Chapter Text
A boy twirls around an empty ballroom. His movements are light and gentle, a twist in his step and a curve of his body – unimaginable skill akin to that of a pirouetting ballerina brightening up his steady, though similarly relaxed, form.
He spins and he whirls, he twists and he pivots. He smiles, pointed, bedazzled ears twitching just somewhat as he catches wind of the joyful conversation blossoming in the room next to him – a family, so happy and so free, laughing amongst themselves and sharing cheerful jests.
They are happy, and he is, too.
Even despite the yellow carnations and purple hyacinths spilling over red-tinted lips.
.
.
The Antarctic Empire.
A kingdom made up of ice and war.
A kingdom made up of power and scrimmage.
A kingdom that... that has mellowed out over time, surprisingly enough.
It's had its downfalls and its conflict, it's had its bloodshed and its destruction, but those are all thankful images of the past – blurring, shuddering memories that not many people can recall nowadays. They're just torn pages in a tattered book, pictures tucked up in old, dust-covered frames and hidden entirely from sight.
Nobody wants to remember the times of unimaginable pain and agony, of burning bodies and painful deaths, not if they now have the chance to erase it from recent mind completely, that is.
Of course, despite that want, it'll always be forever in their history logs.
It'll be founded deep in ancient scriptures that reminisce over the disconcerted moments that show as the Angel of Death had swooped over charging armies; moments that show as the fearsome Blood God had driven his glistening, lethal sword through the guts of thousands; moments that show as two brothers, so alike yet so different in many, many ways, watched on from the security of their castle.
Those who had lived through it will forever have the scars embedded across the expanse of their weakened forms, will forever have the mental images of bodies, bodies, bodies and screaming, screaming, screaming hanging off of each arm with clinging grips.
They'll be strikingly aware of it, yes, but for everyone else? For every new set of eyes and every fresh face that appears? They can easily pretend as if it had never happened.
And that's for the best; it truly is. Why spoil such a lively and happy atmosphere with whispers of past conflicts? Why ruin what is finally so, so good – so peaceful and loveable, so exciting and warm, just for something that had happened years before?
The kingdom is happier now.
The people are happier, too, as they dance around town squares and share bright, stretching smiles to one another; as they press unrestrained kisses to children's foreheads and tell stories over lit fires each, tumbling night; as they walk freely through blooming flower fields and make large, towering snowmen to gleefully mess around with.
They are free from constricting tyranny and can now look towards their rulers with soft eyes and reassured expressions – their structures holding a sense of comforting love and dedication that only goes to assure their leaders that everyone believes in them.
That their people believe in all of them.
From King Philza to the twins, Prince Technoblade and Prince Wilbur, from the adopted Prince Tubbo to their loyal Prince Ranboo, and then-
And then...
And...
And then Prince Theseus.
But at that, confusion washes over the crowds; it washes over grouped families who look up as the Royal Family strolls through the town with beaming smiles and gentle hands. For, where is the youngest Prince? Where is the blonde teenager, so typically fresh-faced and smiling? Where had he gone? Where was the family keeping him?
Where-
Theseus himself doesn't know.
He doesn't know where he is anymore.
He doesn't know who he is anymore.
He looks at himself in the mirror, sometimes, lets his bandaged fingers trace over embedded cracks in the thin glass, gliding over jolting lines with soft finger pads that just somewhat nick themselves along sharp edges. Beads of dripping blood pool themselves over pale skin, but he can't bring himself to care.
It's not like it hurts.
It's not like it hurts at all.
Because it doesn't. Not in the slightest.
Theseus has been through far worse pain than a wound practically akin to a – practically invisible – paper cut. He's suffered swords through the gut and arrows through the shoulder; he's suffered rough, aching shoving and violent, unrelenting punches; he's suffered more emotional agony than a physical wound could ever dream of amounting to.
A slight puncture wound is nothing compared to the ache that is seemingly constantly crushing his fragile, delicate heart in a repetitive, agonisingly dreadful pattern.
Hell, even a slit across his throat would be only a small, minor sort of affliction, next to the raging, simmering, burning torment that consumes the young Prince each time he has to bear witness to the harrowing reality he finds himself stuck, deep within.
