Chapter Text
Wilbur’s hand is cold against his palm, goosebumps spiralling out from the touch. Blue eyes meet red, and he feels the sharp edges of the thrall, bracing himself on instinct, but Wilbur’s eyes remain soft, the siren’s call silenced. Tommy stares up with breathing shallow. Wilbur watches him carefully, like a hunter waiting for a deer to bolt.
The knife is heavy in his hand, and blood drips from his palm as he raises it up, up, up.
He has to kill the King.
But he does not know whether he can watch Wilbur die with him.
The knife pricks Wilbur’s shirt right above his heart. Fabric tears with the slightest bit of pressure. Blood stains the threads, half-dried red mixing with black, and Wilbur grimaces slightly.
Tommy half expects a laughter-filled comment, a scoff or an insult.
But Wilbur just watches; patient, calm.
“I could kill you,” Tommy whispers, and he knows it to be true. Even faster reflexes will not save Wilbur now, not with the blade so close to his heart.
“You could,” Wilbur replies quietly.
Nether of them move.
Tommy looks down at his hand, at the way it shakes, and tastes bitterness on his tongue.
Defeat.
“Where is the General?” he asks, voice hoarse, lips dry.
Wilbur huffs.
“Does it matter?”
He presses the knife closer to pale skin.
“He’s finding the Rebellion,” Wilbur answers, and there is no emotion in his voice. It is matter-of-fact, a passing statement–uncaring, like he is not referring to a hundred people, a hundred lives.
“And what will he do,” Tommy breathes, eyes fixed on Wilbur’s, “When he finds them?”
The ice returns, clouding the crimson, and Tommy holds back a flinch.
“The same thing he did to your friend.”
He should be angry. Should be scared, or betrayed, or anything out of the list of emotions he can think of. All he feels is emptiness.
There is a hollow in his chest, an absence, and all those who could fill it are gone.
He couldn’t save Tubbo.
He can’t save the Rebellion.
He can’t save Michael.
He bites down on his tongue, shoulders shaking slightly, and Wilbur squeezes his palm, talons tracing circles on the back of his hand.
“It’s okay, Toms. You’ll forget them. Forget the pain, the fear–”
He shakes his head, and Wilbur falls silent. It is a weak denial, and they both know it. He doesn’t have anything left. Just the knife in his hand and the fire in his chest, flickering too dimly, sputtering too low.
He sways slightly on the spot, the knife still pressed to Wilbur’s chest, and talons curl around the blade.
Wilbur watches him, red eyes horribly emotionless, and Tommy cannot muster the energy to resist.
The blade clatters to the floorboards, and it is over.
“It’s okay,” Wilbur whispers, tugging him close, and it isn’t, it really isn’t, but Tommy collapses into his hold all the same.
He does not know how long he remains there, slumped uselessly over himself, heartbeat all too slow for the monster that dwells beside him.
Wilbur could kill him in an instant; snap his neck, drink him dry, any of the executions Tommy knows the General would carry out without hesitation.
But the hands resting next to his own remain limp, the fangs hidden behind a soft smile, and Tommy knows that Wilbur will not move to hurt him, not until he makes up his fucking mind.
“Little brother,” he laughs, fangs bared, and Tommy pushes back a shudder. Wilbur tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and Tommy follows his gaze with barely concealed distaste.
The King’s quarters are elaborate, gold flakes on polished wood, paintings hanging from wallpaper worth more than he is. A guitar lies carefully behind a case of glass, carvings etched up the side, and Tommy knows it is the work of the best craftsman the Empire could find.
He would wonder what happened to those that came before him, that failed to satisfy the King, but he thinks he knows.
There could be a hundred deaths over one guitar, over a song.
And their murderer lies next to him, calm and quiet, mellow.
Tommy’s eyes flick to the knife, and then flick away again.
Even now, he glances to the blade, gleaming in the candlelight as he tilts his head.
