Chapter Text
The dais is cold under his feet, the throne behind him toppled over with the force of the fight.
In front of him are two men– one tall, pink hair tied up neatly on the back of his head, helmet under his arm. The other bears a crown, covered in glittering stones that are surely priceless. They’re both wearing armor, stained red with the blood of good men, and Tommy seethes in his position.
“Lay your weapons down,” he demands, voice shaky and echoing in the hall. Around them are bodies– guards he once knew by name each, now only smears on the floor at the feet of gods.
Not gods, he reminds himself, staring the emperor of the Antarctic Empire in the eyes. Just men. Men that can be defeated.
“He’s so young,” says the pink-haired man, the one and only General Technoblade. Tommy’s seen him once or twice in person, when he was very very little. Only in picture books since then. He’s not addressing Tommy– his head is turned to the side, gaze flicking onto the emperor and a wry expression on his face. “When they said boy king, I didn’t think they’d mean infant.”
“I am not an infant,” Tommy hisses out, fists clenching at his sides. He has the urge to stalk out and punch the man as hard as he possibly can, so much anger brewing in his gut, but by the gods, they have swords and he does not. “I am King Thomas, and you must lay your weapons down–”
“Your men have abandoned you,” General Technoblade says, snapping his eyes back at Tommy and making him stiffen in surprise. His irises are red, terrifyingly so. “Your advisors are gone or dead, the guards slaughtered or captured. You stand alone in front of a tipped-over throne and bearing no crown. You are not the king of anything.”
“I am king,” Tommy insists, because he is, because he inherited this kingdom as a baby and he has grown up here and he has loved here and Dream had told him many times, every night of his life that this is his birthright. “This is my kingdom and you will lay your weapons down.”
General Technoblade hefts his sword higher with one hand, fingers gripping the hilt despite the slick blood staining the leather. “You are in no place to make demands, child–”
“Techno,” the emperor murmurs, voice echoing out among the high quartz arches, the hall that Tommy has played in and governed in for fourteen years. Where Dream had brought him food over late-night strategy meetings and Sapnap had shown him how to cast a fire rune and George had tended to the plants lining the rim of the room. All the plants are dead now, Tommy notes. Wonderful. The emperor reaches out, placing a hand onto the general’s arm and lowering it with a gentle nudge, a careful push. “Enough. We’ve won. He knows that.”
“I am King Thomas,” Tommy says again, eyes darting around the room. The plants are dead. The banners are ripped, and the men lie dead at his feet. Dream is nowhere in sight. Sapnap is gone, George is– somewhere. His castle is being overrun and he is stuck here in the epicenter. This is the eye of his storm, staring down an emperor who has caused him so much stress in the past five years. His voice pitches high. “I am king, and you will lay your weapons down–”
He is not crying. He’s a monarch.
“Techno,” the emperor is saying again, “he’s a child–”
“He’s a monster–”
“That’s what they said about you, too–”
Voices, floating over his head and discussing him in a tone that means he should be paying attention, but it’s very hard to do so when he’s sucking in breath after breath of panicky air and shuddering through something akin to the Red Cough, a respiratory sickness that had ravaged their kingdom when Tommy was six. It takes a moment but he manages to center himself, catch his breath, hold back any remaining tears. (He’s already spilt plenty.)
Emperor Philza Minecraft Watson is staring him down from across the room, blue eyes as cold as the ice that comes from his kingdom. Calculating, evaluating. Tommy is brutally alone at the pinpoint of his gaze, and he feels it in his very soul.
“The city has been taken,” the emperor says, not without kindness. “The castle is breached, and the throne room half destroyed. You have two choices here, my young lord. Surrender and come peacefully, or die on your overturned throne.”
Tommy is a king. He was raised to lead, and he does it well. He knows he does. There’s evidence of it in the lands surrounding his capital, in the happiness of his citizens, in the proud gleam of Dream’s eyes. But he’s also a child afraid to die.
He goes willingly in the end, hands out and palms up, and the kingdom of the Opus Isle falls.
The story does not truly start there.
