Chapter Text
“Revenge from the Abyss”
Chapter 9, Part 2
His figure towered over the steps of the throne, strewn with shards of the royal stained glass window. My body, bleeding profusely, struggled to lift me to my feet. Every movement was accompanied by excruciating pain, but my determination did not waver. There would be no second chance, and I would not be given another life to live. With a weak movement of my wounded hands, I touched the amulet hidden under my torn shirt. It pulsed with magic capable of destroying everything within a radius of several dozen meters.The mask above me still smiled mockingly:
"So you’d really waste even crumbs of magic on nothing, Ranboo." — A peal of laughter shattered my mind.
I didn't answer, just took another step, then another, approaching the man. Now there was nothing to be afraid of, and no one to worry about. I rushed forward, wrapping my arms around him, pressing my whole body against him. The amulet flashed bright blue, like the light of distant stars. My breathing was interrupted by my tormentor's scream.
A moment of silence. And then - a blinding flash that engulfed everything: the hall, the throne, my body, and my tormentor. Only ashes and silence remained, broken only by the faint echo of the battle that had been. The price of victory had been paid.
𓂃༒𓂃
The last customers were leaving the cozy café with wooden furniture and a display window, lit by lamps with round lampshades. Outside the window, the sound of raindrops hitting the asphalt and glass lulled me with its quiet sound.
The creak of the door distracted me from the pages of my book. A tall woman came out into the aisle, taking off her black apron.
“Okay, Tommy, your shift is over for today. You can get ready to leave.”
“As you say, boss. See you tomorrow.” Smiling, I walked to the far door behind the counter. I was greeted by a small room with lockers.I should stop by that little shop on the corner again; maybe I’ll find something else to read on the shelves. And hopefully not just some mediocre trash wrapped in a cute cover. They had to reveal the characters' personalities and then immediately kill them off so that the main character could ultimately sacrifice himself for his cruel, completely insane family, who had gotten rid of one of them without remorse. Otherwise, he would have remembered how they had treated him.
Having changed out of my work clothes with the 'Barista Tommy' badge and into a long dark coat, I left the premises. With the arrival of autumn, the weather is increasingly replacing warm sunny days with cloudy evenings and rain. Leaving the warm coffee shop, I opened my umbrella. Today I need to go to the store, otherwise it will be scary to look in the fridge at home.
Streetlights illuminated the wet asphalt as I walked past tired passersby. My phone rang in my pocket, and I took it out. A photo of my friend appeared on the screen:
“Boss man, how's it going?” Tobias' voice came from the speaker.
Our conversation continued, accompanied by laughter, as I walked past the houses. We had known each other since childhood and had been friends until we finished school. It was with him that we played the craziest pranks, laughing like madmen when the flour spilled out in an explosion, and then laughing when Dad froze in surprise in the doorway. To this day, childish scribbles, barely resembling the words 'best friends,' still hang triumphantly on the wall — until Dad finally gave up trying to remove them and simply hung photographs over them." Turning towards the pedestrian on the road and already stepping onto the wet asphalt, l crossed the street heading through the houses that had been outlined over time, walking without noticing anything around him, absorbed in his friend's voice.
The walls of the buildings closed in around me, barely lit by the streetlamp.
“Well, it’s been a hell of a day today,” Tommy muttered into the phone, turning off the busy street into an archway. On the other end, Toby was animatedly going on about a car repair.
Gravel crunched behind me; someone else’s shadow fell over me. I turned around — a man was right in front of me. Suddenly, the distance between us shrank; he roughly grabbed my wrist, twisting it. My fingers went slack, and the phone hit the asphalt with a dull thud. I didn’t even register where the phone fell, I just saw the screen’s dying flash on the ground.
“Fucker, what the hell are you doing?” — with my free hand, I swung, trying to knock the bastard down. A hard shove to the chest — and my shoulder blades slammed into the cold wall, the air knocked right out of my lungs. It already seemed to me that he was about to start checking my pockets.
In a last attempt to save myself, I tried to scream, but my breath caught. Instead of a scream, only a rasp escaped my throat — a blade sank into my stomach. When I dropped my gaze — a handle was protruding from under his hand.
Sharp, wet, from somewhere below it was warming my skin. The knife twisted, and my scream died under his hand; tears streamed from my eyes. I desperately struggled to kick him, anywhere, didn’t matter where. Even if I couldn’t overpower him.
When our eyes accidentally met, I started shaking — two blue abysses were staring at me. Even the dim light of the streetlamp didn’t reflect in them — only a void. A glassy, lifeless stare, as if all this madness wasn’t happening right now. As if he were some detached, soulless observer from beyond.