Wilbur’s hand closes around his chin, talons pricking the skin as his face is turned back.
“Don’t,” Wilbur warns quietly, and Tommy scowls.
“I wasn’t–”
“You were. It’s okay, though.”
He splutters, and Wilbur watches him with a raised eyebrow, finally releasing his face and slumping back to the floorboards.
“ Soon ,” he promises, and Tommy goes still.
A curse, but Wilbur says the word like it is a blessing, caressed between gentle hands, a gift from the gods.
There are no gods here. That much, he knows.
When the clock strikes three in the morning, there is no one awake to hear its call. The sound echoes through the halls, bouncing off marble statues, sounding out through empty rooms and vibrating through the walls.
He lies half-unconscious by Wilbur’s side, one finger pointing towards the knife he will never reach, the other hand wrapped in a cold hand.
The bell chimes, once, twice, thrice, and he stiffens, eyes flying open. His movements are slow, clumsy, a daze descending as he sits, shivering.
Wilbur’s fingers fall loose, thumping against the floorboards, and he shivers, pushing back until his skin meets soft velvet, sheets wrapping around his shoulders as he pulls his knees into his chest.
Three am.
The witching hour.
He closes his eyes, willing his muscles to relax, his jaw to unclench, but his hands tremble by his sides, fear sour on his lips, bile bitter in his throat.
He does not move back to the floorboards, does not dare to even breathe. He is frozen, paralysed by fear and caution, and the world is silent and yet so loud. Every sound grates against his ears; the whisper of the curtains in the wind, the rustle of leaves from the courtyard, the settling of stone far below.
He leans his head back against the mattress, and squeezes his eyes shut.
He’s fine.
He’s okay.
A hand closes around his wrist.
He bites down a scream, eyes wide, and a ruby gaze descends, something wicked in the way Wilbur’s fangs gleam in the moonlight.
“Awake so early?” he questions, and Tommy shudders away from the words, head shaking once, and then twice.
Wilbur’s grip tightens, and he inhales sharply, eyes flicking down to his arm.
It is all that Wilbur needs.
He is tugged backwards, tucked between arms of steel, and he knows he will not escape the hold, not with fangs hovering so close to his neck, the song of the abyss dancing through his mind.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks quietly, and Wilbur huffs out a laugh, a chill seeping deep into his bones, irreversible.
“Not you, Toms,” Wilbur vows, and Tommy knows it to be the truth.
But his definition of death is vastly different to Wilbur’s, and he knows what is expected of him.
He has no other choice, no options at his fingertips, no corners to turn or excuses to be made.
Dream is hundreds of miles away, and the Rebellion are a ghost by now, names ticked off of the General’s list, either rotting between bars of iron or lined up in the courtyard, stones still stained with the blood of their friend.
There is no one to save him.
He raises his chin, eyes meeting Wilbur’s, and there is a promise there, and a question beside it.
“What do you want?” he asks, because he does not think he can bear it any longer, the silence that stretches before them, the tiny chance, the maybe that lies just out of his reach.
“I want you to be my brother,” Wilbur whispers, and he shakes his head.
“Say it.”
“Coven,” Wilbur breathes, eyes captivating, and he cannot tear his own away.
“When?” he asks, because he cannot stop the words that spill from his lips, the overwhelming desire to just know, to end it all.
He made a promise, to himself, to Dream, to Ranboo.
And Wilbur will break it in his place.
He bites down on his tongue, blood exploding into his mouth, but the pain is nothing compared to the blistering of his skin, the breaking of his bones and hollowing of his heart.
His friend waits in a country that despises his very existence, alone and afraid, dependent on his decision, his promise. Tommy would give his life for Ranboo, just as Ranboo would give his life for him. And yet Tommy cannot even raise a finger against a vampire that has tricked him, that has killed and laughed in the face of cruelty, because Wilbur was human before he was a King, and Tommy is too weak to eradicate that life.
