Chapter Text
Morning comes. Tommy wakes up, but Wilbur doesn’t come for him. The door to his room remains closed, even as the day drags on. No one comes.
He goes to the atrium by himself.
It’s empty. The prince is nowhere to be seen, and his words still sting from yesterday. Tommy is confused– he’s got conflicting memories now, of a time when Wilbur had been all at once kind and cruel to him. Tommy’s not sure if he wants the prince to be nice or not either; everything he’d said had seemed condescending at best.
He wears the earrings Wilbur got him anyways. Just in case he happens upon the older boy in the hallway.
The night with the general had left him confused too, but at least with a goal in mind. Stay in the atrium until the afternoon, and Technoblade would presumably meet him there. For what, Tommy has no idea. But he sticks around anyway, lounging his morning away in the grass and soaking up what little sun there is. There isn’t much– one of the servants answers his questions, and apparently it’s going to snow on and off for the next three days straight if they’re unlucky. The atrium roof is made of enchanted glass, and the girl explains to him with kind words that it melts any snow coming down on it. But sometimes, in the worst of the storms, it can’t keep up and they have to manually clear it off instead.
For now it stays uncovered, though. Through it, Tommy can see the grey sky above.
General Technoblade arrives a little after noon.
The doors swing open on the far side of the room and Tommy scrambles to his feet where he had been previously sitting, reading through a history book he’d taken out. It’s all about the Cataclysm– magical theory and all that. Tubbo had recommended it to him, something about learning how the crack in the veil between worlds affected children born around that time (Tommy tries not to be bitter about that one, he knows what everyone says about him) but it's so full of jargon he'd had trouble keeping up. Honestly, he was sleeping more than reading at this point. So when Technoblade comes out of the small grove of trees and dumps a clattering pile of metal at the edge of the dirt, Tommy startles.
“What are you doing?” he asks, snapping his book shut and propping himself up on his elbows. He squints. “Is that a sword?”
“No,” General Technoblade says, giving the pile of swords a kick. They clang against one another. “These are toothpicks.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy says, but he’s throwing the book to the side anyway and scrambling to his feet. Is the general going to arm him? Strange. He hadn’t taken the man as someone to take unnecessary risks. He steps forward anyway, always keeping an eye on Technoblade as he goes, but the general does nothing except step back and let Tommy inspect the pile on his own. He’s not even wearing armor. “What are these for?”
“Fighting,” Technoblade says easily. “We’ve got enough of them to spare. You seem restless. Let’s get some of that energy out.”
“I’m not restless,” Tommy insists, although he’s already digging through the pile of both sharp and dull blades, picking up a sword occasionally to check if it fits in his hand and balances right. Eventually he finds one that’s good enough– a long arming sword, fitted with a neat leather handle and blade smudged but clearly well-kept. He backs away from the general in order to give it a few good swings, bringing his opposite hand up for balance. When he looks back over his shoulder, Technoblade is watching with narrowed eyes. “What? Surprised I know how to hold a sword?”
“No,” the older man says easily, reaching down and taking one up from the remaining pile. His is longer– probably a longsword, but Technoblade easily holds it with one hand, gripping the hilt and raising it to study the edge of the blade. “You’re royalty. I would expect nothing less.”
Tommy extends his arm, the sword tip pointing beyond it. He aims it right at Technoblade’s head, and he catches the moment the other notices it. He pauses, tipping his head up and meeting Tommy’s gaze over the metal.
“Are we sparring?” Tommy asks. The general nods once, sharp.
“We are,” he says. “Let’s start with a basic attack and parry.”
“That’s for babies,” Tommy complains, but falls into a proper stance despite it. Technoblade approaches and Tommy moves backwards, giving them both some space. He is nervous– he bounces on his toes, shifts his grip, never takes his eyes off the general. This is Technoblade. Monster of the Kirnach. Legendary on the battlefield. Tommy is not about to take sparring with him lightly, as much as he pretends. “I’ve been doing that since I was two.”
“Two?” Technoblade raises an eyebrow. “That’s young.”
“Soon as I could walk,” Tommy says. “You gonna fight me or what, old man?”
Technoblade’s eyes narrow. He raises his own sword carefully, and gives it a few practice swings. Tommy waits.
“I’ll go easy on you,” the general says. Tommy grits his teeth, and braces.
