Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

From the moment Wemmbu was born in the capital of his father’s empire, there was always responsibility on his shoulders. He was destined to be the heir of the Unstable Empire, expectant glances always boring into the back of his head.

He couldn’t seem to care less about their looks, however. Wasn’t even bothered by them—ignoring them—and, instead, opting to wander the castle halls, curiously peeking behind tapestries or attempting to leave the castle all together as his nursemaids trailed behind, unsure of whether they should encourage or disencourage his acts.

Being a peculiar child, he was always stared at with awe or disgust in people’s eyes. Dark horns peaking out of his lavender tinted hair and eyes so golden it seemed as if they could read any soul his eye fell upon. 

As rumors went, once you gazed into his cryptic eyes, you would be entranced by the purity of it and be completely under his control, never to act on your own once more.

People were afraid, yet no one dared lay a finger on him or whisper an insult; words spread quickly and the heir was one of a kind, smart beyond his age with an admirable face. One wrong word and they would suddenly disappear by the next day, no explanation, and no mention of their name ever to be heard again.

As Wemmbu grew to a young three-year-old toddler, he only became more mystified at what was of the castle or outside in and of itself. The abnormally frigid location of his kingdom made almost any sign of ground vegetation outside of the greenhouses impossible, hence why the palace’s royal garden was so intriguing—at least to Wemmbu.

It was unexplainable; the field—open to the sharp wind—was no greenhouse, yet any herbaceus that was planted in its soil grew. Specifically an elegant blend of purple and red astilbe flowers that grew and flourished in the permafrost soil.

Even at a young age, Wemmbu was attracted by the irresistible looks and mysterious reasons for the garden’s flowers. He started exploring, spending nearly every day there at six years old. 

His advisors, father, and all the servants were against him leaving the castle, but Wemmbu was never an obedient child. He would sneak out to the gardens at any chance possible, graciously gulping down the scent emanating from lilac-tinted flowers and hugging the bright crimson astilbes close to his chest.

Although young, Wemmbu already realized that being caught going to places he was forbidden would lay a set of consequences he would rather not face. So he learned to keep his secret, even from his parents.

However, he wouldn’t be able to keep his secret forever and was proven right on one, frigid August evening.

His mother caught him sneaking out, catching him by his arm as he was peaking around the gate towards the garden. When she suspiciously inquired his reasons for being at the gate, he filled with fear, and lied straight through his teeth, panicking with the excuse of checking on the armory. She had let him go with a weird look, as if knowing what his actions would’ve been, but only willing to convict him if he made a clean breast of it. 

Later, he felt so guilty that he came crying to her and how he was sorry for his mendacious excuse. Thankfully, she was understanding and cooed softly while brushing his hair away from his teary eyes. He told her everything, his secret adventures outside and lying to her, all with crocodile tears rolling down his face. 

She listened intently, holding him in her arms and hummed along with his guilty admittances. 

To say the least, she didn’t let him off the hook. He was punished with a week of two hours less playtime to reprimand for his lying and sneaking. 

Then like that, his secret garden adventures changed.

After his week of shortened playtime, he went back to his original schedule. He thought his mother would completely forbid him from entering the gardens too, but that wasn’t what happened.

On a cool, dark morning, as the morning snow was still settling and the sun started to rise—casting a rosy glow across the horizon, his mother snuck him out. 

At first, he was groggy and confused as to why his mother woke him at the crack of dawn to put on a large, furry coat. Then, his mother led him out to the garden where a new multitude of fresh flowers Wemmbu had never seen before lay. She watched with a soft smile as he stared at her, mouth agape, before enveloping her in a tight hug. 

And as Wemmbu was happily observing the recently-planted flowers, she kept watch for anyone coming.

And like that, they fell into a sort of routine. His mother would come to his room early in the morning on most days, while the sun was still in slumber, and secretly take Wemmbu outside to the garden. 

There he would observe and talk endlessly about flowers to her; the queen, contently, listening to his rambles and him excitedly showing his knowledge.

Eventually, she even got him a gardening journal for his birthday, where he gleefully sketched out the flowers and their characteristics.

It was like his secret grove for just him and her. 

He found that others usually admired the beauty from afar, but Wemmbu liked to observe things he found pulchritudinous up close.

Each day, his mother would take him out in the morning for his gardening adventures. And after every scrutinous fencing lesson, he would also run out into the snowy fields, alone, and sit amongst the flowers—taking in their ravishing scent as a reward from his duties.

A few times, Egg and Boosfer—his two younger brothers, Egg by two years and Boosfer by five—would sneak out with him. The three princes would giggle and quietly play in the soft snow blanket that settled around the flowers. 

Occasionally, Wemmbu would even weave flower crowns for his two younger brothers, and they would give him seeds to plant more varieties in return.

By the time two years passed since his original obsession with the flower field, he had cultivated and grown over nineteen more flower types in the garden, treating it like his second home.

But like fate, something was bound to happen.

When he was nine, he had caught an incurable sickness while playing in the castle’s snow-covered gardens. What started with a continuous cough quickly turned into a high fever. Then he started to cough up bloody red astilbe petals, as if he had consumed a whole bouquet from the garden.

The royal physicians were baffled, they racked their brains for an illness that matched the inexplicable symptoms Wemmbu was experiencing. He was reduced to a sickly, weak little boy in his room. 

He was bed-ridden for weeks.

The court had argued furiously for days on what to do with the news, eventually settling on keeping it a secret only confidentially known.

His mother was devastated and sat tearfully exhausted by his bedside, murmuring soft apologies to him of how it was her fault.

He could only stare pitifully at her; his eyes so feverish, he couldn’t even comprehend her presence.

After a full week of the heir suffering, someone finally stumbled upon an ancient script that gave some detail of what Wemmbu’s mysterious ailment might be.

