Work Text:
Prince Theseus… is dead.
Tommy is dead.
Ranboo is not.
He draws breath to promise
Good night sweet prince.
I’ll tell your story.
Ranboo met Prince Theseus long before the garden.
Tubbo dragged him along to a dinner party and they sat on opposite sides of a carved table covered in food. Ranboo had smiled politely from his spot between Tubbo and Wilbur, Theseus had given a thinly veiled glare from his solitary seat.
Afterwards they shook hands and nails dug into his palm. Ranboo didn’t flinch but kept his eyes averted anyway. This was a prince at his most calculated, a subtle threat interwoven in the placement of his hands and the adjustment of his pocket square.
Ranboo met Tommy in the garden.
It’s an awkward standoff surrounded by budding plants; the tall stems whisper quietly in the wind; secretive spectators to a moment of vulnerability.
It’s hard to hate someone when they bare their soul to you, with eyes raw and throat hoarse.
It’s even harder to hate someone when they hate themselves.
So he makes promises he can’t keep and finds himself a friend.
Tommy had explained once, the meanings of the flowers, how each one reflected the person that caused them. Ranboo thought it was horrifying, a cruel side effect; Tommy thought it was sweet, even if he could never have them he’d have their flowers.
( Tommy decided he’d grow daisies for Ranboo, if he ever needed to .)
( Ranboo swore he never would. )
--
He doesn’t waste time on tears; they are messy and painful and pointless. He attends a slow, mournful funeral that Tommy would’ve hated, sits by an open grave and begins to write.
He interviews every servant who watched Prince Theseus grow up, every guard who ever trained with him, every person who’s life touched his however briefly.
He grills Tubbo on his memories of childhood and trips to the stables and skipping classes to spar and nighttime missions to the kitchens and flower crowns in summer fields.
( Privately, he wonders how a friendship so strong broke down ).
He lays beside an old, mossy gravestone and listens to the sounds of the earth breathing. He comes away with a better understanding of royal pressures and the depths of a mother’s devotion.
He travels into the town and visits bakers and blacksmiths, orphans and young mothers, nobles and street sweepers. They all sing the prince’s praises. They sing of a golden-haired boy who laughed and cried and loved, loved so much it filled him up. They sing of a golden-haired boy who was taken from them too soon and they promise to tell his story.
He writes it all down. His first notebook fills, and so he buys a second, and then a third. Wilbur helps sometimes, fluttering in and out of the project like a bird searching for somewhere to land.
Eventually, Ranboo takes pity and tells him to visit the neighbouring countries and take testimonials from them too.
Wilbur sends them back with a letter explaining that he won’t be returning.
(Ranboo ponders that maybe this is healing. Maybe in one way or another they had all begun to rot in this corrupted castle .)
Ranboo leans on Tubbo while he’s around. When he needs him most, Tubbo pulls through and provides his closest friend, his platonic husband, with endless cups of tea and ink for his quill. Together, they raise their son, Michael, on tales of a boy who lived and laughed and loved so loudly the whole of the land could hear.
--
There is a walled garden hidden within the castle’s grounds. It passed from mother to son, from son to friend. The flowers there are brighter than anywhere else in the kingdom, tended to with the careful attentiveness of one who needs a distraction from grief.
Next spring has arrived. The flowers are blooming, and beautiful, and Ranboo— Ranboo wishes Tommy was here to see it. Wishes he could watch as the crowds of people come to admire and grieve and remember. Wishes he could see that he was loved, that he is still loved by his people.
--
There is an orphanage in the heart of the city. Its opening was funded by a large donation from a foreign diplomat.
Forty years have passed; Ranboo has watched many golden-haired, laughter-loving children grow up by now but none have the same weight hanging on them. He has made sure of that.
The children at the orphanage call him Uncle and beg for stories of his brother – the prince with blooming, beautiful flowers in his lungs. A man who grew around his grief avoids the sadder tales and instead recounts the story of a young boy who was undeniably skilled at stealing pastries from the castle kitchens.
--
When the day comes, he buries Tubbo in the garden near Tommy. He watches as violets and rue and tulips grow over both their graves and thinks of forgiveness and remembrance.
As his health begins to decline and his mind slows down, he hopes Michael will lay him to rest there too, between the people he holds in his heart.
Ranboo wonders if he has done enough.
He wonders if — in a century’s time, once generation after generation has passed — the people will still sing of a golden-haired boy and how much he loved.
( They will .)
--
Prince Theseus, beloved by his people, skilled in the duties of the crown and a symbol of everlasting loyalty, is dead.
Tommy, a child with kind eyes and far too much weight on his shoulders, is dead.
Ranboo is dying.
He draws breath one last time to whisper
Good night sweet prince.
I told your story.