Chapter Text
Tommy is not lonely.
He is alone , yes, but he didn’t think of himself as feeling lonely. The paintings scattering his messy, torn-up walls were always there to keep him company. He created the art with his own bare hands through and through, beginning with the stretching the canvas around the wooden planks, to the final varnishing of the completed piece. He is not lonely.
He sits on the tops of countless hills, just him, an easel, and his skill. Beautifully quiet atmospheres around him, landscapes that beckon and call to be immortalised through the paint. He thrived in it, and he adored the money from too-rich merchants that undersold him.
The praise was a plus, even if just for a fleeting moment. Some recognition from someone bigger, older, smarter than him. It gave him purpose. It was not pathetic, not even a little bit. How could it be? He had a gift that people flocked towards. Sue him for enjoying it.
That being said, he practically scrambles to every knock on his door. Every face that motions him to work, he happily obliges. Today was no different, even though he was sitting in the middle of his kitchen with an easel already on his lap and a ring on the table that he was trying to get the reflections of just right .
He jerked a bit too close to the left at the noise, the paintbrush then falling directly onto his knee. The denim of his pants was now splotched with an annoying grey. Fucking God damn it, it’s oil. That shit is never coming out. He trudges to the sound in a bit of a hissy fit, throwing the door open.
There is a knight in his doorway. With shimmering netherite armour across his body. His helmet was turned up, exposing his face to Tommy. He thinks for a moment that it was unusual for him to see the knight's face so directly, but he doesn’t exactly have a basis on the etiquette of knights, seeing as this was the first time he’s ever seen one this up close.
His face was unexpectedly soft. Eyes sloped downwards, as was the rest of him. He didn’t look sad, per se, but he did have an air of exhaustion around him. His shoulders were wide and sturdy, as are all knights. Small, delicate engravings laid across his armour near the collar and wrists. Tommy fixes his posture. Only knights close to royalty have that kind of artistry.
“Hello,” The knight begins, and his voice matches his face. “I am looking for one Theseus Simons?”
“Uh, I usually go by Tommy. What’s up, big man?” he replies, feigning casual.
His heart was pounding at the sight of the man. In a totally brave and manly type of way, of course. It seems to work, the knights demeanour lightning for a moment.
“King Eret has requested your presence.” The knight looks him up and down. “Do you need to get dres—?”
“King Eret!?” Tommy guffaws, nearly falling over and eating shit. He catches his balance against the door handle. His mind begins to race, mostly filled with fear, what the fuck . “I haven’t been convicted of any crimes, ‘ave I?” He asks, because although he does make a good amount of money from his various clients, it's so fun to steal shit from people.
Sure, it's unrealistic that King Eret the Efferecent would care if some seventeen-year-old orphan painter was stealing desserts from the local bakery, but Tommy can never be too sure of what this world will bring to him. The knight shakes his head, but squints at him suspiciously.
“I’ll let their majesty explain when we see them, okay?” The knight says, letting a smile begin to settle across his face. “You should probably wear something a bit nicer. No offence.”
Tommy takes a look at himself in the mirror, and immediately agrees. He lets the man inside as he strides to the clothing line strung across his kitchen. He doesn’t think he has anything nice enough to wear to the market, let alone the King . He settles on a simple white button up that he’d cover the paint stains with his favourite ruby poncho. “So what’s your name, then?”
“Awesamdude, or just Sam. I’m one of the King's personal guards.” He says, turning and taking in Tommy’s small home. The metal of his gloves graze against an opened sketchbook on the counter, and he flips through some of the pages slowly, a look of awe falling across his features.
His chest swells in pride at it. “Well, Sam, could you do me a favour and turn around as I change my pants?”
“Of course.” Sam says, turning around to face the door.
Tommy quickly changes into a new pair of pants, and then shoves his feet into the cleanest pair of shoes that he’s got. “You can turn around now.”
Sam does, nodding at the boy. Tommy shoves a bandana over his head and pulls it to cover his hair. He would attempt to brush it, but he knows from experience that the curls always betray him. Sam motions for him to take the sketchbook, and confusion begins to spread across Tommy’s face. “Why would I need to bring that?”
“You should bring some of your art supplies.” Sam suggests with a knowing glint in his eye. “Do you have a bag to carry it?”
Strange way to avoid the question, but he does as he’s told. He grabs a bag and shoves a plethora of things into it -- Charcoal, pencils, sketchbooks of different textured papers, watercolour. He can't imagine that the King expects him to carry the things needed to make a canvas, so he opts without his beloved oils. He’s still reeling a bit at the fact that the King even knows he exists.
Maybe this’ll be his most expensive commission yet. If he’s being asked to bring his supplies, certainly this is what the King is asking for.
Tommy’s mind swirls with ideas. He’s always wanted to paint the careful architecture of the castle, just because of how beautiful and intricate it is. A wicked smile begins to spread across his face as he imagines how hefty of a paycheck he’ll get for creating something for the King personally. His business will certainly thrive afterwards. If the King has something custom made by someone, all of the rich folk want it too. Oh ho ho, this is going to be good .
Sam is waiting for him outside his house, and Tommy follows eagerly. Sam’s armoured horse looks unnatural in Tommy’s little garden, but very beautiful.
Her snowy hair was a waterfall against her neck as she leaned down and got a mouthful of the sweet grass below. Sam walks up to her and places his hand against her speckled shoulder. “You ready to go?” he asks.
Tommy realises never been on a horse before. He stiffens his face into a deeply serious expression. “I’m always ready,” he says, two octaves lower for emphasis.
Safe to say, he was not ready.
Nobody told him that being backseat on a horse would be so fucking terrifying, and that he would immediately embarrass himself with a squeak as he gripped on Sam’s waist like his lfe depended on it. And Sam had the gall to laugh ?
“Fuck you, you fucking bit— Oh my gods I almost fell off and died.”
Sam is a sicko. He’s laughing at Tommy like this is funny, when it isn't funny at all. He’s almost died, like, five times already and it's only been about ten minutes on horseback. “You have fuckin’ armour and shit so if you fall off, the horse wouldn’t fuckin’ clot you to death with her hooves! It’s not fair.”
“I’ve been riding this horse for six years. I’m not going to fall off, and neither are you.” He says through a titter. This is a shit way of consoling someone. “Just hold on.”
Tommy stares at the cobblestone beneath the horses hooves as they slowly trudge out of the village. Was he getting some strange looks from the townspeople? Yes. But he didn’t care. “She’s gonna crush my head like a fuckin’ watermelon.” He says shakily.