No fairytales ever do– no, stories like these often begin in simpler places. Simpler stories, ones that belong to the people and not the kings. Stories that are told around campfires, told around the butter churn and whispered around hearths. Stories told to children as they’re tucked into bed, gentle warm hands soothing their brows and speaking with low tones as they relay the stories of grandeur and magic. Fairytales are often piled upon– one magic spell becomes two. A mother changes the prince’s name to her own dear son. Tommy was once told stories like these.
He can remember long, sleepless nights when he was little. Nights when the stars would drag on forever, when the moon hung in the sky past it’s welcome. He’d crawl out of bed then, feet cool on the marble floors of his home. Most of all he can remember the curtains; they were great tall shimmering things made of fairy-wing gossamer, and they would billow in the nighttime breeze as he padded his way down the hall and to another room. A room with a shining golden handle and carved oak doors to match his own, the moonlight gleaming against the floors and walls. Sometimes, the light had been enough to see by. Others, Tommy would light a candle and let that guide his way.
The door would creak open. He’d slip inside, latching it shut once more, and then make his way to the bed across the room. When the monsoon seasons were abound, he’d make sure the windows were shut tight and then crawl into bed. Like clockwork, the sheets would be lifted and Tommy tucked under a warm arm.
“Tell me a story,” he’d plead, and Dream would sigh, and begin a tale.
There were repeats. Of course there were– for all the stories Dream came up with or knew, Tommy came searching for double or triple that. But they all often played out in a similar tune.
A bad man would come and take something from the hero. Sometimes the hero was a lost princess, or a man taking his cabbages to market, or a soldier who’s loved ones were slaughtered. Sometimes the hero was a young king. Sometimes, the hero shared Tommy’s own name. Dream’s voice would be husky from sleep and yet he’d still whisper his way through a plot, describing in detail the golden blond of the princess’ hair or the way the cabbages rolled off the man’s cart and into the mud. Though the cast of characters changed, each story played out the same: the hero would face a challenge, and then fight back against their villain. Victory was always on the side of the beloved protagonist– little Tommy would cheer and hush himself at Dream’s insistence, eyes wide in the dark and curled up under sinfully soft sheets. The heros always won, even if the journey there had been difficult.
He’s choosing to believe his story has only just begun. There is no way his story ends now– not when a villain has just come and swept his whole world out from under his feet.
The horse beneath him clips across the square, footsteps uneven, and Tommy nearly pitches right off the side. He probably wouldn’t even complain if he did– considering his hands are tied together at the moment, it’s not exactly his fault that he can’t hold on as they ride. He can try, fingers grasping at the reins as though his horse is not being led by the one in front of him. He can see the back of the emperor’s head– golden hair, helmet still tucked away. It’s so easy to imagine an arrow notched in a bow, imagine his shot being straight and true. The red that would spill from the wound. Just as red as Tommy’s blood, as the lifeline keeping them all together and human. There’s a cut on his forearm, the edges of his shirt stained red and a wound clogged with dried blood and sweat. It probably needs to be tended to, but he’s a little busy being kidnapped and escorted out of his own kingdom at the moment. He tears his eyes away from the spot on his arm and looks around.
Caterwaul is a brilliant city. Limestone from the southern quarries built it up long ago, back in days that Tommy has only read about. The streets are cobbled and worn, a system of sewers and waterways connecting the entire stretch of city. Houses lean against each other, some of them stacked like blocks, others stretching long and low. Tommy has poured over maps of this city ever since he was a baby, studying the lines of its architecture and tracing chubby fingers along the creases of its livelihood.
Normally, the streets would bustle with people. Markets would stretch down long streets, people flitting this way and that. Stalls with their colorful banners and tents dyed with every shade you could think of. Businesses would run, children would laugh, and the streets would be filled with the sounds of life going on. Tommy is nostalgic for it now– now, when the air is cold and stale, when the only sounds are those of shutters pulling inwards, or the march of men on foot as they go door-to-door and pronounce the city as fallen.
Caterwaul is anything but fallen, Tommy thinks stubbornly as he glances around. He catches the glimpse of small hands on a windowsill before they’re snatched away and a curtain drawn over the hole. It has simply receded– a turtle pulling it’s head into its shell, where the air is warm and safe and there is no need to worry about the chill that soldiers and kings bring with them.