It wasn’t a physician, it wasn’t a scholar, it wasn’t even the king himself that discovered the old script—tucked behind books upon books of the library shelves; but in fact Egg that found it, scared for his older brother, painstakingly dedicating days in the library for even a clue of what was happening.

Boosfer wasn’t far off from his older brother. In fact, while Egg had discovered what the disease was, Boosfer had already found the cure.

The news was shocking, surprising the court, king, queen, and advisors—it seemed that people thought the most they would be were replacement heirs. They were even more baffled at how the second and third princes had discovered what even royal physicians could not, as if viewing them as nothing more than a shadow of the original prince.

As explained by the two princes: the disease was a special form of Hanahaki—an ailment thought to have gone extinct long ago and regarded as merely a legend. 

The strain Wemmbu had caught was a platonic, and much milder—but still deadly, version of the original disease.

This specific variant was said to be caught when the person afflicted with the illness was exposed to an object that would be important to their soulmate later in life. Slowly killing the victim, only providing their host temporary relief when with their soul-bound spirit. However, the longer they stayed with their soulmate without curing the disease, the more immune the illness became to the relief; hence why the pain only subsided temporarily.

Even with the slight differences, both platonic soulmates would still grow each other’s beloved flowers—honing an aching pain in their chest for their life-long partner; with the longer they leave the blossoms untreated, the more likely of a doomed end engendered from the ailment.

The bitter prospect was that this was only the start. It would be dormant most of the victim’s life, making its first appearance and only a few sparse others—mostly by suffocation or choking. But by the time the host turned eighteen, their destiny was sealed. Their condition would rapidly decline, only leaving a small window to cure their affliction—either by sacrificing something they both love dearly, or die.

And mockingly enough, they would never see the flowers leave their lungs until their death from the blossoms in their lungs. The victims could only live with the knowledge of slowly dying from suffocation, never to see the cause until their final breath.

Verily, they would be each other’s only true friend in their entire lifespan—bound to meet each other in every lifetime, yet cursed in each one if they didn’t fix it in this life where they had the disease.

By the time the two younger princes had finished their explanation, the room was silent and mouths left agape.

Some in the court thought it was ironic that the boy who once enjoyed flowers so dearly was now painfully inflicted by a dormant disease that would kill him. Others panicked, knowing how this could be deadly and lead to a throne with no leader, and hence instability. Everyone was unsure of how to carry on with the knowledge that their crown prince could die at any moment.

Thankfully, within a week of catching the said ailment, Wemmbu had recovered; although it was pretty well-known in the castle by then that he would have relapses and eventually die if he never met his one true soulmate.

Wemmbu—unfazed by how the garden had indirectly given him his sickness—had thought he could return to his original lifestyle and still visit the flower fields.

But almost as if fate was laughing at him, his parents forbade him from entering the flower-covered fields he once cherished so dearly.

He was devastated—crying and mopping around his room. He felt like a part of the life and joy in his chest, a piece of him, was just ripped painfully from his chest and set on fire.

Wemmbu understood that his disease was caused by the flowers to a certain degree, but he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed back. Sure, they might’ve caused his terminal illness indirectly, but there was no way it could affect him negatively again; he was sure of it.

He sulked, pouted, and even begged his royal parents to let him back in, but they were as stubborn as he and kept refusing despite his protests.

After a while, Wemmbu simply came to terms with how he was never allowed back to his safe haven. Was he happy? No, anything but that; however, he acknowledged how he was just going to be forced to live with this thought—from then to the end of his treacherous life.

Since then, his day-to-day life was nearly like a broken record forced on repeat—being lectured of his duties and eventual position as king, listening to his tutors endless talking and attending jousting along with fencing classes. He had limitless lessons, classes, and practices for not only his knowledge but physical prowess.

He felt burnt out, exhausted at his cycle of monotonous schooling.

Wemmbu had never once gotten such a taste of freedom, the delectable taste of liberty on his tongue, after his adventures with his mother, until he turned twelve.

The dangers in his life had only increased with age, similar to the amount of responsibilities he had as crown prince.

There started being assasination attempts, only further limiting his access to the world outside the court.

He was tired of it—complained to his mom constantly, even going to the point where he said he would never meet his other half this way and was bound to die.

His mother had listened intently, still refusing to let him back to the flower fields though, promised to help Wemmbu; swearing she would find a way to help him out of his situation. 

And help she did.

That year, on his birthday—the seventh of April—he was allowed to swear in a knight. His own personal guard.

His mother had convinced the court, his father, that he needed a protector. After all, they wouldn’t want their precious jewel—the one they carefully nurtured and raised—to be carelessly murdered. 

Deep down, Wemmbu knew what his mother was doing. She was finding him a friend, someone who would help ease his loneliness until he had found his soulmate. 

She understood he was going insane with his boring, pitiful life. How he was respected, bowed down to, educated well, and a prodigy beyond his father; but he had no social interactions—other than his brothers: Boosfer & Egg—and was slowly spiraling further and further.

She was aware of how a simple companion could change all of that.

Wemmbu didn’t know exactly how to feel about that. Did his mother think he was friendless and wallowing in loneliness? His forlorn stance and expression did seem to give off an atmosphere of moodiness—but he was sure it wasn’t a result of his terrible communication skills! 

However, whether he liked it or not, from that day forward, his life would never be the same.

As he stood atop the large, well-decorated balcony in front of nearly every noble family in the nation, he had sworn in his personal knight, protector, first friend, and partner for life.

The day was vivid in his head, from his detached, princely steps up into the blinding sunlight, to where he saw the large wealthy crowd. The candidates were all freshly inaugurated knights, ambitious to serve the royal family directly.

They were all different, heights, sizes, and egos. However, they all had one goal in common: to become Wemmbu’s new personal knight.

Wemmbu skimmed over the crowd of candidates with the same indifference, they all were just there for prestige, power, and money—something Wemmbu was not looking for in his future companion.