Fighting the general is like being in the center of a thunderstorm. Lightning, crashing down in silver swoops of holy wrath on either side. Thunder in the crack of metal-on-metal, ringing in his ears and sending vibrations shuddering up his forearms and into his chest. True to his word, Technoblade only does a few attack-parry’s before backing off, both of them already out of breath. Tommy had managed to block what attacks had been thrown his way, but only barely.
“Good,” Technoblade says. Tommy’s chest heaves. “Hanging right, to inside block."
Tommy does as he says, swirling his sword around his wrist.
“Don’t be a show off,” Technoblade murmurs, eyeing his form. “Not bad. Who taught you?”
“My own general,” Tommy says. That’s a lie– Dream was mainly the one that taught him past the age of four. In swordsmanship, at least. He’s not the best at archery, worse at jousting. Hand-to-hand combat is the only other fighting skill he’s got. “He could rival you.” Another lie. Tommy’s general would lose in a heartbeat. Dream, however. He’s good.
“Doubtful,” Technoblade says. He levels his sword. “Again.”
And so they go.
Sparring goes like this: attack, parry, pull back. Attack, block, pull back. Technoblade is scathing in his criticism and does not offer anything other than short, clipped compliments. Praise is hard to drag out of him, prickly, like a rosebush. Tommy plucks each thorn out and tosses them back, breathless, exhilarated.
“You’re not shit at this, pup,” he quips one time, readjusting his sweaty grip on the handle. Every inch of him is sore– he hasn’t gotten this much exercise in months. Technoblade laughs. The man isn’t even sweating, and Tommy grits his teeth.
“Will you stop?” he asks, digging his heels into the dirt. He’s shed his outer layers now, only clad in a pale white undershirt and trousers, his boots filthy with dust. “Calling me that. I’m not a kid or a dog.”
Technoblade hums, shuffling his shoulders. “The only difference between you and a dog right now,” he says slowly, carefully, eyes on Tommy, “is a dog can be let loose into the courtyard and actually be expected to behave itself.”
Tommy sees red. Fighting isn’t an easy thing. It’s short and quick and takes most of your stamina– anyone can romanticize a battlefield, but at the end of the day, anyone can also be holding their guts with one hand and bleed out on one too. That was the fate of many of Tommy’s soldiers. All while he’d been pampered up in his safe little palace, being fed lines from a script. Technoblade’s quips about him being some sort of pampered dog– they hit harder than they should, and so he lets his anger carry him. He’s delighted by the true surprise on the older man’s face as he throws himself into the fight, actually aiming to hurt now. Their blades are dull but still made of cool metal, and so when Tommy fails to dodge and block the blow, it slices through the fabric of his shirt like paper and then his skin. Red bleeds from the wound, and Tommy backs away, breathing hard.
“Channel,” Technoblade murmurs, huffing out a breath. Then, in Northal, warningly: “Little one, watch your step.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy spits back, and Technoblade raises a brow. His accent’s rusty, but he knows the language. “I can fight just as well as you.”
“Is that so?” Technoblade’s head tilts. “You fight like a fish, slippery and–”
Warm iron, thick, scenting the air. Technoblade looks down at the lunge he’d instinctively parried, but had just slightly let cross the skin of his hand. Across his wrist is a wound to match Tommy’s; smaller, but a testament to Tommy’s own skill.
He’s wounded the general.
Oh Prime, he’s completely fucked.
“Have you ever fought on a real battlefield?” General Technoblade asks. Tommy keeps his eyes on the older man, backing away with slow, careful, even steps. Ready to drop his sword and run if the man so much as makes a move towards him. He’s enjoyed the last few hours with Technoblade, but he doesn’t doubt he would show him some corporal punishment if it came down to it.
“No,” Tommy says slowly, carefully. The general is inspecting his hand.
“It’s not like this,” Technoblade tells him. “The very air is heavy. The weight of what you are doing is on your shoulders, but you never think about it. Every body is just that– a body. Nobody is real. Nothing is solid except for your own men and the strategies you put them on the path towards.”
Whatever this is, Tommy’s not sure he’s getting it. “Yeah?” he asks. “Okay?”