The flags of the Antarctic Empire are everywhere. Cobalt blue with a shining chrysanthemum plastered in the middle, proudly displayed over every street corner. Soldiers in fatigues meant for colder winters up north crowd around them, mostly celebrating amongst themselves as they gather. Occasionally, they pass a pile of corpses being loaded onto wagons. The bodies are mostly golden– Tommy forces himself to stare as they pass by. Those are his people they slaughtered, he reminds himself. Dream’s voice echoes– and it is your fault.
Once and a while, there is a mix of blue against the gold. It’s vengeful and awful, but Tommy can’t help but be slightly satisfied that someone got a good hit against the enemy.
“Your Highness,” someone says, and there’s the patter of boots on cobble and then a messenger is up by the Emperor’s side. Tommy watches. “Most of the city is subdued, save for some holds in the palace’s innards. They await your council.”
“Tell the lords to meet us at the campsite,” the emperor says without hardly a thought. “I need to get some things secured before we have a meeting. Let Sneeg know I want men posted at every third street corner for now– at least two.”
“Yes, Your highness,” the messenger replies, ducking their head low. Smiling. They’re all smiling. At Tommy’s misfortune, at the suffering of his world. “Praise saints.”
“Prime be with you,” the emperor says, and then waves his hand and the messenger disappears into the streets once more. Tommy watches, eyes trailing the stones that make up the interconnected roads of his home.
He’s left Caterwaul before. He’s gone to the seaside, spent time in other kingdoms, and had delegations in outer-rim towns. But he’s never done so as a prisoner. They’re approaching the main gate now. He can see the shape of it looming over the tops of buildings in the distance, maybe five or six blocks away. Carvings litter the top and sides of the archway, and Tommy squints in order to see his favorite. A lady, her head bent in prayer, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she presses her fists to her shoulders. He can’t see her face from this far away, but he knows from a hundred times before what she looks like. Weathered by rainfall, her lips pursed, nose a little cracked. If Tommy really squints, she nearly looks like him.
With care not to fall off his horse, he brings his bound hands firmly up to his chest and mimics her pose. Praying isn’t any good in wartime, Dream’s told him that a thousand times over.
But…
They’ve lost now, haven’t they?
“Philza,” someone says, interrupting his flow of thought. He brings his hands down abruptly– the horse underneath him lurches and he nearly topples off once more onto the dusty roads that still smell faintly of iron. He risks a glance over his shoulder– behind him, General Technoblade’s eyes are ahead on the road, or perhaps the chrysanthemum on the back of the emperor’s cloak. “The gate. Should we not go around?”
Tommy knows a thousand ways out of this city. He almost offers up a few.
“No,” Philza says, not turning to look behind at either of them. “We’ll go out the way we came in.”
“If you say so.” If Tommy had to guess better, the general sounds grumpy. He doesn’t bother to tease. He doesn’t dare. It takes him a few moments to process why exactly Philza wants them to exit through the main gate.
Ahead of them, a crowd of people is gathering. Women, children, any men left in the capitol. The remaining guardsmen from the central palace. Tommy’s face burns.
After an eon of silence, he finally speaks up. “Not this,” he says quietly as the horses plod onwards. His voice cracks, and he hates it. “Please.” Not this shame, his people, looking upon him as he rides away a prisoner.
General Technoblade’s voice is steady when he asks: “Would you rather a bag over your head? I’m sure they’d still recognize you from your finery alone. But you wouldn’t have to look them in the eyes.” It’s clear from his tone that he thinks it’s a cowardly move– the emperor is scoffing ahead of them, and Tommy’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire. He’s sure his face is bright red, ears even moreso, and ahead of them the people start to turn and look.
“Fuck off,” he says quietly, straightening his back a tad, keeping his eyes forward. A bag would be humiliating and worse, claustrophobic. As the horse lurches underneath him and they keep moving forwards, people begin to gasp and whisper. Then louder, they talk. They shout. At one point, things began to be thrown.
Tommy just lifts his head high, fingers clutching the tack until his knuckles go white. He pretends the words he can hear don’t sting.