When he let go of me, my legs gave way. I leaned my back against the wall, desperately and futilely trying to stay on my feet, clinging to it with my palms. Sinking to the dirty asphalt, I pressed my hands against my stomach. My vision blurred, and I felt a pool of blood spreading beneath me. My phone lay right next to me; on the other end of the line, Toby was desperately calling my name. I rolled onto my side, trying to reach for the phone with my torn arm, covered in blood and dirt. Damn, my throat was burning, and I wanted to scream for help—it felt like I was about to spit up blood.
The sounds dissolved into the background noise, and darkness and silence enveloped my eyes.
𓂃༒𓂃
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Am I hearing my own blood?
The sound seemed to echo from everywhere, filling all the space, driving me insane. But I can't open my eyes. I feel no pain, I can't move. I don't know how much time has passed. At times I thought I was asleep, having completely lost track of the seconds, as if someone had burned the clocks. I died. It's too lonely and hopelessly quiet — I don't want it like this. I haven't lived my life yet, haven't met the girl of my dreams, haven't gotten a dog that would bark at the neighbors. Haven't gone to America. And what will Toby think, with me lying there on the asphalt in a pool of blood? Dad will go crazy when he finds out. It's not fair. If God exists, then I'm going home.
The dripping began to recede. Trying to catch it, I felt as if through a tight embrace. No, I can't fall asleep again — I need to go home. In a futile attempt, my nails scraped my skin, but my mind was already drifting away from me. It felt as though water had filled my lungs; when I tried to take a breath, my chest wouldn't move.
Whispers swelled around me. Trying to turn toward them, I managed to open my eyes onto an endless darkness, in the ocean of which thin, luminous threads were drowning, stretching far beyond the horizon. Beside my cheek, little teardrops floated past; I raised my hand, clasping them in my palm. My feet touched what could have been the floor.
Now a strange hum seemed to sound right behind me. Having no choice, I moved carefully into the unknown, skirting the threads that closed in ever nearer on my path, as if they intended to bind me. My head filled with thoughts of the absurdity of it all, until I made out a bluish-gray light in the black gloom. There, where the threads streamed together toward a short young man — to his hands and feet, like vessels — they were tied into his pale skin.
Could it be that he too died and hasn't woken yet? No, I shouldn't assume it's death; maybe I'm just unconscious. Carefully stepping up to him, by the light of the threads I discerned delicate features, only slightly burdened by wrinkles near the lips. The young man's eyes were covered by light hair carelessly strewn over his head, similar to my own golden hair.
Lowering my gaze to his thin wrists, which perhaps had never known hard labor — they were thin and slender, the bones jutting at the wrists. The tips of his fingers had turned blue from how tightly the thread constricted the skin until it reddened. Strangely, his body seemed to float on the threads, but it didn't pull on them, as if it had become weightless.
I touched the bound young man's face, brushing the hair from his eyes. I don't know if I expected a reaction from him; I went on studying him. He had no scar or trace of wounds. Gently tilting his head to the side, I was met with the sight of his neck, where the threads were pulled taut over crimson wounds. They squeezed, strangled, continuing to constrict further.
I touched them, running my fingertips along them. Feeling as though something was flowing inside them, moving in one direction in a continuous stream. With a soft touch, I stopped at the frayed tip of the threads.
And that's when I noticed something strange: the thread cutting into the suprasternal notch at the base of his throat was trembling slightly. It was a tiny, barely perceptible vibration, as if from a quiet, internal hum issuing from the very depths of his being. As though responding to my touch, they began to weave themselves around my fingers.
In horror, I yanked my hand back, but the threads reached out, tightly binding themselves to my fingers. I grabbed at them and tried to tug at that damn thread at his neck to loosen its grip. But as soon as I pulled it toward me with all my strength, I realized my mistake. The thread did not snap. Never in my life had it crossed my mind that, despite my strength, I wouldn't be able to tear a goddamn little thread.
The light of the threads began to blur; my legs went weak, lowering me to my knees. The whispers fell silent in my mind as I blacked out, drowning in the bottomless ocean.
𓂃༒𓂃
Slowly opening my eyes, I stared at the ceiling as if surrounded by fog. My head felt heavy, and every breath seemed like torture, as if the air around me was filled with glass dust. My attempt to sit up was met with sharp pain in my side. I groaned and fell back onto the pillow. When I covered my eyes with my hands to block out the annoying light, I noticed that the skin on my hands had turned pale, but more importantly, there were no scars from the blow that had stripped the skin off. Only a few small healed scratches marred the appearance of my perfect skin.
