took care of it. Should he follow the family colors? How many arrangements of flowers is too many? What flowers shall be included? He didn’t know. He couldn’t breathe.

It’s like I am constantly struggling to breathe in a world without air.

“Here we are, Your Highness,” she motioned to the many piles and put together bouquets. “We have some ideas and individual flowers if you want to add or remove. These here,” she picked up a stem that held a blue flower from a pile of similar ones, “are irises that symbolize hope.” Tommy watched as she placed the flower down and moved on to the next. “These are snowdrops–”

It was excruciating, but Tommy managed to pay attention as the maid walked through every single individual flower type. Eventually, a servant informed him that the imperial family’s color scheme was the same being used for the regale, so Tommy chose flowers within the blue, white, yellow, and green range. 

I know I shouldn't care, but I’ve always wanted them to be proud of me. I desire that delicate vase of satisfaction to be finally handed over to me, and I would do anything for it. I attend all my studies, present myself correctly, not annoy anyone, am independent, act like royalty, am kind, and the list goes on and on, so why isn’t the vase in my possession yet? 

Perhaps it’s the things I’ve done that I know would shatter it. However, that would make no sense, as no one knows of those cracks. I will take these secrets to my grave; the scars on my wrists made from broken glass, the burns on my thighs courtesy of the candles left in the bathroom, or the fistfuls of fallen hair. You’ll have to bury me six feet under and place flowers on my grave before gaining a sliver of information.

I cannot help but wonder if you’ll be proud of me then. 

“We will have these completed and set up the day before the dinner, so they cannot wither, Your Highness,” the maid elucidated, holding Tommy’s flowers of choice.

Tommy hesitated. “Of course.” Technoblade’s pink hair walking towards him caught his eye. ”Thank you for your assistance,” he thanked, making eye contact with her again.

The brown-haired woman curtsied, “The pleasure is all mine,” and quickly left, likely to work on more preparations for the regale.

Tommy still couldn’t breathe. He was left stranded in the center of the ballroom, a prince among strangers, with his heels digging into the polished floors and water plugging his throat. 

Technoblade and Sapnap approached, looking fatigued with a flavor of annoyance. Even though Wilbur was the crown prince whilst Technoblade was not, the last-mentioned prince held many responsibilities, most of which the empress used to complete or had to do with the empire’s army. 

“Finished?” 

“Yes,” the younger reported.

“Alright. Where is Sam?”

Tommy looked across the large ballroom and located a group of knights chatting. “Over there,” he nodded in Sam’s direction. 

Technoblade spun to glance at the knights and hummed before returning to Tommy. “Eret requested I fetch you. He said something about helping with our garments for the regale. Do you know the way?” 

Something is amiss. First, Technoblade began speaking to Tommy. Then, he requested he aid in preparations. And now, Eret wanted Tommy’s help? Something’s not right, and Tommy was determined to discover what prompted the sudden shift. 

“No, I do not believe so,” Tommy muttered, fixing his eyes on the marble flooring beneath his soles. 

The voice of someone new made the blond prince look up. “Your Highnesses,” they bowed. Tommy could tell they were a knight. The man had short dark brown hair and eyes of the same color. The seventeen-year-old had never met him before. “I apologize for interrupting. However, His Majesty requests your presence, Your Highness,” the knight informed Technoblade. 

The older prince inhaled before responding, “Very well.”

The knight nodded to both imperials and exited the ballroom as Technoblade spun around gracefully only to find Sapnap had disappeared from behind and was engaged in conversation with the gathering of other knights. He faced Tommy. “I must take my leave. Sam will lead you to Eret.” The pink-haired prince trotted to Sapnap, and the pair walked in tandem out of sight. 

Tommy retrieved Sam not long after, and they too exited the room. 

Walking down a corridor, Tommy’s hands were still shaking. He was a bouquet of emotions; he was overwhelmed, anxious, perplexed, indignant, and irate, to name a few. He felt on edge. Was this how Tubbo always felt? Tommy never learned why the brunette triple-checked his surroundings and hesitated to allow his defenses to fall. The prince presumed Tubbo was an anxious person and left it at that. In retrospect, he found it humorous that he was now the anxious one. Oh, how things change. 

The duplet was arriving upon a sharp right turn ahead. “Are you feeling okay, Tommy?” Sam spoke as he walked next to the aforementioned boy, who was still enrapt by his trembling hands. The knight observed how the prince returned to earth, stopped fiddling with his hands, and gradually slowed and quit walking while blinking tightly. After a second, Sam ceased, stepped back a pace to be beside Tommy, and repeated the boy’s name, “Tommy?”