“I will not lie down like a dog,” Tommy spits. The tent around them is lavish. He refuses to look away from the men who brought him inside. He’s exhausted. His knees wobble. General Technoblade is surveying him with a glacial grace, then swoops down to look at him, eye-to-eye.
“Woof.” Technoblade’s face is close enough to his that he can feel the hot breath on his cheeks, his nose, and it makes him scrunch his nose. The insinuation that is being made makes Tommy want to scream in anger. His vision blurs out into red; he doesn’t see the way The Emperor’s face smoothes over in mild irritation behind the General’s head.
“Techno,” the older man says, lilting and easy, hiding his true annoyance. “Don’t antagonize.”
“Why not?” The General turns, sending a glare towards his Majesty that only the inner circle of royalty is allowed to. “He’s killed more of his people than we have. He deserves to feel a bit of shame.”
“Has he not felt enough?” Philza asks, eyes narrowing. The anger in Tommy’s gut is fading a bit, replaced by confusion. “We paraded him out of the city like a prized steed, a war conquest, a prisoner made of gold. That is enough shame to send most men to their knees. He has come to us like a dog to heel–” and then is when Tommy catches the eye of the emperor, the way the light catches the blue and turns the sky into ice– “and that is surely enough for today.”
“I am not a dog, ” Tommy reiterates, clutching his fingers behind his back in a desperate effort to keep his hands to himself.
“Hush, pup,” Technoblade says without removing his gaze from the emperor. They seem to have a silent battle, a language Tommy is not fluent in, and he’s forced to wait in simmering rage as the two finally come to an agreement. Technoblade ducks his head– Philza brings his higher, and steps forward as the General moves back.
“Come along,” Philza says, gesturing with one hand. Tommy stays where he is as the emperor brushes past, blue finery coarse against Tommy’s own silks. He still refuses to move, staring ahead at the tent wall like perhaps he can burn a hole through it and run out into the sun. He is not a dog. He is not a dog.
“Child,” the emperor says. He doesn’t touch him– good thing, because Tommy doesn’t trust himself not to bite. But he can feel his presence nonetheless, a hovering giant above his left shoulder, the kiss of air against his skin as someone exists in the space behind his own.
“I am not a child,” Tommy says fiercely. The General laughs, ducking his head down in order to pull his cloak off and drape it across the war table, scattering a few chessboard pieces.
“Techno,” the emperor scolds, then his voice gets louder as he turns his attention back to Tommy. “Thomas. You must be tired, and hungry. You are a prisoner, but an important one, and I will not suffer someone your age to be mistreated under my care. Come along.”
This is a test.
Tommy sticks his feet into the muddy grass mats and refuses to move.
His story, his legacy, is not that of a dog’s. He will not heel.
Philza pauses once more, and Tommy watches Technoblade as his eyes track the emperor over his shoulder. After a moment of stalemate, there’s a quiet sigh.
“It is either come with me or stay where you are all night, pup,” Technoblade says. Tommy wrinkles his nose at the nickname– but still, refuses to move.
“Let him be,” Philza says. There’s the rustle of tent fabric behind him; senses heightened, he feels like his veins are filled with fire. Prime, he thinks quietly to himself, holding his head high and still, refusing to move, help me get through this.
“I’ll stay,” Technoblade offers. “Keep an eye on him. Go rest, old man.”
“Respect your elders,” the emperor shoots back. The simple act of comradery and familiarity behind them makes Tommy want to shout again. How can they be so casual when he’s standing between them, vibrating with anger and disgrace? How can they bicker like old friends when he’s right there? It seems wrong, but Tommy isn’t in a position to question right now.
The tent rustles, and then the overbearing presence of the emperor is gone and it’s just the general and the child king.
Tommy watches as Technoblade stands there for a moment, hands braced on the table and eyes focused on a spot just over his shoulder and then, shifts to Tommy himself. Eyes locked, red versus blue, Tommy watches as the General glances him over and then pushes up off the table.
He braces as the man walks over.
Prepared to take a hit, Tommy finally lowers his head. There’s a huff above him– Technoblade towers over him, with the cloak gone it’s just his chestplate to see, enchantments humming louder and louder as he approaches.