Then, almost as if it was destined by fate, he noticed him. A nervous boy, only slightly taller than Wemmbu, and scrawny. His appearance was nearly laughable for a knight, yet Wemmbu had the indirect gut sense that he was the one he needed.

As he stood next to his mother, his father at the front of the balcony speaking to the crowd of nobles, he stared into what would be the boy’s eyes—if they weren’t covered by a thin, black cloth—as if subconsciously already choosing him. The knight looked back, a shy smile made its way onto his face, flashing the soft dimples at the bottom corners of his mouth.

Wemmbu glanced away quickly, automatically focusing back on his father, scared at the interaction he just had with the unfamiliar, new chevalier.

His father explains: the knights had to display their skills, show their utmost loyalty to the royal family, the utter willingness they had to protect the heir to the throne, and only then will the last one standing be chosen.

The competition of sorts was based on the “Seven Knightly Arts”: horse-back riding, swimming, archery, swordsmanship, hunting, wrestling, and jousting. Poetry, chess, loyalty, and chivalry was already tested when they were heralded knights, hence why the competition was mostly physical.

The day was entertaining to say the least, Wemmbu watched every moment of the competition, feeling a sense of amusement spread across him as he witnessed hundreds upon thousands of knights compete to be his guard.

But at the same time, he felt sick to the stomach; to them, he was just another prize to show off and take home.

The tournament was like any other, the participants all knights seeking prestige; except one thing stuck out.

Throughout all the contenders, one continuously stayed in the lead. From landing first in horse-back riding to winning the jousting contest, the dark-toned, fiery knight was nearly always up ahead.

It seems Wemmbu had completely underestimated the chevalier by his looks. Despite the boy’s tall, lanky build, he seemed to have a sort of strength the others lacked thereof.

In the end, the only two contestants were left, they tied in nearly every match.

Making a connection, Wemmbu realized the pair were both wearing blindfolds, dark-toned, and exceptional fighters.

Mutters spread throughout the nobles as they stared at the two warriors standing their ground. Everyone knew the rules for the final elimination; unless one withdrew their blade, they would have a duel to the death.

It was admittedly dramatic; however, it was a tradition that was respected and followed—and breaking tradition was worse than breaking the law, leading to public shunning and, sometimes, imprisonment.

Wemmbu always thought the rule was absurd, he saw the spark in both boys’ movements; they were talented beyond JamatoP—their god that had supported their faction and help Wemmbu’s clan rise to power.

Wemmbu didn’t want to be the one to put their fire out, and he certainly wasn’t going to allow anyone else to do so either. To destroy such talent and potential at such a young age was cruel; he would not allow this. He was about to step in to stop the fight, before getting interrupted. 

The older male, seemingly a lion-hybrid, had returned his sword to his scabbard and taken a knee in front of the younger boy.

Gasps rippled through the crowd of wealthy onlookers, mutters spreading amongst the nobles. Never has such an act of chivalry been done with such an important position on the line before.

Wemmbu was taken aback. This soldier had fought nearly the whole day to gain such a prestigious occupation and was now genuflecting in front of his opposition. These two knights were quite strange.

Quite strange indeed.

Even Wemmbu’s father, the king and ruler of all lands, has never seen such a display of courtesy.

The crowd was stunned for a good moment, filled with contemplation on the action that had just occurred. Wemmbu could already hear the exaggerated depictions of this scene that was sure to make its way around Capital City.

Then, as if commanded by the winds, a thunderous applause roared from the crowd. Even the heir and his family clapped their hands in respect.

His father then abruptly raised his hand, commencing silence from the crowd; rising off his throne with a commanding manner, he spoke, “Quite the most splendid exhibition of chivalry we have witnessed today. I must commend, these gentlemen are quite excellent swordsmen, even more illustrious knights.”

The other knight that hadn’t been originally bowing, immediately scrambled down upon one knee, bowing his head, and raising his right hand to rest on his left shoulder—-genuflecting, as knights were taught to treat royalty.

The king let out a rich laugh at the display of valor and respect from the knights.

“My, my, I must bestow my sincerest accolades to these two juvenile knights’ gallantry! It has been quite a while since I have beheld such prowess, in both martial valor and devout reverence.” The king smiles, a content twinkle in his eye.

The two knights bowed deeper, tilting their heads lower simultaneously. If they had armor, or even helmets, they would have doffed them already.

“My sovereign majesty, your words honor me greatly.” The older one thanked, his voice deep and clear. He then shoots a look at the younger knights, as if telling him to comment something as well.

“W-we are only fulfilling our services to the kingdom, your grace. We are but humble servants carrying out our oaths and duties.” The younger one stutters out, flushing slightly, but responding to the utmost fealty.

The scroll of names next to the king’s throne, resting against the armrest showed a list of crossed out names, only two names—back-to-back—uncrossed.

An amused look crosses the king’s eyes as he opens his mouth to speak again, “Given that the venerable knight has resigned, it is befitting that the younger cavalier shall take the honoured, and distinguished, duty of safeguarding the heir. Nevertheless, it would be travesty to neglect the talent of the other. Hence, I grant upon both noble procuratorships of great import.”

(He’s basically saying he’s giving them both important jobs/roles, if you didn’t understand.)

Through the biting cold, the king lets one gloved hand grip on the ornate handrail of the balcony, the other outstretched to send out a royal decree.

“By virtue of my regal authority, I hereby declare Manepear of first rank, in the undefeated army of Ashswag, be elevated to commander-in-chief of highest rank in my personal legion—henceforth now referred to as General Manepear.”

A symphony of applause and fervent mutters rushed through the crowd. Most nobles are astonished and confused at the quickness of the decision, but choosing to rather respect their monarch’s decisions and not question its rush.

Mane beams, adrenaline pumping through his veins—sweat still dripping from his brow.

