Chapter Text
Water runs down the walls of the prison in freezing rivulets. His breath coming in puffs of cloud, Tommy reaches out and brushes his fingertips across the rough surface. It’s easy to revel in the cold sensation against his fevered skin.
Their path is more a cave than a prison at this rate. Sam leads them through a strange series of tunnels that slope ever so slightly upwards. Following his guidance, Tommy ducks underneath an outcropping, shadowed closely by Ranboo. The taller boy has to bend almost double to fit through the gap.
“Where the fuck are you taking us?” Tommy says, pitching his voice to carry.
“A shortcut,” Sam offers from up ahead, purposefully vague. He doesn’t turn around.
“Pretty long shortcut,” Ranboo comments, his breath coming hard and fast from the exertion.
“How do you know these tunnels, anyway?” Tommy demands loudly, not to be deterred. “I’ve never seen these passages before.”
Sam shoots him a grin over his shoulder. “I know every inch of this place like the back of my hand,” he says. The assurance should be creepy, but Tommy finds himself relaxing in spite of Sam’s unsettling words. He can’t help but trust this guy—he likes Sam’s open and no-nonsense demeanor.
(It’s far too easy to push away the small part of him that whispers something isn’t right).
“Seems kinda suspicious,” Ranboo says, “but all right. I’ll buy it.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time here,” Sam counters. “I’m the one who designed the expansion of the palace, dumbass. I lived in these passages. Long before kids like you even walked the halls.”
Tommy’s mouth drops open. “You’re the architect?” he says, voice hushed with wonder. “The one Dream commissioned?”
He’s heard the story far too many times for comfort: how Dream grew bored with the limited size of Manburg’s palace and planned to build an extension. How he found the greatest architect in the world to enact his design. How the new walls, once built, seemed to tower over Manburg, leaving long shadows in their wake.
“Yes,” Sam says, and then he smiles. It’s not a nice grin—it’s filled with teeth, rough around the edges. “And look where that got me.”
Tommy casts his gaze about the tunnel. “A hundred feet underground?” he offers, earning himself a sharp look.
“Careful, princeling,” Sam warns with a dangerous note in his voice. “These tunnels run further than you think, in every direction. Do you think anyone would find a missing heir down here?”
“If you want to hurt him, you’ll have to go through me first,” Ranboo counters, drawing himself up to his full height. His eyes burn with anger. Tommy very nearly does not recognize the man at his side.
Who are you? he thinks. Who are you and what have you done with Ranboo?
Sam levels them both with a searching look before he nods abruptly. “Come on,” he says, changing the subject in a whirl of whiplash. “We don’t have all day.”
Tommy swallows a comment about how technically, they do have all day—the coronation isn’t until sunset—and instead picks up the pace. His footsteps resound off the cave’s walls, wet with condensation.
A few minutes later, the passage emerges into a much larger and much brighter cavern. It takes Tommy’s eyes a moment to adjust to the light; when they do, he’s surprised to find ornate lanterns hanging from every interval. The walls are made of smooth rock that reflects every movement, polished to a dull shine. Up ahead, three doors are set into the wall with heavy brass bolts sliding across.
“What is this?” Ranboo asks, voice quiet.
“VIP quarters,” Sam remarks wryly. “More cells, I think. I doubt they’re in use. There hasn’t been a prisoner here in years.”
Tommy doesn’t ask how Sam knows this. He twists to take in his surroundings, eyes darting over the natural cavern. Tommy’s gaze is caught suddenly by a flicker of flame through the crack between the rock and one of the three doors.
He straightens, every sense alerted. There shouldn’t be any fire down here. Fire would implicate the presence of a human—a prisoner. Who would commit a crime awful enough to land himself here?
An important prisoner, that’s who. Someone whose presence holds immense political weight. Tommy takes one step, then another, until he can bend forward and squint through the crack. He ignores the soft noise of surprise from Sam.