Sam just shakes his head, idly petting the horse as it trots steadily down the cobblestone road. Tommy didn’t live too far from the kingdom’s castle, but it would take a few hours to get there even though the horse was fast. The village was on the poorer, east side of Esempe, but scenic nonetheless.
It was stuffed with people selling the things that it already offered but some couldn’t do, like countless butcher shops and grocery markets filled with berries and vegetables. Tommys profession of art was rare in places like these, and for good reason. There was no market for it here. That is, until the mayor started advertising the place as a tourist attraction a few years back.
Since then, countless shops have opened up of clothing with cheesy, ugly slogans plastered all over them. What was even worse is that some of the townsfolk actually wore these clothes! Tommy understands a bit, wanting to find some community to be proud of. But it seemed a bit ridiculous when a local wearing a shirt that read ‘ Explore the quiet side ’ was slouched against a dirty brick wall, heaving up copious amounts of liquor outside of a furs shop at ten in the morning.
Tommy is not one to complain. The raging alcoholics and escaped convicts that shouted and sang throughout the night was part of its charm. To him, at least.
He could do without the pitiful look in some of the rich folk’s eyes as he handed over his artwork though, his face much too young and thin to be anything but a poor orphan, but it usually meant they were going to tip him more, so he doesn’t let it bother him. Well, he tries to not let it bother him. He knows that he is not praised by others because he is who he is, but because his work is damn good..
After a few moments of silence filled only with terrified mutterings of death via hoove clobbering, Sam starts small talk. “When did you start doing art?” He asks, trying to make the grip on his waist loosen. It doesn’t.
Tommy shrugs. “I dunno. Since I was a kid, I guess. Not much else to do when you’re bored.” He replies, not delving into the specifics of adoring the way he can melt away hours at a time, his mind clearing for a while as he falls into a state of complete and utter focus . A focus that can drown almost anything out, including the shouts of matrons and the cries of newborn babies.
He does not delve into how this focus is the reason why others find him off-putting, as he doesn’t quite know how to articulate in a way that makes sense to others. How maybe, just maybe, this focus is the reason why Tommy doesn’t have any friends.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re bored most of the time then, hey? You’ve got a real talent.” Sam says. Tommy looks at the back of his neck. His green hair was sprouting from under his helmet, and it curled around the bottom like grass. There was an instinct to tug it that Tommy was only barely holding back.
“Well, you must’ve been bored a lot as well, to be such a high-ranking knight.”
“I… I don't think so,” Sam replies, his voice a little strained. “I was always working towards being this. It took me years to crawl up the ranks. It was all learning a skill. I just got lucky that King Eret liked me enough to choose me to be her head stead.”
Tommy’s eyebrows draw together. “What, you think I was born painting like Mozart or something?”
Sam chuckles. “Mozart wasn’t a painter. I guess you do have a point, though.”
“I always have a point,” Tommy agrees. “I’m the smartest boy in all the universe.”
The knight rolls his eyes at that. “You’re something alright.”
Tommy grumbles an illegible retort under his breath. Sighing, he tries to focus less on the fear and more of the ride. He honestly doesn’t go out too much, despite the lack of anything else to do, so the fresh air felt nice against his face. The sun was beginning to crest lower, and a soft hum of a song was coming from Sam. He sounds tone deaf, but it's more endearing than anything else. Excitement is still fresh in his stomach.
He begins thinking about the things he’ll buy with the King's money. He has a faint idea that perhaps he’ll steal something valuable from them, but quickly dismisses that thought, on the principle of him being quite fond of his head being attached to his neck and not toppling over on the floor. A shiver runs up his spine at the thought, having once read a story about a man who blinked after being decapitated. He wonders if that was a myth.
“Have you ever cut someone’s head off, Sam?’ Tommy asks, watching the clouds darken with the sky.
Sam jumps in surprise, “What?! Why would you ask that!”
“Dunno,” Tommy replies honestly. “Just wondering how long you stay alive for, since everything is cut clean off. You know, there’s this doctor in town who has a scar all ‘round his wrist because his hand got cut clean off in battle, but because the sword was so sharp it didn’t cause too much damage to the important bits. They re-attached the nerves n’ shit. He actually got mobility in his hand! Not a lot, mind you, but still. Fuckin’ nuts that’s even possible.”
“That’s… Neat.” Sam replies as a realisation dawns on him that Tommy might be an insane person. He’s always heard that artists were weird, but he thought it was more in a sensitive kind of way. “And yes, I have cut off someone’s head before, but I’m pretty sure a person dead the second the blade goes through their spine.”
Tommy finds it hard to believe. Sam seems too kind. “Whose head did you cut off?”
Sam stiffens. He coughs awkwardly. “I, uh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know whose head you lobbed off? I feel like that's a pretty big thing—”
“Stop talking.” Sam demands, his voice thick.
He flinches, his jaw immediately snapping shut. He did not ask for him to stop talking, he told him to. It’s an authority Tommy’s all too familiar with. He is sobered by this, his grip a little weaker around Sam’s waist. He knew he was pushing it, being all buddy-buddy with an adult. He should know better by now, but he’s always so susceptible to it. It’s hard not to be, in Tommy’s position.
The knight notices this shift. “I didn’t mean to snap like that. Just… Let’s not talk about that stuff anymore, okay?”
Tommy nods. “I’m sorry.” He says, because it’s the only thing he can think of saying. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s a sore spot for me, is all.” Sam says. The shuffling of the horse fills the dense silence. “I used to be… a really different person.”
Conversation dulled out after that. Tommy was partially confused as to why his heart was still beating so fast, even after Sam had acknowledged that he wasn’t in any sort of trouble. It could’ve been nerves. That had to be it. He was going to see the King of the Esempe, and all.
The sky was beginning to bleed out when the silhouette of the castle came into view. Tommy gasps, even in the budding darkness he could still see some of the details of the place. It's larger than he was expecting, which says a lot. He can just make out the shape of it, the intimidating yet beautiful black gates surrounding it, four tall towers dwarfing everything else in comparison.
Tommy’s mind began to reel at the thought of getting a composition down of it— a bird would be good to fill the white space between the pillars, or perhaps some blooming clouds as the sun set behind it. He’s sure this place would become ethereal looking with a sky the same colour as the roses messily curling around the gates.
That could be an issue if King Eret himself wanted to be in the painting. They would look much too small if everything was to be fitted in, unless the castle would serve as a background to a portrait. Tommy hopes that isn’t the case. No offence to their majesty, but he can't imagine she’s as beautiful as this , no matter the favourable things he’s heard from the townsfolk.