He has one choice left to him, and it is the hardest to make. The only one he can make, with his freedom stolen, his autonomy far behind.
Ranboo is all he has left of his past, all that remains of a life once loved. Wilbur, on the other hand, is his future, offering more than mortality, offering power, prestige, peace.
But it is a sad mockery of anything he could achieve while alive.
He looks into ruby red eyes, so confident, so light, and wonders whether Wilbur is insane; to believe so utterly in his decision, to trust a boy that he has known for less than a month.
“Now,” Wilbur says suddenly, and he freezes, remembering his question.
The clock ticks down, the bells chiming out. The sand trickles through an hourglass, last grains spiralling down.
Wilbur pulls him to his feet, cold grip leaving his arms as the vampire steps back, and then he is alone, swaying slightly on the spot.
He has a choice to make.
Wilbur or Ranboo.
And he has to make it now.
“Tommy.”
Wilbur looks down on him, no mercy in the ruby eyes that examine his own, and Tommy lifts his chin.
“I don’t want this,” he whispers, but he knows Wilbur will not listen to him, no more than he will listen to Wilbur’s false promises.
Even if he is turned, what is to stop the General from enacting his vengeance? What is to stop Phil –and the name burns on his lips—from finishing what he started?
Tommy still has no clue what he wanted–what they all wanted. Was it justice? A game, a hunt?
“ Tommy ,” Wilbur repeats, insistent, and then the claws are pricking the skin of his hand, a silent command.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Tommy whispers, and he does, he does, but he doesn’t want to accept it, not the fear that has sunken deep into his bones, the stubbornness raging against the water drip-drip-dripping down his spine.
“I want a brother,” Wilbur replies slowly, and Tommy shakes his head, a sob catching in his throat.
“There are a million of those. You can’t just—”
“I can, Toms,” Wilbur vows, and he chokes on the sound, words dying on his lips. “And I will. This game is over. You’ve lost.”
I haven’t, Tommy wants to say, I have not lost your game. Because he hasn’t, he hasn’t, because there is air sweet in his lungs and his heart beats in fine crescendo and his skin is warm and his fingers soft and he is whole as he is.
Wilbur wants a brother, but Tommy has all that he needs.
Ranboo waits for him.
And it is time for Tommy to go home.
Wilbur looks down at him, red eyes gleaming, hand extended, and Tommy slips his fingers in between the talons like a lamb walking into the lion’s maw.
“Okay,” he breathes, and the lie scorches his throat as liquor downed too fast but he is not the creatures of field and forest, of glamour and gold. He is not like the ones from the children's tales–Fae, he thinks they were called, but if the ancient ones were there at all, their magic has long since faded, their race replaced by another.
Tommy is not bound by oath nor of magic, and so he smiles and lies with teeth bared, jaw snapping, human until the very end.
They walk the halls a final time; Tommy’s footsteps ringing out against the tiles, and Wilbur’s padding along in echo, a whisper of exhale, a quiet murmur when Tommy loses his way. The owls screech outside, the wind whistling around the columns and scattering shivers across his skin. Wilbur’s hand–talons tracing a steady pattern over his palm–only makes his breathing shallow and his shoulders tense.
As if on command, they come to a halt.
“Relax,” Wilbur whispers, and the sound wavers through the air, melodic and sweet. Tommy runs it over in his tongue, tasting honey lingering, and looks up with wide eyes.
Red eyes captivate, enthrall, and he blinks, snapping his gaze back down to his feet.
“Don’t–”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Wilbur questions. His hand tightens on Tommy’s wrist, yanking him closer.
It can’t end here.
Not here.
“Please,” Tommy whispers, praying to whatever will hear him because even if he knows there are no gods he refuses, refuses, to give in.
“Answer me,” Wilbur hisses, and Tommy bites down on his lip, rust staining his mouth as he holds back a whimper.