He can’t see much; only that same flicker of candlelight and the silhouette of furniture. Something clenches tightly in Tommy’s gut like a fist wrapped around his insides. Fingers that squeeze every organ. “Help me with this door?” he says quietly, glancing back at the others.
Sam’s brow furrows in consternation. “What are you—“
“You grab that side, I grab the other?” Ranboo offers, reaching out to touch the heavy bolt with slim fingers. He braces himself—then, after Tommy’s nod, he lifts the bolt out of its place with a grunt of effort.
The door opens slowly, even with Tommy putting all of his weight behind its hinges. It creaks open with a taunting scrape of metal, revealing the cell beyond the massive chamber.
The cell’s single occupant turns to face them, his expression contorting in sudden surprise. “Hey, what are you—“
Tommy’s vision swims, hyper-focusing on the man in front of him. His breath catches in his throat in an awful, ugly gasp—a choking sound that doesn’t quite make it all the way down. He takes an aborted step forward, fingers numb, and manages, “Will?”
This shouldn’t be possible. By all intents and purposes, Wilbur should be dead—six feet underground in a pauper’s grave. Yet here he stands, living and breathing and grinning like a fucking madman. The scar across his eye glows in the faint light of the candle, giving his face a proper eerie look.
“Tommy?”
“Will,” Tommy breathes again, and then he’s running forward, breaking free of Ranboo’s hold. He reaches Wilbur in three long strides and immediately embraces him tightly. His heart is beating double-, maybe triple-time. He thinks it might burst out of his chest.
Everything is hazy; the room seems to swim in front of Tommy’s eyes. He shuts them tightly and focuses on the feel of the arms wrapped around him, the breath that ruffles his hair, the tears that collect at the corners of his eyes. It’s almost too much. Everything feels like a dream, with soft edges and harsh breaths.
“Tommy,” Wilbur breathes out against him. He’s trembling—every limb shakes with effort.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Tommy says. It doesn’t stop him from gripping Will more tightly. “They told me you were dead.”
“I’m not dead,” Wilbur says. He retreats from the hug to hold Tommy at arm’s length, studying the younger’s boy face. With the shackles locked firmly around his wrists, it’s hard to do, but he manges. “Look at me, Tommy. I’m not dead.”
Tommy gasps for breath.
Will’s grip tightens. “Oh, Tommy, you’re here.” He hesitates, scanning Tommy’s lanky frame. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“Don’t ask,” Tommy bites out sharply, resisting the urge to look down at his fine clothes.
Wilbur cocks his head to the side, gentle. He doesn’t ask. “Dream tried to pull one over on you, didn’t he?”
The words send a jolt through Tommy’s stomach. “I don’t understand,” he says quietly.
“He never had any intention of hanging me,” Wilbur says, surging on recklessly. It’s as if the words burst out of his throat like precipitation from a heavy cloud. Tommy wants to open a fucking umbrella. “It was all for your benefit.”
“But, the rope—I heard it snap. I saw you fall.” He’s rather surprised to find he’s crying, chest rising and falling rapidly. ”I saw you die, Wilbur.”
“Did you really?” Wilbur says, cocking his head to the side. “The rope was a trick—designed to break as soon as I put weight on it. The fall was nasty, but I can handle a few feet.” He grins, and the sight is jarring. “You can tell your friends to come in, by the way.”
Tommy glances over his shoulder to see Ranboo and Sam hovering at the door, forgotten. At his tentative grin, Ranboo steps through the doorway first, his chin held high.
“This is Ranboo,” he tells Will defensively.
Wilbur studies Ranboo with narrowed eyes. “I remember you,” he says without any real heat in the words. “You worked on my father’s ship. One of Dream’s soldiers. You’re Royal Guard.”
Ranboo ducks his head. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I am.”
Will grins roguishly. “How’d that work out for you?”
Ranboo manages a tight-lipped smile. “Not very well, it seems.”