Technoblade still doesn’t look up. “It’s not like this,” he says. “Fighting in a real fight is hard, and it isn’t fun. You don’t think about footwork and positions. You don’t have time to think ahead. It’s just one step after the other, and you have one goal. Survive. Winning isn’t even important, then. Not when you’re surrounded by dead men and gore. Do you remember when I made you watch?”
Tommy does. He dreams of it still– the burning pyres of dead bodies, bloated, lips blue and rolled back to reveal grinning teeth. Eyes nothing but black holes, fingers picked down to bone by vultures. He can remember the stench of Hopsfield.
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“That’s what it’s like,” Technoblade tells him. “But everything is fresh, and you are on the verge of death. This is a parody of that. Here, we pull punches. Here, everything is a game.”
“The war is over,” Tommy says quietly. “I signed the papers.”
“Doesn’t mean the fighting ends,” Technoblade says, and then finally, he looks up, clenching his fist and wiping the blood on his pants. “You’re smart. Don’t let it get to your head. Fight me again.”
“Are you angry?” Tommy asks in a breath.
Technoblade raises a brow. “Do I look angry?”
“Should that matter?”
They stare at one another, then Technoblade raises his weapon.
“Fight me,” he instructs. “Blood for blood.”
“Don’t hit me with your cult shit,” Tommy says, and raises his own sword again.
“Wow.” Technoblade is deadpan. “Real nice of ya.”
“It’s a joke,” Tommy insists, digging his feet into the soil, some of his anxiety dripping away. Technoblade throws his head back and– he laughs, a ridiculously forced action.
“Ha ha ha,” he grumbles, tipping his head back. “Very funny joke.”
“I knew you’d laugh,” Tommy mumbles. They circle like vultures, street dogs on corners fighting over scraps. Every movement is a monument to desperation, Tommy sorely wanting to prove himself as more than just a kid who only can take advantage of a moment’s distraction. The garden is warm around them, fuzzy with heat. Tommy forces a grin, squinting so hard that his vision narrows and Technoblade becomes nothing but a smear of color against the trees. Red on green. He bounces on his toes, hefts the sword in his hand. Tommy’s not a shit fighter, not by any means, but he’s facing down the Blood God’s favored. Ask around any small village on the Continent and they will know of him and of his exploits.
Tommy exhales, shifts his grip, and allows Technoblade to come to him.
This time when their swords clash, there are sparks.
The general’s feet move before his arms do, a lightning-fast display of footwork and skill, but Tommy sees it coming. He sees it coming and he doesn't think; there's no theory, it's just pure instinct as he brings his arm up to defend himself. Their swords cross. Technoblade grins, all teeth, and suddenly Tommy understands what he meant a few seconds ago when he'd mentioned pulling punches and how on the battlefield, everything you learn in classes is just a game. Because this is real, and the weight of the sword is heavy in his palm and he's not thinking about his footwork, he's just doing it. Again their swords collide and Tommy's on the defensive, but that's okay. He slides to the left, hilt crossing hilt as Technoblade braces himself and pushes, and Tommy lets the force move him backwards. And there's a feint to his right; he reacts in turn, and he's sweating already in the heat of the atrium and light of the sun. Dust paints his boots and he's out of breath and out of practice but holding his own, at least in this moment.
"That's good, Tommy!" Technoblade says, voice pitching high over the sound of their blades crossing once more. Tommy risks an attack, and Technoblade is forced to duck. His hair shines and his skin is also slick, and he's still grinning. "That's good!"
At the compliment, Tommy practically wants to shout. Technoblade– follower of the Blood God, general of the fucking Antarctic Empire, the man who won the war against his country– is complimenting him on his swordsmanship. It’s a drug like no other. Fire races through his veins and he thinks back to spars with Sapnap. This is not so different, not when Technoblade fights with flames coursing from his limbs and viciousness curling on his lip. When Sapnap and Tommy had fought, they’d often drawn blood. It had been forgiven the moment the match was over, of course, but their spars had always held more anger and contempt and desperation than the ones Tommy had with Dream or his tutors. When he and Sapnap fought, it had been a dance. It had been a brotherhood.
This is so similar that Tommy is fighting back those feelings once more, ducking and weaving, using his small stature to trip Technoblade up instead of attacking him head-on. That would be a death sentence, and he refuses to let the general draw unequal blood. He’s not sure when they stopped pulling their punches, but it’s gotten far more fun in the past thirty seconds than it has been in the past hour.
