Chapter Text
Tommy does not belong here. He is made for the summer, for the salty ocean spray on his skin and the breeze in his hair, for the sunlight and the seashore.
The closest ocean is different to any he has seen before; ice spiralling in intricate patterns over the waves, snow-covered stones lining the water under a grey sky.
He does not belong here. His heart aches for the sun, for the light winds and the ocean air, sweet on his tongue.
Tommy’s coven cannot go outside. They cannot feel the sun against their skin, they cannot bathe in its warm embrace. He does not pity them, not after everything they have done, but he knows how much he would despise it, trapped inside a bunker of steel and glass. Even their mansion, with every accommodation their hearts desire, cannot satisfy the need to escape.
A gilded cage is still a cage.
He wonders if this coven is able to escape, able to dance in the snow-lined streets and hunt while the sun is high above, protected by the clouds that hang grey and intimidating above them all.
Tommy shivers, and shoves his hands into his pockets. Hopefully, he will not have to find out, but he knows that he will be forced to interact with them, day after day until his role expires and the war truly begins.
“You are an ambassador,” Dream begins, claws trailing down his throat, across his cheeks. Tommy looks ahead, unblinking.
He will not react. He cannot react.
“You will befriend the royals. Earn their loyalty, their attachment,”-and the last word tastes like venom in the air-”And then your friend will be free.”
“Swear it.”
He will not be tricked, he will not be lied to, not when he risks his life by getting on the carriage, not when he will start selling himself, bit by bit, to the coven of the winter. Dream stares at him, and Tommy knows he will regret his words later, when claws dig into his skin and fangs hover over his neck, the venom-high withheld until he has to fight to stay conscious. But for now, he is brave.
He lifts his chin, and looks Dream in the eye, even as ruby red swirls in his vision. Dream does not thrall him, but the pull is there, the desire to just…let go of it all.
There is no fear, under the thrall. No uncertainty or pain, just whatever purpose has been given. But there is also no happiness. Nothing that makes Tommy himself, nothing but a mindless drone.
He blinks, and the trance fades. Dream sighs.
“You need to get better at snapping out of it,” he advises, a cruel glimmer in his gaze.
Tommy nods. The winter coven…they will not hesitate, not like Dream does. Dream prefers his victims fighting for life, gasping for their last breath, screaming until the very end. He does not use the thrall unless something goes very, very wrong.
The winter coven, however? Well-they call the king The Siren for a reason.
“Swear it,” he repeats, regardless of the fear that bubbles beneath his skin.
Dream nods, a single claw pressing into his side before the vampire stands.
“I will draw up the papers this afternoon. You know what to do,” he says, and then Tommy is alone, and it is done. There is no farewell, no ‘good luck’ because it is not luck that Tommy needs. It is a miracle.
He has seen the plan, he has run over every hour, every minute.
Dream wishes to kill the king of the Antarctic Empire. Tommy is placing himself in the crossfire.
But it will save his friend.
And Tommy will do anything to save Ranboo.
The soldier beside him grunts, a single finger pressed against the glass, and Tommy holds back a shiver as the smell of blood washes over him. A vampire, fresh from the hunt.
An obvious intimidation tactic, but an effective one nonetheless. But Tommy has spent most of his life with vampires, with Dream. He will not flinch away from a brute, a faceless soldier among the thousands that guard the Empire.
His eyes follow the finger, and any thoughts of the monster beside him are instantly forgotten.
The castle rises before him, a mountain of ice and snow. Sunlight reflects from the white, a million colours scattered onto the streets. The town sprawls beneath it, lying helplessly in the castle’s shadow, the buildings slightly tilted as if to escape.
He misses Essempee. He misses summer.
But the summer is long gone.
He watches with wide eyes as they turn down street after street, a winding maze of alleys and corners meant to confuse, until he cannot distinguish one side of town from the next. He is an outsider in this city, and they plan to display it like a brand on his skin, isolating him from any semblance of normal life. Without interference, he could be one of them. They are the same, after all. Humans, just like him. Living as subordinates, servants to the will of whatever vampire rules their land. There is no leaving, no hope for a better life elsewhere. The vampires have always been their leaders, their conquerors. They always will be, especially here.
The Antarctic Empire.