“I could’ve told you that myself,” Wilbur says, smiling tightly. When his gaze flicks to Sam, recognition paints his face in mild surprise. “Huh. It’s been a long time, Sam.”
“It has,” Sam says, inclining his head gently. His gaze is unreadable. “So this is what you’re up to these days?”
“It seems like it, doesn’t it?” Wilbur says with a mild chuckle. He turns his gaze back to Tommy, alight with blazing affection, and says, “But I can’t really complain.”
Tommy looks at him—really looks at him, all six feet of scarred skin and unruly curls—and lets out a long breath. He feels fragile, like his heart might shatter at any moment if Will applies too much pressure. “You bastard,” he says, without any heat. “I thought you were dead. Where the hell have you been?”
“Here,” Wilbur says, gesturing to the cave around them. He cracks a small grin. “Locked up in solitary. Looks like paradise, eh?”
“It’s certainly cleaner than the rest of the prison,” Sam mutters underneath his breath.
“Wait, hold on,” Ranboo says quickly. Each word resounds off the smooth ceiling of the cell as he steps closer. “Go back. You’re saying that the King staged your death? Why on earth would he do a thing like that?”
The blood drains from Tommy face when the reality hits him head-on. “It was for my benefit,” he says softly. He feels faint. Holy shit. “So that I wouldn’t fight back. So that he could keep me pliant and crown me the king of a kingdom that I fucking hate.” Bile rises in his throat; he swallows it down sharply.
There’s a dark mixture of pity and anger brewing in Wilbur’s eyes. “I’ll kill him,” he says, voice rough against Tommy’s ears. “I’ll put a bullet between his eyes, I swear to Prime. See how he likes death.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” Sam says darkly, approaching the two of them with slow steps. He reaches out and lays a hand on Tommy’s shoulder—the weight is surprisingly comfortable. Tommy thinks about what lengths Sam might go to in order to protect him, and he shivers at the thought.
Wilbur holds Sam’s gaze for a moment too long. Words left unspoken pass between them in that instant. Tommy watches it all with bated breath. “Thank you,” Wilbur says finally, inclining his head to break the uncomfortable eye contact. “You too, Ranboo. For protecting him.”
“You’re welcome,” Ranboo says. When he glances at Tommy, lips twitching, Tommy resists the urge to kick him in the shins. Motherfucker. “You’d be surprised what kind of trouble he gets into on his own.”
Tommy’s laughter trills on a bright note. “Ranboo, for fuck’s sake—“
“Oh, I’m sure,” Wilbur says. His smile softens—still a bit rough at the edges, but gentler. He almost looks like the Wilbur that Tommy remembers. Almost. “I’ve seen my fair share of it.”
“You two,” Tommy grumbles amidst Sam’s surprised laughter, “are the worst. Stop fucking ganging up on me, pricks.”
“Aw, Tommy,” Will coos. He’s close enough to reach for Tommy once again, running fingers through golden strands of hair. Tommy relaxes into the touch with a pointed glare. “It’s okay, Tommy, I know how you really feel—“
Tommy’s laughing despite himself. “Fuck you!”
“You love me, Tommy, it’s okay.”
“You’re like my brother,” Tommy says, wrinkling his nose.
Wilbur grins, showing a chipped front tooth. “Don’t say that. I will cry.”
“Look,” Sam says, earning their attention with a quick clear of his throat. “This is very wholesome and all, but I’m ready to get out of here. Forgive me if I don’t feel safe quite yet.”
It’s true. They’re trapped underground—a member of the Guard could stumble across their little celebration at any moment. Tommy swallows thickly and forces himself to retreat from Will’s embrace. “Right,” he says, straightening his stupid tunic. “Let’s get this show on the road, then, eh?”
“Be my guest,” Wilbur says, with a grand gesture towards his restraints. A bullet through the lock does the trick—Ranboo’s pistol, expertly wielded by Sam, fires two shots in quick succession. To Wilbur’s credit, he does not flinch away.