The general gets a hit on him, and his head stings. He gets a hit on the general, and he delights in the way Techno’s grasp on his sword falters once or twice due to the blood making it slippery. After he gets the hit on Tommy they both pull back, Tommy dragging the tip of his sword in the dirt and letting the dust settle. And then– then, there is an understanding between them; something visceral and raw, like bloody meat held in the triumphant fist of a hunter. Something violent and intimate, the kind of understanding that goes beyond just swinging swords at each other with intent to hurt. It's respect. It's Tommy using his own pure-white sleeve to wipe the blood off his blade and Technoblade offering up his own neck kerchief to Tommy in return, so he can get the stinging salting blood out of his eyes from the cut on his forehead. They've made each other bleed more than once, now– and that in itself is an oath.
Don't get Tommy wrong– he still doesn't like Technoblade. But he respects him. He doesn't think he'll ever truly like Techno; they are too different, too wild, albeit on opposite ends of the spectrum. They both care too deeply in ways that oppose the other and in that way, they will never be equal in affection.
But respect is a currency Tommy knows well. He's dealt in it more than once, gambled his life on it. And based on the way Technoblade grins at him now, baring his teeth and looking everything the seasoned warrior, Tommy knows he's earned it.
Dear Tubbo,
So, this morning, I fought the general…
“Not bad,” Technoblade says later, when they’re both being fretted over by His Majesty’s Royal Physician.
“Shut up!” Ponk says, whapping Technoblade’s arm so hard Tommy’s surprised it doesn’t ding like metal when the man remains unflinching. “You’re both stupid! Making me waste potions.”
“You can just use bandages–” Tommy tries to insist for the third time (because he’s had this thought already, and wasting potions on something as silly as himself during wartime is bad enough but the Empire probably has a good amount stockpiled, right? And based on how Technoblade laughs it off– maybe they’re fine, maybe, maybe–).
“Oh, shut it,” Ponk says a second later, his hands now fretting over Tommy’s forehead instead of Technoblade’s arm. Tommy hisses as the familiar sting of healing is applied evenly over his cut. “You get whatever you want. Him, however.” A glare is shot in the direction of the general. “Your grace, you’ve had an exciting two days. Bed for the rest of today.” A scowl appears on his face. “Don’t make me come find you. Don’t make him do it either.” He points at Technoblade with an accusing finger before turning away to start cleaning up. Tommy reaches up to pat at his forehead, wiping his fingers over the now-smooth skin. Technoblade is grimacing, when they look at each other once more.
“Free to go?” Tommy asks hesitantly.
“Bed,” Ponk insists. “And a warm fire!”
“Yessir,” Tommy mumbles, sliding off the cot in the infirmary and planting his feet on the ground. He feels fine, arguably, but he knows Ponk is ridiculous when it comes to making sure his orders are followed through. And crawling into bed right about now sounds good. His entire body is sore from the exercise he’d gotten today, and so he doesn’t hesitate to start walking in the direction of his room. The general walks behind him and a bit to the left as they go, a white bandage wrapped neatly around his hand.
“I’ll let the others know you’ll be in your room today,” Technoblade says as they approach his door. Tommy stops and turns, eyeing him up and down once, then twice.
“Do you hate me?” he asks bluntly.
“No,” the general says. He meets Tommy’s eyes, red-on-blue.
“Did you ever?” Tommy asks. Mutely, the general presses his lips together in a flat line, then shrugs.
“How am I to tell?” he asks. “I think it’s easy to say that things are often deeper than they seem. Go rest, pup.”
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Tommy says, but there’s little fire in his voice anymore. Techno just chuckles, and puts a hand on Tommy’s head. It’s warm, a sinking heat with fingers that creep down and brace. It’s sturdy. He gives his hair a ruffle once, twice, and then lets go.
“Rest,” he orders, and turns away.
Dear Tubbo,
Good news! You may not be my only friend! Bad news– the prince is a spoiled brat.
Tommy does not, in fact, rest.
He stays in bed for a few hours, sure. He’ll never pass up the opportunity for a nap ( Prime, Tommy, you’re getting lazy, Dream mutters in his ear) but after that he’s just bored. Bored of his room and it’s stupid yellow theme, even if it’s better than blue. Bored of Technoblade, who is prissy and large and insists on guarding Tommy personally when he has spare time. Bored of feeling useless and tired and miserable.