As they cusp towards the castle, unfamiliar faces come into view as well. Sam recognises them, often sharing short nods with fellow knights and other people he knows. Their faces are pulled to confusion at the sight of Tommy, but some share a knowing glance with him. He doesn’t care for that shit at all.
The castle up close was not disappointing. Two guards opened the gates for them slowly, revealing the lush garden and centuries-old, yet still strong and stable architecture. The path was made of mossy cobble, which was surprising and welcome. Tommy loves moss and mould and everything that the earth gives the people who live on her. The horse ceases trotting as they near the door of the castle. Sam slides off of his horse gracefully, then holds out a hand for Tommy to grab onto.
His cheeks warm in embarrassment, but he takes the knight's hand as he gets off the horse. He comes off much less gracefully than Sam did, but still a bit proud that he didn’t immediately fall on his arse. “Is this all there is?” He says sarcastically. “Bit small, innit?”
Sam huffs. “I’m surprised you’re so relaxed. Most commoners are nervous before this kind of thing.”
“There’s something you should know about me, Awesamdude,” Tommy begins with a smile. “I’m not like most commoners.”
The mans face falls to a half bewildered-half amused type look, and this expression pulls at something in Tommy’s chest. He shakes the feeling away. That kind of feeling is reserved for people who are lonely, he thinks. And he is not lonely.
His shoes betrayingly squeak against the floor as he walks directly behind Sam, as if the knight was shielding him from the reality that seems more and more like a fever dream the longer it goes on.
The castle seems barren, almost. While it is filled with a plethora of delicate furniture and regal curtains, it is empty of people. He keeps biting his tongue filled with snarky remarks. He’s never been one for self-preservation, and he's not good at being quiet.
They pass what feels like countless corridors before they come to the Eret’s throne, and Tommy has asked Sam a million questions as they go by each room— Who lives in here? The King's doctor. Who’s sleeping in here? Her childhood friend. He looks dead. He’s just sick. Who painted this? That’s been there for hundreds of years. Who is it of? Eret’s great-grandfather. Why are his eyes white? Is he blind? I don’t know.
They come to a large red door scattered with handprints laid upon it. Tommy gazes at it in wonder. These are the handprints that go back generations of royalty, under each with their signature beneath the press of their palms. Sam grabs the handle of the door, and opens it before Tommy could begin reading.
King Eret the Efferestent is sitting on his throne. Their clothing is long and imposing; a velvety red dress that cascades to the floor, even from the height of their seat. Long, wide sleeves fall from their wrists as she pushes up the golden bridge of small, circular glasses. The pigment of the glass was so dark that it makes their eyes indiscernible.
“Your majesty,” Sam begins. His voice is almost humorous as he says this, as though calling Eret by their title is not something he does often. This is interesting to Tommy. “I brought the artist.”
The King gives a short wave. “Bring him in.” He says. His voice is deep yet still carries a soft tone. It wasn’t as booming and authoritative as the blond expected it to be.
Tommy steps forward, keeping his eyes to the floral pattern of the tiles on the floor. He bows to the King, his heart pounding in his chest.
Eret tilts their head. “You’re Theseus, the painter?”
“I go by Tommy.” He corrects.
“You’re just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid! That’s very fuckin’ patronizing.” Tommy slaps a hand over his mouth, then winces. “Your gracious majesty.”
Eret, thank Aether, just smirks at his shenanigans. “How old are you, then?”
“...Seventeen.” He responds begrudgingly, heat firing in his cheeks. He feels a bit stupid.
Eret taps their fingers against the arm of his throne thoughtfully, rings shimmering against the fading light. “I was made king at your age.”
Tommy meets his gaze. Though her eyes are covered by the ebony tint of her glasses, he can tell that they’re making contact. Her face is unreadable. It’s unsettling. He breaks the contact, and his gaze lands on the stained glass windows to his left. The low sun barely surfaces light past, but it still pools colour onto the marbled floor. The design appeared virtually luminescent against it, an image of a single man with his hands raised in the air, a golden circle encompassing him. The man looked as though he was praising the sun.
The King rolls her shoulders. “I have a proposition for you. But I’m not sure if I should tell you about it just yet.”
“Quick question, bossma— your highness , how do you know who I am?” Tommy asks. The question was heavy on his mind the entire ride here, he couldn’t bear to go another moment without knowing.
They shrug. “What can I say? I’m a fan.” Eret replies, blissfully unaware of the insurmountable amount of ego he just bestowed upon the younger boy.
He beams unexpectedly. “Are you really?”
“Yes, I am.” Eret nods, getting up from their seat. “It’s interesting, though. Every merchant I buy your work off of tells me you’re an idiot.”
“The fuck, I’m not an idiot!” Tommy guffaws, too offended at first to notice the king just said that they own his work. It catches up with him. “Wait, did you say you’ve bought my art?”
“I did just say that.” Eret says. Tommy’s never going to live this down. “The merchant’s I speak to, they tell me that you’ll paint for scraps, and then they re-sell your work for quadruple what they bought it for. It didn’t sit well with me.”
Tommy's brows draw together. "That doesn't sit right with me, either." He mumbles.
“I didn’t think it would.” A small, genuine smile spreads across the King's face. It falls on his features as though it rarely sits there. “Why do you undersell yourself?”
Something seems off in the way he phrased the question, and it strikes Tommy that the King was testing him to make sure that he wasn’t the idiot others claimed him to be. He tries to conjure a response that would prove his competence, but ironically it never comes. He squints at the floor. “I need to paint and be paid to live. I don’t fuss over the price, really. As long as I can survive off it, I’m happy.” He replies. When all else fails, he chooses to be honest.
Eret looks thoughtful at this, sharing a short glance with Sam for confirmation of something. “You shouldn’t settle for less than your worth, you know.”
“Well, what would that be?”
“What?”
“My worth.” He replies. His question is one of genuine interest. “What is my worth to you, my King?”
Her face turns to an unreadable expression, a paleness settling across her cheeks. The emptiness of the room seems too big, then. The darkness of the halls leak into the room, cascades over the throne and the crown that sits on Eret’s head. “I guess we’ll see soon enough.” She responds. “I’m looking to get a few commissions from you. You’ll be paid tenfold of whatever you’re used to, but it will be unlike anything you’ve done before.”
Tommy wants to say, this is already unlike anything I’ve ever done before , but doesn’t want to interrupt their speaking.
The King has a sly look on their face - As though they’ve gauged Tommy enough to know his response. “What do you think about being a biological illustrator for a project that requires you to leave Esempe with two others, and enter possibly dangerous situations?”
