Chapter Text
Phob felt the breath slowly leave his body, desperation clouding his senses as Tinn was brutally ripped away from him again. Sounds of war and agony rang around them both, and yet...
And yet...
The only thing Phob ever saw before the light left his eyes was the fading visage of his beloved prince.
Tinn, with his matted hair, torn clothes soaked with Phob’s own blood, soot streaking across his tear-stained face. He looked nothing like the prince Phob had once known him as.
But to his dying lover, Tinn had never looked more like one than he did now.
“Your Highness...” Phob’s vision blurred as Tinn’s fingers slipped through his own. The familiar rings clattered to the ground as their innocent tinkle signaled the end of their beginning.
The flames around them both rose higher and soon enough, there remained nothing but ashes.
Phob closed his eyes, allowing a last tear to slip through as he was left alone. Perhaps it was just as well, he thought bitterly, his prince would never belong to him in this life or-
Whatever was left of it, he supposed.
. . .
News of the failed uprising rang through the streets of Siam, with ashes of a bygone era being swept away as the people were left to gaze upon what remained of the monarchy.
Arrests were made; executions were arranged but no amount of victory gained by Khana Ratsadon could ever erase the loss they had endured.
Janthorn left the station feeling like a shell of herself. Even though the authorities had confirmed the body found on the site was Captain Phobthee, the twin rings lying next to him were not sufficient evidence for her to simply accept the bitter truth.
Yet, at that moment there wasn’t much else she could have told Tinn, even if it meant shattering a piece of her own heart to be the one bringing him the dreadful news.
“Were you able to find- find Phob?” Tinn’s sunken eyes pleaded with her, the faintest inkling of hope struggling to shine through. The journalist before him felt like an executioner coming to deliver the final blow on his neck as she knelt to take his shaking hand in hers.
For a long time, Janthorn could not speak. For whenever it seemed she tried to open her mouth, a huge lump filled her throat and she stopped once more.
Tinn’s large dark eyes were wide open, irises swirling with a desperate mix of fear and hope, and his shoulders shook with effort to contain sobs as he begged for answers.
“The authorities...” the words tasted bitter in Janthorn’s mouth, “they have confirmed that- Phob- his- body was found at the- scene-” she forced herself to meet the prince’s broken gaze, “I’m so sorry, your Highness.” her voice cracked at the end as she turned away, but not before she pressed the unfortunate twin rings recovered from the ashes in Tinn’s trembling palm.
Tinn’s smile, which had been trying to mask his pain all this time, suddenly froze in terror and grief as tears rose in his eyes. He truly looked so pitiful that Janthorn’s heart went out to him as she closed her eyes, unable to reconcile her grief with the bitter truth.
Except... she was not quite sure if there was any truth to it. The body found in the rubble had been far too badly burned to truly be identified as her friend’s. A fact she hid from Tinn as to not give him a false sense of security while she herself searched for answers.
“It is just as well, really,” she told Siri in the privacy of their room together, “if his highness finds out that Phob is truly dead after all, then...” her voice trailed off as Siri held her hand. “I believe he might not be able to survive the news a second time.”
The first two weeks that followed after Phob’s passing were an endless nightmare for Tinn. For he spent them bedridden, too sick with grief to register anything around him.
Since he had no one left in his family, Siri made sure to drop by, often bringing him letters from well-wishing students and teachers from his school who encouraged him to get better, so he’d come back to them.
None of these things ever registered with Tinn. There seemed an endless hollow before him, and he truly did not know how he could survive having lost almost everyone he’d ever loved.
When he was finally able to sit up, his normally expressive eyes were hollow and empty and his face sunken in. No tears left him anymore and nothing mattered even.
The doctors reluctantly cleared him for discharge when he requested permission to see his imprisoned family, and he limped his way to their cell.
Chat let out a roar of fury as he took in Tinn’s depleted form as his brother quietly took a seat before him, “I spared the life of that low-life vermin because of you,” he spat, “and this is how he repays that debt.” Tinn blinked at him emotionlessly as Chat demanded “where is he? How dare he not accompany you here- you can barely even walk!
“he’s dead.”
Chat stopped his tirade as Vasin raised his head in shock. “What did you say?”
“Phob is dead, we killed him.” Tinn said emotionlessly, “that is all I came here to tell you.” He kept his eyes lowered; his voice barely a whisper of what it normally was.
“Then... who will take care of you?” Vasin asked slowly, his heart hammering at the sight of his beloved youngest, left all alone by the world that had once cradled him so gently.
“I’ll be fine.” Tinn said. He paused for a moment, before wistfully adding, “then again, there would be no greater mercy than for me to join him in death.”