So he goes to the drawing room.
Usually he can find someone there, be it Kristin or her ladies, or maybe Technoblade on a slow day. Never does he find anyone there during the morning sessions while everyone’s out working and never in the evenings, just before dinner, but midday is a good time for people to be lounging or working, looking for a change in scenery. Tommy, of course, has no duties other than be good , so he finds himself here most often. It’s a beautiful room– large shining windows, huge flowing curtains that are thick and heavy. The walls are mostly bookshelves, except around the fireplace. The fireplace itself is brick and stone and kept roaring all day every day, fighting off the chill.
The carpet is plush and good to run one’s hands through or feel against your forehead or back. The ceiling in contrast consists of stamped metal squares. Tommy’s spent a good amount of time on his back here, just staring up endlessly at his own warped reflection as the carpet stays plush beneath him. The whole room is filled with chrysanthemums and coated in every corner with shades of blue, grey, and white.
It’s a good room. Solid. Handy for entertaining when you’re miserably bored like Tommy often is.
Tommy pushes the door open without issue. He steps inside, again without issue. Ponk has threatened to sic Technoblade on him if he spent the day out of bed, but Tommy’s sure the general is busy until at least suppertime. The hinges are deadly quiet as he steps inside, and everything is fine until he spots a stupid head of brown hair hunched over the couch, just barely visible over the edge of it. The prince is bowed, and paper is strewn across the floor. The guards wait just inside the door as Tommy makes his way in, and he gives one of the stray pieces of paper a kick. It flutters– it looks like sheet music, when he tips his head to study it.
“Hello,” Wilbur says without looking up. “Mother, if you–” His head rises, and he cuts off suddenly. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Don’t sound so pleased,” Tommy grits out, giving the sheet music another kick and stepping on it for good measure.
“Why are you here?” Wilbur says. He sounds like a priss. He is a priss.
“I’m allowed,” Tommy says. “Also it’s one of the rooms I generally know the location of.”
“Right,” Wilbur says, tipping his head back down. His shoulders move and paper rustles as though he’s gathering his things– Tommy’s proven right when he peeks over the back of the couch and finds more fucking paper on the cushions. “Well, I’m busy, so go to whatever room is next on that list and bother someone there.”
“Can’t,” Tommy says. “Next room is the atrium, and I’ve been there already.”
“Don’t care,” Wilbur says.
“You’re being a bitch,” Tommy informs him with a deep scowl. Wilbur tips his head up– Tommy blinks, but holds his place and refuses to flinch at the sudden eye contact. The prince has eyes like gold, whirling honey. They have a standoff for a brief minute, and Wilbur is the one to break the gaze. He snaps his eyes back down to his music and finishes gathering the sheafs into one pile, setting it aside with pursed lips and a hesitant look.
“Come sit,” he finally offers, patting at the couch awkwardly.
Tommy makes his way around, and sits. “You were just telling me to leave,” he says but Wilbur just shakes his head and pats the cushions once more, not bothering to explain his generally confusing temper. They sit for a second, silence splitting the room worse than a crevasse opened during the Cataclysm. There’s a divide between them that seems impossible to bridge, but Wilbur tries. Tommy’s not sure what he’s expecting– he knows what he wants, yes, but he doesn’t expect the prince to apologize, not truly.
“We’re leaving,” Wilbur says. Tommy sits and waits, not saying a word. “When the snow melts. We’re leaving to visit the other kingdoms. The Isles, the Vaults, Libra. I’m going to vouch for you to come with us,” Wilbur says, still sitting stiffly. “I think you deserve it. I think it’s important.”
“Important for what?” Tommy scoffs, letting himself slouch some. “Important for the others to see how far down you’ve beaten me?”
“Think of it as an apology,” Wilbur soothes. He shakes his hand about, talks with his fingers and fiddles as he thinks. “We all know you hate it here. You’re not exactly transparent on the matter.”
“Of course I hate it,” Tommy says. He holds a hand up, extending a finger for every point he makes next. “It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s grey. Your food is awful. Your hospitality is worse. I’m not allowed outside. I’m not allowed to be alone. I’m–”
“Okay!” Wilbur says. “Okay, yeah, I get it, you child. Have you ever tried looking on the bright side?”