His heart pulses in his ears as the words fall upon them, pupils expanding as adrenaline thrums eagerly in his chest, he was made of electricity. There was so much potential he barely knew how to contain himself. For so long, the drive and pull to adventure was quietly lingering in his chest, but an invisible chain had held him back. Eret just gave him the key on a silver platter.
“I think…” Tommy begins, a wide grin blooming across his face. “That this is gonna be fun.”
The King smiles, and the sun plummets below the skyline.
The dew of morning is slick against grass as Tommy walks around the castle the next day, the wind whispering softly against his ears. Eret told him to wake up at the ass crack of dawn so he could meet the other two that would join and guide him on his expedition, with no other sort of elaboration on who these people were, or what they would be doing.
He stops near a tree for a moment to look at a crow that settles there, and the feathered thing tilts its head at Tommy. He pats his pockets flat to show he has no bread to spare, and the crow squawks and flies away. “What a gold digger.” Tommy murmurs to himself.
As he’s rounding the back of the castle where Eret told him to meet for some unforsaken reason, he lets himself be overwhelmed by the castle again. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he is stricken by the massive thing, it fills him full of inspiration each time.
He sees the back of the King's head before the other two. Her hair was pushed back over her shoulders, the light of the morning sun colouring it a golden hue. The sound of Tommy’s shoe breaking a stick underneath causes her to turn their head to him, revealing the two men standing in front of her.
Eret waves him over. Tommy tries to not let himself be intimidated by the muscle of the shorter man of the two strangers. His pink hair was in a long braid that fell over his shoulder, thick arms crossed below his chest. Where the pink-haired man is looking, Tommy isn’t sure, but it’s not at him. The taller on the other hand, gives Tommy a thumbs up and a kind smile, anticipation radiating off of him. Tommy returned the gesture, making his way up to Eret.
The King looks over at him and puts their hand on his shoulder. “This is the artist I was talking about. I think he’d be the perfect addition to your project.” he says.
“Hello,” The taller man extends his right hand, his left occupied with a large book. “I’m Wilbur.”
“Tommy.” He replies, shaking Wilbur’s hand. His eyes land on yellow flowers curling around a pink braid. “What’s his name?”
Wilbur drops his hand, and nudges the shorter. When he only receives a deadly glare in response, Wilbur sighs. “This is my brother, Technoblade.”
His breath catches in his throat. All at once does he notice the scars across the mans arms and face, the way light hits his eyes and colours it ruby. He asks a question he already knows the answer to. “ Technoblade Technoblade?”
This is amusing to him, it seems, as a small smirk begins to form across his face. Otherwise, Wilbur appears bored. “Yep.” He confirms.
An amazed laugh escapes his throat, completely starstruck. It’s quite funny that he’s having this reaction to an infamous fighter and not the literal king of his country, but he can’t help himself. Technoblade is the stuff of legends. Real legends. The kind that end up where they are from hard work and perseverance, not from privileged bloodlines and long-lasting monarchies.
“Wilbur,” Eret speaks, interrupting Tommy’s ogling. “I’ve left the details of this expedition for you to explain, since you’re the expert in this.”
Wilbur immediately lights up, opening his book to a dog-eared page and turning it towards Tommy. “There’s been some sightings outside of Esempe of otherworldly creatures,” he begins. “I’m talking total freakshows. Multi-legged animals with humanesque faces, wings on creatures never meant to fly, you name it!”
Tommy peers down at the opened page, which lays too-long descriptions of scientific terms that makes his vision spin. He quirks an eyebrow up at the man. “And you want me to illustrate them.”
“Yes, our draughtsman!” He replies eagerly. He seems a bit mad in the head, but his passion is contagious. “I’ve been wracking my brain for ages trying to figure out what’s going on, but the only way to really understand it is if I get in the shit with it.”
Eret shifts uncomfortably at Wilbur’s excitement, a lock of his hair falling in front of his face as he blinks down at their feet. It seems unnatural for someone so dignified to act so scared. The sun shines against the jewels in his crown, a glimmering light. “There are rumours of a sorcerer.” They say, a disgust lacing his tone.
Techno chooses then to be interested in the conversation with a grim expression. His hands twitch at his biceps. Wilbur disregards this as serious as the other two make it out to be. He does not falter at their distaste. “The specifics of how aren’t the point,” He says. “I’m interested in the neurology of it.”
A horror begins to settle against Tommy’s shoulders. “A sorcerer is making monsters.” he whispers in disbelief. “What the fuck, man?”
Wilbur gives a brittle chuckle, running a hand through his hair. He turns through the pages of his book, uncaring of the terror that noises in the air around them like static. At Wilbur's troublesome behaviour, Techno looks at Tommy. There’s almost an apology in it.
“Nobody will blame you if you don’t want to come.” Techno finally speaks. His voice is flat and low, eyes honest.
Tommy rolls the thought around in his mind for about three whole seconds before shaking his head. "No, I'm not pussying out." He says.
Techno frowns, but doesn't retort. Eret pats him on the shoulder slowly, as though trying to hammer in his answer.
"Good." Wilbur says. Tommy likes the sound of it. "We'll leave at noon. Gather whatever necessities you might need. Do you have a horse?"
He pales. "I don't know how to ride one."
Wilbur waves him off. "That's fine. You'll ride with me."
Tommy realises that he might enjoy having a plan written out for him more than he thought that he would. Maybe it's because this time he chooses it instead of life forcing it onto him. Maybe it's because Wilbur looks at him as though he's valued in a way that he never was before. Either way, Tommy gives the man a two-finger salute and begins trekking back to the guest room Eret so generously let him stay.
"And Tommy?" Wilbur pipes up, just before he's too far to hear it.
He turns to face him, squinting as the sun shines in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"I think we're going to do something extraordinary."
How could he possibly do anything but utterly and completely believe him?
Riding horseback with Wilbur is a lot less anxiety-inducing as riding with Sam. That’s not to say Wilbur is good at consoling his ever-present anxiety whilst being jostled around, they’re both shit in that regard, but Wilbur makes it fun.
Sure, the guy is absolutely off his rocker, but he's nice and he laughs at Tommy's jokes. Techno on the other hand has that too-cool-for-school attitude that makes his reactions to Tommy's antics almost always resulting in eye-rolls, but there's the odd chuckle here and there that makes Tommy surge with determination to make it happen again.
He knows not to trust them, he doesn't let himself get that far, but he can't help but at least like them. He tilts his head as they pass by yellow wheat fields, the evening sun still warm on his cheeks. It's only been a few hours, and there's a good few more to pass through as they travel. He hopes they don't rush, he quite likes it here. Enjoys gazing down at the small blooming red deadnettle that trails just near the road, curling and wonderful.
