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You know many things.
You know that you grew up too fast, your childhood ripped away from you in a blur of wars and conflict, of explosions, blood, and tears. You know that things are more complicated than they seem and that you’ll never find out the truth about everything.
You can attempt to try. Perhaps one day you’ll learn more than you expect.
Just as surely as you know tears leave shallow gauges down your cheeks, you know that you have a son and a husband who love you. You have a family.
You are loved.
You know that to be true, even if nothing else is.
Sometimes you don’t feel loved, lying curled up in an obsidian prison built by your own hands. Sometimes everything hurts when your head is blurry and your mind doesn’t feel like your own.
It’s cold in there, light being absorbed by the thick black walls. You’re used to the cold, but it’s dark and lonely, and so much harder to bear.
You wish Tubbo were with you.
It’s okay, though. You’re used to it.
You’re losing time more, you’ve noticed.
You’re in the kitchen, Michael in his highchair, applesauce all over his face, and a bowl hanging over one of his small tusks. He’s growing fast, you realize with a bittersweet pang, and soon you won’t be able to lift him anymore, or keep up.
Tubbo is over on the other side of the room, nose pressed up against the furnace glass from where he’s sitting on the floor. Potatoes sit over hot coals, baking to perfection.
You wonder how he isn’t on fire yet.
Tubbo asks you a question and you can’t quite focus, the ringing in your ears drowning out all other noise.
You feel it coming on, head fuzzy and arms feeling like someone else’s, so you excuse yourself. You know that you have to leave before something happens.
A walk couldn’t hurt.
It’s blindingly white outside, ice crunching under your feet. You forgot shoes, having left them in the front door’s chest, and water seeps between the pads of your paws. It stings, but the snow isn’t too terrible. You can deal.
You’re tired.
Black spots dance dizzyingly fast in your field of vision as you breathe heavily, fog hovering around your mouth.
You just want to sleep.
The frozen ground is hard as you crumple, knees buckling under you. Distantly you realize that you’re so far away from your home, that someone might never find you.
You can’t bring yourself to care.
You’re so
tired
tired
time to sleep
sleep
Sleep, Ranboo. Let me take care of you.
You wake up in your bed.
Tubbo is next to you, arms wrapped around a plush polar bear, and you don’t know how you got there.
The clock is broken. You don’t know what time it is. Tommy meant to replace it (he was the one who broke it, after all), but he never quite got around to it. He never will, and that’s obvious to the three of you. You make a note to buy a new one, perhaps from Sam. You’re sure he has plenty of extras.
The mattress is hard, wool sheets rough against your face, and you sigh, closing your eyes.
You’re so close to falling asleep, even though you’re not tired, when Michael calls out.
Sliding out of bed is a monumental task, your legs sore and stiff, feet mottled with water burns and rocks.
Tubbo stirs and you freeze, one leg swung off the bed, waiting for him to go back to sleep. He mumbles, turning over, and starts snoring again.
Tubbo, the child soldier, with his scars reaching deeper than the surface. Tubbo, with his bees and flowers, with his bombs and his catapults.
You don’t know how you got lucky enough to have him as your own.
Michael is standing next to the trapdoor when you climb up the ladder, hands one over the other on every other rung.
You laugh to yourself, thinking about how Tubbo has such a hard time climbing up. The ladder is spaced out for you and your long legs and clawed hands, not him, with his hooves and short legs.
Perhaps you can make him stilts.
Michael grins when the tips of your horns pop over the floor, the rest of your body clambering out quickly after.
You’ll never get tired of Michael’s beaming face when he sees you, smile wide across his face as he charges across the room towards the sound, barreling into your legs.
He looks up and blinks owlishly, tugging your sleep shirt, asking please, can we make flower crowns today?
You don’t know how anyone could ever turn him down.
Get your axe out, Ranboo. You know what to do.
It’s blissfully quiet outside, both your husband and son bundled up in puffy coats and woolen beanies, thick-soled winter boots on their respective hooves.
You’re wearing nothing but a suit and a hat placed lovingly on the tip of your tail by Michael, who insisted that the split-dyed feathers would get cold.
You suppose the rest of your body wouldn’t, just your tail. Makes sense.
It’s too heavy for the whip-thin appendage, and you have to resort eventually to clutching the purple-knitted monstrosity between your claws, saving it from being dragged across the rocks and falling off Prime-knows-where.
Wouldn’t be too bad of an outcome, now that you think about it.
A thin layer of rapidly melting snow covers the ground from the night before, and you and Tubbo share a look, knowing that no flowers would be left alive, and there would certainly be none with long stems. Not here, anyway. All you have here are dandelions and the occasional cornflower hidden between crevices of rocks.
You decide to take a trip to visit Niki. She should have a case of flowers tucked away in the back of the bakery somewhere, and sweets could never hurt.
Michael seems more than happy to accept the change of plans, spinning around in a circle, staggering once before running off to the portal.
Tubbo laughs, running after him, shouting something unintelligible over his shoulder, and you know he wants to race.
You’re more than happy to.
Why aren’t you teleporting? I’ve taught you better than this. Teleport , Ranboo.
You’re leaning against the weeping obsidian base, spinning Michael in circles over your head and making airplane noises, when Tubbo comes puffing up the hill.
You’re not looking at him but can still feel his playful glare all the same, and you shoot him a sharp-toothed grin that stretches, quite literally, across your face.
He growls, flips you off with both hands, and marches through the portal, stomping in exaggerated anger for Michael’s amusement, who’s squealing in your ear, ears flicking back and forth.
He doesn’t question how you got there so fast.
The smell of fresh-cooked bread hovers around the bakery as you draw near, and Michael wiggles in impatience, demanding to be put down.
You oblige, setting him down gently, and he immediately charges off, barreling through the door and setting off the bell.
Niki calls out a cheerful greeting from behind the counter, a soft musical voice flowing through the air.
You like Niki. Niki is a pale pink with tones of blue, soft and warm, and you know that she would smell like rosemary and clove.
It's simple. It's safe. You're safe.
Niki is dangerous. Don’t trust her.
Seconds pass, or months, or years. You don't know how to tell.
It doesn't matter, enderling. Come back to me. Come back.