Chapter 1: Ye Who Are Beloved By Death, Rejected From Her Arms
Chapter Text
Church bells toll loudly in this wretched cell, one of the only sounds Theseus hears most days. Few people ever choose to come near the fallen prince’s cage, mostly those who have to deliver food, believing that Theseus has no way to escape. Unfortunately, they’re right.
A lifetime of misery has left Theseus with none whom he would call friends, none who would visit him in his last moments, let alone assist in freeing him. Even his list of tentative ‘allies’, greedy nobles and servants willing to lend their aide for the right price, is frightfully short. In his current state of poverty, he has no one.
Grime sticks to the once illustrious crown prince in a way it hasn’t since he was a small child, freshly short of a mother with no one around to remind him to eat or bathe. Even when he wanted to do those things, he often found himself ignored.
His mother had kept much the same company that he did, after all. People who would care not for her son after her death. Maybe that, Theseus muses, is why he grew so desperate for power.
Only with power did he gain the right to exist. Only with money and influence did anyone deign to pay him the slightest bit of attention. Only once he clawed his way through lessons and decorum, sneaking into lectures he had no right to be listening to, did people treat him like a person, let alone a prince.
But a base built on a concept as uncertain as power would never be stable. Power comes and goes. Influence can be gained and lost at the whims of those around him. If people decide he is nothing, he is nothing.
If people decide he is to live the rest of his days in a dusty, forgotten tower, then that is what he shall do. Thankfully, Theseus knows he will at least feel the sun on his skin one more time before he dies, however short that time may be.
Executing a treacherous prince is a spectacle that can not be handled quietly.
Footsteps catch his attention just as the ringing fades from his ears. Loud, scuffed things denoting heavy boots- a soldier, then. A sting rattles through his chest, popping the childish hope he’d had that someone would have come to see him before the big moment.
Perhaps not his father, the king, who ordered his demise but perhaps his dearest step-mother. While their relationship was frosty, Theseus knows her heart to be weak. She would surely cry for his death, an ill-fitting reaction for a queen. Of course, her weakness seems to be the thing his father loves her for most.
“Get up,” the soldier snaps. Theseus drags his attention away from the dark stone floors, stained from centuries of neglect, no servant wanting to clean an area so close to the church bells. He smiles, a bitter thing mocking politeness.
“Not even a last meal?” He rasps, voice strained from the weeks of neglect. No one should blame him for finding little reason to speak since his sentencing. Well, technically, he was not found guilty then, an investigation being needed.
But is his current treatment not indicative of a guilty verdict? Theseus is being treated far more like a criminal than a suspect.
“ Up.” The soldier tosses open his cell, hauling Theseus to his feet. Spots dance in his vision, unable to stop himself from stumbling. Blood rushes back to his legs, prickling from so long on his knees.
Dehydration leaves his head dizzy, though that may also be the hunger, his stomach having long since stopped rumbling as it realized he had nothing to feed it. Nausea burns in the back of his throat. With nothing of substance to hurl up, he at least doesn’t have to worry about soiling himself any worse.
Quickly, Theseus recovers. It’s not as if he has any other choice. The soldier keeps a vicious pace, no other servants coming to join their march down the many flights they must cross.
Yet another slight against him. Even nobility accused of the most grievous of crimes are kept clean and in company. Perhaps they are not left uninjured, depending on their accusations certain interrogation methods may be deemed necessary, but they are better treated than this.
Scabs and bloodstains might have actually made Theseus feel a bit better about the situation. They would be confirmation that his family cared enough to put up a farce of a trial, an attempt to ascertain his guilt instead of getting rid of him the moment it becomes convenient.
Marching their way through a servant’s exit, he’s finally brought into the light. He resists the urge to enjoy the warmth, soft sunlight heating the flagstones beneath his bare feet, for he knows this soldier would not care to wait any longer.
Is his family as impatient to get rid of him? It wouldn’t be a surprise. Theseus knows very well that he is not the favorite child.
He would be more surprised if his father considered him his child at all.
A crowd of onlookers gather around a finely built wooden stage, upon it sitting the executioner’s block. Feeling far calmer than anyone might expect him to, Theseus only has eyes for the people already standing upon his execution grounds.
Of course he does. Despite all the claims otherwise, Theseus does harbor some amount of feeling for his family, even if little of it is strictly positive.
Front and center is of course his father, raven dark wings denoting him as the lead of this play, with his step-mother a shadow at his side. Anyone could see that they are related. Their hair is much the same, even more so now that dust and detritus has darkened Theseus’ golden blonde to a sandier color, though even with the tangle of unwashed hair does not get his nearly as straight.
Identical eyes meet Theseus' own for a moment as he approaches the steps, a mirror reflecting the sky. They’re even the same in their dullness, his father showing as little care for him as every other time they’ve met.
His mother can’t manage the same feat, turning her blackened gaze away, either too ashamed or too pitying to stare the man who could have been her son in the face. Her oil black hair hangs loose around her shoulders, mimicking a mourning veil. Yes, this woman will not do well as Queen.
The twins stand by the wayside, a protective barrier around the man who Theseus tried to kill. They protect his replacement with far more voracity than they ever protected Theseus. But then, they’ve never gotten along very well regardless.
Wilbur is naturally a step closer than his twin, always feeling so strongly, never quite mastering the art of hiding his tells. Hatred twists his expression into an ugly affair, ruining what his elegant cheekbones, sapphire scales, and dark eyelashes had going for him. His hair, the same color as his mother’s, mimics Theseus’ curls far more in texture.
In another life, they might have been brothers.
Behind him, Techno stands out far more. His skin fresh as snow, his hair paler than the clouds, he’s a perfectly carved snowflake completely untouched by the world around him. No one in the crowd would ever expect him to be such a vicious fighter.
No one in the crowd would know how he looks with blood slicking his hair and claws, as cold as the winter that birthed him while Theseus struggled at his feet. Techno had only saved him from an assassin once. It was not nearly enough to convince Theseus that he cared.
Seeing Theseus’ stare, they close ranks, blocking his vision of their precious Ranboo, Theseus’ replacement. A perfect mixture of Techno and Wilbur, pin straight hair evenly split between black and white. Mismatched eyes of red and forest green surely show their terror at seeing their would-be killer.
Oddly enough, he can’t manage the hatred Theseus knows he once held for the man. It’s not as though he lost anything when they arrived. Theseus got no love from his family and gave none in return.
Maybe it was the point of the matter. Maybe Theseus wanted this to happen, wanted to test just how far his father’s regard for him truly stretched. Maybe that’s why he isn’t surprised that it only took one attempt for his life to become forfeit.
“Theseus Hendrick Mycroft,” his father finally deigns to address him, “you stand here on accusation of the attempted assassination of the young prince, Ranboo Clarion Mycroft.” The soldier that brought Theseus here unsheathes his sword with a harsh sound of metal against metal.
“Kneel and plead your case.” A hefty kick to the back of Theseus’ knees force him down. Please, he doubts he could have stood for much longer anyway, at least save his corpse the bruises. He bites back a grimace.
At least the stage is well made, no splinters or nails digging through the thin cloth of his jail attire. Theseus looks back up at his father, squinting against the sun. What exactly does he expect Theseus to say?
Very little it seems, his face as impassive as his winter spirit son. Why, one could convince Theseus that the void itself has taken root in his father’s soul, leaving him with nothing to feel but empty disdain.
Perhaps he’ll let himself feel proud before he dies. This may be the most emotion Theseus has ever pulled from his father before.
“Guilty,” Theseus replies to the shock and horror of the crowd. His father’s face twitches, wings pulling a fraction tighter around him, the only thing giving away his own surprise. It could be disappointment as well, expecting Theseus to at least try and defend himself.
“The price for attempted assassination of royalty is death.” His father’s voice is only the barest bit softer, as if he’s disclosing information Theseus doesn’t know, encouraging him to speak. Encouraging him to make a fool out of himself.
Naturally, he says nothing. Theseus did commit that crime. If he were to try and claim innocence, he would have to… why, he’d have to blame it on Tubbo, his ever faithful butler. That just won’t do.
Even if Tubbo cares not for Theseus beyond his wealth and status, Theseus has a rather shameful soft spot for the man. Enough that he cares for his butler’s life just barely more than his own.
“...Alright,” his father closes his eyes, lifting his head to see the crowd, “do you have any last words? Speak now or forever hold your tongue.”
His father is finally breaking now it seems, unable to watch Theseus die. Odd that this is the breaking point. Not the neglect, not the favoritism, but the rightful punishment for a crime he truly did commit.
“I’ve always thought you hated me,” he sweeps his gaze over the gathered royals before settling on his father again, “I hope this is what you wanted.” For the first time in years, Theseus smiles at his father without shame.
It is not a pleasant smile, far too many teeth, but neither is it a mocking one. All it is is open, showcasing the closest thing Theseus has to care for the man before him.
Wings mantle, puffing up at Theseus’ words, giving his step-mother room to step closer to his father, gasping at Theseus like he’d said something ridiculous. Wilbur takes another step forward, the beginning of words reaching his tongue.
But he says nothing as the executioner’s sword swings towards his neck, neither a word nor a shout. But his mother does not cry as she witnesses the scene, eyes wide. But his father does not show any regret or remorse as his first son dies.
Red sprays the finely crafted stage beneath him, ruining his prison garb, the world turning upside down for only a moment. Then, Theseus knows nothing.
Except, that’s not entirely accurate, isn’t it? Theseus may feel no bite of the executioner’s blade but his senses do not appear to cut out the moment he dies. Even if it feels like they do.
Theseus sees nothing for there is nothing to see, only the ancient void of Death’s domain. He hears nothing for there is nothing to hear, souls lacking even a heartbeat. There is nothing to touch, nothing to taste, nothing to smell.
After weeks of rotting in his own filth, it’s downright pleasant. He is neither cold nor hot, neither hungry nor full. He is certainly not in pain.
Such nothingness could easily drive a man insane. People so rarely last when trapped within their own mind, not a problem Theseus can find himself having. For much of his life, he was alone.
Perhaps he had his mother, but he was still alone. Perhaps he had his butler, but he was alone. Perhaps he had his family… but he was truly alone. It is only natural he is alone in death.
Years could pass, Theseus floating in that infinite nothingness, feeling the closest he’s ever gotten to peace. The actual time is unimportant. What could possibly be important in death? There is nowhere to go and nowhere to be.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t realize his environment is changing. So relaxed in Death’s domain, his mind does not even register new things as important. If he had been half as distracted in life, he would have died far sooner.
Hands come to cup Theseus. Not his body, not his face, but the very concept of his being. The skin over them is so close to bone he could mistake them for skeletal, a blinding white compared to the void. Or is the void only dark because he can compare it to them? Does it matter?
Attached to them is… well, his mind certainly interprets her as a woman but his soul knows her to be Death. Attempting to describe such a being is to court madness, still it is in a mortal’s nature to try.
Covering most of her body is a long veil formed of supernovas and black holes, the whispers of the dead sinking into his skin with every shift. What little Theseus can see beyond that shifts with each blink. A body formed of ancient bones- of fossils- of nautilus shells that never quite keeps the same proportions.
“Little king,” her voice whispers, if he can even call it a voice, “you are not meant to be here for many years yet.” She draws him close, inspecting him with something akin to… to fondness, far warmer than even Theseus’ own blood.
“Sorry to disappoint, my lady, it was not my intention.” Theseus curls into her grasp, into the tender kindness he was never offered in life. Were he still living, he can easily see himself rejecting it, afraid in some way that it would be twisted into leverage.
Oddly, he can’t not even imagine ever thinking so cruelly of Lady Death.
“Few ever intend to die. It is not your fault…” She prods at him, turning his being over in her hands. Ah, he must be a soul right now, that would explain the lacking limbs.
“Most certainly not, you were meant for things far greater than you were. You were to be the best of them, little king.” She clasps around him, a mimicry of a hug. Theseus would laugh if he possessed the ability to do so.
“Not a king I fear,” Theseus corrects her, “May I ask what you mean, my lady?” His mother had spouted similar things, the few times she decided him worthy of flattery. Even then, he had not understood. How could he be the best if he could not even get his own father to look at him?
“Perhaps I should not say, Fate has always been protective of its designs,” She dithers, “But then, this was most certainly not a part of its plans. They are far too fond of you to let you die young.”
Do the gods truly care for him so much? It certainly does not feel like he ever got to see it. But then, even mortals know the gods can’t interfere with the world, even Fate is limited in its actions. Free will is the only right shared by every living creature.
“You were meant to be our King, Theseus. You would be the conqueror, the uniter of all, the one who would free our people.” Death runs a finger down his back, free of his father’s feathers and his mother’s fur, too human for the spawn of two hybrids.
“The world should have loved you…” She trails off, “and perhaps they still can.” Theseus is suddenly whisked away. It’s hard to say the distance nor the time, having no point of comparison for beginning versus end.
“Life and Time will not let this stand. By their will, as well as my own, we will bless you. We will let you become who you were always meant to be.” Death’s domain wraps around him, a fragile hug for a soul so much more breakable than it.
“Please, little king, do not come back.”
He blinks awake to a silk canopy, sunlight filtering through the curtains dying the red more of an orange. Death’s words linger in the back of his skull, far too clear to be a dream. Not that Theseus is in the habit of deluding himself.
Lifting a hand to his throat, he traces unbroken skin, not feeling a single blemish that a deadly wound should have caused. Well, healing is certainly one of the powers the gods are known to have.
Pushing himself to sit, and finding much more difficulty with the comforter than usual, Theseus inspects what he can see of the room. Where has Death chosen to put him?
…His childhood rooms, it seems. Theseus’ heart twists at the sight. Last he was here, his mother had been freshly replaced with his step-mother, who couldn’t imagine leaving a child to live alone in such a large wing.
Since then, he hasn’t found the heart to return. Many memories lie in this room, in the plush carpets and satin couches, few of them pleasant. Perhaps the nicest they get is with this bed.
Theseus traces the golden embroidery with his eyes. Only when he was sick did his mother act like she truly cared, like there was anything beneath her frigid shell. Her hands would wipe sweat from his forehead, humming lullabies as he twisted in fitful rest.
‘You will be so much more than you are,’ she would promise, as if that was to assure him that he would not die from a lowly fever. How had she known that the gods thought the same? That Theseus has… what? The divine right to rule?
Before today– yesterday– before his death, Theseus would have laughed at such a concept. The gods interfere so little with the goings-on of mortals, why would they be picking kings? It seems he was the fool for believing they wouldn’t.
Well, he has to admit, this is a good location to put him. His childhood rooms are far from the rest of the palace, practically its own castle, and he knows of many routes to get out without detection if he so pleases.
Part of him wants instead to march directly up to his father, parade around boasting that he’d survived his own death. Theseus could scream to the world that the gods wanted him even when his family did not.
Moving to shove off the rest of his blankets, Theseus pauses. Is his hand… smaller than usual? He scurries off the bed, falling much farther than he should, and nearly trips on his way to the bathroom. The doors are so much larger than they should be, the counter tops so much higher.
Except there’s that step stool he hasn’t seen in years, ever since he outgrew the need for it, letting him hop up and look at himself in the mirror. It barely crosses his mind that the vanity by the closet would have been closer. There’s even a floor length mirror in the sitting room.
Admittedly, he’s got far more pressing things to focus on. Theseus is… small. His face is chubby, eyes large, and he can barely see over the counter without a step stool. By his immediate estimation, he can’t be any older than seven.
Stretching out his hand, that assumption is given credence to. Small welts line up his hands, evidence of his mother’s tender loving care, of what happens when he isn’t living up to her esteemed expectations.
If he were any older than seven, not even scars would remain of these wounds. Does that mean his mother is still alive? Theseus shudders, far too many emotions flooding him at the possibility, his wings shuddering with him- his what now.
His wings. Theseus does not have wings. He was born with the most human aspects of both of his parents, at most his hair being thicker as a result of his mother’s Wolven heritage.
Except now he does have wings, soft white things speckled with black and tipped in gold. Why does he have wings? Did Death do this? Another God? She did mention Life and Time, but only Lady Death has any particular association with birds?
* Ping!*
[Answering the question! Host’s wings are a result of Life’s blessings! The colors were chosen by Time and Death.]
Years of subterfuge stop Theseus from shouting at the sudden noise and light. Unfortunately, that experience does not keep his freshly seven-or-so year old body stable. His startle tosses him back, the new weight of his wings dragging him down.
Theseus smacks against the mosaic floors in a stunning impression of an actual bird hitting a window. The very thing that startled him continues floating where it was, slowly but eerily turning to peer down at him.
“ What the hell are you?” He hisses, far too aware of how easily sound can travel in these rooms. Of course, if he actually is seven then no one in these halls would care particularly much if he screamed.
*Ping!*
[Apologizing to Host! This system is the Kingmaker’s System. It is designed by Fate to help the Host achieve his destiny! System will endeavor not to scare Host in the future.]
Right, because that makes him feel any better. Theseus peels himself off the floor, the pressure on his injured hands making him wince. No, he’s definitely seven, his older self could easily ignore such a weak pain, even if his wings ache as well.
Less surprising than having wings, a trait Life apparently picked out, is the mere fact that they ache. To no one’s surprise, he’s never had to experience wings aching before. It feels… well… It feels similar to how the old soldiers describe phantom pains except the wing is still very much there.
A pain in a location it shouldn’t be able to exist, his brain simultaneously trying to convince itself that his wings both exist and aren’t real. Thesesus forces himself to take a deep breath.
“ Right, the gods blessing, Death mentioned that,” Theseus whispers to the ‘system’, distracting himself with much more pressing concerns, “how exactly do you intend to help me?” He slowly backtracks through his old rooms, the system following along.
* Ping!*
[As a creation of divine energy, this System has access to much greater information than a mortal. As information is power, Host is encouraged to use that information to achieve greater heights.]
*Ping!*
[Furthermore, Fate has gifted the Kingmaker System an optional Task-based mode to assist in Host reaching their destiny! Do not think of this like a shortcut but rather a way to keep track of tasks Host still needs to do.]
*Ping!*
[If necessary, this System can even track other individuals and their relation to Host, helping Host figure out who to trust in his rise to the top!]
Feeling a tad ridiculous, Theseus splits his attention between the system and climbing onto one of the satin couches. It was so easy to forget how short he is at this age, needing to hook a leg onto the cushion in order to pull himself up.
The system’s explanation of what it can do is frightfully vague. A ‘task-based mode’? Like his mother’s ‘life plan’ that was swiftly disregarded after her death? Theseus only got to read it once, while she was distracted, and he certainly never got any of the personalized tutoring she had lined up.
Information and tracking could also mean many things. What are the limits? What precisely is the system tracking? Why does he have to be seven?
Really, the fact that he’s seven is much more upsetting than anything else going on. Theseus may respect his late mother but the fact remains that she is far more pleasant in the ground than she ever was out of it.
* Ping!*
[Host asks so many questions =^=’. That’s okay! System can show the answers! The first Task is starting soon.]
Can the system read his mind? Of course it can, it was created by the gods. Theseus sighs, rubbing at his eyes. This ridiculous tiny body already feels exhausted from all the commotion.
While Theseus would rather the system explain– preferably in great detail– how it functions, he does have to agree that it would be quicker for him to experience it. Hopefully his body holds out until then. Theseus doesn’t remember what his limits were the first time around.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
A Mother’s Last Goodbye
- Get through your Mother’s funeral without revealing to anyone your reborn status.
- Gain the attention of your Father
(Suggestion: don’t wear gloves )
[Good luck, Host!]
Ah, so that’s what day it is. A couple of his questions have already been answered, albeit he’s making a couple of assumptions by doing so. The foremost of which being why he’s specifically so young rather than a more preferable age.
Even though his life may have been threatened at many points throughout his life, though it might technically be his past life now, Theseus has only brushed death twice. Before his actual death, it had really only been once.
Just before his mother’s funeral, he’d fallen gravely ill, which may have been a mixture of grief and neglect. Not used to his mother not being around to nurse him back to health, the resulting sickness had nearly killed him.
By some miracle, Theseus had lived and even recovered just in time to attend his mother’s funeral. The servants had even put in the effort to doll him up for it so he would look less sickly.
Maybe the gods couldn’t turn back time so easily on a whim, maybe he needed to be touching Death’s domain in order for his soul to remember. It’s as good of a theory as any-
“Good, you’re awake. I take it you’re feeling better if you’ve actually bothered to get out of bed.” A servant girl walks into the room, speaking carelessly to a child not known for talking. It had taken Theseus a good couple of years, lining up neatly with his Father remarrying, to gain the will to talk at all.
Of course, he has no such problems talking now. He glares at the servant, one of the many symptoms of a much deeper problem within these old grounds.
“I was sick, not lazy,” Theseus bites back. Except he’s seven, not twenty-three, so his words are less ‘biting’ and more ‘petulant’. Nothing that would scare a servant into being any more polite even with his status as the sole heir to the kingdom.
“Of course you were, poor thing. I bet you’re missing your mother right now, aren’t you? Don’t worry,” She grabs at the sleeve of his sleeping clothes, such audacity, “you’ll get to see her again soon.”
When he was actually seven, he had no idea that servants weren’t meant to be so… personal with him. More than a few assassins had taken advantage of that shortly after his mother’s death. Honestly, there’s a genuine chance his sickness was a poisoning attempt now that he thinks about it.
Theseus resists the urge to roll his eyes as the servant turns away, puttering around his rooms. She walks around as if she owns the place, not him, and at this point in time she wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
Given what he remembers of being so young, Theseus had been less a prince and more a particularly fancy doll until he was about twelve, easy to put onto a shelf where it would sit ignored until someone thought it could use a dusting.
“We’ll get you dressed up all fancy for your mother,” the servant assures him. That automatically makes her one of the nicer ones. Especially since she’s actually helping him get ready instead of leaving him to rot.
Which may entirely be because his Father will have to look at him at some point during the funeral rather than any desire to help him. It’s most likely that.
Playing along, knowing how easy it is to hide bruises beneath extravagant clothing, Theseus lets himself be dolled up in glorified mourning clothes. A real emphasis on glorified.
It seems no one thought to commission a young Theseus actual funerary clothes and so they’re making do with the closest thing they have to an all white ensemble. The result is less ‘funeral’ and more ‘wedding’.
A white undershirt, white vest, and white overcoat all with a pearlescent finish. A white bow tie and white pants of a more snow-like color. Even a pair of white shoes that have likely never seen the light of day before this point. On their own, it isn’t terrible.
Except for the red and blue embroidery covering the entire thing in a garden of orchids and camellias, the wedding flowers. It would be insulting to wear this to his mother’s funeral and it certainly was the first time.
His only other option is not wearing white at all and going for yellow instead, which would be worse. Well, black could work if he has anything like that, if he could convince the servant to redress him. It wouldn’t be right but it would be better.
“I don’t like it,” Theseus complains, doing his best impression of the petulant child he doesn’t remember being. He’s not supposed to know what’s appropriate to wear to a funeral, he’s seven.
“Oh?” Her eye audibly twitches, “would you like to pick then?” The hands on his shoulders, steering him towards the mirror so he can look at himself, tighten against his fragile baby skin. Distantly, he wonders why she’s not acknowledging his new wings.
“Yes please.” He hops off the dias, shaking out his wings– that really almost seem to phase through the fabric all on their own– to no reaction. Can only he see them?
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! Others can see Host’s wings as they have always been there! Life and Time teamed up to make sure nothing would go wrong.]
Does manipulating everyone around Theseus to believe his wings are natural not interfere with free will? Apparently not since the gods did it. Then again, they also brought him back to life after that free will got him killed so what does he truly know about their limits? What does anyone know?
Focusing on the less cosmically terrifying task, he searches for a set of black clothes he’s certain he owns, or at least the closest thing to. Children grow quite fast and only his mother ever cared enough to buy him new ones so he doesn’t have a lot of options even then.
The outfit he picks out is a bit too small. Black pants leave his ankles out and sleeves such a dark blue it could also be black under the right light don’t quite reach his wrists. The wounds on his hands are left to be covered only by the thin, silvery material of his gloves, so easily removed.
But small is better than wedding attire, is better when it implies he’s already mourning her instead of celebrating her death. The servant curls a lip at him when she pulls back, clearly disagreeing with his choice.
“If that's what you want to wear,” she sighs, “come on then, we’ll be late to the funeral.” Theseus spares a look at himself in the mirror. He… doesn’t look great.
Remnants of his illness have left his cheeks gaunt and eyes sunken, the look in them far too old for his physical age. The dark colors of his outfit, especially the cobalt blue cape attached, only bring out how tired he seems. It almost makes his wings look mottled.
If he were older, he would have never let himself be seen at a funeral looking like this. Unfortunately, Theseus is seven and lacks the power to even get the servants to feed him on bad days.
Is being back here really better than being dead?
*Ping!*
[Host no! Host is much better alive D:]
The system’s opinion is noted but ultimately unimportant. Of course it thinks that, Fate apparently wants him alive, a novel concept. Theseus forces a smile on his too young face, following after the servant before she gets too upset.
His memories of this day aren’t the clearest, the gods not giving his memory a refresh to match his new age. Still, things go about how he remembers.
A carriage awaiting them outside, being forced to climb in on his hands and knees while the servants watch in a mixture of pity and amusement, the lonely ride to the funeral site. All that’s missing is the crushing sense of loneliness at his mother being gone.
Not quite grief, at least he doesn’t think so, even if he’d convinced himself it was at the time. Theseus had no real love for any of his family and his birth mother wasn’t an exception.
What he’d been feeling was born from the innate knowledge that he wouldn’t even have her presence by his side. As cruel as she could be, at least she was there.
But things will be different this time. Theseus knows what makes his father tick, he can surely manage the simple task of getting his attention with that foreknowledge.
He doesn’t remember the ride to the funeral being quite so short, giving him little time to actually plan what he’s going to do. Perhaps he can adlib something? Cause a scene? The system did recommend removing his gloves.
Even doing that little would be a massive departure from his original childhood. While Theseus doubts his father was completely unaware of his mother’s actions, he certainly never had to face the consequences of them.
Theseus had taken care in keeping his problems unobtrusive. He had been a child, craving his father’s attention but terrified of being too much. It’s odd to think about now, that there’d been a point when he thought his father actually cared.
Maybe he’ll follow the system’s suggestion then, to test out if they really work. The worst thing that happens is his Father outright ignoring him. That wouldn’t even change their status quo. He nods to himself.
Once again, no one helps him as he stumbles his way out of the carriage, nearly falling several times as he overcompensates for his new wings. Before him is the Queen’s funeral, a quiet affair.
Lacking the king’s favor, there weren’t many people who saw a point in attending such an event. The crowd is really only the priests, his mother’s family who had done little but point and whisper at him the entire time, and of course his father.
To call it a quiet may actually be an understatement. Theseus had been terrified the first time around, all the eyes on him, so many strangers saying things he didn’t understand while he stood over his mother’s coffin.
Reliving it throws all of that into stark relief. Her family’s eyes speak of greed, judging if it’s worth it to try and steal him away. Apparently, his quietness hadn’t been what they were looking for.
And then there’s his father. Following the same path he’d walked before, lined with the traditional flowers, he approaches the man who should be grieving his wife. That’s what Theseus had assumed he was doing once. He knows better now.
Philza Morentus Mycroft does not paint the picture of a grieving man, he never has. Though his shoulders may be tight, his wings curving over them like a hug, and his expression pinched, that is not grief. At best, he looks conflicted, distracted.
Not that Theseus was expecting anything else. Philza hated his mother. Merely a week after her death, every portrait depicting her was removed from the palace walls, every mention of her name stricken from servants’ mouths until even Theseus himself forgot. His only memories of them ever interacting while she was alive can best be described as a particularly polite argument.
Silent, Theseus takes his place beside his father, looking at the casket that held his mother. He had not cried the first time, he does not cry now. All he does is pick at his gloves, wiggling them off.
It takes a while before his father even registers he’s there. Theseus lets him take his time, folding his gloves with trembling hands, resisting the urge to click his tongue at how poorly this young body handles such small wounds.
Only once Philza’s eyes actually land on him, his posture slightly shifting towards Theseus, does he make his move. He stands on his toes, letting his gloves fall into the open casket. A smile paints across his lips, the same empty yet honest thing he had died with.
“Goodbye mother,” he rests his injured hands in plain view on the coffin’s edge, “I won’t miss you.” Theseus articulates his words with all the grace of a child who doesn’t know what they’re saying is wrong, swaying on his feet.
“Be polite, Theseus,” comes Philza’s instinctive scolding. Good to know he’s always been like that, generally disapproving of Theseus’ existence. He turns his empty smile on his father, doubling down.
“Mother said I’m not supposed to lie.” He tilts his head, the picture of innocence. Philza does not meet his eyes. No, Philza’s gaze is pinned to the edge of the coffin, where Theseus’ hands lie. That was the intention, to draw attention to them, but so easily? He didn’t even have to fake a fall.
Theseus freezes, watching his father reach out towards him, his much larger wings faintly trembling even as his hands lay still. That’s always been the trick, Theseus thinks distantly, most of Philza’s body language is in his wings.
He can’t remember the last time Philza touched him. While his father was liberal with affection towards his step-brothers, Theseus was always deemed below such consideration.
Which is why Theseus’ shocked silence is perfectly understandable. His father takes Theseus’ hand, inspecting the small wounds and blisters littering his skin with a soft frown, his touch warm and light. Isn’t this working a little too well?
“When did this happen?” Philza asks, pressing his thumb into Theseus’ palm. This is definitely working too well. Body oddly numb, Theseus points with his free hand at his mother’s corpse, falling back onto his feet with a soft thump.
“Your mother did this?” His father, regrettably not stupid, easily puts it together. All Theseus has to do is nod along, which is good when he can’t quite look away from where their hands meet.
Philza’s hand is really so much bigger than his right now, rough with callouses gained through years of sword training. Yet, at the same time, they have the softness of a royal who never really had to work, not like a commoner.
Then again, Theseus also never had to work like a commoner so what does he know? He blames the silence that has filled his head.
Most remarkable of all, his father starts to kneel. He meets Theseus’ height, holding both of his hands, expression no longer conflicted. Instead he’s… he’s… Theseus doesn’t know. He’s never seen that expression on his Father’s face before.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Philza has the gall to ask. Theseus flinches back, looking at his father with exactly the amount of disbelief that he deserves. Tell him? When? Why? He’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve ever met face to face since his birth.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything, you’re never around,” Theseus rightfully points out. His father’s brow twitches, once again conflicted but no less hypocritical.