With that, he rose to his feet and turned, leaving his family speechless behind him.
“Tinnakorn!” Vasin reached out for him, “come back this instant, what do you mean by such deplorable musings- come back I said!”
If his son heard him, he showed no signs of having done so.
Having no choice but to move on, Tinn decided to go back to work. Before he did so, he made sure to visit Nual in her small house where Phob had once resided as well.
“May I come in?” He said softly upon seeing her grieving face at the door. The woman said nothing but pulled him into her arms as all the pent-up agony and grief she’d been carrying finally had a place to rest.
“My prince, it is all my fault!” She wailed as Tinn’s gentle arms wrapped around her. “My son-” hiccup “I denied him of the chance to love- trampled over his hopes and dreams- and now-” She looked up at Tinn, “I will never see him again.”
Tinn shushed her gently, closing his eyes as he struggled to be strong before her.
“It isn't your fault, Nual,” he tenderly wiped her eyes, “I’m sure Phob never blamed you for what happened- if anything, the fault is mine.”
Before Nual could frantically shake her head, he continued, hoping his voice didn’t break, “maybe- if he never loved me, he’d still be here-alive- today.”
“No, my prince- it isn’t-” Nual had scarcely registered it before the young prince knelt to his knees before her, his hands clasped together as he begged.
“Please... find it in your heart to forgive me, forgive all I have put your son through- for the sake of our love-” his voice gave out in the end as he dissolved into sobs- long heartbreaking sobs that sent tremors through his still recovering body.
“Your Highness! there is nothing to forgive- why do you kneel?” Nual’s eyes widened as she tried to make the prince rise in vain as he stubbornly remained rooted in his position, “please get up! I am nothing but a servant- it simply isn’t proper!”
“Nual, I am no longer a prince,” Tinn begged, “please- now i am just... Tinn.”
“I- I cannot call you that, my prin-”
“Nual... please- Phob would have wanted you to.”
The last phrase was spoken so quietly that the former nursemaid thought she had imagined it, but it was there. Sighing, she relented, resting her hand on his head as his own mother had never done.
“Very well, your- Tinnakorn.” She spoke haltingly, as though the words were new to her, like they belonged to another language.
Tinn smiled through his tears for the first time since Phob’s death as Nual managed to pull him up in her arms once more. He stared at the portrait of his brave captain behind her, imagining him watching over them both with pride.
It seemed like a lovely thought.
The cotton rose tree outside moved merrily with the wind. The petals dancing around as though they too, agreed with Tinn.
. . .
1 month later.
Despite everyone’s best efforts to help him, Tinn’s health did not improve. Yet, he continued doing his best to ensure Phob’s efforts were not in vain.
The school building he’d cherished was destroyed in the uprising, and despite everyone coming together to rebuild, he knew it would never be the same.
New faces arose while old faces faded from his memory as word of the shift in the education system spread around.
Soon, people knew Tinn less as the “fallen royal” and more as the wonderful and kindhearted teacher their children joyfully told them about. Skeptical parents walked away with blooming hearts after having met him, assured that their youth were in good hands.
And yet...
All of this faded away from memory when Tinn left the hustle of the school, only to come back alone to his lonely house. The house he’d once innocently dreamed of sharing with Phob, but never could.
It was almost dusk when he arrived, taking in the silence around him. He set about to change out of his work shirt, choosing to wear his old slacks. Placing a lingering kiss on Phob’s portrait by his bedside, Tinn remembered to light the incense as he began to clean the place.
Outside, the cotton rose tree he had planted with Phob still bloomed prettily; its petals turning white as they left the branches and fell gently on the ground. Tinn watered it like he’d always done, making sure it was tended to properly.
He caressed it in sadness, longing flooding his soft heart as memories of a lifetime ago seemed to engulf his numb senses.
Sitting under the tree, Tinn closed his eyes as he breathed in the familiar scent.
He was momentarily at peace.
. . .
Somewhere, near a village far, far away.
The aim of the nobles might have been to overthrow the government. However, the real victims of their conquest ended up being the innocent villagers who had the misfortune of having their homes next to their headquarters. Wide-eyed children watched in terror as their families were separated with blazes of guns and weapons surrounding them.
Chanthra was one such child as she stood there stock still, her terrified screams ringing out amidst the violence. Her family had already been led amidst the crowd, and she’d gotten lost in the scuffle.
Yet, when all hope seemed lost, a gentle hand closed around hers and quickly led her to safety. “Go to your family, little one,” a soldier’s concerned face peered at her as they were suddenly surrounded.