“What’s the bright side, exactly?” Tommy asks, tipping his head.
“You’re not dead,” Wilbur says with a nod.
“Wow,” Tommy drawls. “The bar is still that low.”
“Well–” Wilbur is flustered for all of two seconds before composing himself. “Well, you’re alive and what used to be your kingdom is surviving, so I’d say it’s still that low, yeah.”
Something twists, harsh and cutting in Tommy’s chest. “Thanks,” he mutters. “It’s great to know I’m appreciated in my time.”
“Well I don’t want you here,” Wilbur says scathingly, the bluster coming back. “In the– in the palace, that is. It’s a fucking mess is what it is, even if my father refuses to admit it. You’re a mess.” Tommy reels back as though he’s been struck, that pain lingering in the root of his sternum as his hands twist in his lap.
“I don’t want to be here either,” he says plainly. Of course Wilbur wouldn’t want him here. Why would he even think that Tommy is enjoying this? When he has made it so clear it’s worse than torture? “What makes you think I’d like to be here?”
“Finally something we agree upon, then,” Wilbur says, turning his nose up.
“Fine,” Tommy says.
“Fine,” Wilbur repeats.
“ Fine .”
“Fine!”
Both of them are turned away now. Tommy can barely see Wilbur out of the corner of his eye, and after a second, Wilbur turns. Tommy flinches, ducks– all he sees from below his forearm as it shelters his face is a hurt look on Wilbur’s head.
“I’m not going to hit you,” he says sharply. "Has someone... hit you before?"
“Shut up. You never know,” Tommy ignores the question entirely, countering, but lowers his arm regardless. He decides to go the defensive route. “What, Dad doesn’t want you marking up the prized canary? Caged birds tend not to sing if you treat them harshly.”
Wilbur gapes at him. “Why do you say such crass shit?” he asks a second later, and Tommy shrugs.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” he offers. Wilbur is quiet. They stare at one another.
“You spent time with Techno,” Wilbur notes. The obvious change in subject is painful to witness, but Tommy goes along with it anyhow.
“I did,” Tommy says. “I bested him in combat. Multiple times.”
“Liar,” Wilbur says astutely, maybe fondly. “He’s an asshole anyways.”
“He is not,” Tommy says, gasping in faux shock. Then he catches himself (defending him, really? After all he took from you?). “Well– maybe a bit.”
“He is,” Wilbur insists. “Don’t let him fool you into friendship. I’ve seen him take down soldiers like nobody’s business. And besides, he’s mine to love. Not yours.”
Tommy goes quiet, the retort on his lips drying up at the last sentence from Wilbur. He stares at the older boy and blinks, watching as his face hardly shifts at Tommy’s blatant surprise. Instead he tips his head down and watches as Tommy’s face crumples, vacillating between different expressions before settling on exhaustion.
“I hate you,” he says primly. Wilbur just laughs.
The prince is exactly what Tommy had been expecting and more. They say he’d been born with an emerald in his mouth, a crass sense of humor and charming smile that could woo any woman around. Tommy knows all of this is true and more– the prince is well-mannered, brilliant, and gorgeously talented. He is everything a crown prince should be, if not a little lacking on the diplomatic side of things. (He makes Tommy feel inadequate in some ways, smart in others. The inadequacy often outweighs the rest.) But then again, Tommy brutally reminds himself, he is not bound to be polite to me. Not anymore. Tommy’s not important to them except as a prisoner of the state.
“You’re allowed to hate me,” Wilbur tells him.
“ Your general told me that exact same thing,” Tommy says with a scowl, turning away. Wilbur coos, and then there’s a hand in his hair and Tommy reels backwards, trying to escape the touch. He can’t, of course; there’s nowhere to go but a soft couch, pale blue velvet scrabbling against his fingers as Wilbur draws him backwards and into a strange half-embrace. He’s got one arm around Tommy’s bicep, the other hand planted firmly in his hair as he ruffles it vigorously. He shouts his protest and Wilbur just laughs, bells and musical tones filling the air. Eventually the teasing stops and Tommy’s chest is heaving with his righteous anger, but he’s kept firmly in place by Wilbur’s hands.
“Do you remember when I told you my father gave you to me as a birthday present?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy’s cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Maybe,” he says.