“To the surface,” Sam says, stepping away as Will rubs his wrists. The pirate’s smile is eerie in the low light. Tommy swallows back the sudden trepidation that has made itself known in his stomach. “Follow me.”
Tommy has no choice but to obey.
—
The final reckoning creeps up on Tommy like a cat-burglar in the middle of the night.
When the tunnel finally, finally emerges into broad daylight—that infernally cheerful sun beats down on his neck, still with no clouds in sight—Tommy’s feet stumble on the rough gravel. He glances up, shielding his eyes from its glare, to take in their new surroundings.
To his surprise, they have emerged in the lowest part of the city: the quay that brackets Manburg’s harbor. Tommy’s lanky frame is hidden by stacks of barrels. Distracted by the sounds, sights, and smells of trade, he takes a step forwards, only for Ranboo to catch his sleeve.
“Stay close,” he warns, with an accompanying grimace when his eyes fall on Tommy’s fine clothes. Tommy’s gaze lifts to the others, falling on the concern which fills Will’s gaze.
“Come here, Tommy,” Wilbur says, voice quiet.
Tommy does not need to be told twice as he darts in close. Wilbur tucks Tommy against his side in a firm grip, the taller man’s eyes lifting to the array of ships in harbor. Tommy’s racing heart subsides at the touch, and he shivers as Wilbur’s quiet breaths rustle the hair on the back of his neck.
“We won’t go unnoticed,” Sam says to Wilbur, voice low and urgent as he spares a glance towards the two boys. “Especially since the Prince decided to dress like a lollipop today.”
“Sorry,” Tommy offers, completely unapologetic.
Wilbur’s grin curls with acid at the edges. “You underestimate me, Sam,” he says, tightening his grip around Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy exchanges a confused glance with Ranboo. “I have connections.”
“Do you?” Sam says as he steps forward, spinning to face them in a whirl of fabric. His voice takes on an odd note; he surveys each of them in turn, green eyes narrowed. Tommy resists the urge to recoil away from the scrutiny. “So do I.”
Wilbur frowns. It’s the first sign that something is wrong. “Sam?” he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
“You should be more careful who you trust, Captain,” Sam says, raising his voice to be heard above the sounds of trade. Tommy’s blood runs cold in his veins.
“Sam,” Wilbur says with a scoff, as if he knows exactly what Sam’s words mean, as if he’s ready for a grand revelation. “come on, we’ve known each other for years. We have history—“
“I had history with Dream, too,” Sam hisses. He spreads his hands and gestures to the world around them, grinning sharply. “And look where that got me.”
“Sam—“ Tommy starts, scared and unsure.
“I’m sorry, Tommy,” Sam says mirthlessly. To his credit, he does sound apologetic. He brings his hand up to his mouth and inhales deeply in preparation. Tommy spots the bright silver flash of a whistle, moments before he—
“Sam!” Wilbur shouts, lashing out, but it’s too late. Sam blows the whistle and a shrill noise fills the air. It settles into Tommy’s chest cavity with sharp nails, scratching at every inch of exposed skin and setting all his nerves on edge. In the corner of his vision, Tommy sees Ranboo flinch away.
The high-pitched scream of the whistle is quickly replaced by the sound of marching footsteps. Tommy, still tucked against Wilbur’s side, whitens perceptibly when the Guard comes into view on the other side of the quay.
“Will,” he hisses. Fuck. Fuck. He doesn’t have time to process Sam’s betrayal right now. Everything hurts and his stomach is twisting into knots and this is far too familiar, he has to get out of here, fuck, fuck—
“I’ve got you, sunshine,” Wilbur says. He glances up to make eye contact with Ranboo. Silently, the other boy nods. “Come on.”
“You’ll never make it,” Sam says, lips curling into a humorless smile. He makes no attempt to stop their escape as Wilbur hurtles down a flight of stone steps, practically carrying Tommy. “I doubt Dream will leave you alive this time.”