Contrary to Tommy’s expectation, the general doesn’t raise a hand against him– or, he does. But as Tommy flinches, the hand coming up doesn’t strike. Instead, it rests on top of Tommy’s head, a warm weight, fingers sinking into the fluff of his hair. It hits him then– he is no longer wearing his crown.
He can’t remember when it came off.
“If you’re staying here,” the general says, voice low, “then you will stay exactly there. Horses sleep standing. No reason you can’t as well.”
“I’m not a fucking horse,” Tommy says then, a bit of bravery racing through him. “Stop comparing me to animals. Besides, I’m not tired.”
He tilts his head up, and above him, the general is smiling.
“Very well then,” he says, and then the hand on Tommy’s head is gone and the general turns, once again turning his back on Tommy. He could fight now– but this is Technoblade, one of the favored warriors of the Blood God, and there’s no way Tommy would be able to run or fight. If he tried– well, he doesn’t want to think about the potential punishment.
“Screw you,” Tommy says quietly, and then a bit louder as his courage seeps back: “Fuck you. I hate you.”
The general glances over his shoulder, one hand hesitating on his cloak as he gathers it up in his hands.
“You’re allowed,” Technoblade says, “to hate us.”
Tommy doesn’t dare step forward and follow him to the table, around the room, even as Technoblade flits around and slips his cloak onto a rack, unclips various weaponry from his hip. It’s only once he’s placed those down does Tommy actually give the tent a once-over, studying the space around him.
For a war room, it’s… comfortable. Rugs litter the floor haphazardly, not entirely covering the beaten-down grass but enough to make it bearable to stand on. The long table stretches out before Tommy, the chessboard pieces of battlefield markers now scattered from where Technoblade had disturbed them. The tent walls are traditional canvas– outside, he can hear the sounds of a camp going about it’s business. An enemy camp, but a camp nonetheless. He can hear horses, smell fires, the strong scent of coffee–
Oh, no. That’s coming from inside the tent, across from him as Technoblade pours himself a drink out of a steaming mug. Tommy’s not a fan of coffee himself– he watches as Technoblade tips his head back and swallows it black, before sitting himself in one of the large wooden chairs and leaning back against its carved head. There’s a book halfway down the table. Technoblade reaches for it, snags it, and then opens it in front of him.
Silence, but for the sound of humanity around them and the shuffle of pages as the Blood God’s warrior reads.
Tommy feels sick to his stomach.
It’s all settling in now, as he stands here and watches one of his most dangerous enemies read a book like he’s on a fucking vacation. Tommy’s home has been cut down by the most merciless of people. His country, his people– he’d failed them. He’d given up, in the end, and now he’s standing here like a servant as he watches his captors gloat. Dream must be coming for me, he thinks, as heavy stones settle in his gut. He must be. There is no other option– Dream got away so he could come back and rescue Tommy when the time was right. He wouldn’t have just left him to the mercy of these monsters, would he? Absolutely not. Tommy steels himself in that resolve. Dream, his friend, his advisor, his brother– he would not have left him.
He has to be steady now, waiting. Patient. The time will come. His stomach roils and the scent of coffee is stronger now, making him want to throw up. He can see the mug Technoblade is holding, dark blue glaze over terra cotta pottery. His vision tunnels.
The time will come.
Tommy’s knees buckle, and he is unconscious before he hits the floor.
It’s strange, waking up. It happens all at once.
He takes a minute to settle. His chest is still rising and falling slowly, giving the illusion of sleep. Pillows lie soft under his cheek and fingers, and he curls his legs up towards an uneasy stomach and hums to himself, a comfort. They smell like pine and amaranth, not– lavender. Not like normal. His breathing picks up a bit, and then he takes a moment to push himself up. Pillows cascade to the side and something warm and heavy slips off of him– a blanket, crumpling to his waist as he squints and peers around the room.