“And furthermore, Flamefrags, an auxiliary officer of the second grade within the esteemed army of Clownpierce, be raised to the position of Aegis of the Realm, Shield of the Crown, and sole protector of the Heir apparaent—henceforth referred to as Sir Flamefrags.”

Wemmbu recalls how Flame’s shocked face settled into one of utmost joy and how Mane’s tight face of fear melted into a satisfied smirk. 

Wemmbu remembers his own face, although good at hiding feelings, his mouth was agape and he nearly shot out of his seat.

As the servants prepared the knights to reach the balcony the royal family had been residing on to receive their honorary promotion ceremony, Wemmbu whispered to his father.

“Father, I mean not to offend you—as I am but your humble son; however, what prompted you to have deemed these two juvenile knights such high positions in such a haste?” Wemmbu sputters, wide-eyed.

The king gazed silently at the vast forest that surrounded the area they were observing the fight in, snow weighing down leaves of pine that framed the thick green trees.

The monarch exhales deeply, “Alas, Wemmbu—my cherished heir and beloved son—you shall not grasp my reasons today, but perhaps one day you will understand the auspicious possibilities these young mercenaries possess.”

Wemmbu stays silent at his father’s attempt to wisen him.

He, in fact, did not understand his father’s reasoning, but respected his wishes nonetheless and waited for the chevalier’s arrival.

When the two young men had arrived, covered in soot and blood, Wemmbu was handed a ceremonial sword that would be the sworn-in-knight’s blade they would wield until death.

He looked at the young boy, Flame, in front of him, no older than he was and felt a spark in his chest stir as he tapped the two lanky shoulders, donned with armor too big for him.

Then, without questioning, he positioned the both of them towards the crowd, and said his own vows soft, clear, smooth, and princely.

Flame, still overwhelmed by the novelty and quickness of his new position, stumbled over his. 

A deafening applause was heard from the gathering of nobles in crowded seats surrounding the open-field colosseum.

Next to Wemmbu, he saw out of his peripheral vision Mane—albeit slightly older than the two—receiving the same graces from the king.

And hence, the blindfold brothers—as Wemmbu now was calling them for efficiency, were deemed the personal knights of the heir and king.

Funnily enough, that was the day that Wemmbu wasn’t just an heir waiting to inherit the throne anymore. And despite him not knowing it at the time, that was the day that Wemmbu—crown prince, first-born, and heir of the throne of the Unstable Empire—would change into one living life with joy.

—

Flame was the only one his age that was allowed around Wemmbu. Being sworn in as a knight at such a young age and, not to mention, the crown prince’s personal guard gave certain privileges to Flame others his age tend to not have.

The duo quickly grew close, and by the time Wemmbu and the newly sworn in knight had arrived at the castle’s library, they had become well-acquainted.

As Wemmbu took a seat at one of the library tables, Flame took his stand next to the prince. And after getting over formalities and Flame’s initial nervousness, they bonded nearly instantly; diving headfirst into making jokes about his day and trying to make Wemmbu laugh.

Wemmbu—intented to be studying for his upcoming lecture—felt elated and well amused but dared not show it. Flame, on the other hand, could not possibly care less. 

Before long, Flame had retold his day word-for-word, twisting his otherwise mundane day into what seemed like an exotic, anticipated morning; and, noticing how Wemmbu wasn’t going to slip a laugh anytime soon, started to ramble on about other topics.

Sometimes Flame would question Wemmbu pensively, asking about Wemmbu’s mental state—to which Wemmbu would reply with the same monotonous voice, “Depressing.”

However, oftentimes Flame would just make quixotic remarks, and Wemmbu would nod with a barely hidden delight at the imaginative boy.

Even when the tutor entered, he didn’t dampen the mood with his large, over-arching strict aura.

With Flame by his side, Wemmbu’s day passed with a flash. His otherwise unbearably boring tutor sessions turned into a full five hours of trying not to laugh, with every second Flame trying to cover his choked laughs with a cough.

Wemmbu kept a straight face as his tutor fumed at Flame distracting the crown prince from his princely duties, but under the layer of unfazed cold, Wemmbu was trying to hide his own laugh bubbling up.

He has never felt so ecstatic to be in a tutor session, never so entertained, never so excited to get down and learn the war tactics and geography of their land. But whenever he had Flame by his side, everything was enjoyable and pleasurable.

The tutor barked out a question on one of the past kings that had aided the Unstable Empire’s rise. However, Flame just thought deeply with scrunched eyebrows before coming to the conclusion that he, in fact, did not know what the king was.

His stupid, dumbfounded look towards the tutor made the man’s face glow red with anger, while Wemmbu sat regally in his seat stifling a laugh.

Eventually, Flame was forced to sit down and learn with the prince, having stood up being too chaotic for the private teacher to tolerate.

Throughout the next few days, even the most mundane tasks: writing letters to other nobles, attending councils and assemblies, taking archery lessons in the finger-biting cold, and even watching over the royal budget spending, was made bearable with Flame’s comedic remarks.

He would tail the heir to his classes—ranging from studying with tutors to jousting practice, chattering about the latest gossip or how he has improved in his own knight training hopping from teacher to teacher nearly every month.

Flame once triumphantly proclaimed his goal was to master all the battle and combat technique, beaming with a smile on his face. Wemmbu stared at him befuddled momentarily before bursting out in laughter and telling Flame he would have to grasp the skill of observation before he could even consider learning any warfare methods. Flame just scowled and kicked a rock, muttering under his breath that he did have the skill of observation.

Once, Flame had accidentally ripped the tunic of a noble and ran to Wemmbu for help; to which Wemmbu couldn’t help but sigh and shake his head, despite the smile forming on his face. And although he had talked the noble out of punishing Flame, the knight still did get a disciplinary slap across his face; which he complained about the entire day to Wemmbu and only stopped pouting once the prince gave him extra pudding from dinner.

Every night since Flame’s arrival, Wemmbu slept with a smile on his face, hearing Flame’s muffled shuffles and curses at the constant snowfall behind his sleeping quarter’s door.