I grabbed the edge of the bed, trying to keep my balance. I felt my heart tighten as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand.
I can breathe; I'm alive. I need to see Dad as soon as possible—I just need to find my phone......
When my gaze wrenched itself from my hand, I stared with wide-open eyes at the room in which I lay. The room was quiet; only the ticking of a clock disturbed this oppressive silence. Light flickered on the walls, casting long, uneasy shadows.
I was lying on a large bed, the silken sheets slipping away under my fingers. Above the bed hung a blue transparent canopy. To my left stood a white bedside table, upon which rested a small statuette. The walls of the room were painted with a beautiful, intricate pattern that I couldn't quite make out. In the corner stood, a mantelpiece with various flowers, , and next to it a table with a mirror, with a chair pushed back
Looking through the windows with their light curtains, I noticed the impenetrable gloom of the night. However long I had slept, I was clearly not in a hospital anymore; it all looked too much like a museum room of some rich 18th-century douchebag. Where am I? I need to get home quickly — Toby and Dad are probably already losing their minds.
The dizziness returned with renewed force. Bracing my hands, I got down from the bed. The cold air immediately seeped through the thin pajamas, making my feverish body shudder. Barely moving my feet, I shuffled toward the far door of the room. As I opened it, two shadows, illuminated by the soft moonlight from the corridor windows, fell upon me. Frozen, I could only watch as they turned at the noise of the creaking hinges.
Two men were staring at me, and in their eyes was such bewilderment, as if they had beheld a miracle made flesh. I even felt the urge to turn around — was someone from the heavens standing behind me? Not a single thought in my head urged me to step away from them as I took in these strangely clad figures. They bore little resemblance to kidnappers; rather, in all that iron armor, they looked more like knights straight out of a Disney fairytale.
"Your Highness, please return to bed," said the man with short dark hair, his voice quiet yet insistent. "I will fetch the overseer and the physician."
What?
𓂃༒𓂃
After some time spent under the watchful eye of one of the guards, in an awkward silence and my one-sided dialogue with the floor (with an empty gaze), two men entered the room. Breaking the silence and my brilliant thoughts with their rhythmic footsteps, I listened to them with my head bowed.
"Leave us. Let the healer examine the prince," a quiet voice sounded behind him, and the footsteps of the retreating guards faded away with the creak of the door. Only when silence fell over the room again did I look up at the short man standing before me, who resembled a little lamb with horns that had sprouted a bit too early.
" What happened? I don't feel any pain from the blow," I didn't know to whom I addressed this question, but I wanted an answer. I felt fine. I didn't need a healer.
And oh my God, he looked strange, unreal. His hair was like pure, untouched snow, accentuated by his tanned skin. But the most fascinating part was the color of his eyes—the scarlet hue of the iris seamlessly merging with the dark pupil. His unusual appearance was completed by a simple shirt tailored to his shoulders and loose black trousers.
While I was staring wide-eyed at this guy, more like a cosplayer with his so unnatural appearance, the second one passed by us, stopping at the bedside table on which stood a gilded statue, its edges curved outwards.
In an instant, his hand moved through the air, a tiny spark ignited within the golden curves, and light flooded the room, blinding me. Blinking away the sudden flash, I could now clearly see the room. I had lost interest in the interior back when I wanted to leave through the door, but he just passed his hand over that thing and it lit up. Damn, this guy knows how to surprise. It seems my gaze followed him for too long, as the guy was starting to get nervous. Not knowing what I expected from him, he spoke:
"Your Highness," the butler replied respectfully. Despite his high-pitched voice, which had replaced his youthful squeakiness, the young man made an effort to speak softly.
"You were found lying by the castle walls and Ponck was immediately notified—" He swallowed, his gaze falling to the bedpost. For some reason, I thought he would rather look the devil in the face right now than look at me.
"Blood was coming from your mouth. It was stopped, but you spent several days unconscious."
After finishing his long speech, he looked at the doctor and nodded to him, who had been waiting humbly all this time for permission to touch me.
“My prince, please lie down on the bed.”
“Wait, I understand that this may seem strange to you.” A slight laugh escaped me as the doctor's hands pressed down on my shoulders. I pushed him away, dodging to the side. Two people looked at me in confusion. “But I don't need help. I feel great.”
With a deft movement, Ponk touched his wrist, moving the sleeve aside. I cautiously glanced at the black beads under the man's fingers; the soft purple iridescence on the dark surface was mesmerizing. With a light movement, he ran his fingers over the skin next to the bracelet, and there, where just recently there had been nothing but veins, a delicate pattern was now emerging. Pale, like traced cracks, the patterns spread from the knuckles of his wrist upwards, toward his sleeve. I froze, not wanting to let the beautiful image fade.
