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From underneath the masses of quilts covering him. Tommy felt nothing but the chill of early winter air. A window having been opened mere minutes earlier by a maid to wake the blonde gifted fierce cold unto the boy. Perhaps that was the kindness thing about the empire; its chill. Unlike the sickly touch of his brothers, it was truthful in its endearments. And just as the cold was frank, the condensation upon the windows lied. It warped the outside world, the gardens that laid below a marvel in their vertigo laden foliage. If it were not for the window being left ajar the blonde would have trouble discerning the paths that lay below.
Heavy duvets wilted as the boy stood up out of his bed. Bare feet halting in their movement once they had touched the cold stone floor, uneager to fully place themselves upon it.
Tommy shuffled on the old eggshell blue slippers that laid upon his bedside. Presumably set there by the staff, due to their absence the evening before. Silk bed clothing brushed against just faintly sun kissed skin, and the boy cast his gaze towards the mirror that laid on his vanity, one tarnished in little black pockmarks that had cropped up all over the place in his absence, he found the colour that once complimented his pale skin, now washed him out. It was as if he had stolen someone else’s flesh and fashioned it into clothing.
Tommy felt like a stranger amongst the embroidered finery, too used to the rougher linen and cotton, though with everyday spent lounging on daybeds he found that familiarity to be fading.
A silver basin was left upon the wooden surface of the vanity. Filled with ice water that blushed with the petals from the winter roses that grew outside his window. Beside the bowl laid a towel, a sort of off white linen, decorated with carefully embroidered lilies. Gaunt hands cupped the water in their palms as Tommy splashed his face with it, hoping to rid himself from the drowsiness of slumber.
As the liquid touched the scar, one left from the feat that had claimed his left eye, it stung with phantom pain. It had been difficult relearning his depth perception, though his family had seemed all too giddy to baby his every move. Demanding he hold their hands while walking to avoid ‘bumping into anything’, and while yes Tommy could admit that he had bumped into things, that didn’t make him helpless. For a while his father didn't even let him feed himself! Something that Tommy protested to even after the ordeal was over.
The quilts shuffled as his brother shifted in his sleep. Long pink hair laid claim to the silk pillow beneath him, splaying itself over onto his younger brother's pillow. Something that he had always detested, after all one cannot be too fond of waking up to hair in their mouth. The blondes' eyes traced his brother's form, almost awaiting an outburst, breath hitched in suspense, it was only after a few moments that the boy tore his milky blue gaze off of the brutes dominating stature and towards the towel before him. Soft linen dabbed at the water that dripped from the blonde's chin, its material not quite rough enough to scrape but not nearly as soft as the silk bed sheets he was huddled under earlier.
Taking a seat upon the brown velvet upholstery of the vanity bench the boy tidied at his hair, though didn’t overstay his welcome, his brother would surely make quick work of any effort of his own once he awoke. Tommy’s older brother was after indeed something of a Midas, and the gold of his curls did not escape that proclamation. Milky ointments sat like squatting toads in their bejewelled compacts, their texture cold from where they sat on the wooden vanity, not too close to the window though still not far enough to escape the winter's lament.
Pale fingertips smeared the cream onto his skin, and paid special care to the haughty scar over his eye. And in perfect correlation with God’s cruel humour the moment he closed his eyes to work it into tired eyelids. Technoblade awoke.
“What are you doing up runt?” A tired though loving chuff followed the rather hallow statement as his brother slowly rose from the sheets.
“I haven’t left the room.” The boy bit back as he turned his head slightly to the right, not enough to meet the brute's gaze, yet keeping Technoblade in sight. Suddenly, the cabinet that sat against the wall right to him became very interesting during his act of abatement.
“That’s not what I asked little one” A prompt hidden under the felling hands of a statement, one as obvious as any. For all his brother's skill in fighting Tommy always held great thanks for the gentle reminders to behave that worked their way into his brother's tone, a stark contrast to Wilburs punish now explain later conduct. Technoblades hulking form loomed over Tommy as the brute carded his hands through golden locks. A slightly clawed hand pinched one particular curl between its thumb and finger, giving a slight pull before he wet his hand in the rose water that laid still upon the vanity. Coating the hair in the water to allow it to be easily manipulated into the ringlets that Techno adored so much, into the tight curls that framed his face.