When Wemmbu had turned fifteen, his father had moved him and Flame to the near opposite side of the empire, to where he would study with one of the Lords in the Unstable Kingdom—Lord Minutetech.

There he would be away from Capital City—his birth place, the palace garden’s magic, and his siblings to a land colder than his homeland; better known as The End.

It was dark there nearly all the time, snow fell constantly, and it was absolutely freezing. 

Wemmbu recalled when he had first arrived, the guards were packed with thick coats and gloves, while Wemmbu had only worn a thin jacket. He thought he would be used to the cold, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth as he fell ill less than a day later.

Flame had laughed by his bedside while feeding the sulking prince hot soup, chiding him for not wearing a thick coat like he suggested Wemmbu had done. The sick demon glared from under his thick stack of blankets, only enticing an even larger laugh from Flame.

In The End, Wemmbu inhabited a castle, full with servants and guards, surrounded by villages, another kingdom within the empire that needed further guarding. But unlike in his home kingdom, the capital of the empire, there was no magical garden that allowed plants to grow. No floral arrangements, just endless pine trees surrounding the castle and the nearby villages.

The reasoning behind why he was being sent away was responded by the king something along the lines of needing to become familiar with the concept of ruling and guarding the kingdom.

Wemmbu assumed that was the explanation for Lord Minutetech, a voidling, living in the castle alongside the prince and his companion.

When the heir had asked for the time of his return, his father replied vaguely that he would inform him once he knew that Wemmbu was ready and done with his training to become a monarch.

And so, Wemmbu spent two years on polar opposite sides of the empire, learning politics and attending meetings with his mentor, Minute; only returning to his father if necessary.

With the unrestricted time Flame and Wemmbu were given, the pair only grew closer. Flame was nearly always by Wemmbu’s side, and by the time they turned sixteen, they were practically inseparable; or attached by the hips as Egg would say.

Within the four years they had been together, there were noticeable changes in both their personalities and looks.

Wemmbu’s hair had long since grown out from his short, boyish haircut. The front section of his hair cut to border his sharp features, complimenting them softly, and contouring the thick mauve lashes that framed his deep amethyst eyes and pale skin. 

Half of his hair was put aside in a small ponytail, the side pieces gently cascading down his shoulder and framing his face. His hair was an elegant mix of lavender and wisteria.

He had grown taller, his face more defined and sharp, body lithe and lean—fit for an heir. He was no longer long and awkward—unsure of whether or not he would be granted permission to play in the garden, but rather poised, regal, and princely.

He attended meetings and was assigned—by Minute—a section of the kingdom to guard. He stayed up late and read nobles’ letters of complaints, maintained border safety, and managed financial savings.

Wemmbu had become wiser, more knowledgeable, didn’t just dream of managing the kingdom anymore but was actively doing so.

And sometimes, when the cold biting air from his window gave him a slap across the face, old memories would arise; and he would recall playing with his brothers, with other servants in the castle, all before getting dragged back to his studious roles.

But then he would look out his bedroom door and see Flame standing there, quizzically staring back at him with a confused grin; and he would smile.

Similar to the crown prince, his guard had changed too.

Flame’s physical state showed how he was accustomed to a knight’s duties—his sinewy and toned body was neither too muscular nor too skinny; the perfect blend of flexibility and strength.

His black hair with red and yellow accents twisted into dreads around his head, falling pleasingly around his face, a leftover from his blaze ancestry. 

Additionally, his right hand was covered with a thin, silk glove—a deep licorice shade; the purpose of which Wemmbu did not know. Whenever he would inquire, the mood would tersely shift and Flame would change the topic hastily.

Wemmbu brushed it off, as perhaps it was a terrible scar under which Flame would rather not reveal. Whatever reason it was, he wouldn’t push and rather let Flame disclose the reason himself.

Over time, the knight’s face had sharpened, completely changed from the undefined features of the twelve year old Wemmbu had met him as. His dark blindfold adorning his face was the only thing, other than his dimples, that he maintained from his youth, matching his older brother’s similar accessory.

As the pair would stroll around the castle, or occasionally snuck into the surrounding forest and villages, it became increasingly obvious that Flame had a handsome face and attractive features.

Castle maids and young ladies in the villages would swoon at just the sight of him. Sometimes Flame would give them a nod of regard when he noticed them, to which they would flutter their eyes in response, looking lovingly in his direction. 

But it seemed Flame never noticed them fawning over him or didn’t understand the meaning of it, choosing to instead awkwardly smile and shake his head before turning to Wemmbu; as if saying, There they go again, looking at me so weird.

The prince was thoroughly confused by the knight’s unbothered attitude; it was as if he was too innocent to even realize there were people staring at him in such a manner. Which was ironic in and of itself considering he was anything but innocent. The amount of bodies Flame had to mutilate, how many lives he had to end, and the blood shed from his sword just to get to his current position—there was no way Flame was innocent. Wemmbu understood that it was a part of Flame’s job to do so, to do away with those lives that went against the empire; but sometimes he wonders if Flame ever thinks back on what he has done since such a young age, if he ever regrets going down the path he went down. 

Perhaps he should ask Flame that question one day.

However, even with all the murder and fighting Flame had done, it seemed that the one thing he had yet to be exposed to thus far was the disgusting wickedness of lust. 

Sometimes, Wemmbu felt nauseous at how people would make rumors and dream about Flame touching them in ways he couldn’t possibly begin to imagine his best friend doing. It made him feel sick to the stomach knowing that actual people would actively say this knowing that Flame is a real person, albeit part blaze. 

He knew Flame would never do such a thing and whenever he saw his friend with his crooked grin and defenseless stance he never showed anyone but Wemmbu and Mane, Wemmbu realized he had to protect Flame from those dirty ideas.

Wemmbu was aware no one ever actively flirted or fantasized over him like some did to Flame. 