‘Are you feeling okay, Tommy?’ he asked. And I wasn’t quite sure I heard him correctly at first because how often does somebody ask me about my feelings? Who cares about me enough to notice or ask that? It was a question I only dreamed of, one I had yearned all my life to hear. So I thought it was a question of my imagination, for the words felt unreal to my ears, but somehow, it wasn’t. 

I was eons far from okay. In fact, I think I’m incapable of being okay. I don’t remember how being even remotely close to okay feels. 

Will I ever be okay? 

The prince had a couple of silent tears rolling down his face, so Sam gently pulled Tommy into a hug. The prince’s arms remained fixed at his sides, but eventually, his face nestled into Sam’s neck. And now, Tommy was cognizant and crying. 

“You are okay. I’ve got you,” Sam reassured as he rubbed Tommy’s back. But that just made the boy cry harder. 

The imperial clung to the older like he was the only light left; without him, he would become imprisoned in black. Almost as if Sam would disintegrate between his desperate fingers and be lost to the wind. Or in raw fear of crashing into the tenebrous nadir if he were to escape.

Sam led Tommy to the wall and sat down, still holding the younger in a close embrace.

The boy’s heart was racing, and his entire body was shaking. His breaths were uneven and curt, and hot tears filled his cheeks. 

Yeah, he was far from okay. 

Tommy calmed an interminable time later and untangled himself from the knight’s arms. He tipped his head back against the wall in weariness. His arms were crossed and laid on his knees, bent with his shoes glued to the marble tile. The scent of freshly cut flowers consumed his nostrils as his vision seemed to clear. He traced the golden lines that gyrated the high ceilings with his sight, studying every engraved chip and twist. Tommy could only hear the sound of his heartbeat orbiting his ears. Regardless, he stood up and dusted his clothes off. Sam emulated.

The faint noise of someone talking conditioned Tommy to glance up. Simultaneously, Wilbur and George emerged from around the corner. 

Without a beat, Wilbur’s eyes darted open in surprise and trepidation. He speedily spun around and ran the way he came. George chased after him, shouting, “Wilbur!”

Tommy watched the phantom of where Wilbur momentarily stood, hoping the real person would curve the corner and speak to him.

Talk to me. Please , talk to me.

Why won’t you talk to me? 

What changed? What could be so goddamn horrible that it made you stop speaking to your little brother? Was it something I did? Am I at fault? 

Is it ridiculous to say I miss you if my doings compelled you to leave? All you did was run from the storm—the storm I created. You didn’t want to get swept up in cutting lightning and razing winds, so you left. You fled to remain dry while shackles held me pinned to the dirt, and the rain conspired with my tears to drown me. 

It was my fault: the storm, the silence, and everything between.

The crown prince never came back. 

Of course, he didn’t come back. 

Tommy felt foolish for thinking otherwise. 

Wilbur, was there ever a word to make you stay?

“Are you okay?” That damn question again.

“No,” Tommy admittedly whispered.

Sam took a moment to process the word before softly speaking, “You know it is not your fault, right?” 

Tommy rotated to face Sam. “It is, though.”

“It is not. I can promise you that.”

Tommy scoffed. “A promise means nothing.”

“A promise means everything .”

Tommy’s hand reached up to clasp his necklace. “Perhaps to some, but promises always break, and broken things hold no value.” Therefore, I hold no value, he wanted to add. 

“They do not always break,” Sam said. “I have never broken a promise.”

“Everyone else has.” 

Phil, Wilbur, Mom, Tubbo. 

 

‘I promise that no matter what, you will forevermore be my little boy, even when you are as old as I am. Nothing will ever change that.’

 

‘I will forever be by your side, Tommy.’

‘Pinky promise?’

‘Pinky promise.’

 

‘I love you. So much. I promise I will always love you, dear.’

 

‘Hey, Tubbo, do you think we will always be friends?’

‘Of course! Why would you even ask that?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Well, I promise that I’ll always be your friend. It’s not like you’ll be able to get rid of me if you try, so you’re stuck with me.’

 

Bullshit. 

Promises are bullshit.

“And I am sorry for that. But still, that does not mean you are at fault, Tommy.”

“Whose fault is it then? If not me, then who?”

“Theirs,” Sam replied simply. “It is their fault. For this. For all of this. It was His Majesty and the elder princes who ignored you, and it was them who left you. They do not care, which is evident because they would try to converse with you if they did. People who love each other will go out of their way to be with them. Your family–” 

“–they are not my family–” 

“–does not engage with you, so that is on them. This is their fault. Not yours . They are the ones who repudiate you; that is of their choosing.” 

“But they chose to evade me because of my doings,” Tommy rebutted.