“I want to see the stars,” he says, forcing his tone flat, and Wilbur laughs. It is a sweet sound; a babbling brook, windchimes swirling in the wind, a willow tree whispering to the riverbank.
Tommy drowns in it, eyes wide, head tipped back.
“Fine,” Wilbur allows, and Tommy surfaces.
They walk again.
“Why the stars?”
He blinks, stalling momentarily, but Wilbur’s grip tugs him forwards, feet slipping on the tiles.
“The stars?” Wilbur prompts, and crescents bloom on his hand where the nails dig in, smooth as a knife through butter.
There is impatience in Wilbur’s eyes, something straining against whatever calm remains there, something inhuman and wrong.
Tommy inhales, and shoots Wilbur a shaky smile.
“Can’t a man just like stars?” he quips, and the words are acid as soon as they have been exposed to the air, swirling between them. Wilbur’s eyes are dark, unsatisfied, and Tommy holds back the urge to recoil, to run.
I’m coming for you, he whispers, and his words will not cross continents to reach his friend. In fact, they will not even leave the room, but they mean something all the same.
“ Tommy ,” Wilbur presses, and he huffs, feigning confidence he has not had for a long time.
“I want to see the stars,” he replies stubbornly, and Wilbur finally, finally drops it.
They are silent as they walk, and it prickles Tommy’s skin, goosebumps spiralling out, but he is grateful for the absence of distraction.
He can’t fight Wilbur–can’t let himself be turned, either.
Force won’t work, and he’s not a tactician, never has been. Wilbur is brilliant, and a King at that, even if his role is merely a facade.
Provocation and surprise remain his only strengths.
They pass a window, city lights gleaming behind the pane, and Tommy drinks it in like a man dying, lost in a desert, parched and desperate.
Slowly, a plan forms in his mind.
I’m coming for you,
he thinks, and this time, he means it.
“The stars,” Wilbur laughs bitterly, gesturing to the blanket of clouds that hang low above the rooftop, mist curling around the spires. Tommy wraps his arms around his waist, face set, and does not reply.
“Well? There aren’t any–”
“I want to see the stars,” he repeats, and he does not quite cover the desperation in his voice.
“ Enough ,” Wilbur snaps, and fangs flash in the darkness.
He bites back a retort.
“It won’t hurt,” Wilbur vows, “I won’t hurt you.”
Tommy shakes his head, wordless, but Wilbur’s hand slips into his own, squeezing tight in a mockery of comfort, and there is nowhere left to run. His eyes flit to the roof’s edge, the marble railings curling up and out. Three metres to open air, but Tommy is not a bird, and metaphorical wings will not carry him far.
Wilbur’s hand loosens around his own, and he exhales shakily, vision blurring as the vampire circles, footsteps padding ever closer. And then there is a breath, ticking the back of his neck, cold and exaggerated.
He flinches away, but Wilbur’s talons dig into his shoulders, a steel embrace, and he freezes.
“Stay still,” Wilbur whispers, and each syllable sends shudders racing down his skin. He swallows, heart racing, and wonders whether Wilbur can count the beats, whether he can feel the crescendo rising uncontrollably.
The conductors baton slips, the trumpets blaring out of tune, and Wilbur’s fangs flash behind.
He closes his eyes, and waits for the pain.
“Stop.”
The word rings out, commanding and clear, and Tommy’s eyes fly open. The orchestra halts, strings screeching, bows clattering to the ground, and Wilbur’s talons fall away from his arms.
Phil stares back at them both, ruby eyes blazing, and the General stands by his side, a boar mask bloodied in his hand.
Tommy sees the axe slung lightly over one shoulder, enchantments twisted into the metal and dark stains winding up the edge, and fights back a surge of nausea.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Phil hisses, and Wilbur’s rage overwhelms them both, radiating out until the rooftop is bathed in its glow.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he snaps back, cold and unyielding, and the General scoffs.