For a moment, it almost seems like his father is going to say something, mouthing silent words. Theseus glances down at their still locked hands, a fact that’s growing steadily more awkward by the second. Is this really necessary? Like, really necessary?
But then Philza glimpses their small crowd again. His mother’s family, watching them with rapt eyes, could not look any more like sharks scenting blood if they tried. Oh, that’s what they were looking for, his father’s favor.
It was never about what Theseus was doing. It was never about what he wanted. It never is.
“She won’t hurt you anymore,” his father promises so quietly that Theseus can barely hear him. Then, he lets go, returning to his watch over his wife’s corpse. Theseus blinks up at him.
Okay? He knows that? He’s pretty sure he knew that when he was actually seven too. Dead people don’t have a habit of coming back to life, Theseus himself being a notable exception. Why would he think she could hurt him?
Maybe it’s something Philza saw that Theseus never did. He was quite young when she died and he’s been given no new experiences with her this time around. Maybe she was even worse than he remembers.
Which still invalidates his father’s point because he doesn’t even remember her hurting him all that bad. Mostly it was whipping with a ruler or a spanking with a belt, never anything that would last.
Still, he finds himself mimicking his father’s stance, staring down at his mother. For a moment, he tries to find what Philza might have seen, might have known, to make him think she was so terrible despite seemingly not knowing about Theseus’ wounds.
All he sees is his mother, face calmed by death and smoothed out by the undertaker. She looks happy like this, unburdened by life, relaxed. It’s a feeling Theseus knows well. Hadn’t he felt the same clasped in Lady Death’s hands? Should he be jealous that he was rebuffed and yet his mother gets to rest uninterrupted? He takes a deep breath.
It’s fine.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
A Mother’s Last Goodbye
- Get through your Mother’s funeral without revealing to anyone your reborn status. (Success!)
- Gain the attention of your Father (Double Success!)
(Suggestion: don’t wear gloves ) (Triple Success!)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 20 A-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 10 S-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 5 D-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
Work hard to keep gaining points!]
And he’s immediately distracted, reading the words that suddenly appear before his eyes. Points… is that what the system meant by tracking then? What does any of that even mean? They’re much nicer questions to ask than the ones before.
*Ping!*
[Answering Host’s question! A-points stand for Affection points! Gathering these improves the Host’s relationship with the target!]
[S-points stand for Sadness points! Gathering these improves the Host’s empathy and regret modifiers!]
[D-points stand for Darkness points! These points are a result of the other two points and can represent a variety of things!]
So he wants A-points in general, S-points if he’s trying to emotionally manipulate anyone, and D-points are unavoidable. Theseus hums softly. Okay, he can work with that.
Even if the ‘Darkness points’ sound vague and rather foreboding. If they're the result of a person’s regrets, maybe they represent depression? Or grief? Or both, since it specifies a variety.
So lost in his own head that he is, Theseus manages to drown out the wider world. While it is a nice break from being so on guard, he was unfortunately right to be so careful.
Was Theseus always so small? Phil stares at his… son… from the corner of his eyes, far too aware of the nobles gathering behind him. He’s already given them far too much ammunition with what little care he’s shown for this boy.
Care, as if what he’s done can even be described as care. The things Phil feels for the boy is evident in the marks on his skin, the sinking of his features indicative of malnutrition, and the deep bags under his eyes. No child raised a prince should have such marks.
But then, Phil has not raised Theseus to be a prince. He has not raised Theseus at all. He’s not delusional enough to try and claim otherwise.
Phil shifts in place, forcing his wings to settle, to not show the discomfort welling deep inside him. It’s as if his skin has grown two sizes too tight, forcing him to clasp his hands to keep them from twitching.
It should not be discomfort he feels, should it? Shouldn’t he feel something akin to regret instead? Shouldn’t he mourn his neglect that led such a young child to gain those marks at all?
Such bright pink welts, littered with tiny scabs, that are too neat to be anything but purposeful. Yes, Phil should regret his actions, or rather his inactions. He knows that in the same way he knows the sky is blue.
Knowing what he should feel does little to make him feel it. Phil’s heart is cold, frightfully empty of such emotions. Perhaps that is what bothers him most of all, being forced to see the person that woman made him become.
He forces his gaze back to her corpse once more. Clara was never a loud woman, never in the way, and she always despised his attempts to bridge their gap. Of course their marriage was a political one but, surely, they could have still been friends? How naive he was, freshly crowned and seeking a queen.
Nothing he did would make her gaze lighten from that frigid glare. But then, Phil could rarely even call it that. A glare requires some feeling, some emotion to be told through the sharpness of her eyes, and if Clara could, she wouldn’t acknowledge him at all.
A trait it seems her son has inherited. Phil resists the urge to ruefully smile, knowing full well that Clara wouldn’t approve of his mere presence here, let alone emoting in front of her corpse.
Few people could claim the king has gotten down on their knees for them, especially not on the dirt dusted flagstones decorating this part of the palace gardens. Dirt darkens his pants where his knee had graced them, evidence of his favor.
Or, at least, that is how her family will take his actions. Everything is about favors, about give and take. Heavens forbid Phil were to show the slightest bit of interest in Theseus without someone somewhere getting a favor out of it.
Is that how Theseus will take it as well? Phil is… unsure. His eyes had been just like her’s, staring at Phil as if he were neither a king nor a father, merely an inconvenience he must deal with for now.
What an uncanny expression to see in eyes that so clearly match his own. It was if Phil were looking in a mirror. An unfeeling, bored mirror that only wished to see him disappear. Phil can’t imagine ever having such an expression on his face.
Perhaps it’s a good thing that the rest of Theseus looks so much like his mother. He’s got Clara’s hair, her cheekbones, her lips and nose. Truthfully, Phil imagines he’ll be having to deal with many marriage requests once Theseus is of age.
Even if Phil had no love for that woman, he knows she was quite sought after, considered one of the kingdom’s prized beauties. Looking at her corpse, he can almost see it too. Her features, now peaceful rather than cold, are pretty in a delicate sort of way. Delicate in a way Theseus will surely come to mimic.
He presses his lips thin. Heavens, he hopes not. Phil won’t stand for having to see that woman day after day. She wanted his ire and she certainly earned it.
But there is one more thing Theseus got from him, isn’t there? A rather large feature, the wings settled on his back, differing only in color. Phil’s, the color of ravens and crows and the night sky, compared to Theseus’, of clouds and gold and snowy owls.
They too are marred, feathers misaligned and poorly flattened back down. He can’t blame Theseus for their state. Clara had no wings, was never allowed within touching distance of Phil’s own, so she would have no way to teach Theseus how to care for them. That will be a task for Phil.
A task that Phil isn’t sure if he can handle. His fingers dig into his skin, knuckles turning white, forcing his own pair not to shuffle in- in empathy. Poorly preened feathers are so uncomfortable.
No fledgling should have to deal with such a thing on their own, let alone one of Phil’s blood. Except, no, he can’t start thinking of Theseus like that, like a fledgling.
Damning noises press against his teeth, comforting trills or coos demanding he help the young boy beside him. Look at him, his wings are still largely the fluffy white of downy feathers. None of his flight feathers have even grown yet.
In that small part of Phil still dominated more by instinct than sense, he wishes to bundle up his young fledgling in his wings, steal him from this place. A boy so young has no business being out here. He cannot defend himself, cannot even fly away.
Except that ‘fledgling’ is Clara’s son, a boy who cares as little for Phil as a father as Clara had cared for him as a husband. Except he is so very young and so very small. Phil releases a small breath. He cannot stay here.
“Let me be the first to leave,” Phil addresses the congregation, only allowing his gaze to linger on Theseus for a moment. When those big blue eyes turn to him, so empty of compassion or grief, he turns away. It is not fleeing.
Clara’s family takes their moment to speak words of false sympathy and cloying support, crowding as close as they dare to the center walkway. Guards waiting at the entrance to the ceremony step in, knowing that Phil is not in the mood for such discussion.
Even during a funeral, they dare to place their own favor over another’s life. Perhaps there was less love lost between Clara’s family than there even was between her and Phil.
Perhaps that lack of love extended even to her son. Perhaps those marks are evidence of her lacking favor, wishing for a replica over a child. Perhaps Theseus can still be saved.
Or perhaps Phil has spent far too long looking at that chilled coffin, convincing himself that the woman within is someone he once cared for. He settles within the carriage with his personal guard, daring to glance through the gauzy curtain at the boy still lingering at his mother’s side.
“All is well?” Samuel asks, the first show of support that has not prickled unpleasantly on Phil’s skin. For a moment, he pretends he can feel Theseus looking back.
Does he crave his father’s attention? Does he know that Phil cares little for him or is he still hoping? Which of those expectations does Phil want to meet? He hesitates.
“I… I believe I need to spend more time with that boy,” Phil answers. Such unfamiliar words fit strangely in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he sought out Theseus’ company. He can’t remember if he ever even tried.
“We’ll find the time in your schedule. No one would dare complain if a grieving father wished to spend time with his son,” Samuel soothes. Phil looks at his ever loyal general, a strange emotion welling in him.
“No, no one would,” Phil agrees, placing his hand over the dark pit forming in his chest. His eyes feel tight. A blockage in his throat makes swallowing a struggle. He recognizes this feeling.
The last time he had felt it, Phil was presiding over his own parents’ funeral, barely able to keep himself together. It’s much weaker now, a shadow of what it once was. He knows he is not feeling this way over her. But then…
Why is he mourning a child?
Chapter 2: For Everything That Changes, More Stays The Same
Summary:
Theseus is a man of few allies and fewer friends. Why, the closest anyone had gotten to such a title was his dear butler, Tobias. He expected to live quite a few more years before reaching out to the man, now boy, that could have be is. It was only logical. Tobias was ten when he was assigned Theseus' personal butler. Yet, through the system's machinations, they meet far sooner.
But the boy Theseus meets is not Tobias. By the end of the interaction, Theseus isn't sure he ever wants him to be.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Despite all that’s changed, the next week is terribly familiar. He may have his memories, may have a system at his side encouraging him to get up in the morning, but Theseus is still merely seven.
Seven year olds do not get treated with much in the way of respect, especially not when the system is so strictly against throwing a tantrum. Of course, Theseus does not want to throw a tantrum either, even the idea making him cringe. Still, he knows that people start to listen when things start getting thrown.
Which means Theseus must instead either demand their respect or earn it. The first route is out of the question. His mother’s people are about as receptive to him as he remembers.
He fiddles with his ribbon of a tie with his clumsy childish hands, glaring at his reflection in the sitting room mirror. How unfortunate that his memories do not make it look any less like a child dressed him. The fine motor control necessary is beyond him.
Five entire minutes were wasted on buttons of all things. Theseus huffs. His reflection’s face is red, expression twisted in frustration. An incredibly ridiculous urge to cry wells in him.
Crying, him. Theseus didn’t even cry when he died yet it’s the buttons setting him off. Has he begun to mentally regress? Please say it isn’t so.
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! Mental regression is not a feature of his rebirth. Host is merely feeling the expected side effects of sudden revitalization. Being brought back to life can be uncomfortable.]
[The system is trying its best to mitigate the symptoms! It cannot do anything for Host’s emotional well being.]
After a week of the system’s random appearances, he manages not to flinch at its sudden noise. Some part of the upset ball of feeling in his chest unravels reading its reply. At least someone is trying to help.
Someone doesn’t see treating him with basic decency in the same light as playing along with a child’s fantasy. Taking care of a seven year old is not a game of make-believe.
Giving up on his tie for the moment, Theseus leaves his rooms. Servants mill in the halls doing little work, absentmindedly doing their jobs between whatever conversations have entranced them, letting dust pile up in the crevices of the room.
None of them would help him. He imagines the removal of his mother’s portraits and personal effects were the most work they’ve had to do in quite a while. Turning onto the top of a large staircase, Theseus pauses.
At the top of the wing’s grand staircase usually sits a large portrait. Theseus can’t quite recall what it was replaced with, if anything. This past week, however, it had been a picture of him and his mother.
Of course, Theseus hadn’t been able to see much of it, covered by a thick curtain in the wake of her death. Until now…
The curtains have been drawn back, Theseus notes distantly, leaning against the landing’s rail. It’s easy to see why they’ve been drawn, servants working to unstick it from the wall. Doing so while Theseus is running around unsupervised?
Were he actually seven, he could be seriously injured running around while they’re removing such a large portrait. Oddly, that’s not what he finds himself focusing on.
Sitting on an elegant chaise is his ever frigid mother, matching his memories of the woman so much more. In her arms, him, less than one year of age and without his wings. She looks so… proud.
Proud in a way Theseus fears he never truly was. Her head is raised, glaring at the world as if daring it to force her to stay quiet. A diadem on her forehead accentuates the golden wolf ears she would eventually come to hide beneath her various veils. Was she ashamed? Did the world finally succeed in beating her down?
It must have. No assassin could have ever managed to kill his mother. The only one allowed to take her life was herself. Sure, Theseus was never told it was suicide but… what else could it be?
*Ping!*
[Reminding Host! Children need to eat a lot to grow up healthy! Head to the kitchens now!]
One benefit of the system is that it stops him getting distracted like this for too long. Such worthless thoughts. Thinking so much about his mother does nothing for him, merely dooming him to inaction.
Nodding to the system, a quiet thanks, he slips around the servants and down the stairs. To no one’s surprise, he doesn’t garner even a glance. Perhaps it’s more understandable this time. That portrait may very well be worth more than a year of their wages. Letting it fall would be disastrous.
Getting to the kitchens is a simple affair. While he hadn’t known it’s location until about a year from now the first time around, that isn’t because it was hard to find. No, Theseus had been waiting for something.
For what, exactly, he still doesn’t know. His hope had been blind and without a target, truly the mind of a child is a mysterious place.
Eventually, Theseus had understood that no one was going to fight for him anymore. With that knowledge, he had stolen his way to the kitchen, forced to sneak around his own home lest the servants wave him away from their ‘important work’ without as little as a cookie.
Perhaps that’s why he grew to be shorter than his father. The system is right, nutrition is important. Despite Theseus’ status, he often ate no better than a peasant. Which, if he thinks about it, is an insult to the peasants.
*Ping!*
[Mortals should treat Host better! Host is way nicer than them >:T]
Agree to disagree. He did die because he tried to assassinate his newly-titled brother. Theseus didn’t even have a very good reason for it. Mostly, he was curious to see how the rest of his family would react.
*Ping!*
[They hurt Host first.]
Theseus pauses. What… what awful logic. Strangely, he can see himself believing it, back when he was young and stupid. It might’ve made him feel better, more justified in his actions.
Death brought clarity, both the lead up and the void himself. With that clarity, he knows he has no one to blame for himself for his actions. Being hurt is not an appropriate excuse to hurt others.
No matter if he wishes it was.
Peeking into the kitchens, it’s about what he remembers. Clean cut stone floors designed to be non-slip, neatly painted wooden cabinets topped with butcher’s block, a bowl of fresh fruit set to rot on the counter.
Unless a servant decides to steal most of it of course. That’s usually what happens. Thankfully for Theseus’ purposes, no one appears to be in the kitchen currently. Not that he’s surprised to find them abandoned.
While the servants have many more freedoms in the wake of his mother’s death, no one of importance around to call them out for poor work ethic, even they can’t get away with sleeping in here. It’s too much of a risk when they could get reassigned at any moment, forced to actually work again.
Slipping into the kitchen on light feet, wings tucked tight against his back so not to bump anything, Theseus works his way around to the pantry. The fruit seems like an easier target on the surface but…
He glares at the counter, nearly even with his head. Seeing over it is hard enough. Managing to reach the fruits decorating the center of the kitchen island? Less a possibility and more an aspirational goal.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
Son Of The Devil, Friend Of Mine
- Make a good impression on the young Tobias Eleanore James II
- Get the young Tobias Eleanore James II to confide in you
(Suggestion: don’t mention the mark.)
[Good luck Host! He’s a nice once :D]
Oh. Theseus’ hand lingers over the handle to the pantry, cold metal yet to twist under his grasp. Is Tobias really here so soon? He hadn’t been assigned as Theseus’ personal butler until he was ten.
Which is allegedly quite late for a personal butler by about a year. A personal butler is meant to grow up with their charge, some believe the younger the better, in order to encourage loyalty.
For his father, that would be his beloved General Samuel. For Theseus, it had been Tobias. He was really the only person Theseus ever had after his mother’s passing. The only one who wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, leave.
Suddenly, the pantry seems to loom. If the system gave him this task, surely that means Tobias is close by. Perhaps he’s even in the pantry itself.
Ridiculous. Theseus puffs up, wings puffing with him, at his own hesitance. He has nothing to be hesitant over! It’s merely Tobias, his closest ally, the only person to never betray him.
*Ping!*
[This System believes in Host! He’s a nice person!]
If the system is chiming in, Theseus has been standing here far too long. Any longer and someone might walk in, usher him out of a place he has ‘no business being’. Shaking his head, he focuses on the door.
Well oiled hinges swing open silently. For all the stuff the servants avoid doing so many tasks, they certainly hate the sound of a squeaky hinge.
A young boy, barely a few months older than Theseus, stands in the pantry. In his arms sits a small pile of apricots, one stuffed into his mouth. Theseus has never seen him so young.
Fluffy brown hair scatters around a round face, dotted heavily with freckles. Deep brown eyes, much lighter than his step-mother’s, scrunch up in concentration as he reaches towards another apricot.
“Are you sure you can hold all of those?” Theseus asks. Tobias startles, his stolen goods tumbling from his hands, disappearing beneath the shelves or bumping against boxes and shoes. He whips around to see Theseus, eyes wide, fluffy ram ears pinned back.
Over one of his eyes is that mark the system had pointed out, a mark Tobias had not had when they first met. No, it had been a scar then, rendering him blind in that eye.
Black curls over his skin like a tattoo, a delicate design that’s far more pretty than it is foreboding. A curse mark. Tobias had one? Had they attempted to burn it off him? Tobias had never told him where he got it, not that Theseus asked much.
“Um, I’m not here?” Tobias inches back, cornered into the pantry. The apricot in his mouth falls out with a wet splat. For a moment, they both stare at it, then at each other. A curl in Theseus’ chest pulls at his heart.
“I’m pretty sure you are here,” Theseus corrects, “That’s alright, I’m here too.” He picks one of the apricots by his foot off the floor. Crossing the short distance, he offers it to Tobias.
“You… you are. Who’re you? I’m Tubbo.” His future butler takes the offering, smiling brightly. One of his two front teeth is missing. How trusting, not even trying to hide the curse mark he was seemingly willing to burn off.
But then, Tobias- Tubbo- had been ten when they met. How much of a say had Tubbo had in that decision? Very little. Less than Theseus had in his own living situation.
“Theseus Hendrick Mycroft,” Theseus introduces himself with a short bow, perfectly polite. It’s strange, looking at a Tubbo so young.
“Like the prince?” Tubbo asks, “that’s so cool! Do you want an apricot?” The apricot is offered back to him. How silly, truly the actions of a child.
“Yes, I came here to get something to eat.” He takes it, letting himself smile up at Tubbo. Yes, up. It seems Tubbo is taller than him even now. A thought strikes.
Like the prince? Does Tubbo not realize that Theseus is the prince? Tobias had known the moment they met. Then again, Tobias had been specially introduced to Theseus as his butler.
Biting into the apricot, he watches Tubbo return to stealing apricots, picking them back up off the floor. From the back, he sees Tubbo’s little tail that he’d grow to guard fiercely. It flicks back and forth idly.
“Why are you here?” Theseus bites back any questions he might have about the curse mark, though he truthfully has little. He doesn’t need the system to remind him to stay silent. Tobias was allowed his secrets. Theseus would never begrudge him that.
“My momma works here! I’m supposed to stay here with her while she works but she’s got adult stuff to do. I was hungry too, yanno?” Tubbo chirps.
Tubbo’s mother? Theseus searches his memories for any family members he might have met of Tubbo’s. Surely, if Tobias’ mother works here, Theseus would have met her before.
No woman with his features comes to mind. Neither the shape of his face nor the horns and ears growing from his head. He hums into his apricot.
“Oh! What about you? Why’re you here?” Tubbo returns the question, so clearly recalling a faded reminder to be polite. Tobias was much better at remembering. He’d been trained for a year to be Theseus’ butler though. This Tobias was merely… merely Tubbo.
“I live here,” Theseus openly admits. He awkwardly holds the sticky pit in his hands, still covered in light pink marks. Mostly healed, no longer painful. Another week and he may forget they were there at all.
“That’s neat!” Tubbo reaches for an apricot rolled far beneath a shelf. He visibly pauses, ears flicking as he processes what Theseus said. Should Theseus drop the pit or walk it to a trash can? All of the cans are outside of the pantry in the kitchen proper.
“You live here,” Tubbo repeats. Scrambling up, he whips over to look at Theseus in, taking him in properly. Maybe the low light of the pantry attributed to his lacking realization?
After all, the outfits they wear should make it obvious enough that Theseus is a prince. While his clothes may be messy, they are of far greater quality than Tubbo’s servant wear. Not that the royal family dresses their servants poorly. Servants merely aren’t afforded silk undershirts and golden buttons.
“Your name is like the prince, you are the prince!” Tubbo shrieks. He once again drops his apricots, rapidly pulling at his hair. Quickly, his bangs are arranged to cover his curse mark.
Poorly, but covered. Theseus makes his decision, dropping the sticky pit, wiping the juice off on his pants. Tubbo steps back as he steps forward, covering what parts of his mark aren’t covered by his hair with his hands.
“Um, I’m sorry mr. prince. I know I’m not supposed to be here but, well, I just.” Tubbo shrinks. How strange. Tobias was never prone to such- worries? Anxiety?
“Ew,” Theseus is seven, surely he should act seven? “Please don’t refer to me like that. Theseus is fine. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” He’s pretty sure that’s how friendships are made between children.
While he certainly never experienced such a thing on his own, he has read many books during his long hours alone. Some of those books had child protagonists and similar logic.
“Friends? With you. Oh, I don’t know. Momma says I shouldn’t let people see me,” Tubbo mutters, ducking his head away. Why? The mark? Theseus knows that there’s a general negative opinion about those with curse marks in an abstract sort of way.
Except the thing about being raised less like a person or pet and more like a doll is that he hardly got to experience why they might think that. All Theseus had wild stories featuring marked villains and unlikely heroes. As thus, he never quite understood, even as an adult.
“No one wants to see me either,” Theseus admits. Shame, that terrible burning thing, sparks against his skin. It should not be so easy to say something so crass. But it’s Tobias, who never judges Theseus even at his worst. Tobias who had helped assassinate a prince for him without reason.
“But you’re the prince.” Tubbo frowns. Yeah, Theseus can see the problem. A prince is supposed to be beloved, the future of the kingdom, not stored away without nary a glance. One could easily mistake him for a bastard if not for his mother’s quite public pregnancy.
“And you’re Tubbo,” Theseus agrees. One of the things Theseus came to learn, through many harsh lessons he wishes he never had, is that hatred is rarely with reason. It is an erratic emotion, lashing out at anyone unfortunate to get close.
“And we’re… friends? I’ve never had a friend before.” Tubbo lifts his head. When Theseus takes another step forward, Tubbo stays in place. Ah, he knows what to say here.
“We can be each other’s first,” Theseus offers, reaching out a hand. Embarrassment crawls up his throat, cheeks burning red. Is he really doing this? Disgusting. It’s as if he’s completely forgotten his training as the crown prince.
But then, that training has no place at this stage of his life. He has no one paying attention to him to impress.
*Ping!*
[Host and his friend are so cute!]
Not helping. Theseus resists the urge to glare at the air, focusing on the hopeful flick of Tubbo’s ears, the way he plays with his hands. Only the edges of the mark stick out from his hair. His other eye is wide, shining in the dull light of the pantry.
“Can I hug you?” Tubbo blurts. Skin claps against skin, the young Tobias pressing his hands over his mouth, a flush rising to his cheeks. A… hug?
Don’t be ridiculous now, Theseus knows what a hug is. He’s seen a couple, read many, and he knows his step-mother adored them even on occasions where physical contact was considered uncouth.
The fact he’s never experienced one is unimportant. Imagining them has been close enough, it has to be, he doesn’t have any other choice.
Maybe there are nights where he curls up under his blankets and tries to hug himself, just to see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t matter. It certainly doesn’t matter enough to get him tied up into knots about a hug from a seven year old.
A hug from Tobias, one who’s blissfully forgotten all their worst moments together. A Tobias who isn’t scarred by life, not nearly as cautious or paranoid as he was taught to be. What a strange situation he finds himself in.
Belatedly dropping his hand, Theseus goes to respond. Somehow, Tubbo instead takes that as an answer all of its own. Theseus finds him with a face full of a very young, very sticky Tubbo.
Short, thin arms wrap around his back, one hand settling beneath his wings. The other slaps against the middle, right where his most sensitive pin feathers are. Needles poke against his scalp, every feather and hair standing on end from the sudden touch.
It’s not… not painful. Tubbo’s hands are soft from childhood but rough from some kind of labor, maybe laundry? Are children even allowed to help with the servants’ chores so young?
His body is warm despite the well insulated pantry often being colder than the rest of the kitchens. The worn nature of his clothes isn’t particularly uncomfortable either.
Yet for some strange reason, Theseus feels tears prickling his eyes. So much emotion bubbles in his chest, far more than such a young body is capable of handling. It seems no amount of mental maturity can convince him to stop.
Ridiculous. So ridiculous. Theseus rarely cries, let alone in front of Tobias, let alone over so little. He will not start now.
*Ping*
[This System’s informational center says crying is good for a mortal’s mental wellbeing! Host should cry if Host is upset.]
Except Theseus isn’t upset, honestly. He has nothing to be upset over. Yes, he died, but that was his fault. Yes, he had to attend his mother’s funeral again, but he mourned her long ago. He is fine.
“I’m still hungry. Do you know where the good food is? I do! I explored all over the kitchens!” Tubbo bounces in place, bouncing Theseus’ much lighter body with him.
“Show me?” Theseus plays along. This is supposed to be his first time here, not that anyone could call him out on a lie. No one knows anything about him.
“Yeah! Not surprised you don’t know. Your house is so big. I dunno if I’ll ever explore all of it.” Tubbo grabs his hand, pulling him out of the pantry. The apricots are left behind to rot.
Two children manage to navigate the adult sized kitchens much better than one, albeit with less dignity. Actually, that’s incorrect. Tubbo manages to navigate the kitchens much better.
Kicked out drawers act as stairs, the countertops barely stable places to stand. That commendable bravery Tobias always had, stony-hearted even in the face of grave danger, showcases now as its true form. Not enough wisdom to know when to stop.
He watches from the floor, standing vaguely beneath Tubbo in case he falls. Now, he wouldn’t be much helpful if that did happen, not nearly strong enough to carry Tubbo on his own, but it’s more about the intention than the execution.
“Momma says we’re not supposed to cook sweets just cause we want them but the other servants do it anyway,” Tubbo chatters away, doing his damndest to scale over top the ice box.
“I don’t think they give them to you cause they always put them up here instead.” He inches open the cabinet in question. They do? Theseus had no idea.
“Stealing is bad but it’s your stuff so I guess it’s not really stealing.” With an impressive amount of acrobatics for a seven year old, Tubbo swings himself into the ledge where the ice box juts out from the cabinet. It’s at most half a foot of space.
“Is it safe for you to be up there?” Theseus interrupts in a complete role reversal. Usually, it’s Tobias asking after his health. Tobias isn’t here right now, not really. He never will be again.
Maybe that’s worth it, if it means Tobias doesn’t need to live with that scar.
“I do it all the time,” Tubbo answers, looking back down at him. Unfortunately, that’s less an assurance and more an admission of guilt. Now that’s a mistake Tobias would never make.
“Ah ha!” Tubbo cheers, pulling out a ceramic jar presumably containing sweets of some kind. In a stellar example of what Theseus eventually learned was called ‘physics’, several things happen all at once.
“Uh oh,” Tubbo utters, suddenly blank as he realizes his mistake. The ceramic jar swings up over his head, held like a trophy in his hands. The weight of that jar swings in an arc, pulling Tubbo backwards towards the floor.
In all his great wisdom, Theseus instinctively chooses Tubbo’s wellbeing over his own, stepping the short distance forward. Then, he’s on the ground.
Theseus remembers the events in reverse. His wings scream in pain under their combined weight, pinned against the floor. Tubbo’s body hits his own, squeezing all air from his pitiful lungs. Ceramic shatters against stone.
A wheeze escapes him, replacing what very well could have been a scream. Mortals need air to scream. Theseus recalls that fact with a distant sort of clarity only available to those in too much pain to think of more than one thing at a time.
“Tommy!” Tubbo mangled his name, mostly forgetting it and assuming the rest. Or, well, that’s the only explanation Theseus has for it, gasping for breath under Tubbo’s body.
“ No. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Tubbo blubbers. He scrambles off Tommy, releasing some of the pressure from his wings. Oxygen floods his system. Sweet relief.
“ I didn’t mean to, honest,” Tubbo hiccups, “ it’s all my fault.” Thick tears slide down Tubbo’s cheeks, his nose messy with snot. What is he apologizing for? Being a stupid kid? Ridiculous.
“I’m fine, it’s not your fault,” Tommy manages, rolling himself onto his stomach before he can even try for his knees. At his side, Tubbo kneels, clutching at his face.
“It is!” Tubbo shouts, “ I’m just bad luck.” Okay. That’s… a lot to take in when ninety percent of his attention is being stolen by the radiating pain in his back, spine, and the nebulous area being tentatively defined as ‘wing’.
Staring at the sobbing Tobias, he tried to figure it out anyway. Bad luck, huh? Theseus has admittedly never been a big fan of the concept of luck. Divine favor, sure, but luck is so… so nothing.
“That’s stupid,” Theseus announces with as much aplomb as he can. He pulls his royal mask around like a shield against the pain. Don’t show weakness, not even in front of those he trusts.
Luck can be neither measured nor defined. Theseus’ life wasn’t ruined by luck, it was ruined by action. He was killed by his own actions. To call it bad luck is to remove what little agency he has from him.
“Luck is stupid.” His mask must truly be in tatters if this is as much eloquence as he can manage. Tubbo sniffles, scrubbing at his eyes.
“But- but grandfather says it’s true. He’s always right,” Tubbo denies. Another difference from Tobias, always listening without interrupting. He hums.
