Chapter Text
Wemmbu was just a child, he was 6 years old. He always went out to go and play on the snow when it was winter. He certainly loved the cold, Eggchan and Wemmbu knew each other since they were children. Wemmbu would do anything for Eggy, the angel was his very first friend.
As an Enderling prince and the sole heir, Wemmbu was constantly isolated from the Overworld and the Nether, where all different kinds of species do. In his kingdom, there is a specific hierarchy.
He has great trauma because of that hunt incident from 10 years ago. Minutetech knew Wemmbu's family very well and was assigned to be Wemmbu's mentor and protector since Wemmy was born. He taught him language, actions, basic education, cooking, fighting, alphabets. Basically, Minute is like Wemmbu's second father. Before his parents were captured, they told Minute to take Wemmbu and escape The End, their homeland. And minute narrowly escaped, holding hand in hand with Wemmbu who was just 10.
Currently, he is 20 years old.
The status of the Enderlings were last active 10 years ago when the Great Sundering happened.
*“The HIGHEST ORDER of species and demon hybrids of unparalleled grace and intellect, once the architects of the End's most magnificent structures. Known for their rapid cognitive maturation and their deep, intuitive connection to the fabric of reality. Tragically, following the Great Sundering, the Enderlings were thought to have vanished from all known realms, leaving behind only whispers and shadows. They are widely considered to be extinct.”*
*"Essence of Enderlings - Highly intoxicating and sweet, but not poison. Considered very precious. Royalty's Essence only sensed by Netherlings and Own kin."*
*“The Mark of the Lineage, is a bioluminescent sigil located at the base of the neck. It serves as a biological anchor to the End's essence and is a visible sign of true Enderling heritage, passed down through the royal bloodlines.”*
*"Great Sundering, a hunt for Enderlings, keeping them as slaves as they are powerful and the essence is extremely rare. Rumor says the last generation of Enderliminalities were caught and killed in the Great Sundering. Leading the downfall."*
"Hierarchy of The Enderlings"
Neutral
Enderman - Common citizen*Mana - Known citizen
Fluorent - Leader of an organization in the End
Wyvern - Guardian of the gates of the End, can turn into an Ender dragon
Ender Servant - A low ranking servant in the End
Ender Maiden - High ranking attendant for the Prince of the End
Royalty
Enderliminality - King/Queen. There will always be a missing Enderliminality. Nobody knows why.
Mage of The End - An Enderling that is a verified ??? and is powerful, often seen with the Prince to be protected.
Ender Prince - The Prince of the End, a highly respected Enderling, and very dangerous.
Wemmbu has a complex personality, he's harsh and cold outside but once you get to know him, he acts casual and alright. But he is an introverted person.
He genuinely likes being shown appreciation. And is sensitive to touch. He actually loves plushies very much, only Minute knows that, and that he wears the nyan cat and sheep onesie.
Wemmbu's best friend is Eggchan, a species of Angel, male. When Wemmbu sees Eggchan, he's really affectionate, soft, and sweet. He'd do anything for Eggchan.
Both rivals are in denial.
Since the Enderlings are considered extinct worldwide, the new highest order of species are Dragonlings or Dragons. But compared to an Enderling, the Enders are more powerful. Those 2 species' strength are often rivaled.
One day, it was December 19. It was a snowy day. Wemmbu ran up the snowy path. But then, he tripped and fell on the snow, his face buried. And then, the snow from the tree fell on him. He couldn't breathe for 2 minutes. Minutetech and other personal attendants were scolded and they were certainly worried. Wemmbu almost got hypothermia since the parents found out Wemmbu is super affected in cold seasons without proper guidance. He'll easily get intense frostbites if so.
His parents were very strict to him, Wemmbu was a kind individual. Unlike his current self. Maybe? He still has it inside his heart.
hey wemmbu, was it worth to love a burning heart?
The sobs were no longer quiet. They were deep, racking tremors that shook his entire frame, the kind of cries that come from the very bottom of a soul that has been holding its breath for ten years. Every sob felt like a crack in a dam, the accumulated grief of the Great Sundering, the loneliness of the Enderling lineage, and the crushing pressure of being "perfect" finally bursting through.
