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And he rose up the stairs with the moonbeams and the flickering of candles and he watched the people writhe and stare below him. Thoughts of herbs and glimpses of crows are what lead his mind to peace as thousands called his name. He stood, carefully, serenely, his guardian leading him with her hair of white and brown.
What made him? What made him worthy of the title soon to be bestowed to him?
He was made of spells and feathers. He was made of blood and embroidery. His mother took his hand in hers as they looked out to the people of the kingdom.
He was meant for this role, she had said. But he could not believe her lies. He was but a child, not that he'd say it aloud. A child made from the hands of three gods and his mother. All smiles, all sunny afternoons.
Every animal tended and every spar won is what made him king, they said. Their smiles were calm.
Every animal tended and every spar won was what calloused his hands, is what he thought. Not what made him king.
But could he find what made him king? Growing in the eyes of gods, did that make him more worthy than anyone else?
It couldn't.
But looking down at the plaza below his balcony, watching as people cheered his name, he swallowed his hate for the title. King. What his father was. Who his real mother was married to, not the mother by his side now.
He never even wanted to be crowned. He just wanted his mom to be happy. For his family's frowns to wash away with the peace that came after a war.
They are what made him. He was meant to live in those woods. He was meant to stand by his family's side.
To stand by the Witch, the Warrior, and the Crow. That's where he was meant to be. Not above thousands. Not to rule.
The voices of the lush moss and the ferns and trees and berries called him from miles away. The blood on his hands would wash away in the creek and in the rain, but no.
The people called and cheered for him. They praised him for being alive. Worshiped him, all for killing a man.
His mother, not his real mother, not the old queen, but the one that had raised him, whispered, "They're in the crowd."
Tommy clasped his cane and rolled forwards if by a millimeter to peer at the crowd. He held his breath, begging to see his family, begging to see their crowns of brown, pink, and golden hair. He begged to see their shining eyes, encouraging and full of wisdom and life and, gods- he was not ready.
But his eyes clouded. He erected his spine and his fingers that had once picked fruits and embroidered masterful pieces, threaded down his stiff coat in one smooth motion.
The high priest had arrived.
And so did his crown.
The ceremony tolled long and the crowd stayed still, waiting in bated breath for him, Tommy, a child at heart but a king in their eyes, to be crowned.
And then the jewels and web of silver were placed upon his head in a lightweight wreath. And he muttered a vow to the kingdom, and Puffy, his mother, cried to his right.
The gods had left him, once and for all, unable to be seen, even with the invitation.
And when all was said and done, and it was time to sleep in the all-too-large bedroom on his all-too-soft bed, he cried. He cried for what he had done. He cried for who he had lost. But most importantly, he cried because he was alone.
He could only vaguely hear the tapping on his window and he only cried harder when he saw the silhouettes.
The window was flung open, candles flickering out in wisps of silvery smoke. And there they were.
Wilbur opened his long cloak. His croaked hat fell as Tommy toppled him in a mess of limbs and sobs. Techno chuckled and Phil tucked his wings over them in his own way.
It was soft like the forest's lullaby and the careful notes of a soft tune rose to the child king's head.
It was a tune from The Before. Its music sheet was worn from being well-loved and its words were faded and muddled. But it was love. And it was home.
And it was in the arms of his Witch and Warrior and Crow.