“Your grandfather is stupid,” Theseus decides. Wow, his wings really hurt. How does his father stand fighting with his? Being tossed against the floor while training, a blade set to his neck… how does he think? It must be a seven year old thing.
“You can’t say that,” Tubbo squeaks, “that’s mean.” He slaps his wet, snotty hands over Theseus’ mouth. Ew. Theseus scrunches his face, back hurting too much to let him lean away.
“I’m the prince, I can say whatever I want,” Theseus denies. While not fundamentally true, he’s not technically lying. The crown prince is at the top of the social ladder. Had he any favor from his father, even a slight smile, then he’d be untouchable.
“N-no you can’t,” Tubbo giggles. Good, he’s smiling, like a sliver of sunshine after a rainy day. Theseus takes a deep breath. Ow.
“Why not? I’m the prince, I get to decide things like that,” Theseus blatantly lies. It makes Tubbo smile a little brighter.
Tobias had smiled at him on occasion. Never very often, not a real smile like this. His laughter, those light hearted sounds of enjoyment, was even rarer. Why, one of the only times that comes to mind is…
One day, Theseus had woken up late at night, stirred by nightmares mixed with paranoia. He’d walked abandoned halls in search of company, or at least the library. There was little chance of him sleeping again.
He had found the library before a person and slipped inside. Wandering the shelves, a light had caught his eye, a sound. Laughter, soft and almost uncertain. He’d been drawn closer like a siren song.
Ranboo and Tobias had been curled up on a chair over a book, Tobias carefully corrected Ranboo’s pronunciation. Theseus’ closest servant, teaching his replacement to read while looking happier than he’s ever been.
It had felt like betrayal.
Pressure around him rips him from his thoughts, jostling the injuries that are surely evolving into bruises on his back. Tubbo traps him in a hug, nuzzling into his neck. A wet laugh leaves the kid who would one day be his butler.
“‘m still sorry,” Tubbo muffles into his collar. This time, Theseus manages to hug back. He lifts his arms, settling them awkwardly around Tubbo’s chest. It… it isn’t horrible.
“It’s fine, better than you being hurt,” Theseus assures him. Such minor bruises, however much they might hurt in the moment, mean nothing if Tobias- if Tubbo is okay. Theseus had died for the man even when he could have easily blamed him and gotten off without even a scratch.
Unfortunately for them, every moment must come to an end. This one dies, with a door being opened and a sharp gasp. Without warning, Tommy finds his arms empty.
“ Tubbo, I told you not to go climbing around! What if you’d gotten hurt? Look at all this glass. You’re so grounded,” an unfamiliar voice scolds Theseus’ new… friend. He blinks up at the woman.
Long white hair, fluffy in a way that resembles more a sheep than anything a human is capable of, with small horns jutting out of it. Matching white ears, quivering in worry. A servant’s uniform, her coat denoting her as a head housekeeper in charge of ordering around all the rest.
“I’m fine! Tommy saved me.” Tubbo points at him, an awkward motion when he’s being held aloft by the woman who must be his mother. Theseus’ mother never held him like that. She never held him at all.
“Tommy?” She repeats, looking around at her eye level before she glances down. Her eyes widen, dropping Tubbo to the ground so she can sweep into a bow.
“Your highness. I apologize for my son’s behavior, I hope you can excuse his actions.” One of the many servants amongst the hundreds constantly cycling through the palace. It’s no surprise Theseus never met her before.
“Don’t bow, I like him.” Theseus waves her up. He should probably get off the floor now. So long as he keeps his wings extra still and doesn’t twist his torso too much, the pain’s barely present.
“That’s… very kind of you, Prince Theseus. I know my son can be… a lot. He is not trained for proper interaction within noble society,” she excuses. Completely unnecessarily, of course. Tubbo is seven and Tobias. Theseus allows him many exceptions to lost rules without question.
She pulls out of her bow, turning towards her son again. Then comes the second panic of this whole interaction, bringing her to kneel, rapidly adjusting her son’s hair as if it’s on fire.
“ Your mark. Tobias James, what did I tell you?” She hisses. Tubbo closes off, smile falling, head drooping. He doesn’t even try to fight her off.
“I’m sorry, Momma Puffy,” he mumbles as if he’s said those words a thousand times. Theseus’ wings prickle, a feeling completely separate from the dully radiating pain but no more pleasant.
“ What if someone saw? I- did you show the prince? Tobias, I told you what would happen.” Puffy’s frantic movements begin to calm, simply petting Tubbo’s bangs flat over his eye. His mark all but disappears.
The system advised him not to mention the mark but… but how could he not? How could he not when his butler looks so beaten down? Sure, Tubbo may not be his yet but he will be. Theseus will accept no other.
“I like it,” Theseus interrupts. Puffy freezes, taking a shaking breath. Tubbo barely looks at him, only the slightest tilt of his head, almost afraid of jostling his hair free. Afraid of being seen.
“Thank you… for your kind words, Prince Theseus. We will not bother you any further.” She takes her son’s hand, standing sharply. Like every servant at this point in Theseus’ life, she does not ask to be dismissed. She merely leaves, taking Tubbo with her.
All Theseus gets is a look back, a half raised hand in goodbye from his future butler. He takes the initiative to wave back, standing amongst shattered ceramic and snapped cookies. A broken thing among broken things. He takes another breath.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
Son Of The Devil, Friend Of Mine
- Make a good impression on the young Tobias Eleanore James II (Complete!)
- Get the young Tobias Eleanore James II to confide in you (Double Complete!)
(Suggestion: don’t mention the mark.) (Partial Completion)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 35 A-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 20 S-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 10 D-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 30 S-points with Penelope Uylesses James
- 5 D-points with Penelope Uylesses James
[Is Host feeling okay? This System is sensing a lot of distress.]
Distress? No, Theseus is fine. Physically in pain, yes, but that’s temporary. He takes a deep breath. At least he wasn’t pushed out. Theseus was here for food in the first place, not to see Tubbo.
Will he see Tubbo again before they turn ten? It’s incredibly likely that his mother- Penelope- Puffy will request another position. If she does, she’ll more than likely be granted it out of pity for having to work with Theseus.
Unless the mark stops her. Theseus navigates back towards the pantry on autopilot, only lightly stumbling over their abandoned apricots. Abandoned… like him.
He picks one off the floor, biting into its sticky sweet flesh, fulfilling its only use for him. Beyond that, most of what he can reach in the pantry are breads wrapped in parchment paper. Unless he were to replicate Tubbo’s acrobatics that is.
*Ping!*
[Host is definitely upset :(]
Of course the system would take the briefest moment of weakness as a sign to step in. Theseus is starting to believe it’s less a system meant to offer assistance and more a divine babysitter. He survived twenty-three years all on his own the first time around, he will survive them again.
Meal of bread, apricot, and water swallowed down– already far better than he’s heard some peasants get– he heads back into the halls. A part of him relaxes knowing he’s back to a place he’s ‘allowed’ to be, no more risk of being shoved away so they don’t have to look at him.
Yet to be old enough to decide his own fate, Theseus wanders the halls of his old wing, committing the paths to and from various rooms to memory once more. There’s hardly anything else to do. No tutors, no lessons, no hobbies.
Not even any toys. Sure, he wouldn’t have used such childish things but the offer would have been nice, perhaps made him feel cared for. Maybe he could visit the music room? His hands twitch balling into fists.
Sharp pains come to mind, a ruler against his hands punishing him for a missed note. Perhaps not. The music room was solely his mother’s domain. As far as he’s aware, his father doesn’t have a musical note in his body.
As always, it came down to Theseus’ mother to teach him and teach him she had, though in her usual harsh demeanor. If not for the association of pain, he imagines he might’ve enjoyed learning the piano.
Unfortunately for the both of them, instinctive muscle spasms were the only true result of her lessons. Playing a piano is so much harder when he can’t get his hands to listen. About a month before her death, she’d given up entirely.
The only piano he’s heard since is whenever Wilbur would play during banquets or galas, showing off his skill to defend his place as a prince candidate. It is one of the many things the nobility had loved him for.
Funny, Theseus dedicated his life to garnering allies and support, all Wilbur had to do was play a ridiculous tune. He passes by the music room without even a glance. Let it rot under all that in dust.
Many unused rooms exist in this particular wing of the palace. From his understanding, it was meant to hold the Queen, her favored family members, and any guests she wished to invite over. His mother had few guests and fewer people she would willingly call family. As thus, the majority of the rooms go unused.
Bedrooms, sitting rooms, and tea rooms fill the halls. Most of what Theseus finds in them is either dust or a servant napping on the job, occasionally both. The servants seem to prefer the clean rooms though.
Waking them up requires him caring about them not doing their jobs. More than that, Theseus has to have some sort of ability to actually make them do those jobs. Both abilities are currently beyond him.
One of the rooms is unique enough for him to pause in for longer than a few minutes, one he’d nearly forgotten about. In his defense, his mother had usually chosen to do his studies in her favorite tea room or the gardens rather than the library proper.
It’s one of the dustier rooms, the very air carrying the vaguely pleasant musk of old books and forgotten inkwells left to dry under the sun. A faint line in the hardwood floors indicates the door itself might be the only thing that ever disturbs this place. So many servants seem to open it, take a look at the sheer workload ahead of him, and abandon it.
Theseus steps inside, letting the door slip shut beside him. Once, he might have found so much dust repulsive, focused as he was on his appearance. That had been necessary at the time. Nobles and servants alike would take the slightest imperfection as an excuse to mock him behind his back.
But he’s seven now. He’s at an age where no one looks at him with his freshest memories being of a room far fouler than this. The dust he kicks up, wandering down the main aisle, is almost homey.
Compared to his father’s personal library in the King’s wing, the library isn’t the largest. Theseus knows from experience that it’s dwarfed by the official imperial library as well. It’s only one story, half the room dedicated to a circular sitting area in the center by a large glass window bent out into a bay window.
Through it lies not the perfectly manicured gardens but the forests taking up much of the palace grounds, cutting it off from much of the world. In the distance, mountains eat at the sky, their glimmering peaks letting off a magical frequency that often reads like an aurora borealis at night. Something about it breathes freedom.
No wonder his mother couldn’t stand it. Such a sight must have tempted her beyond compare, wishing for nothing then to flee these walls and never return, with or without him. Clearly, she’d chosen without.
Dust covers the large round table centered in that sitting room, coating his fingers in dull gray with a touch. A gold ring hollows the middle of it out, letting a crystal float freely without any visible support. Clambering up onto the bay seat, Theseus can just barely reach that ring in order to turn the light on, not that it’s necessary at this time of day.
Still, the crystal light is quite pretty. Magic glowing from within, almost as tantalizing for Theseus as freedom was for his mother, a thing he had never been able to grasp. All mages start young, magic seeming to drain from mortals as they age and settle.
By the time Theseus could have learned magic, could have hired his own tutors, he was sixteen and far past the prepubescent age line. It’s one of the many things Theseus has never forgiven his father for. One of the many choices Theseus never got to make all while they crowded around Ranboo, praising their self taught talent in the mystic arts. Admittedly, it is impressive that they taught themselves anything.
Magic is famously dangerous to learn alone. So many things can go wrong, the magical veins in a person’s body twisting and tearing them into unfamiliar shapes. Why, Theseus wouldn’t be surprised if Ranboo’s odd albinism was a result of a magical blowout rather than anything genetic.
Flicking the magic light on and off idly, Theseus wonders for a moment if his father’s decision to execute him by the blade instead of by mage was another slight. Death by magic can be quite painful but it can also be peaceful, as relaxing as falling asleep. Perhaps not.
His executioner’s blade was well sharpened. It had slid through his neck like butter, barely felt. Maybe that is as deep as his father’s regard goes, the assurance of a quick death.
*Ping!*
[Optional Task discovered!]
A Light From Within - Magic Route
[Would Host like to start it?]
Magic route? Theseus lets his gaze flicker from the magical light, currently off, to the system’s eerie blue glow. Yes… yes he could learn magic now, couldn’t he? Death has made it clear she does not want him so he wouldn’t have to worry very much about killing himself by accident. Then again, there are fates worse than death.
“Is that possible? Do you have some method of making sure I don’t hurt myself irreparably?” Theseus taps the light back on. Magic is awfully tempting but definitely not worth the risks. Not unless those risks lessen to no longer be a three year coma or transmuting half of his skin to wood.
*Ping!*
[This System will endeavor to do everything it can to assure Host is safe, happy, and healthy! Being made of Fate’s blessing, this System has many tools to do such a thing! Not that this System thinks Host will need them.]
Well, the faith in him is nice. Not many people believe Theseus is capable of anything. The number that does, he can count on one hand. His mother, Tobias, Grand Duke Schlatt- although that last one was likely more currying favor than actual belief.
“I fear that doesn’t answer my question,” Theseus points out, sitting back against the many plush pillows lining the bay seat, faintly fuzzy from age. The large, overly sensitive bruise that has become of his back forces him to sit back up again. He can’t keep his posture too straight, can’t let it fall too far- truly wings are more of a curse than the blessing they were intended to be.
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! Magic is another of the gods who adores Host, does Host really think they’d let Host be so cruelly harmed? It may not be able to protect Host from all harms but magical ones?]
[Though Host is not immune to magical damage, the effects of such things will be greatly resisted. This System asks again! Would Host like to start the optional task?]
Theseus really shouldn’t be surprised. If the gods apparently decided he was their favorite, enough so to bring him back to life, then why wouldn’t Magic agree with them? Except of course he’s surprised.
Only the most prideful and narcissistic of individuals could possibly take this entire situation at face value without flinching. Him? The beloved of all the gods? Gods have been known to give their divine favor, of course.
Usually, a single god picks a single mortal to favor. Theseus has never heard of a situation where the entire pantheon decides they have a favorite individual in all the universe. Putting the situation into words in such a manner feels painfully ridiculous without actually having to live through it. He sighs, wincing when his back tugs.
“Alright System, we may as well try,” Theseus accepts, suddenly much more tired than before he sat down. The system gives a happy chime, seemingly the extent of its verbal capabilities.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
A Light From Within
- Unravel the magical coils within Host’s body into a usable state
- Discover the Host’s Foci hidden within the Queen’s Wing
- Cast one low-level spell in front of two or more witnesses, don’t hide away after
(Suggestion: perform sub-tasks in order)
[Best of luck Host! This System wishes it could help more. These sub-tasks are so complicated >~<]
Complicated may be an understatement. Unraveling magical coils are far easier said than done to that point that only children can do it. Children, as Theseus understands, are much more malleable than adults. Even something as little as dance practice can change their musculature for the rest of their life.
Beyond that, children also tend to need to be guided in how to even unravel their coils. Theseus has heard tales, through the whispers of gossip on noble tongues, of children burning down entire manor wings due to doing it incorrectly.
Then there’s the foci, an incredibly rare thing. It is often considered simpler to find one’s soulmate than their foci. Theseus’ has stood on a stage beside his father waving of the capital’s latest wave of newly-minted mages on their years long quest to find their foci. Often, it’s one of the last things a mage does.
Yet the system wants him to do it second? He can see the rough logic behind it. Foci are used to focus magic, essentially doubling a mage’s capability in an instant. If they weren’t so hard to find, Theseus can easily see every school demanding a student arrive with their foci.
With those two ‘sub-tasks’ looming over him, the third almost feels anticlimactic. Yes, he has to immediately reveal his magical talent to a small crowd of people, which comes with its own problems, but that’s easy. Harder would be hiding it as he ages.
“You say you can’t help but… could you at least tell me how to start unraveling my coils?” Theseus finds himself asking. The process is jealously guarded by every mage talented enough to be a tutor. Magic, like all power, is hoarded and coveted by the wealthy. Really, it’s no surprise Philza snapped up such a talented young mage like Ranboo over a few party tricks.
Admittedly those tricks featured full body teleportation so perhaps he’s still upset for some nonsensical reason.
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! This System is not permitted to grant any more information. Magic wishes for the experience of learning to be unique to an individual.]
“That hardly seems advisable given the extreme negative consequences associated with magic.” Theseus slowly slides off the bay seat, landing with a soft thump. If the system can’t answer him, perhaps one of these books might.
He never did get a chance to look through all of them. Honestly, Theseus was never really here at all. His ‘education’, if it could be called that, only restarted once his step-mother arrived and got the twins their own specialized tutors.
If there are books on magic in the imperial library and ones in his father’s personal collection then surely his mother had at least one as well? Theseus may not remember her being a mage of any particular skill, nor using magic in the slightest, but many people carry a passing interest in the subject.
Theseus had been one of those people in the future. Albeit, most of his research had turned towards the theoretics, potions and spell structure over control exercises. While he could use neither, he was often a lot less tempted to try magic, as thus causing potential great harm to himself, when he wasn’t reading what amounts to a beginner’s guide.
Now, he’s regretting that decision.
*Ping!*
[Magic requests that it be said that if the mortals did not wish to be cursed, perhaps they should not have taken its gift for granted]
If the insinuation there is what Theseus believes it to be, that the god of Magic cursed all of magic because the entire planet managed to upset it, then he is going to try his best to ignore it. Theseus very pointedly will not comment on the actions of a god willing to and capable of such a feat.
Free will is truly such a miracle. Free will to abuse magic and the free will to continue using it anyway even with the consequences added. He continues his journey through the once abandoned shelves of his mother’s library.
Arguably, they still have been abandoned, uncared for in either her life nor her death. The only difference is that Theseus has dared to wander in this lifetime. Another small decision that will one day cause quite the large difference. It must since it will result in him learning magic if all goes well.
Whatever organizational system his mother employed in the library when she still regularly used it, if there ever was such a time, stops Theseus in his tracks. Rather than labeled sections organized alphabetically by title or name, she instead employed an odd system of numbers and letters.
Perhaps to her the numbers meant something, allowing her to spend as little time as she can in here, but Theseus carries no such knowledge. The library may as well be organized into rainbow order for how helpful it is.
Further dampening his efforts is, once again, his height. Nearly a dozen levels of shelving crawl their way up towards the ceiling, accessible by a rolling ladder pressed against the far wall. Theseus can only reach the third level comfortably, the fourth if he’s willing to jump for it.
He doesn’t get his hopes up when he tries to pull the ladder from its position. Still, Theseus finds himself disappointed when the old wheels refuse to budge, either rusted in place or locked by a mechanism he can’t see. Whatever the reason, the result is the same.
Theseus will be limited to a mere fraction of the library, already so much smaller than the ones he’d have access to in the future, by virtue of the servants once again not doing their jobs. He sighs, too used to such inconvenience to even be annoyed.
Instead what clings to him is a slowly trickling exhaustion, one that’s been building up for… years, honestly. He was without it for a moment in death but it seems to be back now that his heart has been forced to beat again. Theseus leans against the old ladder, wood creaking under his weight despite not even daring to climb a single rung.
Deep breaths. Theseus is fine. Except his ribs twinge in complaint at the breath, except his back hurts and his wings ache and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
*Ping!*
[No current Tasks possess a time limit, Host! If Host is tired, Host should sleep. This System will awaken Host if necessary.]
“Once I find a grimoire or manual of some kind, perhaps,” Theseus waves the system away, “I’m here now. It would be a crime to leave empty handed.” His voice is so high pitched compared to what it used to be, so childish.
Being older may bring him no joys but one, a body that does not feel clumsy and uncertain. Theseus merely has to make it here. For that, he should find something to occupy his time.
Rest is a tempting prospect despite him having been awake for seemingly no time at all. Not that he’s kept a close eye on the clock. Don’t small children need more rest anyway? Maybe he will sleep once this is done.
Maybe he will abandon trying to find his needle in a haystack before he even starts, thwarted so heavily by the nonsensical numbering system. Well, there’s always tomorrow. It’s not like Theseus has anything else to do.
He traces the edge of the closest shelf he can reach, idly reading titles as he makes his way back towards the door, leaving only a trail of disturbed dust to indicate he was here at all. Most of the titles are unfamiliar, never having been taught to him by his mother in the little time she had.
One shelf he comes across draws more of his attention than the others. The dust is slightly less thick, indicating occasional use, though the lack of similar marks in the rest of the library means his mother likely didn’t read them. What did she do instead? Stare at them and put them back? Read while standing here?
Pulling out one of the spines, Theseus mimics the actions she must have taken. His chosen book is a dull black leather, a thinly painted script swirling into the title ‘ The Fundamentals And Techniques of Ballet: A Dictionary by Chloe Grant’.
Ballet? An unfamiliar term, nothing that he’d learned in stolen lessons and careful studying. Likely because Theseus had mostly tried learning the practicals of ruling, somehow convinced he would one day make it to the throne.
A foolish hope for his past life. Theseus isn’t particularly optimistic about his chances in this one but the system seems to have faith in him.
*Ping!*
[System does! Host can do anything!]
Flicking open the book, he searches for some kind of answer. If nothing else, why did his mother enjoy the topic so much? Enough that she was willing to go somewhere she hates in order to reminisce over it.
Carefully drawn images of dancers in odd poses does provide him with some answers. Ballet is a dance, one done in seemingly little clothing sans light skirts. It clearly requires much flexibility, far more than Theseus ever had, and is very much not something his mother ever did.
She was always in the many layers of dress and shapewear typical of a noble lady, many petticoats and tight corsets making the movements implied in the first few pages of the book impossible. Did she know this dance from before she married his father?
Yes, that must be the case. Theseus knows this style of dance is not typical of a noble education. It must have been a special case, something she loved so dearly she went out of her way to learn it. Even when she was all but locked away from the world, she continued to try and return to it, another thing stolen from her.
Theseus’ wings tug against his bruised skin, trying to wrap over his shoulders. He forces them still again. Another couple of pages describe more about the unfamiliar topic.
Ballet is a dance prizing elegance, flexibility, and balance, both of body and of mind. It’s quite the lofty description, talking on and on about years of practice and careful movements. Just after the introduction, several exercises for ‘ enterprising beginners’ are detailed, once again drawn out for his viewing pleasure.
Making his way back towards the bay window, he hefts the book onto the table, setting off a plume of dust. Then he crawls back up, ignoring the slowly growing exhaustion weighing him down.
Despite his initial plan to head back to his room once he found something of interest, Theseus instead opens up the book again, rereading the introduction and skimming the glossary. He tries to figure out what his mother loved so much about ballet.
He finds his answer in elegant, impossible seeming poses and flowery talk praising the dance with every word. He finds it in the warnings of difficulty and precision. He finds it in the one thing he truly inherited from his mother, her stubbornness to do what other people touted as impossible or ridiculous.
Theseus ends up spending the entire night learning about another thing his mother may have very well loved more than him. Perhaps that shouldn’t have made him feel better.
It did.
Notes:
The babies are so cuuuute <3
Ugh, I love them so much. Poor Tubbo though. I wonder if he'll be able to avoid his fate of being grievously scarred? I mean, probably not, but he can try.
Chapter 3: A Delicate Dance Of Love And Regret
Summary:
Theseus does not hold much care for his father, let alone love. He knows his father feels the same way. He knows that lack of care extends further to the servants, to everyone he meets. What he knows is only further confirmed when, for reasons unknown, his father actually comes to visit him in the desolate Queen's Wing.
While the Kingmaker System may see this as an opportunity, Theseus would rather he never have to interact with his father at all. Isolation is never good for the mortal mind but... but at least then he is free of grasping hands and cruel eyes. There was, in the end, a peace in that jail cell that he never had before.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the next month, Theseus spends far too much time reading books about ballet. Something about it draws his attention in, not that he’s complaining. Ballet ends up being one of the only breaks he has from the constant neglect surrounding him.
Because the servants hardly got any better over that month, which was about as expected. Theseus is forced to continue sneaking food, dressing himself, and overall be treated in a manner completely ill-fitting of his station.
Less expected is how his skin crawled every time he was looked at. The patronizing gazes, careless words, and heavy handed touches only push him further and further away from those meant to care for him.
No more bruises get added to his skin, the ones he does have fading by the second week. By all means, he shouldn’t be so bothered by any of this. It’s nothing new, their behavior. It matches his memories of how the servants would act prior to his attempts at bribery and blackmail rather perfectly.
Thinking about the whys of his own reaction only puts him back in that same mental space the system keeps trying to push him out of, lingering blankly as time passes him by. He finds little trouble deciding not to think about it at all.
So ballet becomes his escape. During the first week, with his flesh still tender, Theseus reads every book his mother has on the subject, scouring the library as far as he can reach. It’s not magic but no books on that subject appear no matter how hard he looks. Which is fine, the task can wait.
He marks the second week with his first attempt to follow along with one of the diagrams. By then, his bruises are little more than a mottled yellow-brown discoloration between his feathers, only hurting when he applies pressure. No, he ends up hurting for an entirely different reason.
Really it wasn’t a surprise that even the beginner techniques are hard. All the drawings are of people older than his current body, the book continuously warning against pushing himself too far. It wouldn’t do that if it was an easy dance, if any dance can be called easy.
Placing his feet in the correct manner is still awkward, the posture making muscles he’s pretty sure only exist now to support his wings ache after too long, and lifting his arms and legs the right way feels… clunky for lack of a better term.
Which may very well be an extension of the general problem he’s been having with his body. So much fine motor control has been lost, of course it would extend to such a seemingly-precise art. Even if his mind knows what to do, his body doesn’t.
And Theseus’ mind doesn’t even know the ‘right’ way to do any of this, leaving him to stumble through the book’s teachings and hope he’s doing it right. The system does deign itself to help wherever it can.
Like now, showing a percentile number of how close he is to the ‘right’ position. Theseus straightens his spine again, keeping his heels together and toes pointed out, slowly bending his knees into a ‘plie’ despite the complaints of his thighs.
It’s better than his first attempt, a little over two weeks ago now. He’d accidentally worked himself into collapse then, slumping onto the library’s floor as he waited for feeling to return to his legs. No one had come to check on him, even when he once again fell asleep in the library instead of his rooms.
No one ever comes to check on him. It’s good for some things, saving his dignity as he forces himself through the stretches and strength building exercises detailed in the book, bending in ways he can only describe as awkward. It’s a terrible thing when he wakes up curled up on the bay window, the afternoon sun high in the sky.
Going back to a resting position, letting his sore legs finally rest after what’s most likely an hour or two of awkward practice, Theseus glances out the window behind him. It’s about that time of day now, in fact.
Assuming the time is once again around noon, it’s been two days since he’s seen anyone. Just him, the small sack of fruits and breads packed in the kitchen before he came here, the books, and the dust.
Some part of Theseus dims at that knowledge. It feels like confirmation, like he really could go missing and no one would notice, let alone care. Of course, he’d always suspected that so he’s once again more disappointed than surprised.
*Ping!*
[This system would notice if Host went missing! System cares about Host!]
“Which is very sweet of you,” Theseus assures his constant companion, “but you’re attached to my soul, system. If we managed to get separated, I imagine we’d have a much larger problem at hand.” Plus, the system was designed to care about him by Fate itself.
Another thing that is sweet but ultimately meaningless. The love of the gods does little to make his life better, them being unable to affect the material world in such a way. The system may try but the servants have chosen their path.
Free will once again triumphs over the gods’ plans in the worst of ways. Sighing, Theseus inspects the empty fabric bag that had contained his rations, now only holding crumbs. He officially has to leave again.
That’s fine, Theseus could use a bath and a long drink of water, his mouth so very dry. Next time, he’ll pack more water before he hides away, his canteen having run out early this morning.
No, he shakes his head, he’s not hiding. Theseus is… isolating himself in order to practice a new art without distraction, nothing more to it. Perhaps if he repeats that enough, he’ll actually believe it.
Slipping out of the library, Theseus slowly makes his way back towards his rooms, painfully aware of how terrible he looks. His clothes, a light blouse and pants he’d chosen specifically for their ease of movement, have taken quite a beating from spending so long in the library. Sweat, dust, and grime sticks to it, to his skin, to the thick almost-fur trying its damndest to matt over his scalp.
Pulling at the fabric does nothing to hide it, momentarily unsticking the fabric from him at best. It’s not an awful feeling, admittedly. The fabric is far nicer than his jail rags even in such a messy state.
The first servant he comes across on the way to his rooms clearly disagrees. A sharp gasp rings in his ears, the servant’s eyes widening in horror and disgust.
“ My prince,” They shriek, not even trying to hide it, “What is wrong with you? Where have you been? The king is coming soon and you’re covered in dirt.” The king is coming to the Queen’s Wing? That’s a first.
“I was-” He’s cut off. “No, I don’t care. We need to get you in a bath and you’re already running late. Ugh, did you go crawling through the gardens? See if the gardeners let you do that again,” the servant berates him.
Right, they don’t actually care where he’s been or what he was doing. They’re only putting up a fuss because his father is visiting and Theseus looks worse than Ranboo did when they first graced the palace steps. Given Ranboo had been a homeless peasant, it does not reflect well on the servants at all.
He jolts, feathers puffing up as the servant grabs at his arm, dragging him through the halls far faster than his sore legs can keep up with. Even if they weren’t sore, he doubts he would be doing much better. Theseus’ seven year old body is too small for such speeds.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
Withered Olive Branch
- Make Philza Morentus Mycroft feel guilt for his inactions and neglect over the years without coming off as rude
- Get the serving staff in the Queen’s Wing overturned for their ineptitude
(Suggestion: cry )
[Why are the servants always so mean to Host? Host didn’t do anything wrong!]
As much as he would love to answer, Theseus isn’t entirely sure. All he knows is that these servants were picked by his mother and bribed for their loyalty. Naturally, his assumption is that they don’t care about him because he can’t pay out.
*Ping!*
[That doesn’t make any sense! Host is seven.]
Theseus goes mostly limp, letting himself be manhandled into a hot bath, skin scrubbed raw. He knows his own age, System. He never said their presumed reason was good, merely that it exists.
Oils and shampoos are lathered into his hair, harshly combed through to combat the thick knots of his hair. Theseus can’t stop himself from wincing. He bites back a pained whine, forcing himself to stay still and pliant.
Fighting it will only make them rougher. With his new wings, an entirely new sensitive place for them to mangle, he can’t risk that. As it is, the rough hands carting through his feathers makes his eyes prickle with pained tears, kept back only because he knows it could be so much worse. A knowledge his younger body doesn’t seem to share.
Chamomile and roses sting his sensitive nose, drowning out the scent of old paper, ink, and dust he’d become so accustomed to over this past month. A prince should not smell of such old things, Theseus knows.