"After we get near the forest we need to head north." Techno says, barely sparing a glance at the map in his hand. He's titled himself as a 'human compass', something Tommy finds both awesome and bizarre. More than anything, he hopes it's accurate.
Wilbur moves to the side, opening a bag attached to the horse's saddle. He keeps his eyes forward as he slowly pulls a bow from it, and then an arrow. He beckons the horse to stop trotting, fixing his posture and drawing the arrow into the bow precisely. Techno slows behind them.
“What are you doing?” Tommy asks, a little unnerved. He tries to see what Wilbur is aiming for, but his fat head is in the way.
The sound of the arrow cutting through the air makes a thwip sound as it flies, and then it plummets into something. “Getting us lunch.” Wilbur responds, smiling back at Tommy. He quickly shuffles off the horse and into the bright fields, picking up a freshly killed chicken by its wing, unmoving with an arrow straight through the breast; Wilbur is a good shot.
“Oh, wot? How did you even see that?” Tommy asks. Wilbur beams proudly and says something about being top of his archery classes, but Tommy honestly isn't listening. He smiles, but the dead thing twinges something in Tommy.
The three pause for a moment, tying their horses to a wooden fence that trails the dirt road. There's some dead wheat for them to chew on beneath their hooves, and they relish in it.
Techno seems to be the more competent of the two. This doesn’t come as a surprise, but it is entertaining. Techno gathers a few sticks and rocks as he sets up a fire pit, then he digs his hand in Wilbur’s bag and pulls out a lighter. Wilbur’s face looks a bit guilty at this, but he doesn’t say anything. When Wilbur asks if anyone brought a pan to cook the chicken with as he’s defeathering it, Techno sighs in disappointment and sets his axe over the pit.
“Have you ever done this?” Wilbur asks, tilting his blade against the feathers of the chicken. Tommy shakes his head. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”
The chicken's head flops to the side, unblinking eyes looking straight at him. Tommy grimaces. He hates death. “It’s a bit gruesome, don't you think?" He replies.
“Not if you do it the right way,” Wilbur says, shucking his blade against the chicken, feathers swirling as they fall to their feet. “You can nick the thing if you’re not careful, but it’s closer to a haircut.”
“Yeah, a haircut on a dead person. Not gruesome at all.” Techno chimes in, voice monotone. “I actually prefer to be dead when I’m gettin’ my hair cut.”
“It’s life skills.” Wilbur says as he shrugs, dagger pointing directly at Tommy. He scootches back a bit. “But you do need a haircut, Technoblade.”
Techno flicks the lighter under the collection of sticks and wheat, sparks colouring his face orange. “I like it like this.”
“Isn’t it a bit improbable for fighting?” Tommy asks.
“That's a non-issue.” Techno responds. “Nobody gets close enough."
Well, if that isnt fucking terrifying.
Wilbur finishes up soon after that, the chicken's pink skin beginning to warm on top of Techno's wide axe. The three of them sit around campfire-style, and it makes Tommy feel strange. Sure, he’s eaten scraps and stolen meat from butcher shops over flame before, but never really accompanied by others. A comfortable silence fills the space around them, despite the buzzing of a few pesky mosquitoes— damn things are perpetually everywhere.
Wilbur extends a sketchbook and a pencil to Tommy, one that's still new, and Tommy gives him a strange look. Wilbur nods forward, and Tommy follows his gaze. Technoblade has his head in one palm, and a stick in the other, poking at the chicken. Tommy holds in a laugh.
One of, if not the most renowned fighters in the entire world is sat across from him, poking a dead chicken like a child. He begins sketching him onto the page, focusing on the general figure of him. Hunched over wide shoulders, ankles crossed. He can focus on the small things later, like the way his eyes are half-lidded as he stares into the fire, or how his belt buckle has the image of a pig in it.
Perhaps he’d even paint it with watercolour later on. Techno’s long, cherry-blossom coloured hair falls over his eyes in long streaks, he’d imagine it would be fun to do. Fire always lures colour into vividness, and the man looks as though he is made of fire itself. A part of Tommy thinks that maybe he is.
Techno notices Tommy’s flickering gaze after a beat. “Are you drawin’ me?” He asks, lifting his head from his palm. Tommy wants to curse him for moving.
“Yes, so be a good model and be still.” He says quickly, dragging his eraser across a too-dark line and swiping away the shavings. Wilbur’s been staring at his page this entire time. It’s stressing him out. He's not used to being seen.
Techno raises his eyebrows, but compiles. He’s looking at Tommy now, too, which is all wrong. He looked peaceful, looking into the flames. When he looks at Tommy his expression changes.
He’s a very guarded man, and the entire reason Wilbur motioned him to draw his twin like this was because he looked almost vulnerable. Tommy huffs, going off his memory for the slope of his eyelids and the tired expression whilst it’s still fresh in his mind.
Wilbur tilts his head. “How did you…” He tries to find the right words. He can't. “Get him?”
“His likeness?” Tommy tries.
He shakes his head, brown curls flopping against his forehead. “His heart.”
That’s a bit dramatic. He’s not quite sure how to answer. Techno leans forward, as if trying to peek over the paper. “Do I look cool?” He says pathetically. It strikes Tommy that he’s saying it sarcastically, but it falls flat because of course he looks cool. He's Technoblade, for Gods sake.
“You look how you look when no ones looking.” Wilbur responds, then exhales. “Try saying that ten times fast.”
“He didn’t mean it literally.” Techno cuts in as Tommy opens his mouth to try. He takes his axe off the fire and sets it on a log. “Chicken is done.”
The chicken is… Well, it’s edible. He’s had worse, but he’s certainly had better. The leg he sunk his teeth into was unseasoned, as was the rest of the chicken, because who would’ve thought to bring seasoning on a road trip? Not these three.
It’s a mess. But his belly was full and when he showed Techno the drawing he did, the man muttered a praise that looked like it pained him to say. If he has nothing, he at least has that. He follows Wilbur back on the horse, and tries not to die from boredom.
It’s not a terrible thing to be bored, knows it’s intrinsically a privilege to feel. This does not change how it sinks into his bones and drags him, like he fell off the horse and was being pulled by only his fist around the tail with dirt in his mouth. Him and Wilbur attempted to play a few old games to pass the time, none of which did the pink-haired man ever join. Christ, he’s antisocial.
Wilbur isn't though, and for that Tommy is very thankful. He pesters and pokes and prods at the man like all hell, and he hasn’t yet gotten annoyed by it like everyone else does after a few minutes. It’s kind of freaking him the fuck out, if he’s being honest, but whatever.