A reality that isn't all blooming flowers and flourishing daisies; a reality that isn't all happy smiles and loving hugs; a reality that isn't filled with a caring family holding onto each other with desperate grips and simultaneously gentle hands.
At least... they're not like that towards him.
It's not like that for him.
(Never for him. Never. Ever. Ever.)
For Ranboo? It's different. He has Tubbo, there to soothe his frazzled, racing mind as the two-toned Prince frets desperately over slowly forgotten things. He has Tubbo, there to gently wrap up his bleeding fingers and calloused palms after scribbling, scribbling, scribbling everything he could recall into his so-called 'Memory Book.' He has Tubbo, there to be his friend.
For Tubbo? It's different. He has Ranboo, there to gently clean his slow-growing horns, clearing them of moss and making sure they're in pristine condition. He has Ranboo, there to hold him tight and close when nightmares of a past life grow far too strong to control. He has Ranboo, there to be his friend.
For Wilbur? It's different. He has Techno, there to play off his banter and offer that sort of brotherly relationship the brunette so craves for. He has Techno, there to be his partner in crime, his forever-sibling, somebody to sit and listen to his soothing songs when Wilbur comes up with new, fascinating lyrics. He has Techno, there to be his brother.
For Technoblade? It's different. He has Wilbur, there to hold him tight and gently caress his cheeks, acting as a grounding reminder each time the voices get too loud to contain. He has Wilbur, there to slump with him in blossoming flower fields and braid tantalising, sweet-scented daisies into flowing locks of pink hair. He has Wilbur, there to be his brother.
And for Phil? King Philza, with all of his glory and all of his righteousness, with all of his pride and all of his kindness. He has the four of them behind him, all four of the young princes to stand by his side and stay with him through both the good and the bad. They're there to be his family.
The one thing that young Theseus doesn't have.
Of course, you could argue that he does technically have one - he's related to three of them, after all. His blood brothers, Technoblade and Wilbur, and then his blood father, Phil. But that doesn't exactly mean they're... they're his family. Not in the way you'd assume the royal ménage to be like. Not in the way they act with each other, with the two newly adopted princes, Ranboo and Tubbo.
There's none of that expressive love towards Theseus. He doesn't have gentle hands running through his soft, golden hair; he doesn't have affectionate embraces when he's sobbing from vicious nightmares; he doesn't have people there, people to stand next to him and call him one of their own.
He's just...
He's just a part of Royalty, and that's that.
That's all there is to him.
Theseus is a jewel, so dazzling and bewitching, so glistening and exquisite. He's a gemstone so precious and a bijou of brilliant light.
With his wide, baby blue eyes that speak only of a nostalgic, calling freedom that the young Prince could dream of in the darkest, deepest of nights; with his gold-speckled hair, so wispy and silky, flowing carefully across his delicately traced features and tied back in a single part into a terribly neat braid; with his elegantly dainty touches, hands of a pale white dancing over window ledges and shattered photo frames.
He is beauty.
He is enchantment.
He is the youngest Prince.
And he is used now, only for show. Only for King Philza to meticulously exhibit during fancy balls or gold-tinted dinner parties. He's used for standing next to his siblings, a little space between them, of course, as the other four laughs and jest at one another.
Even Technoblade, with his monotone-edged voice and dry humour, lets himself relax within the partied atmospheres. But never with Theseus. Nor does he ever get close to Theseus. None of them do. None of them ever will again.
Alone, alone, alone, you're alone, you're alone, you're alone.
Instead, they use him, for just one night, every so often, and then the young blonde is quickly whisked away up to his tower once more, away to his bedroom at the highest point where he can only seem to overlook the world and its merry inhabitants. He watches from afar, never to intervene.
Only to observe. Only to pick away at the dust enveloping his room and curl within the silken sheets of his bed. A bad that had once been occupied by not only himself but now...
He-
Sometimes he...
Sometimes Theseus sees himself as the Lady Rapunzel.
A woman, so similar to himself as she's written in the old books (the ones he'd once been granted from his father, many moons ago) locked away in a tower with long, flowing locks of golden hair and an isolation holding her down that's so brutal, so agonising and painful. She's kept away from the outside world, only used for her magical hair.