He’s still in a tent. That’s good, but also not. Good because he’s not in jail, and his hands are no longer tied together. Bad because he’s not in the palace, not in the city, and it seems like it’s nighttime from what little light he can see beyond the tent walls. Canvas flaps distantly, and there’s the crackle of fire. He turns his head and snags the candle that’s sitting on a desk nearby, feet silent as he pads onto the ground. His shoes are gone; nowhere to be found when he scours the small area, bare toes poking into the wild grass and dirt that’s been tamped down over time.
The siege had taken longer than Tommy had thought possible. Endless days and nights without rest, trying to find a solution that did not end in a defeat. Three of them in a row, with Dream beside him the whole time.
Dream. His chest pains at the very thought of his advisor, his brother. He’d lost him in the battle. He wonders if he’s okay, if he’s alive. Perhaps another prisoner of war. Tommy knows he’s smart enough to avoid traps if he's careful.
Tommy hadn’t been smart enough. He’d wandered his way through a deserted palace into a throne room laden with doom. He resists the urge to slap his own head in hindsight. What’s done is done– Tommy knows he’s got to get out of this damned war camp before morning comes, before someone realizes he’s gone. They don’t think he’s a threat; he’s going to take that as an advantage while he can. Because Tommy knows one thing and that is this: if you’re alive and breathing, you’re a threat. No matter the stature of a person or their mental capabilities, anyone can be dangerous. Emperor Philza has a lot to learn, Tommy muses as he sets down the candle he’d picked up in favor of getting on his hands and knees to peer under the cot he’d woken up on. He’s still looking for his shoes. Dumbass.
There’s a murmur of voices outside– Tommy is up in an instant, glancing around the room for anything that could be a weapon. There’s not much; this is a bedroom, not the strategy area he’d been in before with the General and Emperor. This isn’t a place made for violence and loss, it’s just a place to rest.
There are blankets.
Tommy doesn’t hesitate. The fabric tears easily under his shaking fingers, picking at threads and seams until the decorative lining rips off in his hands. He wraps it around one hand, staring down at the dark blue of the Empire, and steels his nerve. Ligature is better than nothing.
There. He is no longer unarmed. Something in him settles, creeping to the side of the tent and straining to listen.
“–not a sign,” someone is saying. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t breathe. “Not to be brash, your Majesty, but are sure it was smart to take him as-is?”
“Speak freely, Sneeg.” That’s the Emperor’s voice no doubt. Tired but alert. Tommy hears the ruffle of canvas and the voices grow just the slightest bit clearer. “It’s fine. Techno’s here, see?”
“Hullo.” The General’s voice is lower, less alert. “Sneeg.”
“Techno.”
“How’s it been?” Philza asks.
“Kid passed out a few hours ago. Come-down from the stress, I think. He’s in the back.”
The Emperor sighs. Tommy grits his teeth. “Poor thing.”
The one they were calling Sneeg before snorts– laughter. Tommy blinks. “He’s the enemy, Philza. Not some street orphan for you to pity.”
“He looks the part of street orphan.” Something rattles, and there’s the splash of liquid as the smell of coffee becomes the slightest bit stronger. Tommy scans the room around him, especially the walls. There are people in the next room over– the only thing between him and them are some thin, blanket-like fabric walls. He’s not going out the front. He scans the ground and where the canvas tent meets the earth, looking for any place that isn’t taut. He’s small enough– it might be worth it to creep out of the bottom of the tent and just run until someone notices he’s missing. There’s a bit next to the cot he was sleeping on that seems looser than the rest– Tommy shuffles over, making sure to walk an even heel-to-toe in order to stay silent as a conversation is held in the space six feet to his left. “Thing is as skinny as a bird. I’m sure he’s been cooped up in that palace of theirs for ages now.”
“Exactly,” Philza says with a sigh. More rustling– people are sitting down, Tommy thinks, as his fingers scrabble against the canvas and dirt in order to try and get a grip. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but he’s what? Fourteen? Born the same year of the Cataclysm, you’ve heard the rumors. I’m not killing a kid.”
“He reminds you of Wil, doesn’t he?”
“Shut up, Sneeg.” It’s a taunt. The voice dubbed Sneeg only laughs in response. “Who’s in charge here, again?”