Wilbur’s a bohemian and a weirdo. He talks about everything and nothing at the same time, a bunch of factoids about biology and neurology and a bunch of other ology-ies. Tommy knows fuck-all about any of it, but at least it’s somewhat interesting and makes him want to turn his brain into a melsh pulp less.
He learns some interesting things from their conversations, like how if you measure yourself in the morning and at night, you’ll be taller in the morning because the cartilage in your bones compress from gravity throughout the day. Or that one person's blood vessels could circle the entire globe. Or that sometimes when you listen to music, your heart will sync with the rhythm. That one seems too poetic to be true, but Wilbur seems to know what he’s talking about, so he believes it.
He’s been doing that a lot, recently. Believing. Something about Wilbur makes it easy to. He reckons it's something in his expression when he speaks, as though the words he says are a secret he’s admitting for the first time, like it’s something sacred and true. Maybe it's passion. His choice of phrasing, the images he conjours.
He talks like he’s had the time to think about it, even if it’s a random, silly question Tommy has wondering how people don't feel the microscopic mites on eyelashes. To which, the answer is given with wide eyes and a fairytale tone, they’re too small to feel! But they’re alive and they’re moving!
It both grosses him out and makes him feel an indescribable amount of happiness. The fact that he is alive, and there are alive things living on him.
No matter how small they are, he thinks they’re important. He wonders if they know he loves them. He wonders if (hopes, pleads, begs) something out there feels the same way about him, too.
The trees surrounding them get thicker and thicker until they're at a crossroads, and Technoblade leads them north. It’s quieter here, somehow. The forest is so huddled together that it’s unlikely there’s many big things that can fit past the crevices of woods.
It’s still eerie, though. The huffs and puffs from the horse is the loudest sound, along with the crushing of leaves and sticks as the wide road turns into a path; Techno in front, Wilbur and Tommy behind. He looks up, the parting of trees leaving a sliver of the sky wide enough for Tommy to just see the shapes of the clouds as they roll past. They’re pale and flat, and they tell him that they will not rain.
“I don’t think we’ll make it to the village in time.” Techno says. “We need to figure out if we want to travel after it gets dark or set up our tents now.”
Wilbur’s throat makes a noise. “I’m not sure if I want to sleep in the forest”
“Agreed, but it’s dangerous to travel after it gets so dark.” Techno turns halfway to them.
“They’re both shit options. Why didn’t we leave earlier if this was going to be an issue?” Tommy asks, his fist balling up some of Wilbur’s cloak.
He’s afraid of sleeping in the woods. He’s never done it before. Back in his town, the streets are long and the alleyways are longer; there’s brick walls and old stained mattresses, a fire in a garbage bin to keep the other homeless warm. He hasn’t been homeless in a few years, but he remembers it well. It might be strange to prefer sleeping in a skinny alley in a street rather than on the side of a dirt road in a tent, but he can’t help it. The streets are familiar.
Sometimes he’d wake up to a kind stranger pressing a sandwich into his hand in empathy, other times he’d wake up with less change in his pocket than when he fell asleep. These options are both better to him than the prospect of sleeping in the woods, especially knowing that there’s supposed to be unnatural creatures lurking in the shadows. He shudders.
Techno sighs a long, drawn-out thing. “I didn’t exactly calculate that we were goin’ to stop and eat. I only accounted for a couple bathroom breaks.”
“That was fucking stupid, then.” Tommy says. “We should just travel as it gets dark. Find our way to the village, and sleep there.”
“It’s risky to stop here, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Wilbur says, attempting to calm some of Tommy’s nerves.
It fails. “If there’s nothing to be afraid of, why is it risky?” Tommy retorts, rolling his eyes. Wilbur must think him simple. He turns away from them, eyes behind the horses, watching the path slowly fade into the forest.
“He’s got you there.” Techno says. “Both of our options are… Not great.”
“And whose fault is that?” Wilbur asks, jutting his hands out in front of him, exasperated. “Who the fuck doesn’t consider eating?”
Techno clenches his jaw. “You’re the one who wanted to leave this week. We were practically scramblin’ to get all our things.”
“Uh...Guys?” Tommy taps at Wilbur’s shoulder.
The man pays him no mind. “Because you said you had a timeline set out! We could’ve waited until tomorrow morning if it meant we didn’t have to sleep in the creepiest fucking forest ever!”
“Wilbur, be real. If I told you that this expedition had to wait another second you would’ve bit me.”
“Bit you?!” Wilbur barks incredulously. “When have I ever–?”
Techno glares, eyes zoning in on Wilbur.
“You’re still mad about that? Aether, Techno!” Wilbur laughs with no humour. There’s a lot to unpack there.
“Guys?” Tommy tries again, a little more frantic this time.
Techno scoffs. “You left a scar, a permanent scar, and didn’t even apologise.”
“Fuck, you keep a grudge!” Wilbur swears. “We were, like, fourteen!”
Techno brings a hand up to his ear. “Oh what’s that? Huh, that’s weird, I don’t hear an apology comin’ out of your mouth right now, but that can’t be right.”
“Prime,” Tommy mutters. He takes in a deep breath and does what he knows best. He screams. “Guys! There’s a fucking– thing behind us!”
The horses halt. The twins jerk their heads to look, and there it is. The creature.
It’s shaped like a person, but it’s heaving as it crawls to them, hands and feet on the floor, scrabbling. Techno jumps off his horse swiftly and unsheathes his sword from his belt. The creature's eyes are… Pleading, almost. Its face is animalistic, pokes out like a wolf, razor teeth and too-long hair covering its shoulders. It’s hand – a furry, human thing – reaches towards them.
Tommy squabbles to Wilbur, who clings him closer. Their breaths become laboured in fear. The creature makes a pained noise, something between a howl and a cry, and it sounds like it hurts. Like the vocal cords are frayed and torn and ruined. Frothing at the mouth, white spit drooling out onto the dirt below. There’s a shirt loosely hanging around its shoulders. It seems to be blue, but it’s stained with blackened, reddish mud almost so completely that the original colour of the fabric is nearly indecipherable.
Techno points his sword towards the thing, but doesn’t move to kill it yet. He sends a questioning look at Wilbur, then at the creature. It doesn’t move, completely frozen. Techno falters. The eyes are so… So…
“Is that a fucking person?” Tommy whispers, terrified. It’s impossible. It’s unimaginable. Wilbur’s arm wraps around his chest and squeezes them flush together so Tommy’s back is against his side, his shaking breath echoing in his ear. Everything else is silent.