“Oh, fuck you, Sam!” Tommy throws over his shoulder with violent aim. He finally gets his feet underneath him and takes off running, a step behind Wilbur.
Now, to understand the unique shape of the quay and accompanying harbor, one must understand the geography of Manburg itself. The palace was built on a cliff overlooking a river’s mouth; the city sprawls across the coast below the cliff. At the same time, the coastline bends back around itself so that the quay forms almost a semi-circle, surrounded by ships on all sides.
The King’s Guard emerges from the far side of the quay. Tommy can just about make out their uniforms if he squints. From here, there are only two options: the ocean or the city. Wilbur chooses the city and pulls Tommy along behind him at a rapid pace.
They stumble into the street, sprinting past storefront after storefront. Tommy thinks Wilbur might tear his arm off. He’s breathing hard from the exertion and losing his balance on the cobblestones.
“This way,” Will says, and then he throws them down an alleyway. Tommy follows, running as fast as he can, staggering around the corner on one leg—
Only to run smack dab into a chest as hard as steel. He stumbles back in dazed wonder, still holding Wilbur’s hand tightly.
“You,” Wilbur hisses, clutching at Tommy protectively, and Tommy blinks up to see a coldly grinning Dream standing in front of him.
Shit.
—
This time, neither of them is bound in irons on the way to the palace. It seems that the King, accompanied by his Guard, loathes to fuck up public appearances. Typical.
Before they depart for the palace—a journey that Dream informs Tommy will be made whether he comes willingly or not—he is forced to change into a spare Guard uniform. He hates the feeling of the material on his skin, hates the medals that hang on his chest, hates the strange looks he receives as they make their way through the streets.
“I will deal with you later,” Dream hisses out through gritted teeth. A promise of pain to come. Tommy involuntarily shivers and tries to make himself as small as possible. “We have a special occasion tonight.” He cuts a chilling smile toward Wilbur and adds, “And a guest of honor, of course.”
Tommy feels ill. “You tricked me,” he spits. “You told me that Will was dead. You pretended to execute him in front of me. Do you know how incredibly fucked up that is?!”
“Vouch,” Will offers lazily. It earns him a kick to the shins from a nearby guard when Dream gives a curt nod.
“I did what I needed to do,” Dream says. “The ends justify the means, Tommy, haven’t you heard that before?”
“That’s bullshit,” Tommy scoffs. “Fuck you.”
“Do I need to gag you like a child?” Dream demands. When the blood rushes away from Tommy’s cheeks, his lips curl up in a nasty smirk. Tommy wants to slap the stupid expression off his face. “That’s what I thought.”
“You disgust me,” Wilbur informs Dream in a low, angry voice.
“Good,” Dream says.
The king does not speak another word the entire rest of the way to the palace. The sudden silence is welcome until Tommy’s thoughts turn back to Sam’s betrayal, the look on Ranboo’s face, the pure desperation in Wilbur’s voice. He thinks about the way Sam had smiled, cold and cruel, and the worry that had threaded through Wilbur’s words.
It’s enough to make him promptly wish for Dream’s antagonism once again.
—
The King of Manburg cuts a fine sight in his royal clothes; it hurts Tommy’s eyes just to look in his direction. Tommy stares at Dream as the man strides ever closer, dressed in fine robes of silver. A purposeful choice, knowing Dream—the silver symbolizes second place, at odds to Tommy’s own golden clothes. I am lesser. He is greater.
When he reaches his ward, Dream takes ahold of Tommy by the scruff of his shirt and leans in close to hiss, “Behave.”
Unbidden, Tommy’s eyes flick to Wilbur across the room. His captain, surrounded by three guards, lifts a tired hand in greeting. Will attempts a small smile, which Tommy returns, the expression flickering with uncertainty. His stomach does a quick series of flips at the look on Will’s face.