She nodded, shaking in terror as she slipped away, but not sending a pained look to the benefactor she could not repay.
. . .
Phob had passed out from the pain and agony, and not a single soul was in sight. The flames around him had faded into nothing but ashes and smoke, and now the frightened villagers had slowly begun to step out from their shadows to survey the area.
Among them was the little girl who’d been saved by Phob that morning, and as she ran towards him having recognized the soldier from the morning, her relief turned to fear once more as she took in the pain he was in.
“Sir, you need help!” She tried to shake him, to no avail. In desperation, she went to find her father who had been analyzing the wreckage nearby.
“Father, that soldier- he needs help!” she shook her skeptical father, who softened when she said, “he’s the one that saved me this morning- please!”
He rested his hands on Phob’s fading heartbeat, and upon realizing there was still a thready pulse somewhere, he beckoned to the others and together they carried the injured captain away from the wreckage and to the warm safety of their home.
“Do you know who he is?” Chanthra’s father asked her. To his disappointment, the child shook her head. “I only met him this morning,” she said.
“Is there anything on his clothes we can use to identify him?” Another villager added while they waited for their chief healer to finish treating the soldier’s wounds.
“I don’t know... we are not even sure if he can last the night.”
At this, Chanthra’s little mouth turned up as tears filled her eyes. “Please help him.” She pleaded.
No one answered her.
. . .
At the first light of dawn, the door of the room opened, and their healer stepped out.
“The boy has a strong will to live... but his body needs time to rebuild itself-” he said gravely, “he might not wake for several weeks- but rest assured, he will wake nevertheless.” A twinkle lit his eye at the last phrase as his gaze rested on the little girl standing anxiously before him.
“You did well, my child, you saved him after all.” He said kindly, placing a hand on her head as she offered him a trembling smile.
When the soldier had been changed out of his restrictive and torn uniform to more comfortable clothes, the men surveyed the old clothes for any valuable they could use to find his identity. Unfortunately, all they could find was a silk handkerchief, a wilted cotton rose and a faded old photograph.
“Is it common for a soldier to possess a silk handkerchief in this economy?” One of the men asked wonderingly.
“Don’t be a fool, it probably belongs to his rich lover.” Another spoke, examining the initial T that rested carefully on its corner.
“Can anyone read this?” The men called out, then a child from their neighborhood raised his hand shyly.
“I- have been attending school for the past month,” he spoke nervously, fiddling with his worn-out shirt, “I think I can try to read this.”
When the villagers gave the handkerchief to him, he identified the letter as T.
There was no name however, so the clue was useless. Disappointed, the villagers left the handkerchief in the child’s possession.
“What is your name?” Chanthra asked curiously, for she had never met someone who could read in their village before.
The boy smiled, “Arthit.”
While the children introduced themselves, the villagers took to analyzing the second item they’d found on the soldier, a simple wilted cotton rose.
“Such a lovely flower, but it grows only on the upper side.” One of the women examined it softly, “its famous for being held by young lovers.”
“Then- this means... the soldier probably has a connection to the nobles in the upper side.” Chanthra’s father said slowly, realization sinking in. The rest of the villagers cheered, believing they were one step closer to solving the ‘mysterious soldier’, or so they claimed.
Inside the room however, Phob lay unconscious, the worst of his fever having faded away as a blissful dream graced his memory.
Tinn lay in his lap in their garden, a peaceful expression on his face. Phob brushed away a lock of his silky hair, wondering what luck he possessed to have such a treasure in his hold.
“Phob...” Tinn gazed at him, his eyes full of hopeless love and something else the other could not place, “why did you leave me so? I am all alone.”
Phob’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “my prince- I'm here with you, i love you- how can you say I left you by yourself?”
Tinn shook his head, “you left me- I'm fading too... Phob.”
His eyes grew weary and slipped closed as his breath gave out. Phob’s bliss suddenly cracked as he held Tinn’s motionless body in his arms, “My prince- stop- come back!”
“Please don’t leave me...”
Phob writhed in agony in his sleep, causing the healer who had been keeping vigil over him to slightly dab his forehead with a wet cloth.
“Calm down child,” she murmured, “you’re safe here.”
Phob thrashed around but gradually fell into oblivion once more.
“My prince...” his lips breathed, “wait for me, please...”
. . .
“You mean he was calling out for a prince in his dream?” Chanthra’s father asked the healer as she relayed what she’d seen and heard.
The healer nodded, gesturing to the photograph clutched in his hands. “Probably the boy beside him there, it seems.”
Chanthra’s father nodded, “I’ll ask someone about it then.”
“You’d better.”