Dust only exists in old, neglected places. Whether that neglect is intentional or not, the fact remains. The Queen’s Wing, the very place the only prince lives, should not be one of those places. Not that Philza had cared particularly much.
Well, maybe he’ll care in this life, the system certainly seems convinced he will. Even if it might require Theseus to actually cry. Theseus never cries. How is he meant to do it on purpose?
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! This System has access to several basic functions regarding Host’s body. While many of these are limited due to Host’s young age, such as the flight mechanic, the crying mechanic is still accessible.]
Nevermind then. It seems Theseus’ true limiting factor is his own pride. Crying in front of his father means he might have to accept comfort from the man in spite of everything he has and hasn’t done. He shudders merely thinking about it… or that may be from the nails scrubbing detritus from between his feathers.
A mixture of both most likely. Less uncomfortable of a topic is the possibility of him being able to fly. Theseus knows his father does possess the ability to fly. He has seen the man come in from short flights on occasion, the evidence plain as day in wind swept hair and cheeks flushed from the cold, but he’s never actually gotten the opportunity to see him fly. Now, Theseus may be able to experience it.
Once his wings grow in, that is. Though he may know little about the mechanics of flight, his wings are presently too small for Theseus to even attempt convincing himself they can be used. He’s not stupid.
He bites back a hiss at a particularly rough tug, shoulders hitching up. His wings flap out, so much more reactive than the rest of his body, splashing water over the side of the tub. One of the servants bathing him smacks his shoulder.
“Stay still,” They snap, “I will not be doing any more laundry because you decided to throw a fit.” Right, because Theseus did that on purpose. It’s almost like he hasn’t been sitting here and letting them manhandle him without complaint.
Yet another reminder that it doesn’t matter what he does, he’s always doing something wrong, always the one at fault. At least his execution was justified. He forces himself to calm down. It’s fine, he’ll manage like he always does.
*Ping!*
[Host should not have to manage :(]
Why Fate decided to make the Kingmaker System- supposedly designed to help him maneuver his way into a better place politically- so very naive, Theseus doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter if he ‘shouldn’t have to’, he simply does. There’s nothing he can do about it right now.
Philza is the only one who can really change things, overriding the authority of the Wing Manager’s and swapping out staff on a whim. As much as he loathes to need his father’s help, Theseus knows it to be necessary.
Theseus only wishes that petitioning his father for help didn’t have to involve him bawling like a child. He bites back a sigh.
Cold air assaults his senses, goosebumps trailing up his skin, feathers only not sticking on end due to the sheer amount of water clogging them. The servant’s attempts to towel him off are largely unsuccessful.
It was a common problem in his last life. Fur holds water incredibly well, a trait his hair shares. Feathers, Theseus now learns, are a similar situation. Water drips from them, pooling on the ground in a large puddle, adding an extra heft to them that can only be described as viciously uncomfortable at best.
Servants give up on drying him before Theseus’ manages to fully get from ‘soaking’ to ‘damp’. He can’t blame them. Washing his hair, when he’d gotten old enough to do it himself, was an ordeal that often required several hours of air drying. The towels really only seem to encourage the matts in his hair to reform.
Which results in more frustration from the servants, more painful combing, and several unsavory things muttered at him like he’s doing it on purpose. He can sympathize with their struggles, honestly. That being said, he would rather they didn’t take it out on him.
By comparison, getting dolled up in the fanciest outfit the servants could find in his closet is far more palatable. The top they pick out is a frilly, lace covered blouse with a verdant green silk ribbon tied into a complicated bow around his neck, complete with gold buttons shinned to a mirror finish. The shorts are puffy, closer to bloomers in shape, but colored a deeper forest green. Frilly knee high socks and shimmery black shoes complete the look.
A doll wearing nearly the exact same outfit sits on a shelf in his mother’s bedroom. He could complain about the tightness of the ribbon around his neck or the water soaking through the fabric from his hair and wings but all he can think about is that ridiculous doll.
Obvious differences naturally exist between Theseus and the doll. His skin, while pale from lacking sunlight, is not made of porcelain. Bags beneath his eyes exist in a mottled purple and brown, easily mistaken for bruises if not for the lack of swelling. The redness over his cheeks from the bath is splotchy rather than smooth.
His eyes may be dull but they are not the glossy sheen of glass. While rather ridiculous of him to do, Theseus clings to these differences. He is not a doll.
Like always, the servants disagree with that sentiment, once again picking him up to move him when they see Theseus spending a bit too much time in front of the mirror. He ignores their grumbles of vanity and stubbornness.
While Theseus does not know where his father wants them to meet, nor why since he never seemed to be inclined to spend time with him before, it is obvious by the servants' reactions. The closer they get to the room, the more polite the servants act.
Stepping away from him as if guiding him instead of dragging him along, slowing their pace to one more manageable, opening doors for him- a decent act that would have sincerely confused him the first time around.
To his surprise, he does recognize the room his father chose to meet him. Theseus has a few memories, foggy and distant, of his mother’s favorite tea room. Decorated with soft reds and vibrant golds, it contains no windows to tempt her.
One table with two chairs sits in the center, carved from ivory with great care. Paintings and curtains line the walls, as though the paintings themselves were images of the outside, landscapes that Theseus can only assume represent her home.
Philza could not look more out of place in his favored greens and blacks, just barely enough of the mourning color for it to be considered excusable, though his wings put in much of the effort. Theseus resists the urge to shift in discomfort, his feathers only not pricking due to the added weight.
“Greetings, father.” Theseus bows shortly, the edge of respectful. It could not be more different than the last time he met his father after the funeral. He’d tried to hug the man after witnessing his wedding to his step-mother. How stupid he had been, expecting his father to react positively.
“Theseus,” his father greets back. He sets down his tea cup, having taken the initiative to enjoy the servants’ offerings before Theseus arrived. Another slight, one he would not have recognized at this age. He chest prickles, then quiets.
“You’re late,” Philza observes. A bit of a surprise that he cares. Then again, Theseus has once again been made into an inconvenience to him, a form where he does tend to matter if only as a way to get rid of him.
*Ping!*
[Function- Crying activated, stage one]
Fake tears prickle his eyes, the splotchy red of his face adding to the effect. He lets his head hang, shoulders curl, and allows himself to grimace. That, too, adds to the act, even if the true reason is due to how ridiculous he’s acting.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I was in mother’s library and no one came to get me.” Theseus blinks back tears, wringing his hands. He walks closer, shuffling his way towards his seat under his father’s pinning stare.
“Ah, did your… mother teach you how to read?” Philza asks. Of all the things… Theseus takes a deep breath, wiping away his fake tears.
“Mother taught me a lot of things,” Theseus answers vaguely, “she liked books.” Glancing at his chair, very much designed for an adult and not a child, he allows himself to mourn what little remains of his dignity.
His father hums, equally vague, and watches him struggle up into the chair. It’s notably harder to climb into than the various sofas he’s done before, likely due to its narrower surface. The cushion does plenty of work to save his knees from the hard ivory.
Once in his seat, a servant rushes forward to serve him tea. Were he actually seven, this would be a surprise. Since he isn’t seven, he has to act out that surprise, not giving away that he knew they would act like this.
“Why’re you doing that?” Theseus compromises his vocabulary, slurring the question slightly as he tilts his head towards the servant. The one in question freezes, wavering slightly in their pour. A few drops of tea splatter against the table cloth.
“Why are they doing what, Theseus?” Philza’s eyes slide over to the servant, who rapidly fixes their grip to pull up the tea pot. Under the gaze of the king, they can’t freely move back against the wall without garnering questions, pinned under his mostly uninterested attention.
“Pouring the tea,” he runs a finger over the spilled drop, “mother always poured it before.” He isn’t supposed to know this is normal, Theseus repeats like a mantra. This is meant to be new and strange.
It’s easier to remember after a month spent being all but a ghost in his mother’s wing. The days of hunger, the necessity of sneaking underneath the servants’ attention to even be allowed food, the clumsy fixing of his clothes and the month of not bathing since no one would pour him a bath.
“Your mother isn’t here now. It’s only natural that things will change,” Philza explains, tapping an expertly manicured talon against his tea cup. The derision towards Theseus’ mother could not be more obvious. Theseus does not falter.
“But the servants never pour me tea.” He’s meant to be a petulant child, confused by change. Theseus- ugh- pouts at his father, gripping lightly at the table cloth.
“Do you ask for tea?” His father could not be enjoying this topic of conversation any less, wings flicking dismissively. The servant, momentarily free of attention, glares at Theseus in a silent order to shut up. Alas, he is a dumb and unobservant child.
“Yeah, and food, but they never get me food and I’m not allowed in the kitchen because I’m too young.” Theseus wraps his little arms around his achingly empty stomach, looking imploringly at his father through his lashes. “I’m hungry, father.”
*Ping!*
[Function- Crying activated, stage two]
Tears well in Theseus eyes, immediately spilling without any chance to pull them back. His next inhale is a sniffle, completely against his will mind you, but that might be a good thing. His father freezes, feathers standing on end.
“Excuse this child. He’s quite demanding, you see, and has a habit of…” The servant trails off as Philza turns to them, the motion eerily smooth. There is not an angry or upset look in his eye. Why, there is no emotion at all.
“Did I ask you to speak?” His father queries, cold tone implying there is only one answer. A smile threatens to ruin Theseus’ act. If in doubt, always appeal to his father’s sense of propriety.
“No, your imperial highness.” The servant bows, having answered correctly, and makes their escape back against the wall. Philza’s exterior only grows colder. They did not ask to be dismissed, nor did they imply a desire to.
Because they got far too ingrained in their habits. In their panic at being discovered by an individual that both cares and has the ability to punish them, they’re showing their cracks. Even if it is small and only a bother because Philza cares too much.
Sniffling again, Theseus tries to wipe his tears away. Alas, stage two seems to last much longer than stage one, new tears slipping from his eyes despite his efforts.
Philza’s attention turns to him again, his countenance not changing. Vision blurry, Theseus struggles to pick out the microexpressions he usually relies on. How frustrating. Crying truly isn’t worth the effort.
While he can’t say why his father reacts like he does, the reaction itself is impossible to miss. Philza reaches across the table, picking a cookie from the tiered tray between them, and sets it on Theseus’ plate with a quiet ‘ tink’.
At his current year of age, Theseus doesn’t think he’s had one of these cookies in his life, or rather this life. It’s one of the jam filled ones, likely strawberry given the color. Has he even had strawberries at this point in time?
“Eat,” Philza orders. Well, who is Theseus to deny? He is genuinely hungry and does need to eat more, even if he would prefer a meal more filling than sweets.
Despite not having much of a sweet tooth, the taste of strawberries and vanilla is rather nice, apparently giving the system a reason to cease those infernal tears. His eyes dry up remarkably quickly.
“Thank you.” Theseus bows his head after swallowing, once again appealing to his father’s preference for well mannered people. The only exception to the preference would be his step mother, her children, and later that magical street urchin Theseus had nearly killed.
All people Philza so clearly saw as family. No wonder Theseus isn’t given the same treatment. He eats the cookie in silence, his father’s thoughts a mystery.
His father watches him eat, watches him drink, and generally seems to forget to do either of those actions himself. There’s no furrow in his brow or frown at his lips but neither is there a smile. Even his wings have fallen mostly still.
“Do the servants bathe you as well?” His father’s next question is strange and unexpected. He can understand asking more about Theseus’ treatment after the disturbing revelation that the servants may not be feeding him but… why ask about his bathing habits? Thankfully, that means he doesn’t have to fake anything in his answer.
“When they think I need it, why?” Theseus’ wings showcase his confusion in their own way, flicking out. Water mists off his feathers, hitting the carpeted floor. Philza’s eyes snap to the motion.
“It seems they care little for your wings, then,” Philza concludes, “did your mother take care of them as well?” Unfortunately, Theseus doesn’t actually know. He’s been given no memories of people’s interactions with his wings, making him the only person to know they’re brand new as of roughly a month and a half ago.
Still, it’s obvious what answer his father would prefer hearing. His father hates his mother with a viciousness untempered by death and a dozen happy years at his step mother’s side. So soon after her funeral, it’s even sharper.
“No, she didn’t know how.” Or, rather, Theseus assumes that would be the case. His mother spared him no kind touch. The few occasions he’d spy his father fresh from a preening session with his step mother, he certainly seemed happy and well pampered. It’s unlikely his mother would do the same.
“I can tell,” his father comments rather harshly. If Theseus truly cared for his mother like the twins cared for their own, he’d be insulted for her. Thankfully, he is free of such emotion.
“They’re really uncomfortable right now. I don’t like it when they’re wet.” Theseus tries to move them away from the topic of his mother. His father was always nicer whenever he was allowed to forget she existed.
“I imagine not. You’ve yet to reach the age where you can apply the waterproofing on your own,” Philza informs them. Theseus didn’t know they even had that ability. Perhaps it makes sense, his father did occasionally go out in storms and he never came back quite as soaked as Theseus is.
“Would you help me?” The question, designed to be the innocent query of a child who only wants to spend time with his distant father, burns at Theseus’ throat. He bites down on another cookie to hide his grimace. Letting his father get so close to him again sounds deeply unpleasant.
Not that his father ever hurt him. No, every action taken against Theseus was indirect, from the neglect to even his death. His father would certainly never dirty his hands with someone like Theseus.
Still, he knows now that wings are quite sensitive. There are few people he can imagine allowing close enough to touch them, one of whom is presently also seven and barely knows him. The rest currently don’t know he exists beyond a concept.
“Perhaps later. This isn’t a good place for such a thing and I had other topics to discuss with you,” his father replies belatedly, resting his clasped hands on the table in front of him. Theseus spares them a look, eying white knuckles with a sense of accomplishment.
“What did you want to talk about?” Theseus wipes a crumb from his face, admittedly quite curious about why his father is here. Philza takes a noticeable breath, briefly closing his eyes.
“Your mother,” his father hesitates, “what was she… what kind of person did you see her as?” Ah, now that… that’s a loaded question. Theseus fills his mouth to give himself a moment to think.
As he currently is, he sees his mother as a distant but caring figure. She did many things to him that Theseus would rather not repeat yet she was the only one who stood up for him. Theseus has no doubts that she would have fought the world itself if needed.
But his mother also died, taking her own life in a desperate attempt to escape a life she never wanted to be in. Theseus would have felt betrayed if he didn’t feel much the same way. However, that’s a revelation that only came towards the end of his life, one that Ranboo helped him reach. Ranboo, who made Theseus realize he truly had nothing.
When he had first been seven, though? Theseus had felt little for her at all. Maybe he had hated her, maybe he had loved her, but no emotion reigned for long enough for him to figure out which was the truth.
“She was my mother,” Theseus lands on, “the only one I had. Life was better with her around, even if it hurt.” He picks at his hands, tracing over where the welts had been, now long since healed. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
“I don’t know if I miss her. Is that bad?” He turns the conversation back towards his father, throat thick with unnamed emotion and eyes itching. Fake crying was bad enough, he refuses to do it for real. He is not a child.
“No, your mother was a deeply unpleasant person,” Philza assures him without shame. Theseus may agree with that assessment on some levels but he would never say it out loud.
“I doubt she truly cared for you.”
Ah… Now there is where Theseus disagrees. Is that truly how his father viewed it? A lack of care? His mother treated him nicer than she treated herself. Everything she did, she did for a reason, even if Theseus would rather her punishments be lighter.
“Mother cared more than you.” The words leave Theseus before he can stop them, before he can even think about them. As true as they might be, there are better ways to get his sentiment across.
Philza falls still once more. Theseus can see his failure imminent, the system’s goal for him to upset Philza without being rude disappearing in the wind. For the first time since arriving here, Theseus turns his attention away from Philza.
The servants along the walls provide no respite, clearly upset with Theseus insulting their king. He needs to salvage this quickly. Hiking his wings up, Theseus drops his head and prepares his last resort.
“ Sorry,” he whispers, forcing himself to tremble, “I just… I…” He pretends to choke up, his tremble evolving into a shake. For the cherry on top, he queries the system.
*Ping!*
[Function- Crying activated, stage three]
“ I just miss her so much,” Theseus cries, “The servants are so mean. I’m so hungry and tired. I don’t know what to do. Mother-” no, adjust, “ Momma always made it better.” Snot clogs his nose, a waterfall of tears pouring down his face.
“And now she isn’t here and I don’t know what to do.” Theseus curls into himself, sobbing into his arms. Really, he should get an award for this particular act. Even if he can’t tell his father’s reaction, he surely must be distracted from Theseus’ previous slight.
Over the sounds of his own sobbing, he can distantly hear a chair scrape against the ground. Theseus glances up, watching the blurry form of his father advance around the table, stopping to stand over him.
“ I’m sorry,” he croaks again. Crying, shaking as he stares up at his father, he must be the image of pity. It rankles him but it must be done. His own discomfort matters little if it’s in the way of his success.
“You don’t even know your own emotions, do you,” Philza muses quietly, “ he really is so young.” If Theseus had any less focus on his father, he may not have heard him at all. He knows better than to let his attention stray, thankfully.
A hand settles on top of his head. Theseus flinches harshly, having not expected that at all. The sensation is dulled, his hair thick and knotted, but it’s undeniably there.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Theseus, I’m not your mother,” Philza assures. Once again, it seems his actions are working far quicker than he expected them to. He should adjust his expectations.
Theseus has never encountered a Philza wracked by guilt. In hindsight, it makes sense that he would fail to predict his father’s reactions.
“I didn’t want to be mean,” Theseus mumbles for want of anything else to say. When in doubt, tweak the truth. He would be plenty mean in any other situation, if not for the system’s restrictions.
“... it’s alright, you didn’t know any better. No one raised by her would come out right.” Has his father always been so vocal about his distaste for Theseus’ mother? No, that would require acknowledging her existence, one of Philza’s least favorite activities. How strange, then, that he’s choosing to willingly speak of her.
“Why don’t we go preen your wings, hm? It will make you feel better.” His father pets his hair, for lack of a better description. Theseus, knowing better than to deny his father anything, sits up and hops from his chair.
The tears refuse to stop even as he’s led from the room, walking close to his father’s side. Stage three of crying should definitely be saved for emergencies. It’s far too annoying to use freely, even more so than the previous stage.
Crossing the threshold of a new room, some miscellaneous sitting room that may have once been intended to be an office, the system finally speaks up again.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
Withered Olive Branch
- Make Philza Morentus Mycroft feel guilt for his inactions and neglect over the years without coming off as rude (Success!)
- Get the serving staff in the Queen’s Wing overturned for their ineptitude (Pending Results)
(Suggestion: cry ) (Double Success!)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 5 A-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 25 S-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 10 D-points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
[Is Host feeling better after crying? This System hopes so! Crying is good to release stress and induce serotonin production!]
Theseus has no idea what serotonin is and is feeling far more stressed than he did before he stepped into that tea room. It seems Philza agrees with that assessment given the amount of S points he’s accumulated.
Points that do make sense given his apparent success with guilt tripping his father. He should feel proud of himself.
He mostly feels tired. Exhaustion drags at his mind and feet, sore muscles reminding him that he hasn’t slept properly in days. The library may be nice and out of the way but the bay window isn’t a bed.
“I find preening is best done on a soft surface as it can take a while. Why don’t you go lay down,” Philza orders. Oh look, a bed. Theseus blinks slowly, registering far too late that his father had led them into a spare bedroom.
Being seven is so bothersome. Children are known for being hyperactive but, clearly, that was a lie. Theseus’ energy is running out much faster than when he was an adult.
Climbing onto the bed takes three attempts, the unused mattress seemingly taller than his own. Philza watches from a distance. If he’s judging Theseus, no one can say. He’s too tired to care anymore, frustration bubbling up with each wiggle he has to do to complete such a simple task.
Finally laying down in the middle of the bed, Theseus splays out, feeling the blankets beneath him dampen with lingering moisture. While he may not want to fall asleep in the same room as his father, past experiences have given him no reason to believe doing so would be actively dangerous for him.
An actual benefit to his father being there is that the servants are unlikely to try anything. They won’t try to steal from him nor will they slack, nervous that the king could be right around the corner.
So, for once safe in the knowledge that nothing could go wrong, Theseus lets himself drift off before his father even rests against the bed. It’s a desperately needed respite.
Phil lingers by the door, fist pressed over his mouth, wondering how he got here. Logically, he knows every step was his own. Emotionally, it feels as though he’s been swept off his feet.
Coming here to see Theseus hadn’t even been his idea. Sam had remembered some throw away line Phil had said in the wake of Clara’s funeral and asked when Phil had planned to follow through. It had taken Phil a moment to even remember what he’d said.
‘ I believe a need to spend more time with that boy.’ What had he been thinking? Clearly, he hadn’t been. His actions had been delivered in that strange, dull state he’d entered after hearing Clara had died.
Hating his wife had made it no easier to look upon a corpse, even if it was her, especially not with a young child at his side. A young child which now lies still across a bed.
A young child that had been confused when the servants offered him food and drink, having never been treated so kindly like that. A child who had come to depend on Clara, of all people.
He had let someone depend on Clara. That may have been his first mistake, it was not his last. Clearly, her claws had been dug into this boy, into the servants working here. Phil would have to replace him if he truly wanted to remove their influence.
But then, a full cleanse would also mean moving Theseus somewhere and he has no place for the boy. There are only guest rooms and the spares in Phil’s wing, but does he truly want Theseus to sleep there?
Even with the distance currently between them, Phil is barely managing to be cordial to her son. No, if he’s going to change where Theseus sleeps, let it be after he’s certain any of her lingering influence is gone. Her son may very well try to kill him otherwise. Clara certainly seemed like she wanted to do the same.
Shaking his head, he forces his thoughts to turn towards a more pleasant topic, the young avian before him. No, that’s the same topic. Phil focuses on the wings themselves, trying to distance them from the owner.
Delicate white wings sit in a truly awful state. Water clogs them, pulling sensitive fledgling feathers down and together, worsening the already lacking state. It seems as though no one’s thought to preen them for weeks.
Given who Phil knows has access to these wings, it must’ve been far longer than that. Months, if not years, spent with messy feathers. He pulls his own tighter to his back, prickling with that same sympathy he’d been racked with at the funeral.
No one knows how to preen wings but Phil and Sam, who he personally trained for the nights Phil was rendered somehow incapable. Whether that reason be from injuries, sickness, or a desire for friendly touch, it doesn’t matter.
Currently, the reason is necessity. Phil unsticks his feet from the floor, crossing towards the bed that the young avian -not her son, not her son- had struggled to climb. Young avians, he knows, are usually quite small. They grow proportionally to their wings after all.
The fledgling doesn’t stir as the bed dips under his weight. He shuffles into place behind them, the smaller wings easy to reach without much fiddling. Phil may have to manually flip the fledgling over to get at the bottom but the fledgling’s hollow bones means they hardly weigh anything at all.
Reaching out, Phil starts at the top of their wings, preparing to work his way down. The waterlogged feathers feel awful. They’re… he grimaces. They’re coarse, water mixed with debris into a terrible mixture. He would rather die than let his wings get in such a state.
Preening will take hours. Even if Phil could somehow get his own specialty equipment, oils and brushes meant to assist in particularly bad messes, he doubts that time will be cut down much. The fact they are wet does not help in the slightest.
Calling for a servant to get the items while he starts could work but… but those same servants have not even been feeling Thes- the fledgling. Phil takes a deep breath, willingly pulling his instincts into further clarity so he doesn’t flee before he even starts. This is a fledgling, not a boy.
Instincts, what an embarrassing thing to rely on. Instincts are a thing of animals, Phil is no animal. Yet here he is, doing the complete opposite as the funeral in an attempt not to back out of his promise.
He carefully picks his talons through the fledgling’s feathers, pausing every so often to wipe his wet fingers off on the blanket. One pass over fixes the layout of the feathers, pinching them down and into place.
Were it not for the texture, the smooth looking feathers could be called done. Alas, Phil’s pride will not let him stop. He goes for a second pass over, scratching delicately against skin to dislodge the worst of it.
Then comes the third pass, which ends up taking the longest. He shouldn’t be surprised. Each time he picks or scrapes off a bit of gunk with his talons, he has to wipe his fingers dry, then go back for another round to make sure he got it all.
Working like this is… calming, oddly enough. Phil’s movements are methodical, easy to get lost in, letting his mind wander without focusing on those pesky complicated feelings he might have to the fledgling under his hand.
Really, the most upsetting thought he ever lingers on is a brief confusion about why he doesn’t let himself indulge in his instincts more often. Nevermind that he doesn’t enter a similar flow state when doing his own wings at all.
Sam doing his wings also doesn’t get half this close. It’s impossible to ignore Sam’s hands long enough to relax, some part of him more nervous than relaxed whenever someone is touching his wings. The damn things are too sensitive for that, even if he trusts Sam completely.
But it’s different when it’s someone else’s. Not that Phil gets to preen other people’s wings… ever, really. He hasn’t so much as touched a stranger’s feather since his own parents passed, far before he even met that awful woman.
One wing finishes, onto the other. It’s quite satisfying, feeling the fledgling relax under his ministrations, wings spreading just that bit wider in their sleep. It’s cute, even. A coo bubbles from Phil’s throat, low and soothing.
An answering, sleepy chirp leaves the fledgling, pressing their wing up into his hand. How cute… Phil all but melts, a sense of accomplishment welling up in him despite all the work he still has to do.
Hours slip by, Phil’s kingly duties fleeing his mind alongside most other forms of higher thought. At some point, he flips the fledgling onto their back, pressing down on their tiny chest to stop them from wiggling too much. The fledgling doesn’t wake up. How cute. Someone clearly needs to take more naps in the nest.
Does Phil even have a nest? The thought dawns when he’s most of the way through the second wing, so very belated as it is. He runs his hand through clean, if damp feathers, in thought.
No… no, he doesn’t think he does have a nest. Phil would surely remember if he did. He shivers, the happy bubble of emotions in his chest slowly taking a downturn, a distressed warble rising in his throat.
Why doesn’t he have a nest? What was he thinking? He has access to plenty of nesting materials! Why hasn’t he made use of them? No wonder the fledgling was allowed out of the nest, there was never a nest to keep them in in the first place!
Phil needs to make a nest, a proper preening needs a nest. All proper care for a fledgling needs a nest- a frustrated peep leaves the fledgling beneath him. Right, he was in the middle of something.
Forcing his trembling hand to still, Phil returns to preening the fledgling, no point in stopping when he’s already done so much. What a painful thought, the idea that this fledgling might have never been in a nest because Phil doesn’t have one.
The majority of the fledgling’s wings finished off, all that’s left is the thin pin feathers on the fledgling’s back. Fabric sits over where they lie, another little discomfort that’s always bothered Phil too much to care for, choosing low backed tops whenever possible.
Regrettably, Phil doesn’t know if this choice was one made by the fledgling or not. Just to be sure, he’ll have to order the fledgling an entire wardrobe, make sure they’re as comfortable as possible. For now, he does his best to remove the fledgling’s overly frilly top without awakening them.
Cute little pin feathers are the same downy white color as the rest of the fledgling’s wings, in a far better state than the rest of their wings due to the sole fact they’ve been kept covered. An odd reversal. Usually covering these feathers makes it worse.
But that merely means Phil’s work is almost done. Only a few more minutes pass until Phil is less preening and more petting the young fledgling, trying to coax fluffy white pin feathers to lay flat when they’re really not meant to.
A black spot breaks up the sea of white pin feathers covering the fledgling’s back. There should not be black here. The pin feathers are, in Phil’s experience, often the last part to transition to the adult feather color. They’re simply not necessary for flight. With so much white still covering the rest of the fledgling’s wings, why is there black here?
Leaning a bit closer, he shifts the feathers around. Ah, that’s what it is. The black is not a feather but a mark peeking through from the skin beneath… a mark? Phil shifts more feathers, tracing out a shape on the fledgling’s back. Many shapes, even.
Given the feathers obscuring the mark, it’s hard to say if the shapes are one mark or a dozen. Why would there be a mark on the fledgling’s back?
Right. Logic and higher thought floods back into Phil, a chill prickling at his skin. He sucks in a breath, shock and horror forcing him out of that… that instinct ridden haze far too quickly.
Pain laces his head, evidence of its complaint, but he ignores it. There is a curse mark on the fledg- on Clara’s son. It couldn’t be anything else. Theseus is far too young, far too sheltered, for it to be anything else.
Of course there’s a mark on her son. Of course a child of such an awful woman would be cursed. Phil pulls his hand, damp and crusty as if he had been playing with wet sand, away from Theseus’ now clean wings, revulsion building in his chest.
Did she know? Did she not tell him? No, why would she tell him? Clara hated him in a way that defied reason and sense. It’s only natural that she would hide this foul cursed child from him… this cursed child that is now his heir.
Breathing out, ignoring how he shakes, Phil considers his options. He could tell someone, Sam or perhaps an advisor, which would make Theseus no longer eligible to be his heir. It would finally give him reason to be free of the last part of her.
Except, if he did that, he would once again be strong armed into taking another noble, ‘proper’ wife. Given how the last wife he was saddled with against his will was Clara, is he really willing to take that chance? No.
No, Theseus would have to remain his heir until Phil found a new wife on his own terms. A wife that didn’t revile the very ground he walked on. While he isn’t sure how long that could take… Well, the country wouldn’t collapse because their seven year old crown prince was cursed. Theseus has no political power right now.
Pressing his palms to his eyes, he forces himself to calm. That is the most reasonable decision, yes. He’ll keep Theseus around for now, clear out the staff of any whom Clara has tainted, and see if he can’t secure a new heir.
Then he’ll be free of her. Fully, undeniably free. All Phil has to do is be patient. Phil is king, patience has been inscribed into him since he was a young boy. He can wait however long it will take.
But perhaps Sam will be willing to keep a secret of such magnitude? Phil stands from the bed, wobbling as he does, his head pulsing with each step he takes away from her son. Why did he ever think keeping a promise was worth using those terrible instincts? It’s never enjoyable to come out of them.
He leaves the room, then the wing, never turning back to even look over his shoulder at the young boy. Phil easily abandons Theseus once more.
Phil’s done this too many times for it to be hard.
Notes:
This chapter made my friends want to throttle Phil at *several points* throughout the story. He's such a terrible person but, like, realistically terrible I think? He's not a demon or a caricature. He's just a morally grey man making awful decisions but who is still good for those he likes (such as his new wife and kids). It just so happens that he doesn't like Theseus.