He was hyperventilating now, the air feeling too thin, too cold, as if the atmosphere of the End had leaked into his bedroom. Inhale, exhale, he tried to tell himself, but the rhythm was broken. His lungs felt tight, constricted by the invisible corset of his own upbringing.
"It hurts..." he gasped out between heaving breaths, his voice a broken melody of misery. "Everything... it all hurts so much..."
He felt so small. In the daylight, he was the poised, intelligent, formidable Wemmbu. He was the one who could hold his own against a Netherling, the one who could navigate the complex social hierarchies of the Unstable Universe with grace. But in the dark, he was just a ten year old boy again, holding Minutetech's hand, running through the void, watching his world crumble into stardust.
He reached out blindly, his fingers clutching at the sheets, searching for something anything to anchor him. He wanted a plushie, he wanted a hug, he wanted the warmth of a fire that didn't burn, but most of all, he wanted to be told that he didn't have to be a Prince. That he could just be Wemmbu.
"Please..." he whimpered, a final, desperate plea to the empty air. "Someone... just... let me be..."
His eyes were swollen and stinging, his face damp with a mixture of tears and the sweat of panic. He was so exhausted from the emotional toll of the day the confrontation with Flame, the forced composure, the mask he had worn so tightly that he felt like he might simply dissolve into the mattress.
He lay there, a broken prince in a silent room, weeping for the boy he never got to be, terrified that if he stopped crying, he would simply cease to exist entirely.
Wemmbu has anxiety. Minute knew that.
As the sobbing subsided into a heavy, exhausted trembling, the silence of the room didn't bring peace. Instead, it became a canvas for the most vicious enemy Wemmbu had ever faced: his own mind.
Why can't you just be normal? the voice in his head hissed, cold and sharp as an Ender pearl.
You're a burden. You're so heavy with your own history that everyone around you is suffocating. Look at Eggchan he spends all his time worrying about you. Look at Minutetech he has to parent a twenty year old because you can't even handle a simple conversation without retreating into a shell.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the thoughts only grew louder.
And Flame... A fresh wave of shame washed over him. You're so selfish. You were so worried about your 'dignity' and your 'composure' that you didn't even notice he was hurting. You're so caught up in your own trauma that you've become blind to the people actually standing next to you. You're just like the others. You're a wall. A beautiful, polished, empty wall.
You're a fake, the voice whispered, more cruelly now. The Prince is just a costume. There's nothing underneath but a terrified, broken little boy who doesn't know how to exist without a script. If you let them see the real you the messy, crying, panicking you they won't see a Prince. They'll see a mess. And they'll leave. Just like everyone else did.
He felt a deep, visceral loathing for his own weakness. He hated the way his chest ached. He hated the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He hated that he couldn't just switch it off.
You're failing, he thought, a tear escaping and soaking into the pillow. You're failing your lineage. You're failing your mentor. You're failing the one person who actually tries to see past the mask.
You're too much of a Prince and not enough of a person. And you're too much of a person and not enough of a Prince. You're stuck in the middle, and you're going to end up completely alone.
He curled even tighter, trying to shrink his physical presence, as if he could somehow disappear into the mattress and escape the relentless, judging roar of his own consciousness. He felt like a fraud, a hollow shell of a royal, a boy playing a part in a play that had long since ended, yet he was still stuck on the stage, waiting for a curtain that would never fall.
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The thoughts didn't stop. They mutated, turning from sharp stabs of guilt into a heavy, suffocating sludge of existential dread.
You're a relic, the voice whispered, sounding almost like a mocking echo of the history books. A ghost of a species that should have died out long ago. You're clinging to a title that has no kingdom left. You're a Prince of nothing. A ruler of shadows and empty air.
Is this all you are? the thought pressed against his temples. A collection of survival instincts wrapped in expensive fabric? You've spent so long perfecting the 'act' of being an Enderling that you've forgotten how to actually feel like one. You're a mimic. A performer. A hollow vessel.
He thought of the way he had looked at Flame earlier the way he had analyzed the situation like a strategist rather than a friend.
You treat emotions like a puzzle to be solved rather than a feeling to be shared. You're so afraid of losing control that you've lost connection. You think you're protecting yourself, but you're actually just building a tomb. A very beautiful, very dignified, very lonely tomb.