Tommy grimaces when Dream’s grip digs more tightly into his jaw. Sharp fingers grasp Tommy’s chin, forcing him to look up at Dream. Sneering, the king says, “There will be consequences for any more rash escape attempts.”
Tommy glares up at him. “Why did you lie to me?” he challenges instead of rising to the bait, spitting out each word. The question tastes like ash on his tongue. “You fucking asshole. I trusted you.”
Dream sighs, letting out a long breath. Tommy’s sure he’s thinking about the scene that an outburst would cause. He can almost hear the older man’s inner monologue: does the brat really have to do this right now? “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” he coos with words as sweet as spoiled honey.
“Oh, cut the shit, Dream,” Tommy grinds out. He jerks his chin out of the painfully sharp grip. “You told me Wilbur was dead. You faked his fucking execution and locked him up for weeks, you sick bastard! What could possibly justify that sort of cruelty?”
Dream looks Tommy dead in the eyes and says, voice level, “It brought you back to me, didn’t it?”
Tommy feels bile rise up in his throat. “I hate you,” he hisses, locking his gaze with Dream’s. It feels like his insides are being sprayed down with acid. “I hate you so fucking much. I hope that you die. I hope that you kill yourself—no, I hope that you try, and you fail, and that you have to live with yourself every single second of every single day. Knowing what a failure you are. Knowing what a bitch you’ve been, you motherfucker—”
“Tommy,” Wilbur says in horror from across the room. Tommy lifts his gaze to his captain, trembling with the force of his own emotions.
“You’re late,” Dream says as he checks his pocket-watch, brushing off Tommy’s threats like they mean nothing to him. “The sunset is almost over.” The displeasure in his voice makes Tommy stiffen all over, his instincts shouting at him to apologize, to make himself smaller, to beg for Dream’s forgiveness.
“Then let’s hurry this up,” Tommy snaps with a stray glance at Wilbur, refusing to back down. “The sooner I’m crowned King of Manburg, the sooner I can exile your ass.”
Dream laughs, long and slow, as if Tommy’s words are merely amusing. “We’ll see about that,” he says, voice low with promise.
It sounds rather like a promise that Tommy does not plan on keeping.
When the double doors slam open with a loud bang, Tommy finds that the Great Hall has been decorated in lavish golden and silver hues for the occasion. Tinsel hangs from every light fixture, every doorway, and every painting in sight. Tommy’s eyes pass straight over the decorations and land on the palace staff—cooks and maids and butlers and guards and drivers and gardeners and so forth, dressed in their finest clothes.
He wants to scream. How dare they celebrate the coronation of an unwilling king? How dare they smile, and laugh, and make merry? How dare they pretend not to notice the tears rolling down his cheeks?
The orb and scepter are freezing cold between his fingers. He grasps the royal objects tightly, facing his fate: an assembly of proud onlookers and the priest of Church Prime herself. Wilbur stands at the very back of the hall, shackles around his wrists. Forced to watch his brother step into glory.
I can do this, Tommy thinks, letting resolution harden in his chest. If Wilbur can stand here and watch, then he can certainly shoulder this burden.
Tommy takes one step forward, then another. Somehow, he makes it down the red carpet without stumbling and falling flat on his face. He blinks, suddenly face-to-face with Dream. He can feel the people’s eyes on his back like the cruel focus of a thousand suns, so he swallows thickly, throat dry from the heat, and meets Dream’s gaze unblinkingly.
“Hello, little bird,” Dream says quietly, his voice alight with the sweetest poison as Tommy practically shakes from head to toe. When Dream reaches out to brush a thumb over his cheekbones, Tommy flinches violently away.
Dream’s mouth twitches at the corners. Shit, Tommy thinks—he doesn’t want to give Dream another reason to punish him. Not now. Not ever. “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Dream quotes in a low voice.
Tommy says, very quietly, “I hate you.“
Dream snorts. “Make me proud,” he counters. It’s the last thing he says before he steps away, leaving Tommy alone in front of his people.