Sam tilted his head. “What…what did you do?”

“I’m too annoying?” the blond responded as though it were self-evident. “I speak more than I should, I am nosy, I distract them from their work—or training, or whatever—I always want to spend time together...” Tommy trailed off. 

Sam hugged the imperial again. “Firstly, you are none of those things.” He withdrew from the embrace. “How can you be annoying when you barely talk? You wish to spend your days in your chambers alone, away from anyone, so how can you be annoying when you are always by yourself? The same goes for distracting them from work. You do not interact with them, so how do you distract them?”

Tommy settled his eyes on the floor, and a moment blew before he spoke up again. “I used to ramble to them. They must have gotten sick of it and moved my bedroom across the castle because I distracted them. Thus, I am to blame.”

“Tommy.” The boy looked up. “It matters not how bothersome someone is; family overlooks flaws because they love them.”

I’ve known for a long time that they don’t love me but listening to someone else say it hurts in a way I couldn’t describe. 

“And you are one-hundred percent not at fault. You did nothing–”

“How do you know?” Tommy interrupted. 

Sam looked at the prince quizzically. “Pardon?”

“How do you know I am one-hundred percent not to blame?” Sam took a sharp intake of breath in surprise. He raised his arm to scratch his head and laughed nervously. “Sam, what do you know?” Tommy pushed. 

The knight rubbed the back of his neck. “Did– did I say one-hundred? I meant…ninety-nine,” Sam tried. 

Tommy crossed his arms. “ Uh-huh , and my dad loves me,” he said sarcastically as he rolled his eyes. “Come on , Samuel. What are you hiding?” 

“Nothing. And that is not my name!”

“Is now,” Tommy shrugged. “So, what do you know?”

“As I said previously, I know nothing!” The elder raised his arms in surrender. 

“You clearly know something and need to tell me what that is.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed after no reply from Sam. “That’s an order.”

“I am not allowed to tell you. Orders from the emperor himself. Sorry, Tommy. I honestly wish I could tell you. You deserve to know,” Sam explained. 

The man looked sympathetic, and Tommy really didn’t want to speak with the emperor, so the imperial left it at that. 

Sam knows something. I need to find out what that is. 

“We ought to meet Eret,” the boy reminded. 

Sam tacitly agreed.

Succeeding that discussion, the duad advanced in complete silence, save for the sound of shoes clicking with every step. Tommy tried not to think of Sam’s earlier proclamations, and thankfully, the rest of the walk was short, so they arrived at Eret’s quickly. 

After announcing their presence outside the closed door, Tina, Eret’s apprentice, politely asked them to wait a minute. 

Time passed, and the door opened again to reveal Eret. “Prince Theseus,” he said, using Tommy’s appellation while bowing his head. 

“Eret, lovely to see you.”

“And you,” Eret smiled. “Greetings, Sam,” he addressed the knight. 

“How do you do?” 

“Fine, thank you, and you?”

“Alright. Long day.”

“They all are,” Eret agreed, pushing the door wider. “Please, come in, come in!”

Tommy walked in. Sam stayed outside, saying something about guarding the door.

The room was large, with a desk on the left-hand wall, sketches of clothing piled atop and hung on the wall. Two light blue couches faced each other in the center of the room, a coffee table separating them, and random fabrics and sewing threads were scattered about. Large mirrors littered the right-hand side along with a dresser. The whole room was a colorful mess. 

Eret sat on one of the couches and gestured for Tommy to do the same on the opposing one. 

“I am glad my message got around,” the garment-maker started. “I have to say; I was rather surprised to hear you were assisting with preparations this year. Why the change?”

The prince had been trying to figure that out himself. 

“The emperor requested my aid,” he said.

“Ah, I see.”

Eret went on to show Tommy sketches, fabrics, and color pairing ideas for the party throughout the next hour or so. 

The hour went…oddly well. Eret’s color choices were within the imperial family colors, and his designs were similar to the clothing each member currently adorns, which made Tommy’s decisions much more effortless. Together, they determined that the four imperials would wear different shades of blue (the emperor having the darkest shade, the twins matching with a medium blue, and Tommy with a light sky blue.) In addition, the outfits would feature golden accents along with white bottoms and black boots. 

“Do you know of what had ensued?” Tommy had asked out of seemingly nowhere, causing Eret to cease his sewing.

“Pardon?”

“Between His Majesty, the twins, and I.”

“Ah.” 

Tommy sat up straighter. “So you do know.”

“Not exactly,” Eret replied, tilting his head. “The castle staff is aware that something did transpire between you and the others. However, none that I know of have a recollection of what it was. If truth be told, His Majesty and some knights ordered many of us not to engage with you,” he continued.