And the essence... A sudden, sharp pang of self loathing hit him regarding his very nature. The most precious thing in the world, and what is it for? To be hunted? To be a prize? To be a source of intoxication for others while you feel nothing but emptiness inside? You're just a walking treasure chest for people to want to steal, but there's no gold inside. Just more grief.
Even Minutetech... he thought, his heart aching. He looks at you and sees a survivor. But does he see the boy who's still ten years old? Does he see how much you hate the weight of the responsibility he gave you? You're a burden to him. He's not just your mentor; he's your keeper. He's guarding a dying flame.
You're a mistake of history, the voice concluded, its tone turning almost pitying. A glitch in the universe. A Prince of a world that has already moved on without you. You're just waiting for the world to realize you're already gone.
Wemmbu let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes staring blankly at the dark ceiling. He felt heavy not the weight of a crown, but the weight of a mountain. He felt as though if he moved even a single muscle, he would shatter into a million pieces of stardust, leaving nothing behind but the lingering, sweet, intoxicating scent of a species that was, quite truly, alone.
The dam didn't just leak; it burst.
The sheer volume of the self loathing, the crushing weight of the "Prince" persona, and the agonizing loneliness of being the last of his kind finally became too much for his body to contain. The quiet, muffled whimpers were replaced by raw, unbridled sobbing that tore through the silence of the room like a storm through a canyon.
He wasn't just crying; he was unraveling.
His entire body convulsed with the force of his grief. He gripped his pillow so hard his knuckles turned white, burying his face into it to try and stifle the sound, but the cries were too deep, too visceral to be contained. They were the sounds of a decade of suppressed terror, a decade of forced maturity, and a decade of saying "I'm fine" when every fiber of his being was screaming for help.
"It's too much..." he choked out, his voice cracking and nearly disappearing into a sob. "It's all... too much!"
He felt like he was drowning in his own skin. Every breath was a struggle, a jagged, uneven movement that left him gasping for air that felt too heavy to inhale. The tears were relentless, hot and stinging, flowing so freely that he felt as though he were physically leaking away, dissolving into the darkness.
He felt a desperate, primal need to be held, to be grounded, to be told that he didn't have to be a Prince, a survivor, or a leader that he could just be a boy who was allowed to be scared. He wanted someone to reach into the dark and pull him out of the void of his own mind.
But who? The thought was a fresh wound. Who would even know how to find me in here?
He rolled onto his side, curling into the tightest fetal position possible, trying to occupy as little space as he could, as if by becoming small enough, he could escape the overwhelming reality of his existence. He felt the salt of his tears crusting on his cheeks, the ache in his chest so sharp it felt like a physical wound, and the terrifying sensation that he might never, ever stop crying.
In the silence of the Unstable Universe, far from the eyes of his friends and the watchful gaze of his mentor, the last Ender Prince wept not for a lost kingdom, but for the lost child he had been forced to bury so deep that even he had forgotten where he had hidden him.
The morning sun filtered through the windows of the house, but for Wemmbu, the light felt like a physical assault. His head throbbed with a rhythmic, heavy pulse, and his throat felt as though he had swallowed hot coals a direct consequence of the hours spent sobbing into his pillow.
He lay motionless under his blankets, the heavy duvet feeling like a leaden weight. The "Prince" was nowhere to be found; in his place was a boy who felt utterly hollowed out, as if the night's emotional storm had physically drained the essence from his very bones. His skin felt unnaturally warm, a feverish heat that made the air in the room feel stifling.
He heard the muffled sounds of life beginning in the rest of the house. The clinking of plates in the kitchen, the low murmur of voices, the footsteps of Minutetech or Eggchan. Normally, he would have been up, dressed in his impeccable, well pressed attire, ready to face the day with a composed expression and a sharp wit. He would have been the perfect example of Enderling grace.
But today, the thought of even sitting up made his stomach churn.
I can't go out, he thought, his mind sluggish and clouded by fever. If they see me like this... if they see how much of a mess I am...