“Sorry, your highness,” Sneeg says with another snort-laugh. Tommy scowls. Dumb idiots. Motherfuckers. It may be unbecoming to cuss out people in his head, but it’s better than the alternative of doing it aloud. “I’ll be sure to watch my tone. Now–” a shift in his voice, the clatter of a mug against wood. “–the city’s under control. People are under curfew for now, until we have secured the lockdown. Sunset. The palace has been taken completely. Any dissenters are currently in the palace jail. A few guards, some advisors.”
Tommy grits his teeth and pulls on the canvas a bit harder. There’s give, but not enough for him to slip out from under it. He trails a hand along the underside of it, searching for the point where a stake drives through, and finally, he’s got his hands on it. A solid pull does nothing. Another hardly makes it shift. When he runs a hand alongside the top of the spike, magic sparks at his fingertips and an engraving dips under the pads of his fingers. Dammit.
“Thank you,” Philza says with a hum. “We’re going to pack up tomorrow, I think.”
“So quick to get out of the capital, hm?”
“We need to get up north before the winter freezes over Osprey’s lake,” Technoblade cuts in, his voice still low and raspy. Tommy grimaces to himself, opening and closing his mouth in an approximate yet mocking version of Technoblade’s speech as he keeps talking. “Otherwise we’d be forced to take the northern pass and that would take ages.”
“...you’ll be staying here,” Philza says after a moment of silence. Tommy holds his breath, staring stubbornly at the stake still lodged in the ground. He lets out a huff of breath, pushing himself once more to his feet and staggering slightly as the blood rushes to his head. “You, a few others, I’ll draft the agreements tonight. Since the young king is coming with us, negotiations can be had properly when we get to Raven’s Flight.”
Tommy freezes.
He’d put the idea of traveling north out of his mind for the moment– it’s too painful for him to want to confront it. He doesn’t want to be ripped from his homeland, and yet here he is, in the enemy’s tent with a ripped blanket as a weapon to defend himself and eavesdropping on plans to ship him up north. North, to Raven’s Flight.
To the Empire’s capital city, where all hopes of escape fly out the window as if they were birds themselves.
“Sneeg, you’ll be in charge, I think,” the emperor is saying, oblivious to Tommy’s panic one room over. “Handling things here– keep the camp up with the soldiers, but move a base of operations to Caterwaul’s palace–” And Tommy is spiraling again, as he stands and listens to the emperor instruct one of his men to truly invade the last safe place. His home.
He’s so out of it, he doesn’t notice that Technoblade has gone quiet. Too quiet. There’s a rustle of fabric, and then light pours in as the blanket serving as a doorway is pulled back. Tommy blinks in the sudden rush of lamplight and voices– the blanket in his hand has gone slack, but he’s quick to tighten it once more.
“Brat’s up,” General Technoblade says gruffly. There’s a moment where everything is frozen– Tommy, caught in the gaze of the three men like a startled fawn, Philza half out of his seat, Technoblade pushing aside fabric–
And then Tommy’s gritting his teeth and taking his chances and bolting. He refuses to be brought north, he refuses to just give up so easily. He books it, toes digging into the soil as he heads left and then feints right– and is pleasantly surprised when the general falls for it. He delights in the surprised expression on the older man, weaving his way to the left and ducking under the blankets and fabrics in a sure-footed manner. This is not the first time Tommy has had to run and duck and weave. Never more has his life depended on it.
The emperor is already at the doorway of the tent, hand thrown out wide to stop him. Behind him, Technoblade is wheeling around on his heels and the other man– Sneeg, now revealed to be some guy with brown hair and it’s not important, none of that is important because Tommy is diving beneath the table and bumping his way around chairs and then coming out the other side. Someone’s shouting– his name, thrown out into the wind. A candle is knocked over, and a foot stomps out the flames. Tommy whirls around and knocks a coffee mug onto the floor, the contents seeping into the earth as the shards spill out across the mats. Philza is shouting still– Sneeg is as well, and Tommy pays neither of them mind.
He’s got the blanket in hand, ripped into a long stretch of gaudy blue. He winds it around one hand, pulls it taut with the other, and then launches himself at the emperor.