It is a beautiful name, for a less than beautiful place. From the outside, the towns are wondrous; marble fountains gleaming with icicles, strings of lanterns flickering well into the night, the aurora australis blazing across a canvas of stars. Even the poorest home, the lowest districts, are a haven compared to the sun-bleached cities of Dream’s coven; crowded, dirtied streets replaced by colourful street stalls and alleyway shops, full of antiquities and shards of lives long lost.
In Essempee, the lower districts are full of the poor, the hopeless, the cleaners, the fruit pickers, the ones the vampires discard. There is no joy there, just sun blistered skin and distrust, closed doors and locks.
Here, it is different. The factory workers, the poor, they all live there, but there is hope. There is laughter, there is defiance. That is why they are poor, that is why the soldiers patrol their streets and steal their children and send them off to war, but it is also what makes them brave, what makes them clever.
It is where he will find the rebellion, the traitors and the oppressed, rising against the king. He will escape there when he is ready, when the plans have been laid and Dream awaits his signal. And before then, he will visit with letters in his hands and lies on his tongue, elaborate speeches to convince the people to flock to Dream’s aid, to sell away their lives to another vampire in hope of something better.
The words taste bitter in his mouth, the letters heavy in his baggage, but he will carry out the plan.
If Dream wants to kill the king, he will need the people on his side.
And Tommy will break a thousand hearts to save his friend. A thousand betrayals, a thousand crushed dreams, all to set Ranboo free.
He cannot regret it. Not until the dust has settled, until the blood has dried, and Dream fulfills his oath.
He watches out the window, takes in every part of the empire he has been sent to destroy, and he feels nothing but emptiness where there should be sorrow, or any emotion at all.
The soldier grunts beside him, and the window coverings swing shut. A machine whirs, and Tommy watches with wide eyes as the latches click shut in unison. Somewhere under the awe, there is fear, rising thick in his throat.
He is locked in. Trapped with a monster.
A paper is tossed carelessly in his lap, and Tommy fumbles with the edges, glaring up at the soldier.
He flicks through the booklet, eyes lingering on the signatures, the dotted line where his handwriting will join the king’s.
‘We are not liable for any damage inflicted during your stay .’
He bites back a laugh, bile coating his throat. Pretty words, for an ugly fate. He doesn’t know why they bother with paperwork, whether it is the fantasy of a meticulous legal system, or just another test, a concrete way for him to sign his life away.
A pen, shining gold in his hand, an emerald sparkling at its head. He twirls it between his fingers, light as a feather in his palm, and then he presses it to the paper.
Ink splashes onto the page, delicate loops tracing the dotted line, until his name stares back at him.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the papers are gone. The carriage turns, and the pen falls, clattering against the floor and rolling to a stop. The emerald winks up at him, taunting, and he scowls.
“I wish to open the window,” he says quietly. A polite request, and also a test. Will they entertain him? Allow him a tiny taste of power, of command, fragile as it is?
The soldier does not reply, and he has his answer. And with it, insight.
The Antarctic Empire may hide behind paperwork and diplomacy, pretty lies and beautiful facades, but at its core, there is cruelty. It is not a democracy, nor any system of fairness and respect. An empire forged from blood will always return to it.
They have no time for the requests of their allies, nor respect for the other covens, even Dream’s.
Tommy wonders whether they would respect him, had he been a vampire. He doubts it. Dream would not have sent him if he had not been best suited to the task, not even with his volunteering.
Because that was how Dream’s coven worked, that is how every coven works.
There is begging and bargaining, but in the end, the sire’s word is law.
He hates it.
The carriage slows, and he closes his eyes, breathing in, and then out. The Antarctic air fills his lungs, chilling him to the bone, and he knows it will be months before he feels truly warm again.
He has heard the stories.
“They can smell fear,” Purpled laughs, fangs showing as he grins.
“Better be careful, Tommy,” he warns, but there is nothing caring about the words, just a dark amusement. Tommy stands abruptly, not even flinching as his chair crashes to the tiles. Purpled’s eyes widen infinitesimally, and he relishes in the small victory.
“I will,” he spits.
He looks at the soldier now, at the sword that gleams at his side, and pushes back the panic.
“Viva la revolution, right?”
Ranboo raises one eyebrow, trying-and failing-to hold back a laugh.
“Right.”