Tommy takes a deep, rattling breath. For a single, interminable moment, he feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, hair ruffling in the breeze. Two options are laid before him, twining together in the twilight: to jump or to back away?
Tommy considers each of them in turn. When he makes his decision, it’s with tight fists and a clenched jaw. He will rise to the challenge. He will keep these people safe from their tyrant of a monarch.
It’s not much of a decision at all. Tommy looks at the drop below in all its glory, takes a deep breath, and hurtles off the edge.
The priest steps up, carrying a gilded circlet on a satin pillow. Tommy hates the sight of it, but he inclines his head anyway, still clutching the orb and scepter.
“Through the power invested in me,” the priest starts, lifting the crown and setting it gently on Tommy’s head, “by the glorious kingdom of Manburg, as well as Lady Prime’s patronage, I pronounce—“
“Put that crown down.”
The voice cuts through the room like an icy wind. The priest halts, and Tommy’s heart alights with sheer reckless hope. He flinches, a full-body shudder that leaves him twisting away from the priest and the crown alike.
His gaze falls on the figure at the end of the room. The Angel of Death is a sight to behold. He’s dressed finely in a jet-black frock coat that’s reminiscent of feathers, with dark kohl rimming his eyes and a shock of bright blond hair on top of it all. When he strides forward, smiling all the while, the effect is chilling.
“Hello, mate,” he says when his gaze locks with Tommy. He’s flanked by familiar faces, pouring through the great oak door one at a time: Techno, Jack, Niki, Ranboo, Tubbo. They’re dressed for a battle. A war, even. Tommy feels his heart skip a beat.
He stumbles back a step as Ranboo strides straight to Wilbur’s guards and says sweetly, “You’re released from duty.” Then, recoiling with a motion as fast as a whip, he smacks them both across the temple with the hilt of his sword. The guards crumple to the floor and Wilbur lets a whoop that could be heard from miles around at his newfound freedom.
“Take that, green bitch!”
Laughing at his son’s outburst, the Angel darts towards the front of the room, his steps steady as he approaches. Tommy watches with bated breath.
The Angel is soon followed by a freed Wilbur, who throws his arms around Tommy and holds him close. Tommy tucks himself tightly into the embrace, squeezing his eyes shut tightly to halt the flow of tears.
“You’re okay,” Will whispers against Tommy’s hair. For once, Tommy utterly believes him. “You’re safe.”
“Stop him,” Dream hisses angrily to his guards, stumbling back a step when the Angel gets too close. Tommy can only watch in anticipation as Phil swoops in and grabs Dream by the neck.
“You bastard,” he says, voice surprisingly level, as he throws the king to the ground. The onlookers gasp and panic in a hubbub of noise; the Angel ignores it all. At his shoulder emerge his allies. When the guards approach, Phil’s crew stands back-to-back with swords drawn, allowing the Angel of Death to hold Dream’s life in his hands.
“Don’t kill him!” Tommy says quickly. He tries to dart towards Dream, but Wilbur pulls him closer. “Oi! Let me go!”
“He deserves death for what he’s done to you,” Phil grinds out, glowering at the King. His entire body is alight with wrath—he reaches into his coat and withdraws a pistol that’s black as night.
“Don’t kill him,” Tommy says, pleading and desperate and raw all at once. “Please.”
Maybe it’s the pleading note in Tommy’s voice. Maybe it’s the way his upper lip trembles against his will, betraying the sheer amount of emotion that’s curling in his stomach. Maybe it’s the bruises along Tommy’s jawline. Whatever the reason, the Angel lowers his pistol, glaring at the King.
“You will live,” he declares, every word a clap of thunder. “But it is not out of kindness that I spare your life.”
“How dare you,” Dream spits, chest heaving as he stares angrily up at the privateer. “How dare you threaten your King—“
“Last I checked,” drawls Techno, the Mercenary, trailing his fingers over Phil’s sleeve absentmindedly, “you ain’t king anymore.”