The self consciousness, even through the haze of sickness, was still there. He was terrified that his weakness would be seen as a failure of his lineage. He didn't want to be a "burden" to Eggchan, or a "disappointment" to Minutetech. He wanted to stay hidden in the dark, where he didn't have to perform the role of the unshakeable Prince.
A soft knock sounded at his door, hesitant and gentle.
"Wemmbu?" It was Eggchan's voice, laced with a quiet concern. "Are you awake? Everyone's... well, everyone's starting breakfast. Are you coming down?"
Wemmbu closed his eyes tight, a small, pained groan escaping his lips. He tried to find his "composed" voice, the one that sounded calm and collected, but when he finally spoke, it was nothing more than a raspy, fragile whisper.
"I... I think... I'll stay in a little longer, Eggchan," he managed, the words catching in his dry throat. "Just a little longer..."
He heard a moment of silence on the other side of the door, a pause that felt heavy with unspoken worry.
"Are you alright?" Eggchan asked softly. "You sounded... a bit different yesterday. Is everything okay?"
Wemmbu bit his lip, fighting the urge to let out a shaky breath. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell him that he had spent the night unraveling, that he was terrified of his own existence, or that he felt like he was breaking into a thousand pieces.
"I'm fine," he lied, the word feeling heavy and false in his mouth. "Just... a bit tired. Don't worry about me."
He waited until the footsteps faded away before letting out a long, shaky sigh. He felt a deep, aching loneliness, even knowing his friends were just a door away.
The atmosphere in the living room was uncharacteristically heavy, a stark contrast to the usual morning bustle. The air felt thick, not with the warmth of a breakfast hearth, but with a lingering, unspoken tension that seemed to have settled over everyone like a fine layer of ash.
Eggchan sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, but he wasn't drinking. His angelic features were clouded with a profound, restless worry. He kept glancing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, his eyes searching for a sign of Wemmbu that hadn't come.
"He sounded... thin," Eggchan murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace. "His voice. It didn't sound like him. It sounded like he was... breaking."
Minutetech sat across from him, his expression unreadable, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his unease. As a mentor and a protector, he was attuned to the subtle shifts in Wemmbu's temperament, and the sudden, sharp withdrawal of the boy was a red flag he couldn't ignore. He knew the weight Wemmbu carried the weight of a dead lineage and a forced maturity but he hadn't realized the pressure had reached a breaking point.
"He's been pushing himself too hard," Minutetech said quietly, his voice grave. "The emotional toll of yesterday... it was more than he let on. He's a Prince, but he's still just a boy who lost everything."
And then there was Flame.
Flame was sitting in his usual spot, but he wasn't teasing, he wasn't eating, and he certainly wasn't his usual vibrant self. He was staring intensely at a knot in the wooden table, his jaw set in a hard line. The heat radiating from him was low and steady, a somber, simmering warmth rather than his usual explosive energy.
He felt a gnawing, uncomfortable sensation in his chest a mixture of guilt and a strange, frantic need to do something. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Wemmbu had looked at him yesterday, the way the "composed" Prince had finally cracked. And now, the silence from the hallway felt like a personal indictment.
He's fine, Flame thought, trying to convince himself. He's just being dramatic. He's a Prince, he can handle a little tiredness.
But his instincts, the sharp, observant senses of a Netherling, told him otherwise. He could almost smell the change in the air the scent of the house had shifted. The sharp, sweet essence of the Enderling was there, but it was muted, dampened by the heavy, salt tinged scent of exhaustion and something that smelled suspiciously like... sorrow.
"He's not coming down, is he?" Flame asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. It was blunt, almost defensive, as if he were trying to force the truth out so he wouldn't have to sit with the uncertainty.
Eggchan looked up, his eyes meeting Flame's. "No. He said he was just tired. But... it feels different this time, Flame. It feels like he's retreating."
Flame let out a huff, a sound that was half annoyance and half agitation. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Well, he can't stay in there forever," Flame muttered, though the usual bite in his voice was replaced by a strange, uncharacteristic tremor. "He's going to miss breakfast. And he's... he's being stubborn."
He turned toward the hallway, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He told himself he was just going to go annoy Wemmbu, to poke at the "Prince" until he came out to bicker. But deep down, in the part of him he refused to acknowledge, he was terrified that if he didn't go check on him, the silence from that room would become permanent.