Which is not an excuse, mind you. There is no excuse for neglecting a kid. I feel like I need to get that out of the way. Phil's decisions in this story are really fucking bad and stupid.
Chapter 4: A Butterfly Flaps Its Wing, Across The World...
Summary:
For a creation of the Gods, the Kingmaker System is awfully naive. While Theseus is unsurprised to find his father unmoved by their previous display, the Kingmaker System still holds out hope that he might do something. Theseus knows better. He has not caused nearly enough of a fuss for his father to do more than glance in his direction. Even that was an odd occurrence not beholding to Philza's past behaviors.
Little does he know, his actions do not have to be extravagant to cause changes. Even the smallest of events can ripple out into much greater things. Theseus may think he knows what to expect but mortals are rarely so easily predicted.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Aching limbs pull up and out, repeating the emotion again and again, wobbling on his planted foot without anything to balance against. The images on the page depict a bar where his hand should lay. Theseus has no such bar.
Keeping his chest and head raised, curving his spine, Theseus breathes in, lowering his raised leg. His toes brush the floor, upper body rising in the same motion. Bend the knee, foot against his inner thigh. A pause.
Lowering his foot, he keeps it parallel to his planted foot. The system pings him, knocking off several percentages for his forgotten arms, left in the initial balancing position when his right should have lowered and his left cured inward so that they sit rounded in a circle.
He corrects his final position, third position according to the book. Finally he lowers his arms, hands by his thighs, and shifts into first position. Then, he lets himself rest. His wings fall to rest against his back, no longer kept hovering awkwardly in the air.
Ballet isn’t meant to be done with wings. All the references to the style Theseus has read make that plenty obvious. With them, his entire center of balance is different, adding to the already constant problem of getting used to this small body.
Three months into the experience, roughly two since the unexpected meeting with his father, Theseus does feel rather confident in claiming he’s getting quite acquainted with the experience.
Fragile wings reject his control less and less, his fingers tie ribbons into knots a little easier, and buttons are slowly becoming somewhat manageable. Most of that he attributes to the tough artform he’s chosen to master.
Perhaps the highest difficulty task he’s yet to gain some amount of proficiency in is preening. A task he’d largely slept through while his father had done it, Theseus hadn’t even known it was necessary until that point.
It isn’t as though his father had much of a reason to explain the fine intricacies of wing care in his previous life. Even if he did, Theseus struggles to imagine his father willingly taking the time to do so.
Doubt that he is fully in his rights to have. Theseus stretches, lifting his arms above his head, loosening up his limbs. His father still hasn’t explained to him how to properly preen his wings.
Being asleep for the entire experience means that he doesn’t have much idea on how to do it himself either. He’s fumbled through a few attempts to little success, only able to make his feathers look neater on a surface level. It’s entirely likely Philza would offer to preen them again should he see them.
Of course, that requires Philza being around to see them. One meeting does not make a pattern nor a habit. Seven years his father has spent avoiding him in this timeline supersede the two incidents of vaguely positive interaction by quite a bit. Theseus would be ridiculous to expect Philza to start visiting regularly.
So he hasn’t. As a result, Theseus is neither disappointed nor upset to find that he’s right, hearing little from his father. Even the task from the system to overturn the staff in the Queen’s Wing seems stuck in an eternal limbo.
*Ping!*
[This System cannot say if the task has been completed until Host witnesses confirmation one way or the other!]
Being informed of why the task is in limbo for the seventh time does not change his feelings about it. Honestly, it feels as though the system is trying to give Theseus hope that his father will change all on his own, as terribly unlikely as that is.
Were Philza going to change, it would have happened in Theseus’ past life. No, Theseus’ actions are what is going to spark new events in this life, unless the system has an unprecedented amount of control over the people around him. Given its helpful nature, he doubts that. It wouldn’t stand for the servants' mistreatment of him if it didn’t have to.
*Ping!*
[Aww! Host is so sweet. Now if only Host would remember to eat more often, this System would be a lot less stressed…]
Again, Theseus must disagree. It does not matter whether or not he remembers to eat. The chances of him being interrupted while attempting to eat during a designated mealtime is, frankly, far too high for him to bother.
Eating during odd times of the day, whether late at night or early in the morning, in fact increases his chances of getting to eat at all. Theseus had discovered that little fact a few months before meeting Tubbo the first time.
He honestly feels rather daft for not realizing that specific fact sooner. Theseus knew even then that the wing’s servants slacked off more often than not. It’s a struggle to imagine any of them willingly staying up late or waking up before dawn to do anything. Well, unless they were aiming to steal something.
Quite frankly, Theseus doubts there’s anything left in this wing worth enough to steal. Over the past two months, it has entered the state he remembers most clearly, empty of all but the necessities.
No paintings hang from the walls, his mother’s personalized items have been swapped out for more generic versions down to even the silverware, and the halls have grown even emptier as a result. The only untouched location is the library.
Theseus sweeps his gaze over the library, brushing dusty curls out of his face, and corrects himself. The library is the only location where none of the servants have been. All of his mother’s books remain neatly in their shelves and his path through the dust is quite obvious.
*Ping!*
[Hint! There are other locations left untouched! Host should search there to complete his quest!]
Really? Theseus strains his memory, trying to figure out where, exactly, the servants might not have gone while clearing out the Queen’s Wing under his father’s orders. Perhaps a location similar to the library, so steeped in his mother’s presence that no one but her would dare enter. Her rooms, perhaps?
Would that truly count as more than one location? It doesn’t particularly matter. The important part is that it’s a contender. Theseus never gave much thought to his mother’s rooms after her death, never entering once that she wasn’t around to request his presence.
It’s not as though Theseus has anything against his mother’s old rooms, no more than he does their former owner. His foggy memories paint the image of extravagant rooms, immaculately kept, where he would often sit in front of a silver coated vanity. Theseus would be made to sit as still as possible while his mother brushed through her hair for what felt like hours at a time.
Rarely would she acknowledge him during this time. Even rarer would she brush his hair instead of her own. Often, Theseus would wonder if she merely wanted a life sized version of one of her dolls, the shelves containing them not far from her vanity.
Aching in his teeth and stomach draws his attention outward once more, a reminder that he has not eaten in quite a while. Judging by the sun, the time is after the noon meal but far before supper should be made, making it fairly safe to try to infiltrate the kitchens for a meal.
Fairly safe does not guarantee anything, however. Theseus finds this once again proven as he’s made to duck behind a decorative drawer in the hall, spotting a pair of servants outside of the kitchen’s doors before they notice him.
Quickly, it’s made clear why they didn’t. Standing just in front of them is a small boy with curly brown hair, Tubbo, cringing under their steely gazes. Without hearing a word, Theseus can easily assume what occurred. They caught him sneaking in.
“We don’t appreciate rats scurrying around in the palace.” Familiar words spit at Tubbo’s small form. It’s rather pathetic to witness, honestly. The servants tower over Tubbo without even trying, seemingly earnestly offended that he dared to get too close. He can’t say he understands their reasoning even though he knows Tubbo is not, in fact, meant to be here.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
Friends In Low Places
- Defend Tobias Eleanore James II from his adversaries while maintaining a sympathetic status
- Successfully appeal to Penelope Ulysses James sense of morality
(Suggestion: act like a child)
[Host should be a good friend! It’s the best way to gain allies!]
Should he be offended that the system assumed he wouldn’t try and help Tubbo? Perhaps not. Theseus was planning to try and wait them out. Chances are, they’d let their guard down once Tubbo was successfully driven off.
“I’m not a rat!” Tubbo sniffs, voice warbling as though he were about to cry. He always was quite the crybaby, a habit he slowly grew out of as time went on. Either that, or he merely started feeling unsafe being so exposed around Theseus, who never has had much patience for tears. Who’s to say?
With one last glance to the suggestion, which admittedly feels rather condescending, Theseus steps out of his hiding spot and marches up to the two servants. A shout builds in his throat, a barked out order to get them to back off phrased in a manner that could easily be mistaken for politeness.
“Excuse me.” Theseus’ voice cracks, far quieter than he meant to speak. Ah, he hasn’t spoken in about two months now, that would explain it. Theseus frowns. He should work on that, even though he would appear to be speaking to himself were he to talk to the system. Perhaps if he set up meetings with Tubbo, then he’d have an excuse.
“If it looks like a rat, walks like a rat, and talks like a rat,” one of the servants leans over Tubbo with a smile that looks far closer to a snarl, “It’s a rat.” It seems they didn’t notice him. Theseus bites back a sigh.
“ Excuse me,” he tries again, louder, “If I could have your attention?” Theseus steps a bit closer to Tubbo, nearly brushing hands. Tubbo startles, as if he too didn’t notice Theseus was there.
“Tommy!” Tubbo squeaks. Who? Theseus blinks at Tubbo, then he remembers. Right, that’s what Tubbo had misheard his name as before he realized who Theseus was.
“ Tommy? Did you bring one of your rat friends over?” The servants’ attention turns to Theseus. This makes the second time that someone didn’t immediately recognize who Theseus was at a glance.
He hardly looks like a prince right now. Dust clings to his hair, dusting his clothes and skin in heavy smudges. His outfit, put on with the clumsy hands of a seven year old, is a very simplistic button up and pants. Theseus had even forgone shoes, the click of them too attention grabbing for his tastes.
“I do not appreciate you calling me a rat,” Theseus responds coldly, straightening his back. Head up, expression smooth, the mask of a true royal. Of course, if it were that easy then Theseus wouldn’t be covered in grime.
“ Ugh,” the servant, who had initially called Tubbo a rat, rolls their eyes, “Someone call the exterminator. I’d kick you both out myself if I weren’t afraid of getting dirt on my shoes.” How miserably uncreative of them. Theseus has heard similar insults far too many times to count, let alone to bother feeling insulted.
“Perhaps you don’t realize who I am? This is my mother’s wing.” Theseus’ blood curls using his mother in such a manner. Let alone against a pair of servants who would hardly care even if they did recognize him.
“Now you’re claiming to be the little prince? A rat and a liar?” The servant challenges. Their companion, possessing a modicum of intelligence, narrows their eyes at him, searching. His wings tremble out of his control, though it’s more long ignored frustration than anything else.
“Actually, I think that is Prince Theseus,” they gasp, “How pathetic. Do we really have to treat him like royalty, Nigel? Look at him. I’d feel more respect for a dust bunny.” Nigel laughs, light and airy as if the insult weren’t aimed at a child.
A child, right. The system had advised him to act more like one to achieve his goals. How would a child react to these circumstances? Well, Tubbo had certainly been on the edge of tears before he arrived.
*Ping!*
[Function- Crying activated, stage one]
“We just want something to eat, why can’t you let us in? I own these kitchens,” Theseus warbles. Tears prick his eyes, his weakened voice trembling rather ridiculously. Nigel seems to hesitate at his tears, if only for a moment.
“You don’t own anything, you prissy child. Your father does, and I don’t see him around, do you? Maybe you could try being a spoiled brat and actually show up for meal times,” Nigel’s friend takes up what could have been a silence before Nigel’s reply.
“But no one’s ever in the kitchens during mealtimes?” Tubbo chimes in, earnestly confused. Yes, that comeback is much less effective when it’s rather obvious the only people the wing’s servants cook for is themselves, gorging on the fancy food important from specialty locations.
“And how do you know that?” Nigel’s friend smiles mockingly, “Unless you really are a rat hiding in our walls.” Our walls? Ugh, the audacity Theseus is witnessing here is truly spectacular. He’s almost impressed by it.
“Vi, these brats aren’t worth our time,” Nigel finally speaks up. It’s clearly not for their sake, his gaze carrying an edge of pity as if looking at a wounded puppy. Then his lip curls into an expression that’s decidedly cruel.
“Stepping on ants will only dirty your shoes,” Nigel mocks. A normal child might not take that insult for what it is, an expression of false levity much deeper than the simple comparison of them to ants. Theseus is not a normal child.
Steadying himself, Theseus chooses to take another hit to his pride rather than continuing to argue with two adults who clearly couldn’t care less. Nothing he did in his previous life could convince him, leaving only one avenue he hasn’t tried.
*Ping!*
[Function- Crying activated, stage two]
Faux tears pour from his already prickling eyes, shoulder hitching with the weight of his sobs. Theseus ducks his head, covering one eye with his hand, further obscuring his now watery vision.
“I’m just- I’m so hungry,” Theseus whines, throwing himself into the act. Nigel and Vi flinch, assumedly unsure what to do in the face of a crying child. He can’t think of a moment before now they would have even heard of him specifically crying.
Then a scoff. He jerks to the side, stumbling on sore, unsteady legs. A cry leaves him without his permission, high pitched from shock. Theseus hits the ground hard .
“Shut your fucking mouth, I’m not paid to comfort entitled brats,” Vi spits. It takes Theseus longer than he’s willing to admit to figure out what happened. Another unprecedented situation, it seems.
“Let’s go, Vi. Their crying is hurting my ears,” Nigel grumbles. Theseus raises a hand to his cheek, radiating heat and pain from Vi’s backhand. It’s not the first time a servant has technically hit him.
No, there have been plenty of occasions where a servant has smacked the back of his head, pulled his hair, or grabbed him too tightly by the arm. This does have to be the most blatant they’ve ever been about it. A mark on his face…
Blinking past the remnants of his system-granted tears, Theseus stares at the leaving servants, already talking and snicker amongst themselves. His fingers brush his cheek, enough pain that his younger body genuinely starts tearing up.
“Why… Why do they treat you like that?” Tubbo steals his attention. Theseus shifts onto his knees in order to properly look over at Tubbo for the first time since the interaction began.
His eyes are wide and glossy, as if he were about to start crying for Theseus, ears pinned against his head. Shock and horror paints across his face, the expression of a child who didn’t know what they just saw was even possible before now.
“They always treat me like that.” Theseus gives a non-answers because the real one wouldn’t make much sense to a young child. Not even Theseus, taught directly by his mother, would understand the complex games of power and favors at play in the Queen’s Wing. No, it’s better to pretend he doesn’t understand either.
“I- We should tell Momma Puffy or- or your dad? They hurt you,” Tubbo sniffs, rubbing roughly at his eyes to stop himself from crying. He’s right, objectively speaking. In any other situation, telling a trusted adult is exactly the action that should be taken.
Except Theseus doesn’t have any trusted adults, let alone Tubbo’s mother, who may have very well only been polite to Theseus due to him seeing Tubbo’s curse mark. For that reason alone, he shakes his head.
“No, that doesn’t help,” Theseus denies, “I would rather eat something while we still have the chance.” He moves to stand up but Tubbo stops him, reaching out a hand. Again, Theseus is momentarily stumped.
“They’re stupid,” Tubbo announces. His face screws up as the shock lessens, falling rather easily into anger. Theseus slowly takes Tubbo’s hand as he stands. Even once he’s safely on his own two feet, Tubbo doesn’t let go.
“They are. I really wish father would replace them but he doesn’t really care for me,” Theseus laments openly. Complaining in front of Tubbo is hardly any worse than crying in front of him.
Finally, they head off into the kitchens, scrounging up the best meal two children can, their inability to see over the counter or use of the knives once again a limiting factor. Truthfully, bread and fruit are all that’s accessible to them.
From Theseus’ later studies, he knows that meat is also important for a healthy diet. It seems a bit ludicrous given he grew up fine in his past life while not eating any between his mother’s death and… it would have been his first banquet with his step-mother, roughly three years later.
Eating on the floor of the kitchens is not a new experience for Theseus. After the interaction with the servants, however, he’s suddenly feeling rather against doing so. The numbness in his cheek is an excellent deterrent.
Without explaining much to Tubbo, Theseus takes his arm and guides him out of the kitchen, hushing him whenever Tubbo tries to ask questions. After the first time they narrowly avoid being spotted, Tubbo gets the hint that they’re trying to avoid being spotted.
Instead, Tubbo blindly trusts that Theseus isn’t planning anything terrible. Not that a child of his age would know to be suspicious of Theseus, especially not when he himself appears to be the same age. Then again, he is trying to gain trust.
Then again, he can’t think of anything all too negative that he’d want to do to any version of Tobias to begin with.
He pulls them into the library, nudging the door shut behind them. Eating surrounded by all this grime may not be the brightest idea but Theseus has been doing so quite often recently and he doesn’t feel much worse off for it. It’s certainly less stressful.
*Ping!*
[Host! It’s awful! This System’s data says the Queen’s Wing servants are awful but this System didn’t know it could get worse!]
Not worse, Theseus corrects in his mind, merely more blatant. He marches up to the table, his ballet book still right where he left it, and sets his portion of their stolen goods on top of it.
“Where’s this?” Tubbo finally tries speaking again, assuming they’re safe now that the door is closed. Theseus can’t blame him. Many of the doors in the palace are solid wood, making the rooms they include all but soundproof even without any special mystical systems taken into account.
“My mother’s library, though it’s gotten far more use by me than her,” Theseus answers, “None of the servants enter here. It’s quite nice, ignoring the mess.” He tries not to feel ridiculous climbing onto the bay seat and largely fails.
“That is nice! I didn’t know this was here,” Tubbo gasps, trotting up beside Theseus. It does make Theseus feel a bit better when he has to get into the seat equally as awkwardly, Tubbo nearly pressing his entire chest onto the cushions as he rolls up.
“Maybe we could meet up in here!” Tubbo bounces onto his knees, “I meant to find you before but I never could… unless you don’t want to? I mean… we are friends.” Tubbo leans into Theseus’ shoulder, apparently young enough to get away with such a shameless action. Far be it from Theseus to stop him.
“Okay. I wasn’t aware you were even here since our last meeting,” Theseus easily agrees. At his current age, trying to figure out where, specifically, Puffy worked within the Queen’s wing is beyond his capabilities.
Given his own inclinations to stay as out of the way as possible, their chances of meeting again were miniscule. Of course, Theseus was okay with that, knowing as he does that they’ll meet again in roughly three year’s time.
“Then this will be our secret hang out. Does this make us best friends?” Tubbo gasps, clapping his hands in excitement. Something in Theseus twists at the new question. He’s only vaguely heard of the term best friend. Tobias had once whispered it, though at the time Theseus had denied him, shirking from the intimacy it implied.
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had a friend before.” Theseus dances around the topic even now. What would it change, he wonders, if Tubbo does become his ‘best friend’? Would he still slink to Ranboo’s side or grow friendly with the twins? Would he attempt to stand up for Theseus without being ordered to? For these questions alone, Theseus chooses to call his uncertainty curiosity instead.
“Me neither, which means we have to be,” Tubbo brazenly declares. His logic is strange, though perhaps it makes perfect sense to the more simplistic mind of a child. Given that Theseus has never truly been a child, it’s not reasoning he will ever understand.
“And best friends hug! So we should hug right now.” Tubbo pulls back, twists so he’s fact Theseus, and leans forward. If Theseus is being honest, he does tense at the motion, at the arms wrapping around his chest.
His cheek throbs for no apparent reason in response. Tubbo is even extra careful to avoid grazing Theseus with his stubby horns. How odd.
It takes Theseus several moments to respond, mimicking Tubbo’s hold for the second time now. Fitting his arms around Tubbo’s is no less awkward than before, shifting his hands quite dramatically to find a comfortable position. Even worse is Tubbo’s own insistence on all but burying his hands into Theseus’ pin feathers.
‘Worse’ is a strange thing to call it when it does feel objectively rather nice but calling it comforting feels… wrong, somehow. He’ll endeavor not to think about it.
*Ping!*
[Aw, how cute! This System will request an immortalization feature so it can save an image of this forever!]
Slowly, Theseus leans into Tubbo’s hug, tension leaving his wings and back. Oddly, the system’s cooing makes doing so easier. Perhaps it’s because he knows the system can’t betray him. No matter what happens, the system is here to help him, not anyone else. It’s only for him.
*Ping!*
[This Kingmaker System will stand by Host until the last star fades from the sky.]
A smile, or rather the closest Theseus can come to such an action, pulls at his face. With his injured cheek, pulls is a rather apt descriptor. It almost hurts, causing the ‘smile’ to falter almost the moment its formed.
Despite both of them being rather hungry, neither make a move to leave the hug for quite a long time. Or, rather, it feels quite long. Time is such a complicated thing in a room without an easily visible clock, only the sun inching through the sky.
Theseus is hardly going to be the one to break the hug. He’s hardly an expert on physical affection of any kind. Knowing when, exactly, it’s polite to do so is hardly his specialty.
Not that Tobias had seemed particularly affectionate either, a certain distance between prince and butler demanded by basic decorum. It’s a distance they don’t have to keep now, a distance Tubbo does not even know to keep.
So Theseus waits, trying not to get used to this soft attention when he has no idea how likely it is that they’ll meet again, even with their promise to do so. Hope is not a thing Theseus has ever had in great supply.
Eventually, Tubbo pulls back. Theseus lowers his arms, letting him leave without fuss, though Tubbo instead grabbing at his shoulders takes him by surprise. Once again confused, Theseus lets him.
A small hand cups at Theseus’ injured cheek, likely turning an ugly shade of purple given how it continued to hurt so long after the initial impact. Tubbo pouts, gaze quite intense for a child so young. Clearly, he’s still upset that Theseus was harmed.
“No one should hurt you,” Tubbo tells him with as much seriousness as he can muster. Then, he shakes Theseus’ shoulder, repeating himself.
“ No one.” Tubbo glares, as if Theseus would argue. As if Theseus is a stupid child who doesn’t know the things happening to him are wrong. Once, he may have been right, before Theseus had ever met his step-mother and learned how families were supposed to act. What an awful time that had been, riddled with false hope.
“I know, but that doesn’t stop them,” Theseus speaks through the pain with practiced ease. Not that Tubbo’s causing any more pain, touch against his cheek almost too gentle to be felt.
“Yeah, well, they’re mean and stupid and I hate them,” Tubbo huffs. With that, the strange tension in the air dissipates. Such a childish claim makes Theseus feel odd for thinking there was any tension to begin with. They’re only kids.
“And I’m hungry, so we should eat.” Theseus easily steers them back towards the reason he was injured to begin with. Tubbo perks up, shifting to sit down properly, though not moving any further away from Theseus. Perhaps the only way they could sit closer together is if Tubbo were in his lap.
Skin starting to crawl from prolonged proximity to another person, Theseus distracts himself with eating. There is no refined way to eat uncut bread and fruit without any utensils as Theseus has come to find. Another noble or royal may find trying to do so an insult to their very status.
But eating with his hands is much nicer than when he was imprisoned, chained hands forbidding even that. Little feels more shameful than eating with only one’s face, especially stale bread on a dirty floor. Theseus is of the personal opinion that it is more shameful to starve when there is food available then to debase oneself in front of people whose opinions do not matter.
“What do you do in here anyway? Just read?” Tubbo asks around a mouthful. Theseus decidedly does not grimace at the poor manners. He’s… well, mostly he’s tired. His body aches from dancing, his cheek hurts with each chew, and the only moderately nice feeling in his body is Tubbo pressed against him.
“Yes, and dance. It seems mother was a fan of ballet,” Theseus answers. Does Tubbo know how to read? He wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was ‘no’ given Tubbo’s much less privileged than Theseus, or even most nobles for that matter.
While Tobias isn’t quite a peasant, he’s also only a baron’s child, and one that’s fallen quite far from grace. The gap between them would be rather severe if only Theseus were cared for with even a fraction of the respect a royal is usually entitled to.
“What’s ballet?” It’s hard to believe Tobias was ever this plainly curious. Theseus had long since grown used to the version that anticipated his needs, following orders unflinchingly and without question.
*Ping!*
[Ah, the difference between a subordinate and a friend. Isn’t it great, Host?]
Remains to be seen. From the system’s assurances alone, Theseus will at least try this ‘friend’ thing out, though he hopes his actions have made it clear he’s trying to give Tobias the chance to be more than a butler. He did accept Tubbo’s childish offer of friendship during their first meeting after all.
“A highly intricate dance form designed around elegance and grace above all else,” Theseus summarizes the best he can. Unfortunately, it’s not good enough. Tubbo still looks confused even as he nods along, the little sycophant.
“Sounds hard,” Tubbo marvels, “I don’t know how to dance at all. Grandfather won’t let me learn, he doesn’t want me to be seen by anyone.” Tubbo gestures widely and without much reason. Perhaps the wide gesture is its own reason.
“I don’t understand your grandfather in the slightest,” Theseus sighs. It’s a bit of a lie. He can fully understand not wanting rumors about a curse mark floating around but purposefully neglecting Tubbo’s education like this? It’s truly a wonder Tobias had become learned enough to be granted the position of a personal butler.
“Momma Puffy doesn’t either. She and Grandfather argue a lot,” Tubbo pouts. Were he to be unaware of a future where a terrible burn scar marks Tobias’ skin in place of that awful mark, Theseus would feel relieved that Tubbo had his mother to advocate for him. Sadly, he already knows it won’t be enough.
“Would you like to see me dance? Or, if not that, then I could show you the book I’m learning from. It has plenty of pictures,” Theseus offers, a distraction for the both of them. Now is hardly the time to wonder for a future that may very well not occur.
Although he isn’t sure how he might avoid Tobias being scarred, Theseus is certain his own actions will butterfly out into a veritable tornado of changes. He can only hope it will be enough by then.
“Yes!” Tubbo perks up, “Are you any good? Is it actually super hard? Why haven’t I heard of it before?” His… friend launches into an avalanche of questions, never giving Theseus enough time to answer.
Clearly, the questions are Tubbo’s own form of distraction, spiralling into wild speculation without letting a word in edgewise. Theseus finds himself almost entranced by the noise.
None of it is particularly interesting, surface level observations pieced together by the imagination of a child, causing true absurdities to form. Perhaps another child would find it amusing. Perhaps an adult would play along, nodding and humming without actually listening to Tobias at all.
But Theseus is presently neither adult nor child and so he finds his reaction falling into a third camp, neither appearing to listen nor ignoring Tubbo. He turns back to his food, picking through the mess of noise haphazardly. It’s… rather nice.
Part of him had grown so used to the silence pervading his life that Theseus had forgotten what it was like to be around people. He would call himself isolated, of course. Servants, however rude and uncaring they may be, are plainly accessible less than a dozen steps from the door. Still, having another so near is novel.
*Ping!*
[This System’s data claims that the Host’s treatment aligns with the definitions of Isolation and Neglect cleanly! Host shouldn’t downplay his suffering like that. It shouldn’t have happened but it shouldn’t be ignored either!]
Unfortunately for the system, Theseus doesn’t care what definitions can be applied to his situation. Specific words for it matter little in the grand scheme of things. He will be affected the same by these people, their words, and their lacking care regardless of what labels are tossed around.
More impressively, Tubbo keeps up his tirade until they’ve finished their stolen goods. How, precisely, he managed to take the word ‘ballet’ and extrapolate that into an aerial performance involving a colony of bats is truly a subject worthy of study.
“Sadly, I have no access to bats nor means to train them,” Theseus finally interrupts, “and the dance doesn’t involve any swans, ducks, carrier pigeons, nor any additional equipment such as balls or wooden mallets.”
“Oh!” Tubbo startles, “I-uh huh- that’s too bad.” He turns back towards Tommy, deep brown eyes reflecting oddly in the window light. Theseus looks away first, sliding off the bench with a soft thump. After several delayed moments, Tubbo follows.
“Would you prefer to watch me dance or look at the pictures first?” Theseus slides the self-proclaimed dictionary off the table, preparing to move it back towards their seat. Less effective for the system’s purposes, yet, but Tubbo has no need to know about the mysterious entity attached to Theseus’ soul.
*Ping!*
[Host thinks this System is cool and mysterious? ;>;]
“Pictures first! I can’t read all that good yet but I like pictures.” Tubbo attempts to take the book from Theseus’ hands. Or, rather, he attempts to sit down with it rather and return to the bay window, not letting go even when Theseus resists.
Both of them hit the floor rather hard as a result, Tubbo on his backside and Theseus by his knees. Theseus’ wings flair out in response, back muscles twinging at the unfamiliar stretch of poorly preened feathers, as if to catch them.
“Sorry,” Tubbo apologies, though his attention is so wholly on the book that Theseus doubts he knows what he’s apologizing for. He hums a rather noncommittal response anyway. It doesn’t really hurt anyway.
Flipping through the book, Tubbo takes the lead rather quickly, asking questions and letting Theseus respond to the best of his abilities. A lot of them are based in surprise, wondering if a person can really do any of the actions depicted in the book.
Although Theseus has his own doubts, he still confirms that it is possible. His balance and motor control have progressed impressively fast over the past months. Should his progress continue, Theseus might be able to perform those over the top leaps and spins within a couple of years.
What experience he does have is quickly outstripped by Tubbo’s pace, leaving them once more in the world of theoretical knowledge and what-ifs. Theseus keeps his responses grounded regardless. Unlike Tubbo’s wild speculations, Theseus has some groundwork to extrapolate from.
Theoretical doesn’t seem to be enough for Tubbo. No, that sounds disparaging when phrased like so. Perhaps it’s more that an average, easily excitable child is rarely placated by mere words, not when there’s action plastered before them.
“I wanna try,” Tubbo announces, clambering to his feet with the determined expression of someone who isn’t aware just how difficult the task before them is. Blind confidence carries him to the center of the room.
“Okay, I’ll watch here.” Theseus lets Tubbo do so. The only harm that should come from this is, at worst, Tubbo feeling disappointed by his performance. Honestly, he’d join Tubbo, help him through the actions, if he were a little more sure in this young body of his.
Given Tubbo’s reaction to the bruise on Theseus’ cheek, he isn’t sure he wants to know Tubbo’s reaction to him collapsing. His previous reaction is already so much different from Tobias that the two are steadily becoming incomparable.
Having not spent much time looking at any of the ‘boring’ fundamentals, Tubbo’s initial stance is incredibly poor. Nothing from his posture to the position of his feet to the curve of his arms is correct.
Calling that out would be meaningless. This situation is clearly more about children at play than a genuine lesson. Honestly, Tubbo might just pout and give up if Theseus were to give too much advice. He had gotten plenty of that particular reaction from the twins.
Another smile, weak and unfamiliar, tugs at Theseus cheeks as Tubbo sweeps through wide motions barely resemble anything from the book. Arms and legs flail around, barely coordinated enough to call it a dance rather than a medical emergency.
It’s cute. Perhaps that’s Theseus’ fondness for children peeking through, as much as he’s fond of anything. Perhaps it’s his fondness for Tobias in particular. It’s more than likely a mix, if he were being honest.