He felt slightly reassured that no one ever imagined doing such heinous acts with him. Though the reason behind that was likely because he was often considered untouchable and above the peasants. 

Sure they would admire him from afar, just like how they looked at the kingdom capital’s palace gardens, but they wouldn’t dare think they could be with him.

In their eyes, he was a sacred god, not to be tainted with the thoughts of a dirty serf.

Wemmbu understood that. He felt pleased by their way of praise, but repulsed knowing if he was of lower class with the same face, they would’ve treated him the same as Flame.

He wanted to protect his friend and the last shred of innocence he had; however, thankfully, Flame paid no mind to romantics. He seemed to only truly worry about the kingdom and those he was close with, all of which kept him away from the unchaste dreams of some lascivious men and women.

—

The window frame of Wemmbu’s bedroom shuddered against the relentless cold draft of the early morning; snow still falling steadily from the dark sky, as if the Sun had never risen in the gloomy lands.

It was early morning in the area Wemmbu was residing, with only a few servants and guards awake in the castle shuffling amongst themselves and their duties in the slightly warm hallways.

Minute was in his private quarters, awake since the early hours of dawn, approving farm land requests of former squires; while Flame stood by Wemmbu’s bedchamber entrance—loyal, but nodding off in his sleep.

The prince’s room was dimly lit, a warm crackling noise emitting from the hearth in the center of the wall next to his studying desk.

Although the room was like an oven to most species, Wemmbu was a hybrid, cool-blooded demon. He sought heat to ease the cold that settled in him within, shivering slightly and shifting deeper into his duvet covers.

He wished desperately that he could remain asleep forever in the cocoon of warmth he bundled himself up into; to ignore his duties and run away to his gardens of imagination. Not to mention, it wasn’t every day he managed to accumulate so much heat himself since he was naturally cold; so short moments of bliss and warmth—such as this—was a rare occurrence to be enjoyed.

The prince’s thoughts wandered from cloud to cloud. He envisioned himself as just a purple blob wandering aimlessly in a large garden; Egg and Boosfer laughing and collecting flowers alongside him. His parents were standing not too far away; drinking wine out of imaginary glass chalices and chuckling at their children’s playful antics.

And as he floated with the wind, he saw a familiar black blindfold near a patch of maroon and lavender astilbes. Wemmbu recognized Flame immediately, sprinting towards the young knight, who was already grinning at the purple blob coming closer and closer.

Then just as Wemmbu was about to touch Flame, he woke with a jerk.

The prince lets out a long, drawn-out sight, running his hand through his tousled hair. It was disappointing how quick his slumber had ended; he hadn’t slept well in a long while. 

He slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes, taking his time to rise from his loft and grumbling in response to the thick, fur blanket slipping off his limbs.

Drowsily glancing towards the calendar that lay atop his work desk as he stretched on his rug, Wemmbu stared intently at the date—August thirty-first, momentarily lost in thought.

If it was any random auspicious morning he awoke on, he would drop back into bed with a thump and continue sleeping forever, or as long as his duties would allow. Except it wasn’t a random morning, but rather his best friend’s seventeenth birthday and the first day marking his adulthood.

It was customary in Unstable traditions that a child was considered an adult by the age of seventeen, basically making their seventeenth birthday their coming-of-age and one of the most important days in their life. On that day, the parent of the child would host a large banquet and invite relatives from all over the empire. The celebration would last a week, with the richer the family, the larger the gala and the longer the festival. Traditionally, festivities started on the first day of the said date and ended on the eighth day after it; however, most families with a high noble ranking would hold the celebration before, during, and after the birthday—with the actual birthday being on the fourth day of celebration. This year, due to their extensive training and duties, Wemmbu and Flame would arrive back home three days late to the feast.

The thought of returning back to Capital City after four months—since they also went to celebrate Wemmbu’s birthday, meeting his family again, and celebrating Flame’s birthday together was riveting enough to invoke a smile to creep up the prince’s face.

After Wemmbu finishes his princely duties, he and Flame would depart from The End, say their goodbyes to Minute, and travel to their hometown. He hoped that they would be able to get home fast enough to celebrate Flame’s birthday with Mane, who the prince had become well acquainted with throughout their childhood.

Just the idea of heading home with his best friend was enough to make Wemmbu giddy to power through the rest of his day and get home as fast as possible.

Not to mention the gift he had prepared to give Flame in the carriage. 

Since Flame had gifted Wemmbu a mace, something the prince had wanted for a while, named Gambit for his birthday, he had wanted to return the favor and gift Flame an elytra as he was not of age to own one.

The heir had put a considerable amount of time into preparing for the specific date since he had turned fourteen, anticipating the day for over three years. 

Wemmbu had been waiting to give Flame his elytra so they could both travel much faster, since they’d always had to use the carriage through The Nether before, which the heir thoroughly disliked due to the unfamiliar, hot terrain and long journey despite his companion’s obvious enthusiasm to his ancestral land. 

The two had always bickered on the carriage ride through The Overworld and on the minecart ride through The Nether and, consequently, almost every time the duo had traveled back for Flame’s birthday, something would happen either on the journey or in the city. Hence, Flame’s birthday was always something the prince had looked forward to. 

The chaotic memories of the knight’s last celebration entices a chuckle from Wemmbu out of the sheer absurdity of the festival.

For Flame’s previous—sixteenth—birthday, they had returned to the main castle because Flame and Mane had wanted to celebrate it together, along with the rest of their noble family. Flame and Wemmbu had stayed in the capital for a week, celebrating the days before, during, and after Flame’s birthday.

The first three days were normal; the blindfold brothers had headed home to their noble family to celebrate. Mane and Flame’s family was high in the nobility and very close to Wemmbu’s father; hence how the brothers had managed to enter the competition to be Sentinel of the Sanctum in the first place. Their parents had hosted a private gathering to celebrate their second son’s birthday before reluctantly releasing the two brothers from their festive captivity to wander the merchant stands and shops—where the true frenzy started.