None of them were expecting him to. Of course not– but Tommy knows he’s not getting out of this without a fight. He’s at least going to leave bruises if he can. The blue loops around the emperor’s neck in a flash and they both tumble to the ground, Tommy shouting wordlessly as someone yells and guards pour in through the door–
He’s knocked off the emperor before he ever gets the chance to really show him his teeth. The man is left gasping as Tommy is knocked to the floor, hands on every inch of him as he’s pressed into the dirt, into the shards of ceramic he’d knocked over only seconds ago. General Technoblade is barking out orders, one hand on Philza’s shoulder as he helps him to his feet, and the rest of the faces and voices blur together.
Tommy’s cheek hurts. They rip the makeshift weapon from his fingers.
“Enough,” Philza is saying, pushing Techno’s hands off his shoulders and waving a hand. Tommy can only catch glimpses from where he’s being held into the dirt, but he bares his teeth anyways and hopes to Prime that’s shown them. He’s not a force to be trifled with. Boots come into his vision, and a moment later General Technoblade is peering down at him.
“Let up a bit,” he orders roughly, and the hand on the back of Tommy’s neck vanishes. He lifts his head and glares– Technoblade glares right back.
“Impudent child,” he spits. Tommy pauses, gathers up the spittle in his mouth, and then sends it flying.
General Technoblade lifts a hand and wipes the reddish-tinged spit from his cheek with a scowl.
“Techno.” The emperor is once again in view– a hand on the general’s shoulder and eyes on Tommy. Icy, blue, quite the opposite of his voice. “I’m alright.”
“He tried to strangle you, Phil–”
“And hardly succeeded. I’ll just bruise.” The emperor ghosts a gloved hand over his neck, still looking down at Tommy. He bares his teeth. That’ll show this motherfucker. If he wants to treat him like a dog, then dammit, he’ll act like one.
“Not even worthy of being called a king,” Technoblade says with vicious cruelty, and a tiny, tiny part of Tommy wilts.
“Fuck you,” he says harshly, wincing at the way the words pull at his cut cheek. “Fuck you, fuck your empire, fuck everything you stand for. Monsters. You’re all monsters.”
“We’re all monsters in someone else’s eyes,” Philza says evenly, and he takes Technoblade’s place, crouching in Tommy’s eyeline. He studies him, and Tommy wriggles stubbornly. He won’t be kept down like this. He won’t.
“We should sedate him,” someone says, behind Tommy where he can’t see. “Just until morning. I can call a runekeeper over here.”
“I really don’t think we need to,” Philza says, glancing up and over Tommy’s head. “There’s no way he’s getting out of this camp–”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try, bitch,” Tommy immediately bites out. His whole body has turned to slush. He’s never been in the icehouse– only the cooks and kitchen staff were allowed. But he’s swum in the ocean, felt the cold tides wash over his body more than once. Like the rushing water, chill is poured down his spine at the mention of someone putting him to sleep. His mouth moves before he can think about it, fuelled by panic. “I won’t stop. I won’t. Not until you’re all dead and I’m back in my goddamn palace and the empire is dust. Dust. Fuck you. Fuck you , and all your men, and I hope mine killed as many as they could before you slaughtered them like the monsters you are.”
Philza’s eyes are a startlingly similar shade to Tommy’s own. He didn’t clock that until now. Dream always said his eyes were like the ocean. Philza is more akin to a glacier.
He looks away, once again over Tommy’s head.
“Get a runekeeper,” he says, and Tommy starts to shriek, thrashing against the guards restraining him as panic takes hold. “And tell them to bring some healing.”
In the end, Tommy never gets to watch Caterwaul disappear into the distance behind them. There is no moment when he is able to stick his head out of the carriage door and lay eyes on his city for a final time. No poetic words for when the golden domes of his home disappear into the mist, no laments for what could have been. The interior of the royal carriage is shades of white and blue, intricate painted designs catching Tommy’s eye as he sleepily stares at the ceiling. The carriage hits a rut in the road– they jolt, and for a moment he has a view outside of the window, and then he’s back in his seat and staring at the ceiling once more as magic settles his nerves. Behind them, the walls of Caterwaul fade.