Tubbo giggles, leaping through the air, stumbling as he lands. After that, he grows more brazen. Jumps become chained together as if Tubbo could break free of the earth and join the skies through will alone. A harsh thump accompanies each landing.
But then Tubbo misses a landing. It was inevitable really. Tubbo was hardly being careful and the library is anything but clean. Dust forms an odd surface to land on, more slippery than it first appears, even tripping up Theseus once or twice.
Unlike Theseus, Tubbo isn’t prepared for that inevitability. A cry leaves the young boy’s mouth, tumbling backwards directly towards a bookshelf, his head on a collision course with a rather hard ledge.
Theseus’ heart jumps. What could be fright or concern ties tightly in his gut, instinctively reaching out as if he could stop it. If Tubbo were to get badly injured here, Theseus doesn’t know if anyone would help.
He isn’t even sure anyone would care regardless of blood or bone. No, Tubbo would be left to bleed and bleed until Theseus himself managed to stem the blood flow or his mother found them. How long could that take? No one checks the library. No one knows they’re in here.
No one even cares.
A snap resonates from his chest, crackling over his bones, rising through muscles and veins to dance against his skin. Tubbo’s descent abruptly halts inches from the ledge, suspended mid-air as by… by magic.
Bright colors assault his vision. Streams of purples, blues and oranges thread through the air, unfamiliar to the point of pain. He focuses on Tubbo instead, though that’s hardly a chore. A thin outline of burgundy laced with a red brighter than any poppy or rose almost seems to glow from Tubbo’s skin.
Almost as suddenly as it had appeared, the color snaps out. Not long after, the rest of the burning colors dissipate into mist, though it seems to linger in after effects against his eyelids. Tubbo falls the last few inches moments later.
Exhaustion hits Theseus in sharp waves. His vision, once far too clear, blurs worryingly. His body cants to the side, gravity feeling all too heavy, but he barely manages to catch himself on his hands.
“T-Tommy, was that? Did you just catch me?” Tubbo’s voice barely makes it to his ears. Theseus shudders, eyes trying to drift shut. Already sore muscles scream down to his ligaments to lay down, to rest.
“I think so,” Tommy mumbles in surprise. No, Theseus. Tommy is just Tubbo’s nickname for him. His words slur badly; his thoughts slur worse.
“That is so cool,” Tubbo breathes, “eh, Tommy? Are you okay?” He really isn’t. Theseus hadn’t been told how much energy magic takes. His divine blessing seems to only save him from pain. This… this magical exhaustion isn’t so lucky.
*Ping!*
[Congratulations Host! First goal in the A Light From Within task has been completed! Host deserves many rewards and much rest! Magic can be incredibly exhausting to learn.]
Yeah, Theseus very much understands that now. He could have lived his entire second life without having first hand experience with magical exhaustion. A yawn forces its way from his chest, jaw crashing and cheek twinging in pain.
“Fine, just tired. Really tired.” Theseus’ hands slide across the dusty wooden floors inch by inch, giving into gravity until he can lay against it, blinking blearily at the bottom most level of the various shelves. It almost reminds him of his execution cell, if far warmer.
“Me too. Can I sleep with you?” Tubbo kneels in front of Tommy, dropping his head to make eye contact with Theseus. It’s a rather silly position Theseus normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“Yeah, okay,” Theseus accepts, far too tired to bother with what he may or may not normally do. He’ll save regretting his decision for… whenever he wakes up.
Tubbo settles largely on top of Theseus. His legs lay over Theseus, pulling Theseus’ head into the junction of his shoulder. Once again, his hand finds Theseus’ pin feathers, heavy and warm between his shoulder blades.
Really, that’s about all Theseus takes in before the exhaustion wins, dragging him under without remorse. One minute, he’s blinking past the starched white fabric of a children’s sized servant uniform. The next minute lasts much longer than a minute.
It’s really more like several hours, which Theseus only knows due to the room being much darker when he next opens his eyes. Elongated shadows stretch into a blackness that seems so much lighter now that he’s witnessed the ephemeral void in person. Where light does hit carries shades of orange and gold, hinting at a sunset beyond the window above him. None of that is what woke him up.
“ How did you even find this place? It’s not safe! What if you’d gotten hurt?” After a moment, he places the hissed words as belonging to Puffy, Tubbo’s mother. His eyes slowly focus on her figure.
“But I’m fine! And Tommy was here! He promised we could play again,” Tubbo’s voice is much louder, “no one else came in here. I stayed out of the way.” It’s impossible to make out their expressions with the darkness.
“ That doesn’t matter, we need to go, Tubbo,” Puffy insists, her tone implying she’s had to repeat those words many times. It would be about the time for a shift change. Briefly, Theseus wonders if Puffy uses the servant’s quarters or if she had a nearby home in the capitol. Either one would be better than sleeping in a library.
“I want to say goodbye to Tommy. Why can’t I wait until he wakes up?” Tubbo whines, on the edge of could be a monstrous temper tantrum. Thankfully for the both of them, Theseus is aware.
And quite dizzy. He barely manages to push himself onto his elbow, terribly lightheaded from any level of motion. Even after his long nap, his body still screams for rest.
“Tubbo? Puffy?” Theseus slurs, no more articulate than before his nap. He wrinkles his nose, trying to make his tongue and vocal chords obey his wishes. Being so improper, even while exhausted, is such an embarrassment.
“Tommy! See, I told you it wouldn’t take long.” Tubbo makes a strange noise, clearly a teasing one, blowing air around his tongue. He skips over to Theseus, dodging his mother’s grasping hands, to sit right back on the floor next to him.
Puffy lets out the sign of a mother who’s been worn down by her children’s actions for years. Theseus’ mother- step-mother, to be precise- had made that noise a fair few times at the twins. Never at him, she hadn’t known him well enough.
“You’re leaving?” Theseus means to ask for clarification, wanting only to know what to expect. With his young voice and overwhelming exhaustion, it comes out much more petulant than intended.
“Nuh uh. I would never leave you, you’re my best friend,” Tubbo denies his previous claim that he only wishes to say goodbye. He lays his hands on Theseus again, pulling Theseus’ mostly limp body up to sit, hugging him from the side. Theseus doesn’t have nearly enough energy to struggle nor complain.
“You’re my best friend too,” is Theseus’ horrendous reply, “never wanna let you go. Would never hurt you.” Theseus pats clumsily at Tubbo’s arm, yawning. It’s not that his words are untrue. Quite the contrary, they carry far too much truth for comfort.
“See momma? He isn’t going to do anything, so I can hang out with him all the time!” Tubbo argues. By anyone’s standards, it’s an awful argument built off faulty logic. Except Tubbo is not ‘anyone’, he’s a stubborn child.
“ We don’t- We shouldn’t impose ourselves on the prince, Tubbo.” Puffy gives up on her whispering. Theseus is undeniably awake and no one else will hear them so what’s the point?
Theseus tries to find a response to that as Puffy approaches, intending to take Tubbo and leave by force if she has to. His sluggish mind struggles around several aborted attempts until, finally-
“Are you gonna take my friend away?” Theseus asks, looking up at Puffy, blinking through watery eyes. Sleeping on a dusty floor has done wonders in drying them out. Lingering irritation from his moment of magic-based sight might also be involved. Theseus isn’t sure and has no way of learning just yet.
While his response is awful, it does cause Puffy to stop her approach, merely looming over the two young boys instead. Tubbo clings harder to Tommy, small digits digging through Tommy’s light clothes.
No one speaks for quite a while, long enough that Theseus starts reviewing the conversation to see if there’s something he missed. He was asleep for most of it.
“ No,” Puffy’s eventual sigh is soft, almost quieter than Theseus’ heartbeat, “No honey, I’m not.” She places a hand over her face, maybe pinching at her nose? Theseus is too tired to try figuring it out in the low light.
“He’ll come back the next time I work. It’s only three days, but you’ll have your friend. Is that alright with you, Prince Tom- Theseus?” Puffy corrects herself. Tubbo must have been talking about Theseus a lot if his nickname is causing her to stumble.
“Okay,” Theseus easily agrees, “promise?” What? No, he didn’t mean to say that. Theseus rubs at his eye, wondering why he even asked. Promises mean little amongst the nobility. A verbal contract is worth no more than air until the moment it’s fulfilled.
“I promise,” Puffy lies anyway. Tubbo squeezes Theseus extra night, pressing his face against Theseus’ uninjured cheek. A strange reaction to an equally strange request. He makes no move to stand even as Tubbo finally lets go.
“Bye Tommy, I’ll see you soon.” Tubbo waves. Theseus barely manages to wave back without whacking himself in the face. Long after they leave, Theseus gathers the will to stand. He doesn’t get very far.
But then, getting to his rooms to rest was never really the goal. Instead, he utilizes all his divine favor and blessing to pull himself onto the bay sofa, curl up, and drift back to sleep. He barely acknowledges the system’s words, meaningless light forming unintelligible words.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
Friends In Low Places
- Defend Tobias Eleanore James II from his adversaries while maintaining a sympathetic status (Completed!)
- Successfully appeal to Penelope Ulysses James sense of morality (Double Completed!)
(Suggestion: act like a child) (Triple Completed!)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 50 A-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 45 S-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 40 D-points with Tobias Eleanore James II
- 10 A-points with Penelope Uylesses James
- 25 S-points with Penelope Uylesses James
- 5 D-points with Penelope Uylesses James
[This System knew Host could do it! Soon, Host will have many allies who would never betray Host, not even for the world.]
Unfortunately for the system, Theseus is already asleep. Eventually, the words fade out on their own, their numbers left to be a mystery when Theseus awakes, only knowing he completed his task when he remembers to ask the system about it.
Finally, his actions begin to have some effect beyond himself.
Tubbo’s met a lot of scary people in his short life. With scary people come scary situations and scary situations have scarier results. His Grandfather is the very definition of scary.
Grandfather might be an old man but Tubbo knows old doesn’t mean weak willed. No one ever treats Grandfather poorly because he can do much worse to them. He knows people, lots of people. Even Momma Puffy is scared of him.
He’s also kind of scared of Grandfather, not that Tubbo will say that to just anyone, mostly just Tommy if he asks. Tommy won’t make fun of him for it. Tommy didn’t even make fun of Tubbo’s curse.
It’s because of Grandfather that Tubbo gets to follow Momma Puffy to her big important job though, working at the palace under the king. He didn’t tell Momma to bring Tubbo, Momma did that anyway. She says that house isn’t good for him but Momma says a lot of things aren’t good for him.
Going with her was fun at first. Tubbo got to wander around the fancy wing, playing hide and seek with all the servants since they weren’t supposed to know he was there. Maybe he wanted to stay by his Momma the entire time but she was busy. So busy that it was too risky for him to stay with her.
And that’s okay! Tubbo’s really good at hiding and being sneaky. He has tons of practice, though Grandfather always manages to catch him when he’s angry. It probably has something to do with Tubbo’s curse.
Everything bad that happens to Tubbo has to do with the curse, everything. He can’t go outside because people will see it. He can’t play around at home because he might cause something to go wrong. He can’t look at Grandfather while speaking to him because Grandfather doesn’t like looking at it. There’s so many things!
So many rules that Tubbo really doesn’t like. The palace has even stricter rules than that since his Momma could lose her job if the king knew he was there. Maybe that’s also because of his curse? It’s really really bad luck.
Momma says it’s fine so long as no one looks at it though. She’s amazing like that, sneaking around Grandfather just like Tubbo! He gets so many treats for following the rules when Momma’s home. Tubbo wishes Momma was always home.
Today was really weird though. He squirms under his bed, bringing his blanket with him. It’s a tight fit, only growing harder the older he gets, but Tubbo really likes sleeping under his bed. Under the bed is always safe except when it isn’t. He doesn’t like when it isn’t.
Good things happened today, a lot of them. Tubbo got to see Tommy again, his first and best friend! Tommy even agreed they were best friends, which is basically a promise and means they’ll be best friends forever. That’s how best friends work.
Less good things also happened though because Tubbo is bad luck and Tommy already has terrible luck. Mean servants catching him at almost every corner, getting blocked in front of the kitchens, nearly being hurt really bad in the library with Tommy…
He’s fine though, Tommy saved him! Twice! Tubbo spreads a hand out in the darkness, as if he could still see the iridescent shimmer over his skin, could still feel the warm tingling of Tommy’s magic saving him. It was so cool.
The first time Tommy saved him was a lot less cool. He didn’t like that one very much. Tubbo presses himself harder against his blanket and the floor.
Momma never put herself in the way of a hit like that before, never argued and cried for him like that. Well, no, Momma cried a lot. She really likes apologizing, especially after Grandfather’s been extra mean.
But Tommy cried for Tubbo, so they could get something to eat! He stepped in front of Tubbo and got those ugly splotches for Tubbo. It must have hurt real bad. Tubbo always hurts for days after he gets a mark like that.
He doesn’t… he doesn’t think he liked seeing Tommy get hurt. No, that definitely made Tubbo ache really bad, like he wanted to cry and scream. But he also felt warm? Like when Momma makes him a cup of hot cocoa and tells him stories when he can’t sleep.
It was really weird. Tubbo doesn’t want Tommy hurt ever so why did it feel good when Tommy got hurt for Tubbo? His face screws up, frustrated tears blinking down his cheeks. He’s such a crybaby, Grandfather hates it.
…Tommy didn’t mention that at all either. He just saw Tubbo and accepted Tubbo, no matter what. Maybe Momma is right and he’s being silly. Tommy’s a prince! Tubbo’s just Tubbo, he should expect anything from Tommy.
Plus, he’s cursed so it’s not like Tubbo’s going to keep all the good feelings… Tommy might let him though. Tommy protected him and stopped him from getting hurt. Maybe it would be okay? Just this once? Momma promised they could hang out again.
Even if Momma breaks a lot of her promises, Tubbo could just sneak away again and see Tommy himself! He huffs, pressing himself flat against the ground, pulling his blanket under his face.
Yeah, Tubbo will keep this promise even if Momma won’t. Tommy is his best friend! Tubbo can’t ever break a promise with Tommy, he just won’t!
They’re forever friends. Forever friends are always together no matter what.
Notes:
I win.
You know the writing is great when you have to take a break at several points because you get so upset at these dogshit people that you can't write properly. I mean, I know it's directly my fault that they're like this but come on man, you're bullying a literal child.Oh, and in case anyone's curious, I'm going to start adding a section so y'all can see Theseus' accrued points rack up over time. The numbers are really low right now but it will be fun to watch people's behavior devolve as the numbers get bigger.
-= Relationships =-
Philza Morentus Mycroft - Father
A-Points: 25
S-Points: 35
D-Points: 15
-
Tobias Eleanore James II - Butler
A-Points: 85
S-Points: 65
D-Points: 50
-
Penelope Ulysses James - Head Housekeeper
A-Points: 10
S-Points: 60
D-Points: 10-=-
More to be added as Theseus meets more people. No point in including a bunch of zeroes because they haven't met in this timeline yet.
Chapter 5: Twenty-Four Years, How Long It Took
Summary:
For one person to choose Theseus first. No, Tobias doesn't count, he was ordered to watch over Theseus. Tubbo may be close but he is a child and can do nothing to prove his loyalty, may not even fully understand the breath of what's occurred. At best, they were kind hands during terrible circumstances.
Admittedly, now Theseus isn't quite sure what to do. Should he consider them an ally? Does he even believe they're speaking the truth? How can a man understand kindness when he has only known pain? Sooner or later, Theseus will learn.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Waking up surrounded by dust and dirt has quickly become far too familiar to Theseus, the grime sticking his eyelashes to his cheeks barely worth a footnote. His mouth has an awful taste, his hair full of matts and tangles, and his wings are only not worse than they were when his father preened them because he has not gotten them wet.
Glancing at himself on any reflective surface, Theseus imagines he resembles a street rat more than a prince, albeit that has managed to steal quite the fancy haul of ill-fitting clothes. Malnutrition has even begun to eat at the baby fat on his cheeks, turning them far too gaunt for a child.
It’s a different kind of awful than his last life. While the servants treated him no different, his younger self had gotten caught by them a lot more. If his stench got too much of a bother, his appearance too much of an eyesore, then they at least bothered to bathe him.
But getting such a treatment involved getting caught and punished for whatever made up crime the servants deemed him guilty of. Theseus much prefers the dull hunger pains and dark smudges to spilt blood.
*Ping!*
[Host shouldn’t be hurt at all!]
The system chimes in like it always does, complaining about the servants, the task to get them to replace now three or four months overdue. Still, the system seems to hold out hope.
Although the complaint has gotten old. Theseus isn’t even being hurt, he’s been far too smart for that, sneaking around the Queen’s Wing like a trained assassin. Well, there have been a couple of incidents but those are directly his fault, stepping into swings out of some misplaced feeling of protectiveness.
*Ping!*
[Awful, awful, awful servants! Hurting a child, the one they’re supposed to being protecting? This System can’t stand them!]
“I don’t like it either,” Theseus admits, “but what can we do about it?” Nothing. He’s done the system’s tasks, taken its advice, and they’ve gotten nowhere.
Well, technically, he has earned a point here and there with Tobias, increasing his ‘A-Points’ incrementally. It seems big point differences are after system quests rather than simple day to day activity.
Making his way through his morning stretches, Theseus gives himself a moment to plan out his day. Potential servant routes, food he might find in the kitchen, books to read, an unchanging daily pattern.
Perhaps another would find it mindnumbingly monotonous, the constant lowlying fear in these otherwise mundane activities. Personally, Theseus enjoys it. Days he can predict are days he can easily avoid being spotted and harmed.
Reaching to touch his toes, he takes a deep breath, noseblind to his own stench. Unless he doesn’t smell like much, merely old books and dust. People don’t tend to start smelling awful until they’ve reached their teens and Theseus is only seven.
*Ping!*
Theseus startles, pulling himself a bit too far into the stretch. A burn runs up the back up his legs, prompting him to quickly let go, pushing up to sit. That was much louder than a normal system sound. Golden glitter matches the noise, merrily drifting through the dense air.
[Correction! Host is not seven! Host is eight has of thirty minutes and seventeen seconds ago! Happy birthday, Host!]
Streamers burst out from either side the system’s box, fading long before they hit the floor. He’s… eight already? Is today truly his birthday? Admittedly, Theseus had not kept track of his birthday for a long while.
His birthday is hardly an auspicious time, holding no great importance to anyone. Theseus’ mother hadn’t celebrated it and his father certainly hadn’t. Only twice had Theseus ever had a celebration held.
Once when he had officially debuted onto the political scene, freshly sixteen. Not even noble children bearing curse marks were able to avoid debuting, though they often appeared at other family’s balls rather than holding one of their own.
Again when Theseus had been given his title of crown prince despite his father’s attempts at legitimizing his adopted children. Unfortunately for Philza, the traditionalists had cared less for his love and more for Theseus’ blood. How happy he must have been in that first timeline, knowing no one could deny his favored children the throne now that the only true heir was out of the scene.
*Ping!*
[This system thinks Host should be less morbid. Birthdays are a day for celebrating! This system even has a present for Host!]
“You have no need to curry favor with me,” Theseus immediately denies. If there is anyone he favors, it would be this system that the gods have granted him with Tubbo as a close second.
He certainly desires no fancy jewels nor detailed embroidery from the system. Although, now that he thinks about it, he has no idea how the system might source either of those things, seemingly unable to affect anything except Theseus himself.
*Ping!*
[Favor? This system wants no favor! This system only wants to do something nice for Host!]
No one gives Theseus anything without wanting something in return, whether favor or currency. Except the system has no clear use for either of those things so perhaps, just this one time, Theseus will allow it.
*Ping!*
[Yearly Reward Detected!]
A Joyous Occasion
Theseus Hendrick Mycroft has officially turn eight years of age! Please accept one of three gifts:
- A [Hint] for a current Task!
- A [Hint] redeemable for a Future Task!
- One free use of [Divine Favor]*
Please choose wisely Host!]
Divine favor being one of the options instantly catches Theseus’ eye. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by the possibility? Anyone given divine favor tends to become the belle of the ball, the height of society, for however long the favor lasts.
Of course, then comes the phrasing. One ‘free use’, with a marker at the end indicating there are exceptions to said use. Theseus has never even heard of divine favor being used, only fading as the one granted it was inevitably found lacking.
Carefully pulling himself into a new stretch, focusing on his hips, Theseus considers his other options as well. Hints do appear to be fairly useful, if initially quite vague. Getting another hint could vastly increase his rewards.
Rewards that he, admittedly, isn’t seeing much use out of. While he does have Tubbo and, seemingly, the favor of Puffy, two people are hardly enough to turn his life around. Neither of them can affect how the palace is run and neither have the political weight needed to safely remove him from his environment.
“What are the rules of divine favor?” Theseus carefully breathes, the stretch threatening to take his breath away. Admittedly, this is already much more flexible than he remembers being before but it still is as uncomfortable as it is satisfying.
*Ping!*
[Answering Host! Divine Favor is limited to the rules of the Divine! Divine Entities cannot interfere with the Law of Free Will! Choosing this gift allows Host to gain any one Divine Favor for twenty-four hours so long as it abides by Free Will.]
So, if he’s understanding this right, Theseus could not ask for, say, mind control but he could ask for the greatest elemental abilities the world has seen. Potentially useful for the shock value.
Except there’s a one-day limit. It is a reasonable limit. Being able to pick and choose between the powers of the Gods is beyond what any mortal could comprehend.
But Theseus has no need for the powers of a god. Yes, the destruction might be spoken of for millenia but that is all. All Theseus would manage is getting inevitably slain for his crimes.
Which leaves his decision between using a hint now or later. An easy choice, truthfully. While being able to freely choose to use a hint one any given future task is quite tempting, Theseus knows he could easily fall into the trap of keeping it for a ‘more difficult task’ that simply never comes.
“Could I have a hint about my magical foci?” So Theseus chooses a hint for the most difficult task he has now. A foci could be any size, any shape, and of any material. Even with the servants clearing out most of the Queen’s Wing there is still far too much ground for one man to cover.
*Ping!*
A Light From Within
- Unravel the magical coils within Host’s body into a usable state (Completed!)
- Discover the Host’s Foci hidden within the Queen’s Wing
- Cast one low-level spell in front of two or more witnesses, don’t hide away after
(Suggestion: perform sub-tasks in orer)
(Hint: Host’s Foci can be found within the Former Queen’s Bedroom )
Happy Birthday, Host!]
Of course… Of course his Foci would be within the one room Theseus would not dare to enter on his own. Only when guided by his mother, only peeking through the door on the occasion a servant went in to clean.
More likely, a servant slipped in to steal, knowing that no one enters the room nearly enough to tell if any of his mother’s jewelry has gone mysteriously missing. Not when Kristin never desired the space. Not when Theseus couldn’t stand it.
How fitting that he now has to intrude upon such a terrible place if he wishes to continue in his quest, to learn magic how Magic itself deemed he should.
Once again switching his stretch, Theseus works through his morning routine of ignoring the weakness of an underfed child and strengthening himself the best he can. Perhaps it's a fool’s game to expect strength when he is not even being fed but he is seeing some results.
If nothing else, the routines Theseus struggles through with his aching wings have become steadily more accurate. One day, he might even become as good as one of the ballerinas his mother once read about in her books.
Likely not. His mother was a perfectionist above all else- Theseus will never match her standards.
“Tommy! Tommy!” Tubbo bounces into the room, loudly announcing his presence to anyone who might be close by, “Look! Momma bought me some sweets! I can share them with you.” Theseus bites back a sigh.
“Good morning Tubbo, it’s great to see you again,” Theseus hums, abandoning his routine before Tubbo accidentally makes him fall. It’s not Tubbo’s fault, Tobias was merely an excitable kid.
“I got so many flavors. They’re macarons! Have you even had a macaron before?” Tubbo holds up a box wider than his chest, which isn’t saying much for the small boy. Thesues has had a macaron before, though not in this life.
“No,” Theseus pretends as though this life is his first one. Tubbo bounds up to him, heels barely touching the floor. His ears perk up, tail wagging happily behind him. Instantly, Theseus is reminded of an excited lamb darting through the grass.
“You need to try one. They’re so good! I like the strawberry ones, do you like strawberry? It’s my favorite.” Tubbo struggles with the box, attempting to open it without putting it down. A ghost of a smile worms onto Theseus’ face.
He takes the miraculously undamaged soft pink macaron from Tubbo when it's offered, though he has no particular love for sweets. Biting into it, it’s even a mediocre macaron, bought on a servant’s salary as it is.
“It’s good, I’ll consider this my birthday gift from you,” Theseus lies, if only to see Tubbo’s face brighten. He chews through the rest of the macaron, making his hungry stomach clench, calling for more food that isn’t likely to come.
“It’s your birthday?” Tubbo gasps, eyes wide. With more care than he’s given anything else this morning, Tubbo sets the macaron box on the floor, throwing himself at Tom- at Theseus.
“Happy birthday! You should have told Momma, we could have baked you a cake!” Tubbo cheers, wrapping his arms tightly around Theseus. Relaxing into the hug, Theseus huffs.
“I highly doubt your mother would have been allowed to bring an entire cake to work,” Theseus denies. Not that it’s impossible for her to have made a cake here, provided she neglects her duties and shoo away any wandering servants drawn by the smell.
Which is to say it certainly isn’t going to happen. Theseus isn’t nearly important enough to Puffy for her to risk her job for a mere sweet treat.
“We could have tried anyway,” Tubbo insists, “We should do something special for your birthday! Anything you want.” Something special… his mind drifts back to his hint, to his task. That would certainly be special.
Really, the longer he waits, the more he risks his Foci being stolen from his mother’s rooms long before he can find it. Of course, the consequences of Tubbo being found within her bed chamber is… frightening to say the least. Even a Queen without favor does not have her space tread upon lightly. Philza may not care but the law would.
That’s not much of a risk though, is it? So long as they avoid any servants on the way, the chances of anyone daring to intrude is incredibly slim. Only Theseus is actually allowed in her rooms after all, his father having been long since banned.
“I want to visit my mother’s rooms, will you go with me?” Theseus takes his chance. Tubbo stills for a worrying moment, processing. Then, without warning, his grip tightens. Bones creak beneath Tubbo’s surprisingly strong grip.
“Of course I will! I promised I’d do anything,” Tubbo accepts, finally pulling back. Air floods back into Theseus now-aching lungs, soothing the tightness in his chest. Even as he breathes, it does not fully go away, thrumming with nervous energy.
“We should go now then, though we should leave the food here just in case.” Theseus runs his hands down his chest, doing little to straighten his clothes. His shirt has too many wrinkles, too many dark spots, to ever look neat.
“Or we can eat them now so we aren’t hungry while we explore!” Tubbo picks back up the macarons, skipping over to the bay seat.
Theseus is not lying when he says leaving sooner would be better. Admittedly, knowing he’s right does not stop him from sitting beside Tubbo instead, putting off entering into his mother’s rooms as long as possible.
Instead, he sits beside a quiet Tubbo, being forcibly given at least half of the remaining macarons. His stomach fills after four, he eats ten. The flavors mix in his mouth, distinctly unpleasant in a way that is somehow completely unrelated to the fact he hasn’t had the opportunity to brush his teeth in months.
Even after they finish, they sit side by side, swinging their feet. Neither of them seem to particularly want to leave the safety of the library. Theseus doesn’t want to enter his mother’s old rooms and Tubbo doesn’t want to leave Theseus.
No, he’s being too self-centered. Tubbo has had plenty of bad experiences with the servants all on his own, it’s no wonder he seeks to avoid them at every opportunity.
With the grace of a man who has done many things he did not wish to, Theseus stands, helping Tubbo off the bay seat after. Tubbo does not let go of Theseus’ hand once his feet are on the floor.
Far more tellingly, Theseus does not make him let god. A very childish part of him clings to Tubbo’s small, far cleaner hand for support he should not need. Nothing about Tubbo’s hand tightly clasped around his own should change anything.
But they sneak hand in hand towards his mother’s rooms all the same, making their way up stairs and around corners until they reach the ancient set of double doors. Once, Philza’s mother lived here. Before her, his father’s mother, so on and so forth.
While the rest of the room has been updated, furniture and wallpaper switched out to match whichever style the new Queen preferred, the doors have always remained the same. Thick oak things hold carvings depicting the gods that supposedly blessed his father’s and mother’s rule, their faces covered by wrappings or masks, hands outstretched to hold the queen’s crown.
A similar set of doors sit before his father’s rooms, matching in every way except for the crown, which resembles the king’s crown instead. Neither designs fully match the real life crowns, gold and gemstones being replaced since these doors were carved. Theseus finds he prefers the designs here, simple but elegant.
Runes carefully carved into the edge of the doors make them easy to push open, hinges silent despite their lack of care. Magic eases the way, practically humming beneath Theseus’ fingertips.
Feeling magic is such an odd experience. He’s not managed to properly use it since saving Tubbo, the exhaustion simply not worth it when he has nowhere to properly eat nor rest. He’d almost forgotten the buzz over his skin, in his teeth, rushing through his veins.
As soon as he stops touching the doors, the sensation disappears. Theseus’ chest claws open, aching for the rush. He ignores it. Theseus never gets what he wants.
Years have dimmed Theseus’ memory of his mother’s rooms, from the dark wooden floors to the deep reds and golds of her walls. Golden leaves climb the wallpaper from the baseboards. Even under the dim light and five months of dust, it seems to glimmer.
A chandelier should light up the room. Another golden thing, speaking of the wealth of Philza but nothing of his love. Decorated rooms do not equate to love. No amount of velvet chairs, ancient tomes, and jewel encrusted knicknacks made Theseus’ parents love each other any more.
No amount of stealing from Theseus’ rooms or the Queen’s wing makes the servants care about him any more. Theseus has long since known you cannot bribe someone to love you. He isn’t sure if he ever tried.
“ Creepy,” Tubbo breathes, toeing past the threshold. The floorboards do not creep as they walk in, the carpet muffling their footsteps into silence. With barely a push, the doors swing shut behind them, locking them into darkness.
With a spark, the candles throughout the room light up, though the chandelier appears to either be malfunctioning or requiring a different activation. The dim light does little to make his mother’s rooms less ‘creepy’.
Little life is visible in the main room. Nothing about it speaks to his mother’s interests, not beyond her favor for the color red and the gold Philza had coated her with. It’s as if these rooms were owned by no one at all, merely set up to make it seem like someone once lived here.