Rough thumbs brushed upon high cheekbones as they rested choice strands of hair across his ears and cheeks. A provoking huff coerced the blonde into meeting the gaze of his eldest brother. Black pupils questioning as they raked across his face, Tommy worried that if he was to open his mouth to give the real answer that the pink haired man had wanted then everything else would come tumbling out alongside it. So he did what he did best; deflected.
“It's cold” The tone whiny, yet arguably endearing all the same.
“And whose fault is that for getting too used to the heat?” It's an unfair jeer, leering and cruel. As if partially blinding him was not enough of a consequence. The blonde turned his face away from the mirror, the self-satisfied smirk that claimed Technoblades face becoming far too annoying to stare at any longer. Instead Tommy busied himself with the buttons on his sleep shirt. Ignoring the heavy hands that worked at the tenseness of his shoulders. In mockery of a comforting hold.
A pepper of knocks nervously echoed through the room. A stumpy little maid sticking her head around the door frame after Techno called an affirmative for her to enter. The women scurried in, presumably to ready the boy for the day. And in a gesture of parting, his brother laid a kiss atop his curls before lazily striding to the door. Raising his gaze to the mans retreating form it felt unfair that he was still mourning for his youth, for the last whims of childhood and his brother be victorious after all Tommy did in an effort to run from him, from this life. Though as loath as Tommy was to admit it, in a strange, almost childish desire, he wished he had gripped onto that life a little harder. Hidden in its cloak, like a child grabbing at their mothers skirts.
Cold fingers touched the silk collar of his pyjamas, a responding shiver ached through his body, the maids' frozen fingers a striking difference from the overwhelming heat of his brother's palm.
Technoblade offered one final- all too smug, too knowing- smile in his direction, one that was hastily hidden by the dark oak of the large door.
Bitch
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The dusty scent of petrichor tinted the air, crisp and cool, the chill of winter sticking to clammy skin from where it was hidden beneath several layers of silk and linen. The courtyard was always gorgeous this time of year. Or at least Tommy thought so, perhaps it was what it held that was the true beauty; childish spars and badly spoken poetry, spectres of the life that the blonde once held. Though to another- someone outside of the palace of cards- maybe that reminiscing would seem far too rose coloured. Sickly in the way that Tommy thought back. No more were the bruises covered in creams and powders, or the bloodied strands of golden hair from where Technoblade gripped too hard. It was cathartic in a sense, the way that melted away in the face of consequence.
Crows perched upon the weedy branches of silver birch, though in the lighting of the morning sun, they appeared more like vultures. Fitting . Not a thought Tommy would repeat out loud, after all, you eventually learn that birds too have tongues, and oh do they love to sing. Especially to their master- upon his request mind you. And Tommy wouldn’t put it past Phil to ask.
For once the snow had stopped in its once endless fall, a moment of respite if anything. Yet despite that, it’s already abandoned kin laid upon the petals of pasqueflower.
Tiny blue brush strokes that coveted the garden with their presence. Cold sunlight cast light, washing the surrounding black mountains that bordered the palace in ochre and its rocky outcrops in purple shadow. It was an impressionist masterpiece painted by a far off God to scorn the weak impudence of solid, flat works of oils on canvas. The whistles from the surrounding birds caused a slight frisson of frustration in the youngest prince, the invasive watch of his father never leaving his mind.
A sharp glare was cast towards the amalgamation of crows upon the water baths and tree branches, they had all melded into one, one bird's feathers mistaken for another's. Maybe there was something beneath it all; something to be feared. Though Tommy found that he didn’t quite care.
A shout sounded from his left, from under the stone alcoves, stood Wilbur. In light of all of his sickly bravado, he stalked forward.
A strong arm quickly wrapped around the blonde's shoulders, all but yanking him into the brunette's chest. A swear was muffled from where his face was pressed into the man's chest. An almost hug. Groaning Tommy beat at his brother's chest, a silent beg to be set free from the caging arms of his brother.