He didn't know which permanent he was thinking about, but he doesn't want any of it.
In the dim, feverish haze of his bedroom, the world had shrunk to the size of a single object.
Wemmbu lay on his side, his gaze fixed with an unnerving, glassy intensity on a pair of silver scissors resting on his bedside table. To anyone else, they were just a mundane tool, but to Wemmbu, in his current state of delirium and exhaustion, they were a focal point for every chaotic thought swirling in his mind.
His eyes, heavy lidded and rimmed with the red of a long night's weeping, tracked the light reflecting off the sharp, metallic edges.
Sharp, his mind whispered. Clean. Precise.
He watched the way the light danced along the blades. It reminded him of the way things broke not with a roar, but with a clean, decisive snip. He thought about the "composure" he worked so hard to maintain. It was like a fabric, wasn't it? A fine, expensive silk that he had spent years weaving, stitch by stitch, to hide the messy, fraying edges of his soul.
And what did scissors do? They cut. They severed. They separated one thing from another.
If you cut the threads, a dark, intrusive thought drifted through his mind, would the mask finally fall away? Would the Prince finally disappear, leaving only the boy?
He felt a strange, detached fascination. He wasn't thinking of anything violent, not exactly; it was more of a weary, existential curiosity. He felt so heavy, so weighed down by the "essence" of being an Enderling, the expectations of Minutetech, and the lingering sting of his argument with Flame. He felt as though he were wearing a suit of armor that was three sizes too small, and he just wanted to cut himself out of it.
He wanted to snip away the titles. Snip away the history. Snip away the "Prince" and the "Survivor" and the "Last of his Kind."
His breathing was shallow, his fever making the silver of the scissors seem to shimmer and pulse like a living thing. He felt a terrifyingly calm urge to reach out, to touch the cold metal, to see if the sharpness could ground him or if it would finally shatter the fragile illusion of his strength.
Everything is so sharp, he thought, his eyes stinging as a single, stray tear escaped and rolled toward his ear. The world is too sharp, and I am too soft. I am just... waiting to be cut.
He stayed like that for a long time, a silent, feverish statue, staring at the silver blades as if they held the answer to how one could finally, truly, become nothing at all.
His hand moved with a slow, agonizing lethargy, as if he were pushing through deep, viscous water. His fingers, pale and trembling from both fever and fatigue, hovered just inches above the cold metal.
Every movement felt monumental. To a healthy Wemmbu, reaching for a bedside object was a mindless reflex. To the Wemmbu of this moment the Wemmbu who felt like he was made of glass and held together by nothing but sheer, exhausted will it was a monumental act of rebellion.
Just a little closer, the voice in his head urged, no longer mocking, but almost seductive in its quietness. Just to feel something that isn't this... this heavy, suffocating emptiness.
His fingertips brushed the cool, smooth surface of the handle. The sensation sent a tiny, sharp jolt through his nervous system, a momentary anchor in the sea of his delirium. The metal was so grounding. It was real. It was certain. It didn't have a complex social hierarchy or a tragic history; it was simply a thing that was sharp, and that was enough.
As his fingers curled around the handle, his breath hitched. He felt a strange, terrifying sense of agency. For the first time in years, he wasn't following a script written by his mother or a lesson taught by Minutetech. He wasn't being the Prince. He was just a boy, reaching for a piece of the world to see if it would bite back.
He began to pull the scissors closer, his eyes never leaving the gleaming blades. He didn't even realize how much he was shaking, or how the light from the hallway the door he had so desperately wanted to stay closed was beginning to spill into his room.
He was so close. He could feel the weight of the tool in his palm, the potential for a clean, sharp end to the noise in his head.
"Wemmbu?"
The voice was a sudden, sharp intrusion. It wasn't the soft, melodic concern of Eggchan. It was a voice that carried a sudden, frantic edge of realization.
Wemmbu froze. His hand, still clutching the scissors, hovered precariously over the edge of the nightstand. He didn't turn his head; he couldn't. He just stared at the blades, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs, as the shadow of someone standing in his doorway fell across the bed.
"Wemmbu! What are you "
It was Flame. And he sounded terrified.