“That sentiment grows truer and truer every day,” Wilbur tells him, and then lets go. Tommy wiggles out of his grasp and whirls around to face him, hands flying up to settle the wayward strands of hair flying around his face now. It’s getting long– long enough that he can gather it in a small ponytail and even sometimes attempt to braid it. Dream never would’ve let him keep it this long down south. It tickles the back of his neck. He can’t feel it in his anger.
“How dare you,” he hisses. “I am not a present .”
“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says, and Tommy’s about to reject the apology but Wilbur continues: “For what I said in the hallway after we were scolded. I was upset, but not at you.”
The whiplash between conversation topics is going to be the death of him. Tommy falters– he still wants to be angry at Wilbur calling him a present, like some fucked up toy, but the apology seems genuine, and isn’t that what he came here to seek in the first place? Conflicted, he pauses, and Wilbur takes the chance to explain himself further. “I was frustrated, and shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m glad you enjoyed that morning with me, Tommy. I am. If it wasn’t about to get unbearably cold, I’d argue more harshly for us to be allowed out like that weekly.”
“Why?” Tommy asks. “I– you– after– I mean–"
“Take your time,” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy resists the urge to slap him.
“Why?” he asks. “Why did you take me in the first place?”
Wilbur takes a minute to actually think about his answer. Tommy finds himself appreciating that more than he can say– the quiet moment in which Wilbur thinks . “I know what it’s like to feel trapped,” he says simply. “And there is nothing better than occasionally kicking down the door keeping you in.”
“Like that gate you knocked in,” Tommy says. He’s smiling without knowing, and Wilbur’s lips quirk up. He laughs, almost surprised.
“I guess I meant that more literally than I thought,” he admits. “Yeah, like the gate.”
Tommy smiles, and–
And.
And something hits him just then.
It must show on his face, because Wilbur’s eyebrows draw in and he gets all slow and careful like they all do after Tommy flinches when someone moves too fast and too purposefully. But he’s too preoccupied with his own thoughts to be mad at it right now; the gate Wilbur had knocked in must still be open. They’re the only two that know of it at the moment, and surely Wilbur will forget the moment Tommy changes the subject. But Tommy won’t forget. Tommy won’t let anyone else figure out what he’s just figured out.
There’s a crack in the palace wall. He’d been so eager to leave that late night in the kitchen with Technoblade. How could he have forgotten? How could he have been so stupid? There’s an answer sitting right in front of his face and he’s just been sitting on it like a mother hen! He drags a thumb over the broach on his chest, the iron cool and meaningful under the pad of his finger.
“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, his voice cutting through Tommy’s internal monologue. He snaps back to reality and inhales, then exhales loudly.
“Do you think fairytales are for children?” he asks abruptly, and Wilbur’s clearly caught off guard. He pauses, then shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “I think they all have some truth. And morals that anyone can benefit from. Why do you ask?”
Tommy shoves the thought of the broken gate to the back of his mind for now. He can’t let Wilbur know what he’s thinking, if anything at all. “No reason,” he says. “No reason at all. Nope. No reason for me to care. Why do you care, hmm?”
“Is this your strange way of saying you want to read fairy tales?” the prince asks, and Tommy zips his lips together and shakes his head. Wilbur laughs and Tommy bites back a smile, doing his best to seem like that’s blatantly not what he’s asking for. His little ruse works, however. Wilbur is distracted, rising from his seat with an amused look towards Tommy and absently making his way towards the bookshelves, one hand tucked behind his back and the other scrounging the shelves as he looks back over his shoulder with a smile. “I see. Well, I’m going to read, and if you’d like to join me–”
Tommy would not. Tommy would literally rather be anywhere else, but when Wilbur comes back to the sofa with a book of folk tales in Northal he does his best to sneakily peer over the older boy’s shoulder. If Wilbur takes a little longer to turn each page, well, that’s on him. Tommy’s not a slow reader for certain. And if Tommy gets more invested in each tale than he’d originally wanted to, well.
No one else is in his mind. Just him. Thank prime, because his thoughts are some of the traitorous sort right now and would land him deeply in trouble.
But it’s just him and a broken gate, and the tendrils of an idea.
Dear Tubbo,
I might’ve made a mistake this afternoon– or… something. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know. I don’t–
“Hey,” Tommy says. Karl the librarian jumps, startled.