Tommy could only think of one thing:

Why?

“The majority found it peculiar yet never dared to question it. I remain unsure of why you are treated separately from your brothers. Siblings are a precious thing. They should stay by your side through sickness and health. During the rises and plunges. I cannot imagine why Crown Prince Wilbur and Prince Technoblade chose to jump ship.”

I can.

For a moment, quiet simmered in the air. Then, “Did you have a brother?” 

Eret continued his silence, and the blue-eyed boy could tell he was thinking hard about something. The man’s mouth momentarily opened before it closed again as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. A doleful look graced his face while Tommy remained quiet. 

“Deon,” Eret eventually managed to say. Tommy could see the word pained him. “Or, Deo, as most called him. He was…my younger brother—my only brother. And we used to do everything together.” 

Tommy observed as the designer looked longingly to the side as if he were watching a collection of his and Deo’s best moments together on the wall. 

Tommy turned his head to the wall. It was—well, blank. 

“Almost everything,” Eret corrected, reluctantly pulling away from the wall. “You see, I wanted to work here. But Deo? He was too young, and even then, he hated the idea of working in a castle away from everyone—everything. I get it. I do. Yet I did not care—and that was the problem. Deo…got—to put it lightly—mad. He yelled, claiming I was ‘leaving him ’ and was a ‘huge traitor.’ He hated me, refused to write back to me…”

Eret stopped. A tear glowed while it swam down his face. 

“After his,” he swallowed, “ death …my mother told me of times in which he cried to her of how much he missed and loved me.” Eret wiped his face of tears with his hand. “I guess what I am trying to say here is that they never actually hate you. Not if they care about you.” 

Family overlooks flaws because they love them; Sam’s voice rang in the air. 

They were never my family, were they? 

“It is impossibly hard to hate someone you love,” Eret continued. 

‘…but a part of me— a ridiculous part —was still craving their love…’

If it was fake, if there was no love from the beginning, love can’t exist now. 

I’m hoping for a miracle. 

Dreaming of a shooting star. 

Wanting something rarer than a word of acknowledgment. 

“–I hate knowing that his last words to me were him calling me a traitor and deeming me the worst brother ever. And I hate remembering that was the last time I saw him face to face. I wanted to see him become an adult, you know?” The seamstress’ voice began to crack. “He was maybe a year older than you, Theseus. He would have turned eighteen a month back—an adult. With a job, possibly. I wonder what he would’ve chosen for work. Nothing in the castle, I presume,” he gave a hollow laugh. 

Tommy didn’t laugh with him. 

He was unsure of what to say. On the one hand, he could ask of Deo. On the other hand, he could comfort Eret. The only problem was that he didn’t know how to comfort someone. What do you do when someone reveals they had a brother who hated them but didn’t hate them and died before they got a chance to tell them they didn’t hate them? Tommy would like to know if anyone ever found an answer. 

Because of this, and Tommy being Tommy, he chose the former option. 

“Pardon if this comes off as rude, but what happened to Deo?”

The brunet took a deep breath. “No– it is normal to be curious.”

Tommy would call it nosy, but okay. 

“My mother said it was frostbite and suffocation. I do not know all the details, but he had left without warm clothing at the midpoint of winter, an hour before a blizzard blew in, and became lost due to the inability to see through the snow, which eventually smothered him.”

“I…am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Eret wasn’t crying anymore. 

“I cannot imagine how terrible it must have felt for him,” he continued, “To be alone, knowing he was going to die.”

Tommy sucked in a shaky breath. Dying, alone. That seemed all too familiar to him.

The adult noticed. 

He glanced across the room. “One moment,” he stood, walking to his desk. He rummaged through the drawers to pull out a brown book. “Here,” he handed the book to Tommy. The blond took it with caution. “It’s a notebook, much like the one I use to send letters to my parents. I do not have a use for it, but I think you might.”

Tommy examined the notebook, flipping and tracing it with his fingers. It was newer than his current one, with more pages too. He decides on using it when the one from Tubbo fills up. 

“I find it pleasant to write what no one will listen to. It makes you feel less alone.” 

The boy looked up and placed the book at his side. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“You are very welcome, Theseus.”

“Please, call me Tommy.”

The seventeen-year-old settled the notebook he received from Eret on his dresser and collapsed exhaustedly onto his bed. He groaned as words played in his mind, forcing him to relive the conversations that transpired throughout the day. Unable to succumb to sleep, he lay there in familiar silence. 

Then, finally, he pulled out the journal Tubbo gave him and the pen which rested beneath his pillow.

I just want him to love me.