The air feels dead. As though the birds stopped chirping, as though the globe stopped spinning on axis and everything has ceased altogether. Time has stopped completely, leaving them in a void empty of humanity, empty of everything. It’s Tommy with two strangers and a monster that has tears and saliva running down its mutilated face.
The creature motions forward, hand grabbing at the blade of Techno’s sword. Techno steps back, about to yank it away, until the thing brings the point up to its throat. Another noise rips from its broken voice; one that sounds a lot like begging.
“What…” Techno’s voice is thick with nerves. His shoulders are raised. Fear is not normal for him. He doesn’t know how to feel it.
Wilbur swallows. Tommy looks up at him. Wilbur’s eyes and hair are wild, hand on Tommy’s collar trembling. There's something else in there. Something akin to fascination, it twists in his gut.
“Do it,” Wilbur is quiet when he says this. “It wants you to.”
Tommy closes his eyes. He can’t look, he can’t. He hears it anyway. In some ways, that only makes it worse.
The sound of a blade slicing through skin and meat, a scream of some sort; a mixture of pain and relief, all at once. A horrible, horrifying sound that Tommy hopes he’s lucky enough that he’ll never have to hear again.
The sound of its legs going slack and its body hitting the ground, the weight. The atmosphere around them let's go, gets looser. There’s one less breath in the air. A terrible part of him thinks, at least it wasn’t alone. The comfort is fleeting.
It’s so quiet. So quiet it feels as though silence is stuffing his ears like cotton, like nothingness surrounds him.
A hand is on his cheek. He flinches away from it. It returns, softer. “Hey,” A whisper emerges from the cotton. “Hey, you can open your eyes now. It’s dead.”
“I don’t want to see it.” He says, and it comes out shakier than he thought it would. Embarrassment pricks at his cheeks. The arm around his chest goes slack and pulls away. Tommy knows he must look ridiculous, still as a statue with his eyes tightly shut, but he doesn’t care. Wilbur turns him so he’s facing forward again.
“I have a tarp in my bag. Put the body on the back of your horse, Tech.” His voice is void of all the things Tommy feels. He is reminded that he doesn't know Wilbur, not really. Not yet.
Techno doesn’t speak. Tommy wants to puke. He can feel the heat of bile in the back of his throat. Swallows the feeling down, a mantra of don’t be a pussy, don't be a pussy barely holding him together at the seams.
He doesn’t open his eyes. He hears the sound of Techno rolling the body in tarp, the sharp crinkles. He hears Techno huff a small strain as he lifts the tarp. Hears the sound of dirt beneath his boots as he passes them. Hears the weight of the creature settling on the back of the horse as he binds the body to the rear. Tommy wonders how the horses didn’t startle at the monster. Maybe they thought it was human, his mind supplies. It’s too harrowing to comprehend.
Everything was so lovely only moments ago. How is it possible for things to change so drastically?
“I guess we’re heading to the village, then?” Techno asks. Tommy wants to scream. He doesn't. His nose pressed flat between Wilbur’s shoulder blades ground him.
“Yeah.” Wilbur replies. “Yeah, we’re going to the village.”
The sky has well since blackened when Tommy opens his eyes again. He talked and talked the entire way there despite this. He isn’t sure how much time has passed since the encounter with the creature, too busy focusing on anything but. His heart has quieted, the overwhelming feeling of blood rushing past his ears now bearable. He let his words carry him into absurdity.
Absurdity is a wonderful, bright thing that Tommy frequently finds refuge in. He goes into it hearty and vulgar, loose ideas that he pulls from nothingness and stretches until it snaps against the middle of his palm, leaving his skin red and raised. It’s underrated in its effectiveness to drive the mind, to delve away and into itself. In the absurdity, he can control when he thinks things, things he can sort through and move away from if he thinks it not interesting enough.
He’s pretty sure Techno’s checked out of the conversation completely, only popping into Tommy’s ramblings periodically with uhh’s and what are you guys even sayin’ anymore-s. Wilbur is the opposite, engaging enthusiastically to Tommy’s slightly-worrying rambes. There seems to be a theme there, the twins being black and white in their differences.
Some things are the same. Tommy almost immediately noticed that they are both intentional with their words, and the way they decide to use them. He envies this trait, though in this the twins are still different – Wilbur speaks nearly every thought in his head with eloquent, borderline poetic diction. He cares for every thought, every emotion he feels and thinks as though they are all equally important. He carves a story chock-full with emotion and sensitivity, even when short and concise (he recalls Wilbur telling him, as they trekked across the border of Esempe: “Techno and I aren’t blood, instead we share a heart.”, and Tommy felt something that can only be described as ripping).
Techno is quiet. His voice summons attention because he uses it sparingly. He is to the point and deliberate. He doesn't make his motivations or feelings known, shadowing them with his dry humour and confidence. This is not to say he is emotionless, while Tommy hasn’t seen much of it, it’s obvious he cares. It shows in the way he doesn’t hesitate to promise protection, doesn’t hesitate to pass Wilbur a bottle of water after he notices the taller man hasn’t drank in a while, doesn’t hesitate to speak on what he thinks is the right thing to do even if it's controversial. He is quietly gentle with the horses, quietly gentle with Wilbur.
A part of Tommy pulls him to this, to become one of the things Techno is quietly gentle to, but he pushes the want away. He doesn’t handle rejection well, so he will not give it a chance for it to bloom into the poisonous flower it is destined to become.
With the sky the colour of coal as the blond finally opened eyes, Technoblade leads them to a gate that opens up to the northern village known as Snowchester. While it is summertime, it’s as though Snowchester is in its own pocket of the universe with the way the temperature shifts. From mellow summer night weather to holy-shit-my-hands-are-going-to-fall-off cold.
It’s the kind of cold that cannot go unspoken, must be shouted and sworn at, hands wrapping around shoulders as you curse Old Man Winter’s name. There is no snow laid across below their feet though, instead the dirt is frozen solid.
A short man with a cigar in his mouth and an eyepatch over an eye greets them amicably, and when he charms them with a grin some of his teeth are dripped with brilliant golden caps. He is not dressed for the weather, an undone bow tie around his neck, suspenders holding up black dress pants.
Despite this, he looks comfortable. “Fellas,” The man says. His voice is sharp, the singular eye available to view a deep black colour. “It’s a pleasure to have you. Make sure you tell the King I said that too, hey?”
Wilbur dips his head to the man. “Your generosity will not go unnoticed in the kingdom, Mayor Q.” He replies, though his tone is swift and unenthusiastic.