“Oh!” he says, perking up. Then he takes in Tommy’s expression and frowns. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Tommy reassures him. “The general and I are on equal ground, that’s all. Prince and I too. Any new charts?”
“Not yet, little astronomer,” Karl says apologetically. “You’re eager. But we do have some new folk tales from the scribes up by Tantwell. Want to take a look?” This is a genuine question, and Tommy hesitantly follows him, turning over the crisp new pages of a book with fresh ink. The images are new and the letters happily pressed, and with care he turns through it. Folk tales, like Karl had said. Prime , he is going to be sick of them.
“Something?” Karl asks, voice slightly hushed. Tommy takes a breath, shoves down the rising hatred in his gut, and then nods.
“Past the place where they keep animals on the east side of the outer ring,” he tells Karl quietly. “There’s a knocked-in gate that Wilbur used to sneak us out into the fourth ward. It should still be open. Mark the passage of guards and you’ll get right through no issue.”
“Oh.” Karl’s lips are rounded, a hushed exclamation of surprise. He blinks, and then nods. “I’ll– that’s– thank you, your highness.”
“Tell him I miss him,” Tommy says, even quieter, an admission so soft it might not have been spoken at all. “Please.”
“Always,” Karl promises. His hand is warm on Tommy’s, painted nails shining in the lantern light.
Dear Tubbo,
I may be seeing you sooner than I thought.
Turns out, the Emperor is consolidating his power. You served on the diplomacy committee for a few months– was it enough to understand the complicated politics behind this? Because I sure don’t fucking understand a lick of it.
Philza is going to do a tour of the Continent. Aka, he’s leaving the Empire. To go to the Isles. And the Vaults, and Libra even. He’s bringing his whole fucking family along with him, to show how happy and human and normal they are. All of them! And they were just going to leave me here, in the cold fucking snow, with no one but the court ladies to watch over me. Oh, and the entire guard too, but they’re all little bitches and can’t hold a sword to save their lives. Not as well as me, that is. ‘Cause I’d kill them in a heartbeat, get it, to save their lives? Anyways, yeah. They were going to leave me alone.
Turn of events, though. Ho ho ho, beware, this tale isn’t fucking done. Apparently, Prince Wilbur’s been arguing to bring me with. He says I’m “well behaved” enough to do so, and used the fact that I didn’t run away when we went out in the town to support it. To be fair, I did think about it. But it’s too much of a pain, running away. We’re too far north for me to properly get away. But that’s not it either– turns out, Wilbur isn’t the only one petitioning for me to come with. It was being discussed in front of me at dinner last night and fucking– get this, fucking get this!!!– General Technoblade vouched for me to go along with them. He made it clear I wouldn’t be let out of his sight, of course, and I won’t be going to the Isles, but I’ll be able to follow along to the Vaults and Libra.
I’m coming to visit. For real. Philza is allowing it.
I’m leaving Raven’s Flight when the snow starts to melt. As long as I don’t do anything to lose this trust in the next few months I’ll get out of this freezing fucking palace and get to explore a little bit. I can’t remember the last time I was in the Vaults, much less Libra. We probably met at some point, thinking about it. Weird, innit? We existed in the same space and time and met, and now we’re writing letters.
Not much else is new. The Empress of all people was against me leaving– I would’ve thought she’d be for it, but apparently fucking not. Rude. She gets to go see my city, my home, while I sit in her cold fucking palace and rot.
Sorry if I’m being pessimistic. There’s not many places to vent here, except screaming out my window until I lose my voice. Top-tier coping by the way– I highly recommend it. The mountains are very good secret keepers.
This is getting too sappy for me. I’ll cut our conversation short for the sake of myself. I’ve got dinner within the hour and I need to be presentable or else Kristin will have my fucking head. She’s a right menace when you get down to it. Don’t tell anyone I said that. Might be treason. Might not, though, either. They always just laugh whenever I say shit like that now.
Prime, stop me from fucking trauma-dumping. Hope you’re well, Tubs. How are the talking boxes going? Did you try the adapter method? Get any more letters from Ranboo? Heard about your engagement party from Wilbur of all people. Disgusting, the both of you. You know I don’t mean it. Better to be married to a friend than a stranger. Tell me how things are in your Underground city– I want to know everything before I get there! Please :D
Your Best Friend,
Tommy