A sharp laugh echoed in the man’s voice “You little shit, i've been looking for you everywhere. Running off away from us, huh? My naughty little Theseus”
Tommy scowled. A sort of silent fuck you, any reply would be seen as a confirmation, another thing for Wilbur to spin to fit his desires. Like Ariadne and her string, the silence guided him out of the labyrinth. There was no reply to be turned into treason.
The sun gave its aid, dusting across Tommys cheeks and blinding his eyes. The foliage became an outline under the sun. A welcome distraction from the oppressive monotony of his brother's presence. A kind of silence that wasn’t broken by grasping hands or wordy promises, a meek slither of altruism that provided Tommy an escape from the under-tide of Wilbur's love.
The brunette raised his hand to shield the sun from Tommy’s eyes - or rather, eye - in order to return the blonde's attention back to him. Perhaps there was a metaphor in there, something deeper that festered within that simple action, a meaning that wouldn't pale under the scrutinous gaze of a poet, one that would instead provide vision into the life of the chained prince.
Tommy wasn't sure that had enough energy to read into the meaning of the pale hand that cupped his brow. Did that make him any less of a fighter? Did the presence of apathy demand the eradication of thought?
Tommy shifted within his brother's arms, a quiet complaint about the lack of movement, one that was received by a preening smile and arms slightly tightening around him. It’s a breathing relationship, something so scrutinising, yet underhanded. A sort of love that revolves around the sovereign wrath that lived in the corpse he used to call his brother. Tommy supposed that it was mean to call somebody that, but how can it be false when the once warm arms now stood cold. It was a strange ambiguity, though of what nature Tommy wasn’t certain.
The cobbled pathway echoed under their footsteps, the recent snowfall crunching with every wry stride. The smug presence of victory made its home on Wilburs face, the slight quirk of his lips betraying the glory he clearly felt at the epitaph of Tommy’s freedom.
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Winter yielded to spring, and in that very same nature the blue bells made themselves known in the garden, stressing the gardener with their stubborn presence. Though Tommy could guess that after his order to leave them be, the stress had become far more silent; more agreeable as to not raise the anger of the littlest prince.
The trees whose leaves had fled, who had stood bare in a renaissance of bitter constraint and melancholy, were now returned to their gentle muse, no longer having to reluctantly allow the impermanence. A fickle story of love and loss. Tommy thought it was sweet, the way the careful leaves were reborn upon the branches, and sometimes he wondered if the oaks ever grew jealous of the pines. Their needles stayed with them all year round, unlike their own. If Tommy was a tree he could imagine that he would be jealous.
But Tommy wasn’t a tree, he bore no branches, nor any leaves. His roots did not reach for miles under the earth, though he was chained to the palace nonetheless. In the very same way they were chained to the ground to which they were born. Would a tree feel remorse if it left its home? Tommy wasn’t sure, it was a strange sort of unknown, one which housed itself in not just his heart, but in every action. A sort of equivocation that devoured.
Technoblade always made it very obvious that there were some things that he didn't need to know or rather shouldn’t. And so the blood that stained the hands of his brothers would stay anonymous, and the brunette whose corpse was dragged across the border of Dreams kingdom and displayed from high turrets of the palace, would remain nameless, the ostentatious betrayal would convulse, betray its own nature and quieten itself.
Instead, an indifference would play upon the blonde's lips as he huffed and reluctantly divulged his day to his family when they returned from their conquests. He would become a martyr of unobtrusive virility. And the prince, forever supine upon silks and decadent upholstery, would agonise beneath patience, like the sky Atlas beared upon his sturdy shoulders.
His home would have no windows, though his intimate betrayal and the following regret would be spoken about across borders, and in the courts of nobles whose lands were not his own. Town squares not subject to frost would hear of his name, of his submission to entrapment. The youngest, smallest imperial prince of the Antarctic empire would live as a figure of gossip, and revelry.
Tommy would mourn, though it would be a resigned sort of sadness that rested on his face. A misery that’s been settled into and greeted, not as an old friend, but as a guest whose presence would be treated with respect, with diligence.
The mouth of the beast had certainly closed, though within the creature's cavities, Tommy had made his home.