He just has to finish this, and then he can go home. He plays no part in the attack, after all; he would be nothing against the General, or his best soldiers. He just has to stay undetected for a few weeks, words quiet and head bowed, his every step calculated.
If he does it all right, Ranboo will be free.
And that is all that matters.
The soldier grunts for the third time. Tommy wonders whether he is forbidden to speak, or whether he can speak at all. He guesses the former; after all, interaction with foreigners is uncommon, and riddled with language barriers and clashing ideals. A third test, to isolate him, to unlock the shame hidden deep inside. He is helpless here, with not even the sun on his side. The weak rays are barely enough to raise a rash on a fledgelings skin, let alone an older vampire.
The soldier nudges him, and he sighs, nodding.
The machine whirs again, the doors swinging open as the latches click. Against his will, he leans forward, curiosity burning in his stomach.
There is a square, cobble dusted with frost. Flowers grow behind barriers of iron, the familiar blues and whites of the national flag illuminated by lanterns, but Tommy’s eyes barely skim over the natural displays.
His eyes meet the General’s, and Tommy’s blood goes cold.
The vampire does not acknowledge him, nor the soldiers that line beside him, and when they do not move forward, the tension in the air grows. Tommy’s shoulders straighten, and he raises his chin. Another test, then.
There are footsteps, the familiar clacking of boots against stone accompanied by something new.
And then he sees them.
A woman, kneeling before a soldier, crystalline tears freezing midair and shattering on the stone. Her body shakes, but he can see her hands, grasping at the stones like she is reaching for something. She looks up, and he nearly doubles over as he sees her face, livid scarring wrapping over her eyes. She is blind.
And then a boy, maybe a year younger than him, eyes flashing with defiance as the soldier forces his head to the ground. He does not scream, does not cry, but Tommy can see the way his hands shake, the scars wrapping over his shoulders and back.
The General stands before them, eyes never flicking away, but Tommy knows he is being watched, his reaction recorded for the vampire’s amusement.
The humans are not given a speech, nor a farewell. Tommy watches as the bodies are dragged away, blood staining the snow a rosy pink. He can taste it on his tongue, thick and metallic from where he has bitten down on his tongue.
The General meets his eyes for a second time, and Tommy does not flinch, he does not show the fear pounding through his veins. The vampire cocks his head, and for a moment, Tommy thinks he will speak, but he simply waves a hand, what mild curiosity there had been replaced by disinterest as Tommy is shuffled past.
Tommy has passed his test, but it has not earnt him any favours.
A servant stands before him, head bowed, and Tommy scowls.
He may be an ambassador here, someone worthy of respect in the servant’s eyes, but it doesn’t change the overwhelming sense of wrongness that emanates from their position. The soldier leaves with one last grunt, the doors clanging shut, and then Tommy is laughing. Really, genuinely laughing, because all of it is so ridiculous, and maybe he will be caught in seconds, a mouse in the lion’s den, and he is running on pure adrenaline and spite but there is some part of him that wants to laugh until his sides split.
The servant looks up, and finally, it is not respect in their eyes, just a bemused expression that he welcomes.
“Don’t bother with the-the bowing and shit,” he cackles, and the servant looks even more confused, but he can sense relief there, even if it is overshadowed by concern.
The servant probably thinks he is insane.
He can imagine the rumors that will spread, the whispers creeping through the cold antarctic air.
“ The ambassador is mad. ”
“ How long until he loses it entirely? ”
He thinks it will be fun; to have gossip rather than venomous words, rather than the disdain of an entire coven resting on his shoulders. Oh, Tommy knows all about what Dream’s coven thinks of humans, thinks of him.
A parasite, they call him, like they are not the ones feeding off of his blood, discarding him the second their tastebuds change or they find something better, sweeter.
The servant coughs quietly, and he blinks, turning to face them.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, and if it was possible, they look even more confused.
“You don’t have to apologize, sir,” they reply, and then he is holding back a laugh again, because sir?
“I’m not that old yet,” he gasps, raising one eyebrow. The servant looks panicked.
“Sir?”
He waves a hand, motioning to the door.
“I’ll be okay, just uh-don’t call me sir, okay? I haven’t done anything to earn that,” he requests, and the servant backs away, slowly at first, and then they are nearly running, the door clicking shut behind them. Tommy sighs, running a hand through his hair.