On my wrist, where it felt warm, the bracelet shimmered with a purple iridescence, and the patterns began to fade, disappearing from my skin along with the scratches. But at that very moment, surprise gave way to a burning pain: a thin needle pierced my arm. The beautiful image was instantly forgotten as I yanked my hand away and hugged it to myself.
– Fuck, that hurts – I looked at that bastard. What the hell does he think he's doing, poking a needle into my skin? – What the hell are you doing? Since when did it become normal to just stick needles into people? A new kind of entertainment?
My angry gaze turned to them, but the blond guy seemed not to notice me at all, completely ignoring my shout. He just kept staring at the tip of the needle. How did this happen? How did I end up here from that godforsaken hole with all those threads?
Lost in my thoughts, I completely failed to notice that the intent stare of the guy in the stupid tailcoat was no longer hiding it.
"Theseus, how are you feeling?"
How am I feeling. Your indestructible, genius Tommy has everything under control. So what if I died and now I'm sitting in a room with a bunch of crazies? He can handle anything. The fact that I woke up god knows where – that's just a minor side effect of enthusiasm. Fuck, how do I get out of here? I hid my trembling hands under the blanket, coming back to that name that slipped through.
"What... how... ? What did you just call me?" – I voiced the thought that had crossed my mind, trying to keep my emotions in check.
"Oh, please forgive my vulgarity, Your Highness."
Theseus, Theseus. The name of that bastard who was the antagonist at the beginning of the story, thrown in just so the emperor's sons would have an excuse to stand up for Ranboo one more time, before that fucking bastard Dream with XD on a leash showed up. Killed by the will of fate — the whole fucking world just played a joke on me.
"Bitch, bitch, no, I don't want to die. I just got my life back — I need to go home. How do I do it?"
"Your Highness, you look unwell." – It seemed my observer had become worried about my panicked state.
"Get out," I forced out with a shaky breath. My body trembled as I tried to blink away tears. Clenching my fists, I stared at the uninvited spectators – "What the fuck don't you understand? Get the hell out of here."
Taking his eyes off the needle, the man slowly got out of bed, pushing aside the boy who was frozen in front of the mirror. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand — a pillow — and threw it after them. When their silhouettes disappeared into the shadow of the guards beyond the door, I covered my face with trembling hands.
My voice broke into a rasp, tears streaming down my face. I want to go home — Dad, help me, I won't argue with you anymore. My weeping remained in the darkness of the room.
𓂃༒𓂃
I didn't count how many times over those few days that little guy had come into the room, pulled back the heavy curtains, letting the sunlight illuminate the patterns on the walls and reflect off the mirror, shining an unpleasant light into my eyes. Despite my silence, he would bring a tray of something warm and steaming each time, but I stubbornly ignored it, preferring to stay in bed, rotting in my thoughts, surrounded by the smell of dust and dried flowers. Getting no reaction from me, he would leave the room.
This time seemed no different, but the boy just let his gaze sweep over me and spoke:
"You're not sleeping at all. I'm not giving up."
Ignoring his words, I burrowed even deeper under the blanket, staring at the corner of the room.
He walked over to the bed and unceremoniously yanked the edge of the down blanket. A futile attempt. I clung to it with the death grip of a man for whom this blanket was the last bastion against the harsh reality of his new life.
Here's the translation, preserving the original text, pronouns, and core meaning:
"Theseus" — I clenched my fists; they wouldn't call me by his name. "I know a lot has piled up. Even if we haven't found anyone, it's safer now. Trust me, I'll stay by your side."
Throughout the book, there was mention of a guy who had been tied to Theseus even before meeting Ranbob. Ranbob's first friend was Theseus's former keeper — Tubbo. This gave him a significant advantage over the prince. Unsatisfied with the silence, he walks over to the wardrobe, sifting through clothes and tossing a few onto my blanket.
"Why can't you just leave me here, to keep rotting..." my voice rasped painfully.
"It's not acceptable to leave you here alone." He came closer. Tubbo sighed and sat on the edge of the bed; his palm settled on my shoulder, warming my skin. A sickening feeling of longing was brought on by his silence, as if I were trying to break free and somehow guess where I had stumbled.
"I've had enough," I said, abruptly sitting up and lowering my head to my bent knee, hiding my gaze behind my hair. "You won't leave me alone."
"You're welcome!" A slow smile spread across his face.