“ We could open the curtains?” Theseus suggests quietly. Despite no one being likely to overhear them, certainly not with the door closed, speaking any louder felt it might shatter the aching quiet of his mother’s rooms, as though he might disturb the dead with his presence.
“ What if someone notices from outside?” Tubbo stressed, pressing tighter against Theseus’ side. A good point. These rooms should overlook the garden. It’s inevitable that a lazy gardener would look up and notice light streaming into his mother’s rooms.
Answering Tubbo with silence, Theseus guides him around the room, glancing over shelves and tabletops for anything that looked promising. The wording of the hint once again comes to mind, citing specifically the bedroom.
Better not to look any more than strictly necessary. His wings fluff out, one curling around Tubbo’s back. They creep towards a second set of doors, these a sleeker wood so dark they might as well be black.
More candles light when they enter into his mother’s bedroom, framing her canopy bed. Deep red curtains hang over it like trailing blood, complimenting the cherry red of her desk, mirror, and vanity. Theseus finds his gaze pulled towards the shelves bracketing the bed, built into the very wall they’re a part of.
Dolls like the top three selves, leaving two beneath it for books before curving around the side tables, the bottom shelves containing more knick-nacks that his mother once enjoyed. In the dull light, they largely disappear into the shadows.
“ Why does she have so many dolls? It’s weird,” Tubbo whines. He hides his face in Theseus’ wing, pulling up his longest feathers like he’s hiding behind a curtain or fan. Theseus shudders at the touch, grimacing from the unfamiliar feeling.
“They’re safer to love than people,” Theseus offers his only real theory. Pale faced porcelain dolls stare down at them, each with various eye and hair colors. He easily finds the one matching the outfit he’d worn to meet his father, nestled second from the right on the third shelf, left side of the bed. It’s almost a miniature version of him.
Now, where would his mother keep a Foci? Not that she would know what it is at the time. Foci only truly begin to react when in the hands of their wielder. If only Foci had any other qualifications other than being able to focus magic.
Perhaps Theseus could use his magic and see if anything is attracted to it? That may work, if only Theseus had enough magic to do so without immediately collapsing from exhaustion. Little sparks, maybe?
Last time, he had caught an entire person using his magic. He could have simply cast too high level a spell. Lifting his free hand, Theseus tries to focus on that feeling of magic, on causing it to do something.
The world lights up, the colors of before swirl into being, dancing around the outlines of objects, making them simultaneously easier to see and impossible to distinguish. Ow. Ow, ow, ow.
Grasping at his head, Theseus feels the magic he was trying to use before he sees it, mostly because it singes his hair. Stumbling back, kept up only by Tubbo’s iron grip on his arm, Theseus pulls back his hand. Sparks dance from his fingertips.
“Tommy! Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” Tubbo cries. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself. Magic is simply far too overwhelming, stinging his skin where the sparks land. Hopefully this doesn’t set any fires. More importantly, is it working?
Forcing himself to focus on the swirling colors, they almost seem to be pooling in roughly the same direction. There’s far too much of it to say for certain but the bed seems to be the focal point.
Cutting off the magic takes several attempts. The world flickers wilding, burning his eyes, before the darkness of the room consumes him. While still not pleasant, the dark is soothing when compared to that strange magical sight he’d had.
“I was just experimenting, don’t worry. I feel fine,” Theseus assures his only friend. While not the entire truth, neither of those statements are a lie. His head does ache, his eyes do burn, but the exhaustion does not make an appearance.
“Maybe we should leave…” Tubbo mumbles. Unfortunately for the easily scared Tobias, Theseus is not so easily strayed. He lets go of Tubbo’s hand, making his way towards the raised bed. Tubbo does not let go of him.
“Or you could help me climb up,” Theseus responds several minutes too late, staring up at his mother’s bed. It’s much taller than he remembers, easily reaching his shoulders. The curtains are thick and heavy but the wood they hang from creaks when he tugs on them.
“Okay… okay,” Tubbo accepts, steeling his expression. His help is… not all that helpful. Two eight-year-olds, for if Theseus is eight than Tubbo likely is too, are not quite strong enough to lift each other up. It’s a game of pulling and tugging, messing up the formerly clean bedding and threatening to tear the curtains from their resting place.
With enough effort, and a couple pulled feathers, they manage to sprawl across the overly large bed. The blankets on it are thick, plush, and surprisingly dust free, with a mattress much softer than either Theseus’ real bed or the bay window. Even less light reaches the canopy than any of the other rooms.
Subsumed in darkness, Theseus takes a moment to catch his breath. His wings ache against his back, his scalp is painfully numb, his stomach twists with nausea. Perhaps he ate too many macarons too fast. Perhaps these months of starvation have left him weaker than he thought.
Did he feel this terrible the first time around? He mostly remembers feeling scared, an ember of hatred growing for everyone he met. How childish he’d been back then. Theseus would say he knows better now but he did die testing the limits of burnt bridges until the floor gave out beneath him.
“Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice draws him from his reminiscence. The bed dips, Tubbo crawling the short distance between them, settling close enough that Theseus can feel the heat of exertion radiating from him. It’s strange, Tobias is so much warmer than Theseus.
Theseus hums noncommittally. A restless sort of energy pushes him to blindly grasp at Tubbo, catching his fingers on fabric. He could be grabbing Tubbo’s sleeve or the loose fabric around his torso, the dark makes it impossible to tell.
“Your mom’s room is weird… but her bed is nice.” Tubbo wiggles a little more, one of his hands landing in Tom- in Theseus’ wing. Right, that’s probably Tubbo’s chest then. Theseus weakly flaps his wings, so weak it’s really more of a press into Tubbo’s careless touch. Are his wings supposed to be so weak? His father’s are much stronger.
“I agree.” Theseus takes a moment to enjoy a real bed, having not used his own in quite a while by now. He barely remembers what the bed in his quarters feels like. Between the bay seat and the weeks of waiting for his own execution crowd out the memories of softer things.
Unfortunately, he did not choose to come here to enjoy himself. If Theseus had wanted to relax, he would have never left the library, the only place he’s truly safe. While there’s no obvious time restriction here, a pit in Theseus’ stomach grows deeper the longer the linger, tension in his muscles refusing to let go.
Pushing himself into his hands and knees, Theseus crawls towards the head of the bed. If his mother thought anything like him, a potential Foci would be kept there, hidden beneath the pillows or settled between the mattress and the wall.
In most cases, such an assumption would be tenuous at best. Theseus never truly knew his mother, faded memories of his time with her only speaking of the masks she let the world see, but the world has gone out of the way to prove their similarities. Theseus has always been his mother’s child.
Before he was the crown prince, before he was the sole heir, before he was even himself- Theseus belonged to her. He truly is the last living part of her in this world. Theseus smiles in the darkness, a tight and bitter thing.
Feeling beneath the pillows is difficult for his small limbs. There aren’t terribly many of them, not compared to the many pillows he knows his step-mother preferred. Or, well, so he assumes. Every other gift she was given seemed to be sending soft and plush, throw pillows and blankets and furs.
Moving the pillows might theoretically make his job easier provided Theseus could see. Relying only on touch makes it easy to knock whatever item could be hidden aside without noticing.
Then his hand brushes something. It’s not immediately obvious what he found, though the cold rough material makes him think of leather. Freeing it from the weight on top, Theseus feels down it, tracing down a tapered shape. Many ridges and bumps, smooth enough to be metal, decorate the shape.
“ Tommy? What are you doing? Where’d you go?” Tubbo fumbles around behind him, loudly patting at the bed in a poor attempt to guide himself. A wider bit of metal catches on his hand as he feels up, shifting when he presses on the bottom.
“I think I found a knife.” Theseus doesn’t answer any of Tubbo’s questions, letting the knife fall back into what’s likely its sheath. His mother kept a knife in her bed? Of course she did, she was a smart woman and a good queen, managing the kingdom even under the hate filled gaze of her husband. Few people in her position would feel safe enough to sleep without a weapon close by.
Even Theseus did so, though he has to be careful and only use the smallest of knives. If anyone but Tobias realized he was armed, he likely would have been accused of attempted assassination far before his execution. Truly, he was being sloppy when poisoning Ranboo, though some part of him had wanted to be caught.
“A knife? Your mom slept with a knife?” Tubbo’s voice peaks in excitement. Theseus startles, Tubbo grabbing at his ankle, patting up his leg to crowd terribly close. The knife shifts in Theseus' hands, another pair coming to fiddle in the dark. He shouldn’t have told Tubbo what he found, interacting with a knife in the dark like this is quite dangerous, especially given Tubbo is actually eight.
“Yes, in case she needed to protect herself. We shouldn’t mess around with it.” Theseus pulls it out of Tubbo’s grasping hands, blindly placing the knife on the bed beside him. Tubbo is at least reasonable enough at this age to not fight him for it.
“That’s cool though, I didn’t know your mom was so awesome,” Tubbo cheers, leaning into Theseus’ shoulder. Awesome? That’s… not the word Theseus would use. Justifiably paranoid would be a much more accurate term, fitting the care any royal must take when public opinion sours.
“Not many would agree with you.” Theseus feels over the designs in the knife’s sheath, again trying to press magic into his fingertips. Cold seeps from his skin, the swirls blinding in the absolute darkness, burning at his eyes.
Not his Foci. Theseus knows that before he even looks down at the knife. It remains cold, almost calm despite the nonsensical patterns. Frost clings to his skin as he lets it go, blindly following the swirls. Well, following is such a defined word, not at all fitting.
Given when little Theseus has read on the subject, magic is usually quite well defined. Things to do, things to avoid, and the consequences that follow mistakes. Nothing that implies mage adepts are blindly flailing in the dark hoping to find… to find whatever they’re looking for.
“Woah, you’re glowing!” Tubbo squeals. Is he? Theseus can’t tell. He’s blinded by the magic, following the swirls until his hand meets nothing, gravity pulling him down to his shoulder in the space between the bed and the wall. A yelp strangles in his throat. His head smacks against the nightstand with a sharp crack.
“ I’m fine,” Theseus hisses before Tubbo can call out too loudly. Were Tubbo able to see, he might decide Theseus is lying. Childish tears prick at his eyes, an instinctive response to his throbbing head by his young body, despite the relatively minimal pain.
“Careful,” Tubbo warns anyway, mumbling it low enough that it’s almost sad, like a kicked puppy. It’s almost like he thinks Theseus hurt himself on purpose. Huffing, he blinks away the swirling magic, feeling around.
His hand brushes something thin and cold. With much less effort than the knife took, Theseus fishes out what seems to be a necklace, perhaps a pendant of some kind.
Correction, it’s a ring. The circular shape, the hold in the center he can easily slip his finger into, and the pattern of bumps on only one portion of it make that clear. Strange, his mother only ever wore her wedding ring.
She certainly must have had more jewelry but nothing Theseus imagines would be kept on the end of a necklace. Clearly, this ring is precious to her. He can rule out it being gifted by Philza- perhaps her family? But then, Theseus never knew them to be particularly warm or genuine.
*Ping!*
[Update on a Task!]
A Light From Within
- Unravel the magical coils within Host’s body into a usable state (Completed!)
- Discover the Host’s Foci hidden within the Queen’s Wing (Completed!)
- Cast one low-level spell in front of two or more witnesses, don’t hide away after
(Suggestion: perform sub-tasks in order)
(Hint: Host’s Foci can be found within the Former Queen’s Bedroom )
[Excellent work Host! This System is so proud!]
Pale words emit light that reflects off of nothing, giving Theseus no help in figuring out what kind of ring he might be holding, why his mother chose to keep it as a necklace. Confusion wars with the soft warmth of completing another task.
Now all he has to do is figure out what defines a ‘low-level spell’ and cast it in front of at least two people who he’s willing to explain his magic to. Tubbo is obviously a contender, filling out one slow, but the second individual is difficult.
Users of magic get far too much attention for comfort. At his current status, Theseus would have no say over what magic he learns nor how he uses it. Honestly, knowing his father, Theseus may find his Foci taken from him entirely, a silent order to never use magic again.
Magic is so much more dangerous than a knife. The catastrophic side-effects possible would simply be deemed too much for Theseus. No one would trust him to learn it, assuming he would use it to harm others.
“I found a ring,” Theseus finally informs Tubbo, “It’s on a necklace. Why would it be on a necklace?” He turns back to the ring, pushing away the far too disturbing thought that no one would care what the magic may do to him.
“Momma Puffy has one with a picture in it, it’s got a lady I dunno but Momma really misses her,” Tubbo offers. A picture locket? That would be much easier to find the reason for, merely bringing it into the light. If only…
“No, it’s a ring. It can’t have a picture,” Theseus corrects. It’s far too big for his fingers, loose even around his thumb. Perhaps he should be grateful it's a necklace. At least with the chain he can carry it around without worry of dropping it.
“I dunno then, maybe it’s really pretty? Oh! I bet it’s so pretty. Come on, let's go look at it!” Tubbo, thankfully, doesn’t reach out and grab him again. Blankets shift loudly as Tubbo moves, leaping to the floor with an audible thud. Right, he does have a point. The ring may have some sort of detail on it pointing to its origins that he can’t see.
And then, the worst thing that could occur happens.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
The Failed Protector
- Don't let Tobias Elenore James II be discovered within the bounds of the Former Queen’s Bedroom
- Appeal to Samuel Edward Armati’s sense of duty
(Suggestion: appear weak and vulnerable)
[Hurry Host!]
Thoughts whizz through Theseus’ head- Tubbo still within the room, the knife on the bed, the identity of the person coming to interrupt them. Of all the people that could have come in, of course it would be Samuel.
Being his father’s former personal butler, Samuel is naturally quite strict. He would do anything to protect Philza and that means ruthlessly cutting down rulebreakers. While there is a chance, however slim, that Tobias’ age and the Queen’s reputation may lighten the sentence… Theseus refuses to leave it to chance.
Grabbing at the knife, missing several times, Theseus hops from the bed. Tubbo’s closing in on the door to the sitting room, his silhouette vague.
“ Tubbo!” Tom- Theseus calls out, all but running to his one friend. Thankfully, Tubbo hears him, turning around in silent question. Quiet footsteps begin to echo through the silence.
“Hide,” He orders. Shoving the knife into Tubbo’s arms, he pushes Tubbo towards his mother’s closet, encouraging him to hide between rows of elegantly embroidered gowns. Being floor length dresses, not even Tubbo’s feet are visible if he stands far enough back.
Of course, he could still be noticed should Samuel turn the lights on. Theseus pushes the closet doors closed, quickly returning to the bed to sit himself down at the foot of it. By making himself front and center, Samuel shouldn't even consider looking around.
Footsteps growing louder in Theseus’ ears, he turns his attention to the ring in hand, pretending to be entranced by it. Under the candle light, a few more details are visible. The large central gem, likely a diamond, with several red stones embedded into the body of the ring. Ruby, maybe?
He doesn’t get much of a chance to look closer. Less than a minute after sitting down, the door to his mother’s bedroom opens once more, a tall figure looming in the door. Theseus looks up through his lashes, trying not to move his head.
Samuel cuts quite a figure in the dark. Broad shoulders and thick muscles are a quiet threat, a soft red glow coming from runes carved into his armor, brightest from his chestplate and pauldron. A mask covering the bottom half of his face resembles a furnace grate, seeping a faintly glowing smoke.
If Theseus didn’t know any better, he might call Samuel a demon instead of a dryad, any of his usual green moss hidden beneath darkness and metal.
“What are you doing in these chambers?” Samuel asks, failing to recognize Theseus’ small figure. That’s no surprise. Even if the lights were on, Theseus doesn’t think Samuel would know who he is. He certainly can’t remember ever interacting with Samuel at this age. The earliest must have been the day he met his step-mother.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” Theseus feigns innocence, “They belonged to my mother, doesn’t that mean they belong to me too?” Which, now that he has the chance, is making him wonder. Why is Samuel here? He certainly never bothered to visit the Queen’s Wing before.
“... mother… Theseus, is that you? You should have been informed not to enter here anymore.” Samuel’s tone changes, the low threat swapped out from a faintly tired sound. Theseus winces as the lights turn on.
“No one told me that,” Theseus denies, which is true. None of the servants talk to him long enough to have informed him of that particular rule change. He didn’t even have to be informed in his first life, avoiding his mother’s old things as he did.
“Did no one tell you or did you not listen…” Samuel drifts off, brows pinching. Theseus finally looks up at Samuel properly, blinking like a cat caught somewhere it's not supposed to be. No, even with the lights on, Samuel still looks quite stereotypically demonic.
The soft green fluff of his hair does little to soothe his sharper edges, the barest crawl of moss over his cheekbones more similar to an infection than anything else. He might look better if he took off his armor for once and actually took care of his floral parts. But then, who is Theseus to tell him off? It’s not like Theseus is a Dryad.
“ What in the world , ” Sam mutters, reaching up a hand to tap his knuckles against his mask. The steady tick-tick-tick fills the air. For a moment, Theseus would give anything to know what’s going on in his head.
If Sam had been told the boy before him was a street rat stolen into the palace rather than Philza’s heir, he would have believed them. Nothing about the boy speaks of a pampered prince or a spoiled child.
Which, truthfully, Sam hadn’t expected Theseus to be particularly spoiled. He has witnessed first hand how little Philza cares for the boy. He heard Philza’s quiet promise to do better, watched him put off meetings time and time again. Each broken promise began to build up, grating on Sam’s nerves.
He had had enough and came to see Theseus himself, trying to find out what about the child put off his dearest friend so much. Yet, none of the servants had known where Theseus was. Sam had searched for him, eventually finding the Queen’s Private Quarters cracked open, improperly shut.
Now he looks upon an awful stain of a person. Even so far away, Sam can feel the grime dirtying the floors and Clara’s old bed. The stench of filth mixes with the dead air of the formerly untouched room.
Matts push once blonde hair into gravity defying positions, dulling the color until it doesn’t even look blonde. His wings are similar, feathers pushed into disarray, once white downy feathers now a mixture of gray and brown. Not even his clothes look clean, as though they have been worn for many weeks. Sam has seen cleaner men at war.
Tapping at his mask, Sam tries to consolidate the child before him with the image of Theseus, Philza’s son. The glimpses he caught of Theseus at the funeral, glances of a young babe at galas before Theseus could be left alone- and quickly he realizes he has had no interactions with the boy. He realizes that Philza has had little to none as well.
Yes, the one afternoon tea. Yes, at the funeral. Should there be more? Instances Sam can recall? Surely if Philza was avoiding Theseus so much, he would be able to remember when it started.
But it seems it didn’t start at all. Unless there was an event that the servants didn’t gossip about, that Philza never confided with him in, then things had always been this way. No, not always. Surely, things had only gotten this bad with Clara’s death.
Sam never knew Clara very well either of course. He was dedicated to Philza and, after being rebuffed during those first tenuous years, Philza had stopped interacting with her outside of court either. For all Sam knows, she didn’t care for Theseus any more than Philza did.
“Theseus,” Sam calls out to the prince. A useless call. Theseus hasn’t looked away from Sam since he first spoke, dull blue eyes looking at him with quiet expectation. Sam shifts, a chill running down his spine. What does Theseus expect him to do?
“You’ve yet to answer my question, what are you doing here?” He crosses the distance between them, stopping a scant five feet from Theseus. Even that causes the prince’s neck to crane at an uncomfortable angle.
Should a boy his age be so small? How old even is Theseus? No answer comes to mind. Sam doesn’t know.
“It’s… it’s my birthday,” Theseus looks back down at his hands, “I just wanted a present, since mother isn’t here anymore to give me one.” He fiddles with something on a long chain, pressing it to his chest like Sam might take it.
It might be overdramatic to say but Sam is feeling faint. Surely Theseus got the date wrong, it couldn’t actually be his birthday. Every noble child has birthday celebrations, the higher ranking the noble, the more extravagant. Philza’s own birthday had been made into festivals all of their own, a capital wide celebration.
Philza has never organized Theseus a birthday celebration, never invited any guests or put up any decorations. If Clara did, she certainly never informed him of her plans. Somehow, she had to have gone around him, if she planned anything at all.
And Sam can’t actually prove the prince wrong on the date, he doesn’t know when Theseus was born. Does he know anything at all?
“Happy birthday.” Sam replies belatedly, “Though I can’t say I approve of stealing from your mother.” He kneels, giving Theseus an easier sight line. It only brings the deep bags under Theseus’ eyes into sharp detail, the dirt coating his face like soot, the too-thin baby fat on his cheeks.
“Mother’s dead, can’t I keep a piece of her?” Theseus chews on his lip, briefly showing Sam more of the item in his hands. It isn’t a necklace but a ring, Clara’s engagement ring.
What a sight Theseus makes- Dirty, hungry, clutching at the only connection he has left of his mother. Sam’s chest twists, swirling with emotions too fast to pick out. He had no idea things were this bad. He can’t believe Philza let this happen.
No, that implies Philza knows. Sam isn’t sure if he wants Philza to know, if him being unaware makes the situation better or worse.
“You can keep it,” Sam sighs, though it isn’t his place to say. Theseus loops the ring’s chain around his neck, the gleaming metal only highlighting how disgusting the boy’s skin and clothes are.
“We should get you cleaned up,” Sam decides. If he thinks any more on the situation, on what-ifs and unknown questions, then he isn’t sure what he’ll do. Perhaps he shouldn’t use Theseus as a distraction from his own problems but…
But at least that means Theseus gets some attention, a thing he clearly isn’t used to.
“Like a bath? The servants don’t like giving me baths. I don’t like them either, they hurt,” Theseus informs him with no respect for Sam’s heart. They hurt? Has Theseus been abused while no one was looking?
“It won’t hurt this time.” Sam’s head is worryingly light, “I’ll make sure of it.” He offers Theseus a hand, skin already prickling from the grime.
Yet the prickling seems to calm when Theseus actually takes the hand, still watching him with the empty, expectant eyes of a man more used to pain than kindness. Sam should not be able to see a veteran within a child’s eyes.
“Can I eat too? I’m not allowed in the kitchen.” Theseus is far too light for his age, whatever that might be. Sam forces himself not to crush the kid’s boney hands, shoulders hiking at the heartwrenching question. He isn’t terribly surprised.
If Theseus isn’t being bathed, why would he be getting fed? Sam takes a deep breath, guiding Theseus out of Clara’s quarters. Finding a servant is… much harder than it should be.
The first pair he finds turn white, fearful eyes darting between Theseus and Sam. Within moments, they tug on a worried mask, as if Sam doesn’t know guilt when he sees it.
“My prince! Where have you been? Were you playing in the garden again? This servant is so so sorry General Armati, Theseus is such a lively child, he’s hard to keep track of!” One of the servant’s blusters.
“Silence,” Sam orders. Their mouth clicks shut, far too tense for their excuse to make any sort of sense. Besides, Sam already knows where Theseus has been.
“Pull a bath for Theseus, I will deal with him.” Sam walks past them. He takes them to the room that he should have found Theseus in, the prince’s quarters he should have reasonably been moved out of by now. He may not know all of the laws detailing what happens to a prince when the queen dies but he doubts it involves leaving them alone in such a cold, empty space.
Settling Theseus on a proper chair, Sam opens his closet. It’s nearly empty, most of the outfits are too small for the boy. On the floor sits a pool of white fabric, abandoned clothes that no one washed nor bothered to put away. He can’t tell if there’s anything in the closet that even fits.
A prince should have too many options to choose from, not a selection of undersized things. The wooden closet doors creak beneath his hands. Fine, he’ll choose something loose. Theseus has nowhere to be today, nor ever, so sleepwear will have to suffice.
“Who are you anyway? Why are you allowed in my mother's room when I’m not?” Theseus breaks his silence with another terrible question. Of course Theseus looked at him with such suspicion, he doesn’t even know who Sam is.
“A friend of your father’s. You may call me Sam,” he finally introduces himself, if with an unprofessional nickname. Perhaps that will make Theseus feel a bit better. Nicknames tend to be friendlier than full names.
“Sam,” Theseus tries out the name, “I didn’t know father had any friends. He never talks to me- except this one time when we had tea together. That was weird.” Philza actually interacting with his child- weird?
Given his prior behavior, that may be accurate. From Theseus’ perspective, his father is less of a true parent and more of an acquaintance that acts far too familiar.
“There are many people who like him, ones he would call a friend.” Sam picks out a hanger, a nightgown that should hopefully reach Theseus’ ankles. He should order more clothes for the boy, though such a thing isn’t technically one of his duties. Sam may have taken over many of the Queen’s responsibilities in the absence of one but he himself is not a Queen.
“Really? But he’s so mean. He told me mother didn’t love me,” Theseus sniffles. Sam tenses so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. Naturally, he knew Philza hated Clara but- but to tell a boy his mother doesn’t love him?
“He… he’s wrong about that, I’m sure. Even a king is allowed to be wrong. Your mother… cared for you greatly.” Sam stumbles over his words, spouting things that may very well be lies.
Because he doesn’t know if Clara loved Theseus. He doesn’t know if she ever held his hand, if she fed him well, if she celebrated his birthday. Sam doesn’t know anything about Theseus at all.
He doesn’t think anyone knows about Theseus, a prince abandoned by all.
“I wish father was nicer to me,” Theseus mumbles. Sam once again forces his grip to relax, the metal hanger in his hand left bent out of shape. A child should not have to wish for something like that.
“Let’s check on your bath.” Sam lays the nightgown on Theseus’ bed, fleeing into the attached bathroom. It too is terribly empty, a bare minimum of essentials. Two towels, a bar of soap, and a half-empty bottle of shampoo.
Even Phil, who truthfully didn’t care much about his hair, had at least a conditioner and a thing of hair oil. Sam has to actively search for a comb to at least try and work out the matts in Theseus’ hair. A servant merely watches him do it, falling asleep against a wall.
“ You,” Sam snaps, “make a meal for the prince. Light, healthy, and bring it here for after the bath.” The servant startles as though the thought of being ordered around is genuinely surprising. That should not be possible. His nose wrinkles in disgust.
Placing the comb by the bathtub, Sam fetches Theseus. Unlike the stories he’s heard, it doesn’t take much effort to get Theseus into the bath, the boy going limp the moment he touches the water.
Water that runs black where it trails over his skin. Sam takes a steadying breath, carefully wiping what seems like months of grime from the young prince. As smudges clean away, cuts and bruises come into view.
Mostly small things, easily a consequence of an unsupervised child, but then there’s one in the shape of a hand over Theseus’ arm. Then there’s the yellowed shape of a boot on the kid’s stomach. Then there’s the bloody scabs hidden in his hair.
Debris thickens the bath. Sam empties it, refills it, and keeps scrubbing. It only takes two rinses for the water to run clear, then he has to focus on Theseus’ hair.
It looks painful, solid clumps of hair tugging at the young boy’s scalp. No one has bothered to brush Theseus' hair in quite a while and Sam doubts Theseus could have found a comb on his own, he barely found one and he can reach all the shelves.
Helping Theseus lean back, wetting the matts, really doesn’t make the problem look any more manageable. If it were anyone else, Sam wouldn’t even bother trying. If it were anyone else, he would have cut it all off to save time.
Something tells him that approaching Theseus with scissors or a knife is a recipe for disaster. All he can do is brandish his comb, partition Theseus’ hair, and use as much shampoo as he can as he starts to detangle.
Even as time ticks by, minutes culminating into hours of work, Theseus doesn’t struggle. Sam has never heard of a child so quiet, without any complaints or whimpers. It has to hurt in places, it can’t not, yet Theseus doesn’t even sniffle. His pain tolerance must be quite high.
Don’t think about it.
Clumps of hair get abandoned on the floor. Thankfully, how thick Theseus’ hair is, no bald patches result from this. Not that Sam can imagine Theseus complaining if there were. Sam’s struggling to imagine Theseus complaining at all.
As he gets closer to completion, it becomes obvious that Theseus hasn’t had a haircut in a while either. Straightened locks fall to Theseus’ shoulders, much longer than Philza’s hair had been allowed to be at Theseus' age- or roughly what age Theseus seems to be. It’s quite pretty.
Without the dirt, it really just seems like waterlogged gold, shimmering under the bathroom light. Despite the lack of care, it’s silky beneath Sam’s fingers. It must be good genetics, he’s almost jealous.
“Feel better?” Sam can’t help but ask, marveling at how the comb parts Theseus’ hair. Briefly, because if he does not make a joke he might snap, Sam wonders if all this neglect had simply been because of jealousy. Theseus is too much of an angel to have done anything to deserve such rough treatment.
“How’d you do that? It didn’t hurt at all,” Theseus answers with a question of his own, sleepiness slurring his words together. Sam… is going to focus on how cute that is instead of literally anything else.
“Lots of careful brushing.” Sam lays the comb down, turning to the next elephant in the room. Theseus’ wings, kept carefully outside of the tub, are now the last thing to do. Thankfully, Sam has experience preening wings. Not a lot, only when Philza didn’t wish to do them alone, only after Philza’s parents unfortunately passed.
Wetting one of the two towels he has access to, Sam wrings it out and begins to wipe, damp white cloth coming away almost black. He bites back a sigh, not sure what else he expected.
Theseus is asleep by the time Sam finishes his wings. Damp fledgling feathers glisten alongside his hair, truly angelic. Grabbing the last towel, he lifts Theseus up without waking him, wrapping him up and laying him down on the bed.
Careful not to ruin his work, he dries the young boy the best he can, though it’s clear his hair will have to air dry unless he wants to request another towel. Needing to avoid the servants for their well-being, Sam doesn’t do so.
Only after pulling on the nightgown, nearly a full inch too short despite being the best fit available, does a knock ring out. Good, the food. He’ll wake up Theseus after he grabs it.
At least, that was the plan. Glaring down at the offered platter, a bowl of poorly chopped fruit and sliced bread, Sam is quickly coming to despise everyone here.
“What, exactly, is this?” He dares the servant to claim this peasant’s meal is what they want to feed the prince. None of it was even properly prepared, not that there was any preparation at all beyond basic knife work. Could they not have managed at least a sandwich? Surely that isn’t so hard.
“The prince’s meal, General Armati. It’s- the best we had in the kitchen? We looked but we couldn’t find any meat, it seems it’s all been eaten. I’m sure the prince will survive until next month’s delivery.” The servant white-knucles the platter.
“You ran out of meat? Last I checked, two people’s worth of food is still being delivered. Are you really telling me Prince Theseus ate not only his portion within two weeks but also that of a grown woman’s? All on his own?” Sam can’t let Theseus stay here.
“...Yes, General Armati.” The servant at least has the gall not to go back on their lie. Bringing Theseus’ to the main palace without permission may not be strictly allowed but Sam will find a way.