Mayor Q, who Tommy had not once heard of before, takes the cigar out of his mouth. Smoke drips from his lips and curls up past his face.
He smells of tobacco and money. “If I’m honest, your reputation precedes you two. I’ve heard many things. Good things, bad things. Just things.” He says, shrugging. “Who’s the kid?”
“For fucks sake, I’m seventeen.” Tommy huffs. Mayor Q squints, unrelenting.
Wilbur tilts his palm, as though presenting him. “This is Thesus Simons, or Tommy. You know the–”
“–The painter. No shit.” the Mayor interrupts with a sly smile. He waves his hand, motioning them to follow. They comply, mimicking the smoke trail he leaves behind. “This project you guys have going on is very secretive, you know that? The letters I got back from General Sam were very vague.”
Techno hums. “That's the government for you.” He says, attempting to shut down Q’s inquisitivity. If Q notices this, he doesn’t show it.
“Yeah, well. I’d like to be in the know, even if you can’t tell me all the nitty gritty details. This is my village. What can I say? I’m protective.” He replies, glancing back at the trio.
It strikes the three of them that his demeanour is a performance, the Mayor fiddling with cuff links that have the village’s flag colours on it. He leads them down a dirt road to a stable where they can put their horses.
Wilbur is interested. He’s got a suspicion that the man’s patriotism runs a bit deeper than the surface he’s showing, and he finds it compelling. “You seem like an honest man,” He says, and it’s sarcastic. “But if I’d told you what we were doing, I’d have to kill you. Realistically, Technoblade would have to kill you, but you get the point.”
Q’s eye flicks towards the pink-haired man in recognition. He rolls his shoulders, straightens his posture. His expression is recognisable; he’s bracing himself for something. A frown tugs at his false perpetually-smirking face, and it settles across his features like it’s an old friend. “I do get the point."
"Good! Could you show us where we'll be staying?" Wilbur chirps, hopping off the side of the horse.
The Mayor grimaces at Wilbur's height. He breathes in deep, the act washing over his mannerisms again. “You’re right near a lake. It’s beautiful in the mornings when it just begins to frost over. I’m sure Tommy would like that sort of thing.” Q says, eying the boy.
Tommy hops off of the horse, steadier now. He’s getting better at it. Techno doesn’t get off his though, steering his mare to continue following. It’s only then that Mayor Q notices the very obvious dead body wrapped up in tarp on the back of it. He stiffens, Wilbur's words seeming much more of a threat than the joking prod it originally came across as.
The youngest averts his eyes away from the dead thing. They walk quietly across the village. Homes are more frequently cottages and dirt shacks than anything extraordinary. He cannot imagine Mayor Q living in any of these places, but it seems to be the case. Not many townsfolk are out tonight, people coming few and far between.
People that are around are weary, fluttering gazes and introverted body language. If things like otherworldly creatures are common, he can’t blame them. Childrens toys laid haphazardly on top of lawns, forgotten bikes and scooters rested up against stone steps. He isn’t sure if this is comforting or the opposite.
Q is not as talkative since he’s seen the tarp. Tommy tries to spark up conversation, but the man’s responses are short and final. He is still questioning, though. Asks Tommy about where he’s from, what his mothers name is. Tommy thinks he asks these things because he knows that he wont have an easy answer. It’s cruel of him.
The man snuffs the bud of his cigar underneath this boot, tilting on his heel and displaying a small cottage in front of a pier. He was right; Tommy appreciated the view. He pushed his dark hair behind his ear. “Mi casa es tu casa. I hope you three find what it is you’re looking for.”
Q turns, then his firm hands land on Tommy’s shoulders, and his gaze is so heavy it almost looks through him. “Tommy,” He begins, his voice breaking from the previous inflection. This is real, now. The show is gone. “If you ever want out of this, you tell me, okay? This is not your obligation.”
“Okaaay?” Tommy replies, taken aback. The sentiment is nice, sure, but he’s too busy being freaked out to notice. Q’s look is restless, attempting to show that his words are genuine. Unsettling, to say the least.
Tommy steps away, and turns to enter the house. Wilbur gives him a deranged look for some reason, as though he had somehow prompted that weird interaction. He was the first to enter the home, immediately greeted by a grey living room that had a few chairs surrounding a fireplace. It was cute to imagine, the three of them huddled around it. Seemed impossible, but a cute idea at least. He kicked his shoes off his socked feet to explore the rest of the home.
The layout wasn’t too far off from Tommy’s shack, one floor, low roof, open concept. This one was much less lived in, that was obvious enough, but it wasn’t too different. He could work with this. His hands trailed down the wall of a hallway, enjoying the texture of old white paint against the tips of his fingers. On his left there were two doors, and on the end of the hall there was a third on the right. All of these were bedrooms.
He prefers the first room. He slugs his bag onto the bed and lets himself breathe around the room. The closet is empty, a sheen layer of white dust sits on top of the bedside dresser, the bed’s blankets are heavy and almost stiff. It’s lovely.
Tommy trails back to the kitchen just in time to see Techno hurl the body on the table with a loud thud. The thing’s hand rolls out from the tarp and limps off the table. Techno doesn’t notice this, moving past Tommy to scope out the halls.
The hand is human. His eyes are locked. He takes a step forward and despite himself, he reaches out, just for a moment. It’s dead now, it can’t hurt him. His palm meets the creatures. Its skin feels thick and calloused and like a person. He slots their fingers, an act of kindness that feels foreign to him. He knows it's pointless to be kind to a corpse, but it has to be worth something, somewhere, to someone.
He stays there for a while, unwilling to move. Strange, to be emotional like this. He feels an incredible amount of sympathy. A person's hands are usually what they see most of themself, without reflection and without the covering of cloth. Many people feel as though they can recognise their hands faster than their face. If this was a person (and there is a deep, dreadful, sinking feeling that this is), what an awful fate to lose something as sacred as your humanity.
“I’m sorry.” Tommy says. He does not know why he’s apologising, only that he’s got this feeling that it’s his responsibility. He needs to know how this happened to prevent it from happening to others. Tommy knows that despite his experience, there are kind people in this world.
He thinks of a boy in the orphanage, curly hair and a wild smile, Tommy’s first and only friend. He would’ve shat himself if he met Techno. Tommy laughs to himself at this. Outside the window, the lake begins to still as it freezes over. His friend would’ve made such a great knight.
Mayor Q said this was not his obligation, but he disagrees. If he has the chance to change this from happening to anybody else, then he’s going to take it. He has to, simply because it’s the right thing to do. He is determined to be good.