The brothers quickly found Wemmbu talking with Egg about the price of explosives and snatched him away to explore the new trading posts in the city. The three spent the next two days wandering around the city’s trading post and reminiscing. Mane, Flame, and Wemmbu all reconnected and named multiple past memories, making up for the four months spent apart from each other. 

On the sixth day of the heir and his knight’s return, Wemmbu’s father—who always treated Flame like his own son—threw a large banquet for the knight, in honor of his sixteenth birthday and let him drink wine; which was a questionable idea considering Wemmbu and Mane had to fuss over a hungover and throwing up Flame for the entirety of the next day, briefly before the duo’s departure back to The End.

Once Flame and Wemmbu had returned back to The End after a week in the main palace, Minute had taken one look at the disheveled and queasy state Flame was in and sent a letter to Wemmbu’s father regarding on how the two would “regretfully not be able to attend another banquet until their training is over.” Wemmbu’s father had reluctantly agreed, woeful of losing the great partier and guest Flame was; however, he did professionally respond with a begrudging “very well”, as he was still king and had a title to uphold.

Shaking the memory from his head with a grin on his face, Wemmbu rails his mind back on track.

He was excited about celebrating his friend’s birthday he long awaited; especially since it was Flame’s seventeenth birthday and first away from Wemmbu’s father—who would always through the largest parties for the knight he treated like his own son, but barely left any time for Wemmbu to even interact with the young chevalier. This time, the heir vowed to spend more time with his best friend, who was finally an adult.

But before he could even get to that, he would need to go through his responsibilities first. 

So Wemmbu slipped out of bed and onto the rug placed by his bed, stretching and soaking in the heat of the fireplace before dressing into his princely attire placed in a neat pile atop his studying desk.

He slipped on the tunic and coat, barely glancing towards the incongruous set of ornamentary clothes that sat right beside his ordinary attire.

Most of the time, his outfit would consist of an ordinary velvet tunic, fur pants, and a thick coat embroidered with gold. However, on this specific occasion, the modified ornamentary garments that he had laid out from his wardrobe the night before consisted of a deep royal purple cape—aureate weavings creating intricate floral patterns, dark trousers—gems dusting the exterior and making it shimmer, a pale yellow pair of silk gloves, and two stiff leather boots.

Taking a glimpse of himself in the mirror posted by his bedframe, he hums in satisfaction of his appearance before reaching for the door. His hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating for a split second, contemplating whether he should pack his baggage for his trip now or save it for later, before laughing at the absurdity of his thought. His servants would pack the bags for him.

He turns the doorknob and leaves the room, the candle by the window blowing out after his exit. As he turns toward what he expected to be an empty hallway, he jolts when he sees Flame nodding off into a light sleep.

A pang of sympathy shoots its way through Wemmbu’s veins. Flame probably didn’t get a replacement guard last night and was forced to continue watching even when he was very clearly exhausted. He would find out who messed around with the night shifts and punish them for stealing the already sleep deprived chevalier of more slumber. 

Wearily sighing, he jabs the dozing knight to his left who wakes with a jerk, due to always being constantly alert for threats.

“Bro, why do you always get up this early?” Flame groans out as he shakes his initial fatigue and jogging after the prince who was already halfway down the hall with his long strides. Wemmbu, decisively, stays silent to avoid any explanations of his choices. 

For a brief while after the initial question, the knight poked and prodded the heir in an attempt to coax an answer out of him—all of which was a futile attempt as proven by the unyielding silence from the prince.

Flame then settled for whining about how no one came to cover his night shift and was forced to keep guard the entire night, which further supported Wemmbu’s hypothesis and made him dead set on finding who prevented his best friend from sleeping. Obviously, Wemmbu didn’t tell Flame that because, knowing his best friend, there were only two ways he would respond: getting all gooey and saying Wemmbu cared too much or laughing at how Wemmbu was too serious on such minor matters. Either way, he would be made fun of, which he would prefer to not happen.

Instead of commenting on what Flame was rambling on about, the prince intends to question the knight whether he remembered his birthday or not.

“Do you—uh…do you remember what today is?” Wemmbu cut in nervously, Flame paused mid-sentence and took in what he just said.

“Yes, bro, today is August thirty-first.”

“Do you remember if anything is happening today…?”

“...no? What? Was there something that was supposed to happen today? All I know was that Minute said we were heading back to Capital City today.”

Based on the confused and dazed expression on the knight’s face when he was questioned of the importance of the date, he had forgotten his birthday. The prince let out a slightly disappointed sigh and decided he would deal with the empty-headed guard later.

The duo quickly arrived at the throne room where they would listen to fancy aristocrats complain for them to solve.

The prince wished he could say the day went by with a flash, but it felt as if he was dragging himself by every meeting and complaint. The day went by with anything but a flash.

Around the end of Wemmbu’s day, both him and Flame were stuck listening to yet another noble droning on about tax prices yet again.

It was exhausting to Wemmbu, yet amusing to Flame at the same time. The mercenary was hiding a tremble as he held back a snicker at the noble’s complaint of not being able to eat properly, while having a large, round stomach. Wemmbu wanted to drone out the meaningless meeting the noble had brought up, but was forced to maintain a listening expression on his face.

“This is training.” He would remind himself. “This is going to prepare me to become king.” 

Wemmbu always grimaced at the thought of becoming a monarch. He never enjoyed being confined to a throne and bound to his duties; he would much rather be a free explorer, writing books on his experiences and maps of his adventures. However, he knew he had to become ruler; he was the heir after all.

The clinking of Flame’s armor brought Wemmbu to his senses again. He really doesn’t understand how Flame, deprived of sleep for a whole day, can be so lively, whilst on the other hand, Wemmbu, who slept for eight hours, felt so drained.