He has a problem, now.
He has no idea how to get to his room.
“I think that was the worst conversation I’ve ever overheard,” someone remarks, and then he is spinning around, hands raised as if they will protect him. The person laughs, and he scowls.
“It’s okay, I won’t go telling everyone that the new ambassador is literally a child ,” they say, and any respect is lost to anger.
“ I am not a child, ” he spits. A hand taps him on the shoulder, light as a feather, and he does not shriek, thank you very much.
He spins, insults ready on his tongue, and then his eyes meet ruby red, and he freezes. A vampire stares back at him, barely concealed amusement flickering in pools of crimson.
“Nice to meet you, ambassador ,” they laugh, and he is still, staring up at them with wide eyes. They laugh again.
“I’m not that scary, am I?”
He bristles.
“No, you fucking aren’t-” he squints. The vampire seems to guess what he is after.
“My name is Wilbur, child ,” they say smoothly, “He/Him. And you?”
He blinks. He doesn’t remember a Wilbur, not in the papers Dream had forced him to revisit day after day, until the words were emblazoned across his mind. But he supposes this vampire could be new, or simply overlooked. It doesn’t matter what his name is, anyways. He’s kind, where everyone else has been cruel, or distant, or fearful.
“...Tommy,” he replies, albeit reluctantly, “He/Him as well.”
Wilbur takes him to his room, winding staircases spread before them, and Tommy wonders how he remembers it all, even with years of experience. They move quickly-too quickly for his liking-and he barely has time to absorb the turns, memorize the path and try and reimagine it on paper. Dream needs maps before he is to attempt to breach the palace, but that is not the only reason. Tommy needs a map so he can find the way back.
Wilbur seems to sense his confusion, huffing out a laugh as they pause on a stairwell. For a servant, even in the higher ranks, he is oddly relaxed, but Tommy does not question it. This wing is empty, anyways.
“It’s the winter,” Wilbur grins, gesturing to the windows, the glass covered by frost, “It drives most of the guests away. Except for you, of course!” he adds, smiling back at Tommy.
Tommy smiles back.
Privacy is perfect, especially for what he needs to carry out.
It’s strange, though. He is not an expert on the Antarctic Empire’s customs, but he knows quite a bit about Essempee’s, and from memory, the people flock to the Antarctic during the winter, seeking relief from the summer heat.
But Wilbur would not lie to him, not about something trivial such as that. What good would it serve?
Wilbur may be a vampire, but he is kind, and kindness is hard to come by. Tommy will trust him, for now, at least.
He pointedly does not think about what will happen later, when the dust has cleared and Wilbur stands in the ruins of his home, his king dead, his life torn apart by the boy he was so kind to.
“How much further?” he complains, but there is no real anger, just mild curiosity. The Empire is beautiful, and it’s palace is-
It is ethereal.
Gold flakes adorn marble pillars, white carpets stretching out before him, and Tommy feels guilty even stepping on them, his footsteps too heavy, shoes too dirty, for the fabric as pure as freshly fallen snow. The lanterns sway slightly in the breeze, light splashing onto the corridors, mixing with the sunlight and bathing the floors in a golden haze.
The gold reminds him of summer, of sun-bleached hair and sand soft beneath his feet, of fruit, sweet and sticky in his hands, and honey from the bees, and sunflowers standing tall.
He misses it all, but he will not show it, will not let this moment with Wilbur be spoiled by memories of a life he cannot get back, not until he is finished here.
He thinks he would like to visit Essempee with Wilbur, to dance in the sun and listen to the birdsong, but it is impossible.
Wilbur is a vampire, and Tommy is a human who will betray him. He does not believe in fate, but this-this is a destiny he cannot escape.
He is quiet for the rest of the walk, eyes lingering on the paintings of the king. He wears a mask, a veil, or simply turns away, but Tommy can feel his gaze, cold and judgemental.
It’s just a painting. It cannot hurt him.
He is fearful all the same.
“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, sounding worried. Tommy smiles, and it is bitter on his tongue, but Wilbur falls for it.
“I’m sorry, just a bit tired,” he huffs; “Maybe if there hadn’t been so many stairs ,” he adds pointedly. The door slams shut in his face, but he can feel Wilbur’s laughter from the other side.
And thus, his first day in the Antarctic Empire comes to an end.