Phil’s gaze turns to Tommy, expectant. There’s something knowing in his eyes. “Technically,” he says, lips curling in amusement, “at this very moment, Manburg is without a monarch.”
Tommy swallows. He knows what Phil is asking him—the question resonates in his bones, vibrating through his bone marrow and tickling every nerve. The hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. He knows his role, knows his duty, knows what his sacrifice should be. But still…
“I—I can’t.”
The admission tears itself from Tommy’s lips like lightning coursing across a dark sky. Philza’s eyes flicker with something dangerous; the smile that curls across his lips softens the blow. “I thought so,” Phil breathes. His eyes flick up to Wilbur, who grins; Tommy can feel the unholy sharpness of the expression against his skin as Wilbur curls around him tightly. “Tell me, little prince: do you wish to be king?”
“No,” Tommy says, every cell in his fucking body resonating with the word. The vaulted ceiling of the hall resounds with the honesty in his voice, like a clap of thunder that sounds high above them.
Dream hollows his cheeks and spits blood onto the beautiful floor. “You were made to be King,” he says, every word laced with razor-sharp sweetness. He locks eyes with Tommy, and the effect is chilling. For a moment, it’s as though nobody else in the room exists. For a moment, it’s as though Tommy never left. For a moment, it’s as though everything stills. Tommy’s very existence consists of himself and the man who raised him.
Smiling, Dream croons, “You were made to rule. I molded you into a king: my finest creation. Without me, without the crown, you are nothing.”
Techno steps forward and slams the butt of his pistol against the side of Dream’s head. He crumbles to the ground, unconscious; Techno offers Tommy a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I can only handle one dramatic monologue a day.”
To Tommy’s surprise, a laugh bubbles up in his chest—bright and free and unrestrained. He feels truly happy for the first time since the Cassandra. Wilbur’s arms are around him and Phil’s smile is gentle and Ranboo is safe and Techno is laughing, too, in great big hearty bellows. This is where he belongs. Not with Dream, but with the men and women who spend their days aboard a grimy ship, singing and chattering and plundering.
He belongs with the sea.
“Take me home,” he breathes, digging his fingers deep into Wilbur’s grimy jacket and clutching it like a lifeline. He’s so happy he thinks he might burst. “Please.”
Wilbur does not need to be told twice. He grabs Tommy by the wrist with a siren’s laugh and dives back into the fray, more than willing to lose the both of them in a crowd of reckless people. Their footsteps are light on the gilded floors.
This is it. Tommy’s heart feels like it might burst inside his chest. Breathing hard, he spares one last glance at the stained glass windows of his former home before he steps through the archway—and away from his destiny—for the final time.
—
People tend to whisper about the boy-king who ran away to sea and left a kingdom to collapse in his wake. They curse him underneath their breath, every rumor dripping with sickly-sweet poison. Commoners call him a false prodigal son, their lips turned up at the corners in a wry grin. He is only an afterthought, a cautionary tale, the subject of gossip. His existence is once again forgotten before the people go about their day.
Yet hundreds of miles away, the former Prince of Manburg stands at a ship’s railing with his hands spread to welcome the lingering rays of the sun. A new locket is clasped around his neck in silver glory. His hair illuminates with yellow sunlight, the warmth of which is only matched by the welcome weight of the hand on his shoulder.
Manburg’s golden child rests one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on his captain’s wrist. His gaze lifts to the setting sun, and for just a moment his eyes flash bright crimson in the dusk.
Any onlookers would paint the scene in vivid hues of red and orange: a captain and his newly-appointed First Mate; a captain and his brother. Brothers who stay at the railing long after the sun begins to brush the horizon. Brothers who curl into each other’s touch like two tangled vines. Brothers who laugh like sunlight and fight like the devil incarnate.
The reality, Tommy thinks with eyes of fire and a heart of gold, is infinitely better than any rumor.