Obvious choked giggles kept being muffled by a fist on the knight’s mouth, feigning a cough. The noble paused a second in his debriefing and looked towards Flame.

“Your highness, I must question why your knight seems to be making the sounds of a dying cat. Does he need a drink of water?” Thankfully, the noble wasn’t the sharpest, nor the brightest in the toolbox.

Wemmbu held back a sigh, shooting Flame a glare that immediately made him straighten his spine. He would only have to stand this for another thirty minutes before he could celebrate Flame’s birthday with him; thirty-five minutes if the noble didn’t start talking soon.

So Wemmbu made the life-saving decision of getting the man out of his life five minutes earlier.

“No, he is in good condition, you may continue.” The prince responded with an authoritative tone, to which the lord continued in his complaints immediately, as if he had never paused.

It started feeling like insanity was catching up to Wemmbu—Flame’s strangled laughs and the noble’s constant chunter grinding his head thoroughly through. He honestly thought he would die right there and then, the words on his gravestone stating he died  of boredom, until the aristocrat finally granted Wemmbu relief and left under the pretense of not wanting to have his wife waiting to eat dinner without him.

He hadn’t even received an answer to his problem from the prince before excusing himself to leave—most likely afraid of his wife punishing him when he arrived home, and Wemmbu, completely drained from the day’s shenanigans, had let him go. That would be another lecture from Minute later. 

The heir rubs his temples and closes his eyes briefly, inviting the cool darkness to take him completely.

Hesitantly, after a brief momentary break from the candescent candlelight, he reopened his eyes back to the room, opening them only to find Flame breathlessly giggling and clutching the throne Wemmbu sat upon for support. 

The brief jab in the flanks Wemmbu gave him did the trick and left the knight silent, wheezing, and glaring in the heir’s direction.

A satisfactory smirk settled on Wemmbu’s face as he snickers at the gasping mercenary on the floor. 

Setting out to leave the throne room, Wemmbu was suddenly attacked when Flame jumped up and mercilessly tackled him to the floor with a yelp. Scrambling to push away the newly added weight to his back, Wemmbu blindly twisted and wriggled underneath the cackling knight. However, he was not willing to lose such a fight and flipped the guard’s weight towards the floor, effectively pinning him against the ground and liberating himself.

I triumphant grin was plastered onto the panting heir as he stared down at the groaning and rolling knight on the polished wooden planks in front of him; he had won.

Not even a second after his initial victory, Wemmbu was interrupted in his glory by a low, clear voice.

“Have you two concluded your frivolous dalliance yet? The carriage awaits you outside the front gates to transport you to an elytra clearing, where you’ll head towards Capital City.”

The duo instantly froze as if caught stealing gapples from the storage room again. Minute had come to send the two off and now witnessed the childish squabble between the two.

Wemmbu was stuck between expressing embarrassment or to start blaming Flame for everything. He refused to look behind and take a look at his companion’s expression, knowing if he did they would most likely both start howling on the floor.

Minute sighs as he rubs a hand over his worn expression, before looking up with what seemed to be a ghost of a smile.

“Hurry along you two, I won’t reprimand you tonight for it is Sir Flame’s birthday, but if you do not start heading along now I do not think you will make it to his celebration in time.”

The duo gratefully took the opportunity to leave, bowing to their mentor before bolting towards their respective quarters to take their travel baggage.

Flame looked as if he was still processing the day as his own birthday, a cog actively turning in his mind as he registered the fact.

After gathering their belongings, they met each other in the grand hall of the manor, heading towards the horse-drawn vehicle together.

“Man, I really thought Minute was going to behead us in there!” Flame chuckles out, Wemmbu smiling beside him.

“I was considering it.” The said lord stated, stepping into their view by the main entrance. His tunic and cape a shade darker than even the sky outside the castle, dragging behind his echoing steps.

Flame chokes on his next words and the duo abruptly stops as Minute approaches them, his heels clicking on the tiles beneath his boots.

“...uh,” Is all Wemmbu could manage out, which was already much better in comparison to Flame who looked a shade paler than a moment prior.

“Happy birthday, Flame. I’m not going to do anything to you today, considering you are turning seventeen today.” Minute says in a soft tone, the one he used when only talking to the two of them alone.

Flame was left agape in shock for a moment, before rushing to hug his mentor, chirping a, “Thanks, Minute! I never knew you would ever let me off the hook for that!”

After the brief, yet impactful moment, Minute handed Flame a letter and a parchment wrapped box, telling him to not open it until he returned home. The three then said their heartfelt goodbyes, enveloping each other into a hug before Flame and Wemmbu headed towards the carriage.

The horse-drawn vehicle departed not soon after the duo sat, Minute’s retreating figure fading into the trees as they rapidly moved towards the duo’s hometown.

Wemmbu gazed at the dark, midnight sky, covered with clouds and shrouded with mist. He observed that one of the biggest differences between The End and Capital City was that Capital City was lit up by the hundreds of merchant posts set up, but The End had less chatter and trade, more dark than light being in the city no matter what time of the day.

He knew it was only three in the afternoon, but the pitch black tint of the sky looked otherwise. The trip was only eight hours, meaning that Flame and Wemmbu would arrive just before midnight. They would be dropped off by the carriage in an hour to a clear field where they would use their elytras to fly the rest of the distance.

Wemmbu left the elytra he got for Flame tucked into his bag, intending to give it to his friend on the ride. But when he looked over, he was already fast asleep, probably trying to make up for the lost hours of slumber from the night before. Wemmbu smiled at the sight of his friend so innocent and vulnerable compared to his usual guarded and humorous face; he wanted to see Flame like this a little longer, unguarded and peaceful, even if he was only sleeping. 

Maybe he’ll just give the gift a little later.

And so as the carriage continued its path on the rocky road, Wemmbu was slowly lulled to sleep by the content, even breaths from his knight’s mouth and the monotonous lulling bumps and nicks.