“What, we were supposed to stand back while you brought a stranger into our coven? Wilbur, he is a
traitor
.”
He’s not even a fucking part of their country.
“He’s a child,” Wilbur replies, venom dripping from each syllable, and Tommy nearly bristles, nearly slips back into glares and banter but the terror is stronger.
He promised. He promised, and fucking Phil wants to take it from him. All of them can–his life is as fragile as a bird cupped between their hands, wings fluttering weakly. He doesn’t want to die, but here, pinned in on all sides; death staring him in the eyes–he does not have a choice in the matter.
He thinks back to the letter he had written, love and hope in each word, carefully sealed and sent off with a smile.
He does not know whether it will even pass the borders, whether it even left Eret’s hands before the Lord was slaughtered like the rest.
He doesn’t know anything–his plan lies in tatters at his feet, half-formed and reckless, and his hope is quickly fading.
He promised.
He’s starting to think he lied.
But Wilbur’s fangs are not at his neck.
He’s still alive—he’s still breathing, still fighting, until the very end.
The General watches them both warily, and Phil’s gaze settles on his shoulders, unmerciful, but Tommy does not need to fight them.
Three metres to open air.
He’ll see Ranboo again. In another life, or in whatever awaits them after this one. He won’t be alone, he won’t be a monster, he’ll just be Tommy.
Not a brother, not a pet or a coven-member or a traitor or a fucking Ambassador.
He doesn’t need a title.
He just wants to be himself. That’s all he needs, that’s all Ranboo needs from him.
He meets the General’s eyes, and then Phil’s.
Three metres.
He steps back, feigning fear, and falls into Wilbur’s chest with a muffled cry. The General’s eyes narrow, but Phil makes a quiet sound, somewhere between warning and curiosity, and Tommy stumbles back again.
Wilbur goes with him, body stiff and eyes resting on the back of his head.
“Tommy,” the General warns, and his name falls from the vampire’s mouth like a curse, sinking low in his gut. He does not listen, because he knows the execution that awaits him.
Wilbur wants a brother, a fucking coven or whatever pretty title he can give it. The General does not.
Tommy knows which one of them is stronger.
Two metres, maybe one if he is lucky.
He made an oath to Dream. A promise, unbreakable.
Kill the King, and Ranboo goes free. Even if it is meaningless, even if the Empire will live on–
He still has a chance.
“Toms?” Wilbur questions, fear slipping into his tone, and Tommy nearly laughs, a broken sound clogging his throat as he inhales sharply.
The General’s axe slides down to his hand, and Tommy’s eyes follow it, widening as Phil steps forward.
“Mate–” he warns, but Tommy steps back, one fumbling, desperate attempt, and Wilbur falls against the railing.
Phil inhales sharply, but his hands remain by his sides, and that is all that Tommy needs.
“Don’t–”
“Tommy?”
Wilbur’s voice cracks. The melody is shattered, out-of-tune and strings broken.
Tommy breathes in, eyes searching the sky, and through the clouds and the spires stretching ever upwards, he finds a single star.
It is not a graceful thing, in the end. It is clawing, panicked, breaths caught in his throat, heart pounding, death awaiting on either side. It is tragic and it is pointless in the grand scheme of things. But there is glory in his choice, freedom awaiting as shortlived as it may be.
Tommy spins on one heel.
Blue eyes meet brown, waves crashing against jagged cliffs, and Tommy’s hands splay over Wilbur’s chest as he takes a deep breath and shoves.
Wilbur’s hand closes over his, eyes widening, and when the King falls, Tommy falls with him.
There is no seven seconds of recollection, no peace or fear or anything at all. Just a scream echoing out from all sides, a grating symphony against his ears. Just the fall and the ground rushing up to meet him, wind tearing through his hair as he closes his eyes.
In one moment, he is falling. In the other, he is not.
He doesn’t really notice the difference.