Theseus' hair isn't magical, but he pays that bit no mind.
They're just... he likes to swap places with her too, sometimes. He imagines himself in her position, wandering over old, cobble steps and painting with her little friend. (He isn't good at painting, either. But that doesn't need to be a factor in his imagination.)
Maybe, he thinks, as he stares through an open window and lets the chill of the Antarctic air bite at his exposed skin, perhaps he'd be happier if he was the fair lady, Rapunzel.
Because, at the very least, she had a family that was ready to welcome her back home with wide, open arms and reassuringly soft smiles. They'd been happy to see her, smothered her in careful kisses and pet at her – then short – hair. They'd treated her so fairly, so lovingly, that it was almost sickening to read.
Why, why, why.
Why doesn't he get that?
Why doesn't Theseus get that?
Why does he have to listen and watch as his 'family' moves on without him, moves on in their tiny, flourishing group and completely isolates him to the side, leaves him alone, alone, alone.
Alone, even on his birthday and Christmas, alone, as he sits for dinner with a plate that hadn't been left for him by the other royals as they sit together to dine, instead made by his faithful servant (and friend), Sam, from barely put-together scraps.
Theseus is alone, as he sniffs and he cries, as he sobs, and he convulses.
Alone forever and ever and ever and-
And Theseus hates it! He hates all of it!
He hates the situation; he hates how he has to live; he hates his isolation! Hell, he even hates his damn name!
Theseus, Theseus, Theseus.
Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.
He wants to go by Tommy, the name that Wilbur had once whispered to him, many, many years ago as the two had sat under a blooming apple tree and swapped stories about their beautiful lives. It was the name that Wilbur had wanted him to go by, apparently, one that he'd thought of when he was still madly in love with his adorable little brother.
(Back when he still showed outright affection to the youngest Prince; back when he was aware that he had another brother, aside from Technoblade, Ranboo and Tubbo; back when he would be kind.)
Tommy hasn't heard it in years, not from anyone but himself.
Himself.
Only him. It's only him. Nobody else. He has nobody else left. He can't do this. He can't. He can't. He can't-
God, he’s-
He’s so alone.
Why, why,
Why-
The young Prince jolted then, fingers spasming and eyes widening as a sharp pain begins to erupt through his stomach, tearing across his body, squeezing at his convulsing lungs and shooting upwards to wrap around his pale neck.
Pain, pain, pain.
He stumbled from where he was stood, pulling away from the jewelled mirror, and he began to rush towards the nearest waste bin – to the nearest place where he could vomit up whatever was rapidly crawling higher and higher and higher and-
Tommy dropped to his knees in a trembling heap, vividly ignoring the carpet burn that smeared across his skin and the vividly stark ringing in his aching ears. He felt sick. He felt wrong. He felt as if his insides were on fire, and his throat had a hissing viper wrapped tightly around it.
Squeezing.
And squeezing.
And squeezing.
Squeezing tight enough to cut off his heaving airflow; squeezing tight enough to send tremors of pain rapidly across his sweating body; squeezing tight enough to cause stars to burst across the backs of his eyes.
Until;
Tommy began to cough and spit, tendrils of saliva dripping over his pink-tinted lips as he retched into the bottom of the awaiting wastebin. Retch and retch and retch. There wasn't much in there originally, just a few old papers that he'd screwed up and thrown into it on the odd occasion.
But now, now, there were four glaring petals.
Four...
Four-
Tommy's brows furrowed, confusion swimming amongst the bubbling tears that had encased his blue, blue orbs in a wobbling embrace.
Four... petals?
Three yellow ones and a single purple one. Speckled with taunting red and soaked in a disgusting spittle, but petals all the same.
Tommy had no idea what kind. He didn't- he, he didn't even know what was happening. Flowers. Petals. Petals had just come from his throat. They'd ripped through his body, torn at his insides, destroyed his pretty throat and, and then-
And then-
His head thumped against the side of the waste bin.
There was a knock at the door.
"Prince Theseus?"
Sam.
"King Philza wants to see you."
Tommy could only stare in disbelief.