He forces a deep breath. No, he doesn’t have to sneak around. Sam will tell Philza and then take Theseus to the main palace. Once Philza knows what’s occurred here, he surely won’t allow Theseus to stay.
“Leave us.” Sam takes the pitiful offering. Theseus needs all the energy he can get. Sam doubts he has the ability to be picky if this is the best the servants can offer.
If the servants even offer him anything at all. Sam has no evidence to suggest they do feed him, that Theseus isn’t forced to sneak around his own home to survive. He won’t think about it.
Sitting beside Theseus, he gently shakes the kid away. Gods, he’s just a kid.
When did he fall asleep? Theseus frown, batting at the hand on him with his wings. Wings that don’t ache, his head not tugging unpleasantly when he moves, his fingernails feeling weirdly raw. Right, he was taking a bath with Sam.
“I’m awake.” Theseus rubs at his eyes. A shift of pale yellow fabric catches his attention, Sam bothered to change him after? That’s certainly unexpected.
But then, every part of this situation has been unexpected. Theseus’ greatest hope was to leave his mother’s bedroom without great injury. Being coddled like this wasn’t even considered a possibility for very good reason.
“The servants have brought a light meal. Sit up so you can eat it,” Sam orders in that oddly soft tone he’s spoken in this entire time. It’s nothing like the frigid commander Theseus remembers glaring at him from every corner.
“But they never do that,” Theseus responds without thinking, shifting to sit. For a moment, he can see the ghost of the more familiar Sam, a hardening of his eyes, before the edges blunt again.
“They should.” Sam pushes a platter towards Theseus. It’s nothing he and Tubbo couldn’t manage to steal on their own, if easier to eat in the offered portions. Admittedly, Theseus is getting a little sick of fruit and bread.
He eats it anyway. Theseus has no way of knowing the next time he’ll manage to take food from the kitchen, the servants having adjusted their schedules once they realized what was going on. Unfortunately, they do have some measure of intelligence.
Not a lot given that this is what they brought him under Sam’s orders, a meal that wouldn’t even be served to a royal at a picnic. Of course, Theseus has never counted as a royal in any of their eyes, that would involve them seeing him as a person.
“Do you like the servants, Theseus?” Sam asks out of the blue. Chewing on a rough cut of bread, Theseus resists the urge to roll his eyes. Who would like these people in his position? Surely Sam’s managed to realize the neglect going on here.
*Ping!*
[Some people are so mean to Host they refuse to see Host is hurting.]
The system commiserates with him. Swallowing, Theseus decides to answer honestly. What better way to appear weak and vulnerable than to be a child who’s hated by all?
“Not really, they don’t like me very much either.” When was the last time he had a grape? It crunches pleasantly against his teeth. At least a year, including his past life, given all that went down. He forgot how much he liked grapes.
“If you could leave, would you?” Sam follows up. Obviously yes? Not that it’s an option for Theseus, especially now that he has wings. Even the most uneducated of peasants could look at him and his wings and realize he’s a runaway prince, it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it.
“Where would I go?” Theseus wipes his hands on his nightgown. It’s not the cleanest thing he could do but Theseus has become desensitized to such things.
Sam places a gentle hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at Sam. With a gust of colored smoke, Sam sighs, then says the strangest thing. Honestly, has Sam always been like this? Doesn’t he hate Theseus too?
“I’ll find a place for you. You don’t deserve to be treated like this,” Sam promises, like he can do anything more about the situation than Theseus can. He can’t force Philza to sign off on overturning the servants, can’t move Theseus to new quarters, and he certainly can’t force anyone to be friendly.
Yes, Sam could order them, being the current highest ranked individual in the palace second only to the king himself, but he’ll leave eventually. When he leaves, the servants will return to acting as they always have. Honestly, he’s only made things worse.
Hopefully the general hasn’t frightened the servants too badly. Theseus isn’t entirely sure he’ll be able to make it back to the library before they find him. It’s unlikely they’ll leave him alone.
“Good luck. I don’t know if you can.” Honesty has worked well enough so far. It continues to work, making Sam’s chest hitch. He doesn’t linger long after that.
On quick feet, Sam leaves with the empty platter, saying a few hushed words that might be a goodnight. Except, even with Theseus falling asleep in the bath, it still isn’t night. He shrugs, hopping off the bed.
After waiting a few minutes, letting Sam leave the second floor, Theseus leaves as well. On quick, bare feet, he takes off towards the library, watching carefully for any particularly brave servants.
He doesn’t make it in time.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
The Failed Protector
- Don't let Tobias Elenore James II be discovered within the bounds of the Former Queen’s Bedroom (Success!)
- Appeal to Samuel Edward Armati’s sense of duty (Double Success!)
(Suggestion: appear weak and vulnerable) (Triple Success!)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 15 A-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 10 S-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 35 D-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 25 A-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 100 S-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 50 D-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
[Hang in there Host!]
Notes:
This chapter made me feel evil at several points, that's how you know it's good.
I have inspired *so* many violent impulses in my friends who have read this. All my homies hate the servants, and Phil, and that's like 90% of the current cast. Puffy is on thin ice because she could do something but hasn't. Evil by proxy, do better. Now, I wonder how Sam's petitioning of Phil will go. Do you think he'll go for it? Do you think Phil will care? You know it's written well when you genuinely can't tell.
-=- Relationships -=-
Philza Morentus Mycroft - Father
A-Points: 25
S-Points: 35
D-Points: 15
-
Tobias Eleanore James II - Butler
A-Points: 110
S-Points: 75
D-Points: 85
Holding Your Mother’s Knife
-
Penelope Ulysses James - Head Housekeeper
A-Points: 10
S-Points: 60
D-Points: 10
-
Samuel Edward Armati - Favored General
A-Points: 25
S-Points: 100
D-Points: 50
Chapter 6: Become More Than What You Think You Are
Summary:
As self aware as Theseus can be, he is not very objective about his circumstances. No one is. The circumstances that we live in become our normal, making it difficult to realize when something might be wrong, strange, or bad. Even when it comes to abuse, it's very easy to make things seem less severe than they really are. Sometimes, it's when we can't fully lie to ourselves about it that the abuse is as it it's worse.
Meanwhile, the people that do care about Theseus, because the world is not truly out to get him, are slowly coming to realize that things are not as straightforward with the young prince as they seem.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Guiding Tubbo through a basic ballet routine is a recipe for disaster, this Theseus already knows. For reasons unknown, he does so anyway, acting as an example. A good example according to the system.
With 85 percent accuracy, he’s come a long way in his skills. Again, Tubbo can’t say the same. He doesn’t have the patience to learn, mimicking only as much as he cares to, seemingly putting most of his effort into distracting Theseus instead.
At least he’s left the knife in the cushions, hidden in case someone enters, though the only one who might is Puffy. Tubbo shouldn’t have even kept that thing, leaving it in the closet.
Twirling around a too-close hand, Theseus can’t find it in himself to complain. Who’s he to stop Tubbo from carrying around a weapon? It’s a bad idea but Tubbo knows to keep it out of sight.
“Stop,” Tom- Theseus hisses, a grin at his lips. He stumbles from a fake push, tensing at the wrong time. Tubbo merely giggles at him, terribly mischievous by nature. Another thing he isn’t going to stop.
He never knew Tobias could be like this. An echo of that cheerful smile, the meeting with Ranboo kept a secret, flickers through his mind. Maybe he did know, maybe he didn’t want to admit it.
“Make me! ‘m not touching you,” Tubbo dares, continuing not to touch Theseus on a technicality, darting through Theseus’ space. He barely lands his last pose, dropping to one knee, arms carefully poised. Theseus is allowed to hold it for about three seconds.
“Now I’m touching you!” Tubbo drapes over him, sending them both falling to the floor. A snort rips from Theseus’ throat, ending in a wheeze as he’s compressed. Flaring his wings, they do nothing to soften the landing.
Bruises on his back jostle at the impact. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back a cough. It’s fine, he’s fine. It’s been two weeks since the servants last caught him. Healing is truly an annoyance, especially when Tubbo catches his wince.
“Can I please use the knife on them? Pretty please?” Tubbo slides off him. It’s an odd position, chin left on Theseus’ chest, the rest of his body angles so he doesn’t touch Theseus’ damaged wing. Surely it can’t be comfortable.
“If you get caught committing murder, we won’t be able to meet up anymore,” Theseus reminds Tubbo again. For the tenth time. Maybe he should force Tubbo to give up the knife, if only for these newly discovered murderous impulses.
“But they deserve it,” Tubbo whines. Unfortunately for him, Theseus is not yet at the age where he can order executions. No, that’s a decade in the future, when he’s officially given his title as crown prince.
“Only the king is allowed to order executions, unless there’s a war going on. Father won’t allow it.” Theseus tugs at a strand of Tubbo’s hair, pulling a yelp from him.
Tubbo grabs at his hand, forcing him to let go. Theseus pushes back, rolling onto his side, all but wrestling on the floor. For a moment, the childish impulses constantly wracking his body over take him. For a moment, he lets them.
Until the door opens. No knock, no warning, only two sets of quiet footsteps barely audible above their- ugh- their playing. Neither of them even notice until Puffy sighs, loudly.
“Tubbo, get off the floor. You don’t know what’s been there.” Puffy stands at the door, arms crossed. Tubbo’s ears pin back, pouting, though the soft beat of his tail against the floor implies his mood hasn’t gone down.
“Yes I do, Tommy’s been here,” Tubbo argues. Incredibly childish reasoning, Theseus muses, though not entirely incorrect. He’s certainly been on the floor a lot.
“Tommy?” An unexpected voice chimes in. Theseus sits up sharply, head snapping towards the door. Behind Puffy, peaking in above her head, is Sam. So soon? It took Philza at least a month to make any sort of decision.
“A nickname. Tubbo misheard his highness’s name, by my understanding, and refuses to change his mind,” Puffy explains. Tubbo perks up as well, looking curiously at the Dryad he had only glimpsed before. Oddly, he’s less fearful than Theseus expected.
Sam hums vaguely. His expression is impossible to make out from this distance, that ever-present mask only making it worse. Theseus shifts, drawing his wings in, ignoring the twinge from his left.
“Do you want me to stab him?” Tubbo whispers, leaning in. Startling, Theseus smacks Tubbo with his healthier wing, tripping Tubbo into a cheerful laugh. If Theseus didn’t know any better, he’d say that was a joke. He knows better.
“Have the servants not been cleaning this room?” Sam asks Puffy. Obviously they haven’t, Theseus rolls his eyes, turning back to Tubbo. Careful hands grab at his outstretched wing, jostling it around without pushing or pulling too hard.
“I can’t say, I’m not in charge of this portion of the building,” Puffy answers. Tom- Theseus wrenches his wing free, incidentally tugging Tubbo towards him. His friend falls face first into Theseus’ chest, thankfully one of the less injured parts of him.
Another hum from Sam, less happy than before. Wrapping his arms around Tubbo’s neck, Theseus traps him. Little bumps of horns dig into his chest, fluffy ears flapping against his arms.
“Honestly, Tubbo, your Highness, please stand. General Armati is here for a reason.” Puffy stamps the ground, an echoing sound, her own ears flicking with exasperation. Tubbo whines disappointedly, muffled by Theseus’ shirt.
“Yes Puffy.” Theseus stands, forcing an unhappy Tubbo up with him, not particularly happy either to be drawn into this conversation. No conversation with a servant goes well, even if it’s Tubbo’s mother and Sam.
Shuffling closer, Tubbo clings to Theseus’ hand. It may be unintentional but the grip soothes the worst of Theseus’ nerves. Nerves that knot tighter as the system joins the conversation.
*Ping!*
[Task Acquired!]
A Day In Court
- Patiently attend the meeting set up by Samuel Edward Armati
- Greet Philza Morentus Mycroft without drawing negative attention from the visiting nobles
- Maintain composure while interacting with Jebediah Caprinius Schlatt, endear yourself to him
(Suggestion: cooperate with the Royal Healer)
[What an exciting day! This system can’t wait to see what Host does]
Court? Theseus’ first day in court should be when he’s sixteen, after his debut. At best, his attendance at his step-mother’s wedding could count. Who in the world brings an eight-year-old to court?
“I informed a friend of mine of Prince Theseus’...” Sam’s eyes grow cold, “situation and he would like to see him in the head palace. I’m here to ensure he gets there clean and in one piece.” That’s going to be a bit of an issue. Theseus is missing several of his pieces, though he’s trying to ignore the itching burn.
“Can I come?” Tubbo asks, though it’s functionally less of an ask and more of a demand. He steps in front of Theseus, staring fearlessly up at Sam. To Theseus’ surprise, Sam nods slowly.
“Provided you remain out of sight during certain moments, and your mother agrees, you may,” Sam allows. Unfortunately, Puffy cuts immediately louder, stamping the floor again to get Tubbo’s attention.
“No. You may walk him to the edge of the Queen’s Wing but you must stay here while I work. You’re not even supposed to be here, Tubbo,” Puffy reminds him. Right, Theseus forgot.
Forgot may be the wrong word. Theseus has chosen to overlook Tubbo’s trespassing for so long that being reminded of it makes him squirm. It’s not as though it’s held much importance until now.
“Of which I am choosing to overlook due to extenuating circumstances. Others may not be as kind.” Sam gives Puffy a warning glare. She cows, stepping back to allow Sam in.
“Shall we, your highness?” Sam offers Theseus a hand. Just as before, Theseus allows Sam to take his hand, though he’s so dwarfed by Sam that it’s closer to holding a couple of fingers. His growth spurts could not arrive sooner.
“Bye bye Tommy!” Tubbo chirps. He waves as they leave, though finds himself swiftly picked up by Puffy, who speaks to him in hushed tones. Pinned ears and fervent glances, each word clipped as she tries to make Tubbo understand… something, surely.
Tomm- Theseus waves back, watching them until the door clicks shut. Even then, he takes his time righting himself, steeling himself for a long day of acting like a precocious little child. He’s already so tired.
Servants glare at them from the walls, though more specifically at Theseus, looking away whenever Sam scans the room. Each step jostles his bad wing, makes his bruised ribs ache, but that’s fine. Theseus will manage. Evidence suggests he won’t have to deal with it for much longer once he gets to the main palace.
While Theseus never had much of an opportunity to meet the fabled Royal Healer, never having made it close enough to death for anyone to care before the day he actually died, the man’s reputation precedes him. A foreign man, his family famed in their own country, who the previous rulers took in as a war prize after a grand escapade attempting to cure their ailing children.
Of the multiple paternal uncles and aunts he could have had, only Philza had withstood the plague long enough for the famed healers to make it. Now the Royal Healer is the last of that family, trading himself so that his parents may return to their homeland.
Quite the story, one Theseus can’t confirm the truth of. He’s never seen the man to see if there’s the conviction one would need to make a decision like that.
“Who are we meeting?” Theseus asks Sam, blinking up at him with wide eyes. Perhaps he could be wrong and the Royal Healer isn’t who he’s initially meeting. Perhaps that’s more of an incidental or secondary location.
“A… good friend of mine, though he can be quite intimidating.” is Sam’s vague answer. It confirms nothing, not when Theseus knows so little about Sam, let alone his relationship with anyone but Philza.
“You have friends other than my father?” Theseus pushes. A chill rolls over Sam, a particularly harsh gust of smoke filtering through his mask. He’s quite easy to upset, not a great trait for a general.
“I do,” Sam confirms, “His name is Panya, you may call him Ponk.” Sam once again offers a nickname to Theseus, just like when he told Theseus to call him Sam rather than Samuel.
“I don’t know a Ponk.” Theseus tilts his head. Is that the name of the Royal Healer? Odd, he’s only now realizing that the healer’s name was never fed into the rumor mill. Panya is not particularly hard to remember nor pronounce.
“Not many do. He’s not a very extroverted man,” Sam explains, giving Theseus’ hand a squeeze. That would fit the Royal Healer’s reputation. Still not confirmation but Theseus is willing to make an assumption when it comes to this.
It’s a long way to the main palace, a maze of corridors that slowly get less and less familiar. While he still has faded memories of his mother’s wing from when he lived there with her, he only truly got to see the transition between the Queen’s Wing and the palace proper a handful of times.
Still, Theseus knows the moment they cross the threshold. There’s hardly an official line, merely a feeling Theseus gets, small details that click into place. Less dusty with painstakingly straightened paintings, rugs, and decorations. Freshly plucked flowers fill vases built into the sconces on the walls.
Unlike in the Queen’s Wing, servants do not loiter in the hall or rush past them, preferring instead to stick the many servant-only hallways hidden between the walls. Few people would notice the difference. Theseus twitches as he does, age old hatred flickering at the reminder of the many small slights.
Perhaps he’s being spoiled, Theseus is throwing a fit over dusty tables and improperly swept floors after all. He takes a deep breath- and his foot catches on the lip of a doorway. Gravity is swift and unforgiving in its embrace.
Magic instinctively flairs in his veins. He focuses on pushing it back, knowing that unguided magic is anything but good, even if that means falling embarrassingly to the floor. At least there is only Sam to notice.
Except Theseus never hits the ground, never cracks his bruised body against unforgiving carpet or wood. Instead, his feet leave it as he’s hefted up, cradled against a wide chest. Cold, carved metal burns against his cheek. Despite that, it takes Theseus a moment to realize what happened.
“Careful, Prince Theseus,” Sam mutters, adjusting his grip around Theseus’ back. He… caught Theseus? No, that’s not necessarily shocking. Sam has spent his entire life serving and protecting the royal family.
Theseus has never been held like this though, instinctively scrunching to make himself easier to carry, warm and heavy arms a barrier between him and the world.
Chirp. A bright peep leaves his mouth, burrowing into Sam’s hold before his registers doing so. Did he- he can chirp? Theseus… shouldn’t be surprised about that in retrospect. He’s caught the echoes of trills and cheeps from his father, warm things aimed towards anyone but Theseus.
Apparently the gods’ changes aren’t limited to only wings. Theseus bites back a sigh, which quickly tries to become a whimper as Sam traces over his bad wing. A warm brush of air ghosts over his head, then another quiet response.
“Sorry,” Sam apologizes, though for what, Theseus’ isn’t sure. For once, he doesn’t try to figure it out. Something in his head whispers safe for the first time in… oh, it must be a combined twenty years by now, counting his past life and not his death.
The safety of Death’s embrace is nothing like that. Death came with the certainty that nothing could hurt him anymore because he was already dead, the dead can feel no pain. Sam’s hold is the silent promise that the world will burn before he is held again.
Cheep, chirp, coo. More little noises leave Theseus, the world beyond Sam turning into a vague blur of unimportant noise. Not having to worry about every little thing is a bit strange. Theseus isn’t used to relaxing.
It ends far too soon, with a soft shake and another jostle of his wing from Sam. Again, there’s a quiet apology, then Sam raises his voice a bit louder. Theseus blinks rapidly, slowly coming back to himself.
“Prince Theseus, you really should stand on your own, we’re here,” Sam informs him. Shifting Theseus in his arms, he places Theseus back on the ground.
“Yes, sorry for drifting off like that.” Theseus rubs at his eyes. Embarrassment burns his cheeks. What was that? Is Theseus really so desperate he’d blindly trust a veritable stranger? One who’s loyal solely to his father at that?
Apparently so.
“Do not apologize,” Sam responds harshly. Raising a hand, he raps loudly against a set of smooth, white marble doors with gleaming golden handles. Theseus vaguely recognizes them as the entrance to the Healer’s Quarters, both the official Royal Healer and the occasional other doctor or apothecary.
White is supposed to represent purity and healing, the heavy set marble a quiet defense should anyone invade the capital. Not that anyone has managed to do so in at least two hundred years. If nothing else, the Mycroft’s kingdom has a strong militant force.
Runes carved into the hinges of the doors glow with a faint gold, threading through the door to pull the heavy thing to open, flickering with every blink. Theseus’ Foci burns against his chest.
That’s new, Theseus marvels quietly at the visible magic. Shouldn’t he have to focus to see it? Is the mage sight he’s used before different from what he thought it was?
Sam is looking at him when Theseus tears his eyes away, as if he’s about to speak. No words end up being shared. All Theseus gets is another gentle hand guiding him into the Healer’s Quarters, protective yet careful, callous yet soft.
More marble makes up the floor, covered in thin lines of what Theseus assumes is some kind of cleaning array, though it could do any number of things. Cold bites through his thin, old shoes.
A rectangular room makes up the main area, two sets of sofas on either side, partitioned from a series of beds by thick green curtains. Doors hug the back corners of the room, almost completely hidden by large bookshelves covered in various basic healing supplies.
Round bottles for healing potions, ovular ones for regeneration, triangular green ones for energy, and tiny bright blue flasks fill most of the compartments. A few ones contain rows of various salves, easily packing twenty of each kind with their size.
Looking over the supplies, holding a clipboard and colorful feather pen, is a man who is likely the Royal Healer. Should Theseus be wrong, he’d feel guilty for the assumption, but he’s never seen someone who wears a headscarf like that before.
He’s heard of people who do so, it’s just not a part of the culture of his homeland. It is, however, originating from the Royal Healer’s land. The bright reds and yellows twisting like fire around his head and neck are supposed to be reminiscent of a hearth from what he’s read. Theseus is definitely convinced.
“Royal Healer,” Sam addresses, confirming Theseus’ thoughts, “I’ve brought the prince, as you’ve requested.” Ponk checks something off on his list before turning around.
Ponk’s eyes are like glowing coals. No eye whites, no pupils, merely a burning glow inset into his sockets. They’re only accentuated by the headscarf, tucked carefully up and over Ponk’s nose so only his eyes are visible.
“General Armati, yes. A back room has been prepared so we will not be interrupted.” Ponk speaks with an unfamiliar accent. It’s heavy, the tone of a man who has never wanted to be here and so has never tried to get rid of it.
“You’re Mr. Ponk?” Theseus throws back on his best innocent child expression. Ponk turns to him, his unique eyes making it impossible to tell what part of Theseus he’s focusing on.
“That is a name I go by, feel free to call me it as you’d like, Theseus.” Ponk nods slowly before turning. He opens one of the doors, leading them into a comparatively smaller room.
A work bench takes up most of one wall, shelves built in and around it. Various tools are set neatly around it, though the only one Theseus can concretely label is the mortar and pestle. Dried herbs in bottles line neatly along the back. Ponk places his clipboard on it.
“Sit on the exam bed. I’ll be with you in a moment,” Ponk orders. The bed in question is quite thin and stiff looking, covered in a white sheet. Theseus walks up to it and knows he won’t be able to climb up without help. Naturally, he turns to Sam.
“I need help.” Theseus tries not to feel ridiculous holding his hands out, wings trying to pull tight to his back. His bad wing can’t quite get there, aching fiercely when he tries. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t judge him.
“Of course, Prince Theseus.” Sam easily lifts him onto the bed. It’s as stiff as it looks, barely bending under Theseus’ weight. His longest feathers scrunch up uncomfortably against it even when he splays them to rest more against the wall.
Kicking his legs over the edge, Theseus watches Ponk pull various supplies onto a thin metal tray. Another quill, this one silver with a pale white feather, a perfectly flat sheet parchment edge in gold, a green stone threaded with blue and yellow, a small notebook and a pen- nothing recognizable to Theseus.
Ponk places the tray beside Theseus on the bed. He’s looked over again, eying attention burning over the last two weeks’ accumulated dust and grime, his tattered nightdown with suspicious stains around the hem.
“I have not seen you in a very long time, Theseus. Why, you must have been only a few minutes old back then, freshly born. Has anyone ever told you how much you look like your mother?” Ponk makes casual conversation.
“No, people don’t really speak to me.” Theseus technically lies. He hasn’t yet talked to anyone in this life who cared to compare him to his mother. In his last life, once he was moved from the Queen’s Wing by his step-mother?
“So I’ve heard,” Ponk nods, “Do you know what this is, Princeling?” Ponk picks up the white feather quill, turning it gently in his hands. It practically shimmers under the light, so clean that it is.
Shaking his head, Theseus lets himself be handed it quill. Magic hums from it, incredibly faint, thinner than a spider’s web. It sinks into his pores, wrapping gently around his veins. Despite how disturbing that should be, it seems harmless, as if the quill’s promising it would never hurt him. How ridiculous.
“This is a syringe, it will allow me to perform a few tests so we can get on and heal up your injuries. All you have to do is touch the tip with your finger and hold very still. It might feel a bit strange but it shouldn’t hurt,” Ponk explains.
Ah, so that’s how blood tests work. Theseus’ has wandered on occasion, hearing about them and sourcing a few through Tobias for blackmail purposes, but he’s never had to do one himself. There was never any doubt that he was his father’s heir.
Silver pricks against his skin, less painful than touching a needle. Silk in his veins tightens, wrapping around the, slowly turning the quill a deep red. Only once there is no white left on the quill does Ponk take it back. Theseus’ hand aches in the aftermath.
“Excellent, thank you Theseus. Now, we’re going to confirm your identity first, though we all know who you are. Tests like this can be limited but they’re useful for confirming parentage, ages, names, and birthdays.” Ponk places the quill over the flat sheet.
“They mostly tend to be used to legitimize bastard or affair children, confirming they have a rite of blood over whichever power they’re laying claim to. Sadly, syringes are quite difficult to make so not many have access to one.”
Ponk is clearly trying to distract him. It’s working. Theseus soaks up this brand new information like a sponge, staring intently at the syringe. Ponk balances it on its silver tip, adjusting it minutely.
When he lets it go, the vein of the feather starts to pulse a faint yellow, gathering on the same point where the syringe stands. It starts to write all on its own.
“Syringes are magical tools though, so they can unfortunately be tricked by a powerful enough mage,” Sam adds in his own fact, “It’s quite annoying. A mage experienced enough to trick a syringe into taking the wrong blood or giving the wrong information is incredibly difficult to deal with.” He pinches his nose.
“Not that either of you have to worry about that. The only person with access to this particular syringe is myself and I have nothing to gain by tricking it,” Ponk assures, narrowing his eyes at Sam. Sam meets them.
Silent staring ensues, broken only by the soft scratching of the syringe. Briefly, Theseus wonders what the story behind that look is. Clearly there’s something, a story neither of them want to admit is there, not in front of him.
It doesn’t take long for the quill to finish writing. Ponk wasn’t lying, the test is rather simple. Written in dull red ink, though Theseus knows it's actually blood, is a few names, a date, and a number.
Carefully reading it, struggling through the upside down writing, Theseus makes out his mother’s name before Ponk picks up the paper. ‘Clara Clementine Mycroft-nee-Schlatt’, a name Theseus can never remember once being spoken near him.
“Congratulations on your birthday, Princeling. It seems you are eight as of two weeks ago,” Ponk reads off, sharing another short look with Sam. Theseus has the strangest feeling that Sam specifically asked for this test. It’s not like there’s any question who Theseus is nor an actual reason for Ponk to use it for himself.
“I knew that. I got a present for myself.” Theseus pulls out the ring from under his shirt, thumbing the carving along the inside. Admittedly, it had taken him a few days to realize it was there.
A Domo Nostra Ad Vestram, from my home to yours, a carving found primarily on engagement rings. All it really tells Theseus is that his mother’s family had approved of her wedding to his father, even if she hadn’t wanted it.
“What a beautiful ring.” Ponk praises, “The Princeling has picked well.” Theseus drops it back down, on top of his shirt this time. Ponk grabs the stone from the tray, holding it in his palm.
“This is a serpentine stone, it’s used for medical exams like this one. It’s been fine tuned to sense for injuries dating back up to three months. Most of the time, I use it to check for internal wounds, which only requires going back for the minimum of one day,” Ponk launches into another explanation.
“Of course, you’re a special case, Theseus, so I’ll be going back the full three months. This may be a bit scary but don’t worry, I will be fine. Wait for me, alright?” Ponk picks back up the syringe.
“...okay?” Theseus nods cautiously. Why does he need to do that? Theseus was advised to cooperate by his divinely gifted system. Even if he wasn’t, he has nothing to hide from the Royal Healer, no one to protect with his silence. If speaking about his abuse means the system finally gives up on the last Queen’s Wing task, so be it.
Ponk places the tip of the syringe, now partially faded, onto the stone. The rest of the blood drains into the cracks in the stone, turning the palest parts red. Placing the syringe back down, Ponk cracks open the notebook with the same hand holding the stone, picking up the pen with his other hand.
Quickly, it becomes clear why Ponk decided to warn who he perceives to be a child about how ‘scary’ the test can be. The glow of his eyes turns the same bloody red. Magic of the same color rips jagged sutures into his skin, wrapping tightly around his arm, pulling Ponk to start writing.
Sam places a steadying hand on Theseus' shoulder, as if he also thinks Theseus would be scared of such a sight. Theseus is more curious than anything else, watching Ponk write more than more, flicking through page after page.
The longer he writes, the harsher his scribbling becomes, pen threatening to rip through the pages. Only once ten or so are filled is Ponk allowed to stop, the magic receding. The serpentine clatters to the tray, leaving behind a bloody smear on Ponk’s hand.
A shuddering breath rips through the healer. His hands tighten into fists, white gloves creaking, before relaxing as the air leaves his lungs. None of Ponk’s emotional turmoil reaches his voice.
“Princeling, this is your medical history,” Ponk snaps the book closed, “may I give it to Sam to look over or would you prefer this stay between the two of us?” Theseus gets the choice?
“Sam can have it, he’s…” not trustworthy but, “nice.” Theseus nods, “I don’t have anything to hide.” If anything, he’d prefer they get to the healing portion of this sooner rather than later, his wing aching fiercely.
“Don’t let anyone else see this, not even the King.” Ponk addresses Sam, handing him the nondescript black notebook. As if Sam would ever deny Philza anything.
Visibly hesitating, Sam takes the book. He settles in a chair by the door, starting to read through it while Ponk turns back to Theseus, stooping slightly to be eye level with him. It’s quite a lot of consideration for the scared child Theseus is not.
“I have to look at your injuries now, Princeling. Are you wearing anything under this?” Ponk asks, nodding towards Theseus’ nightgown. A prerequisite for him wearing anything under that is having any other clothes to wear.
He does not. Theseus can’t actually remember the last time the servants did any of his laundry, a task Tobias took over once he turned ten. Honestly, it was quite strange to regularly have clean clothes.
“No, I don’t have any clean clothes,” Theseus answers honestly when he can. Lying too much would likely count as not cooperating and, again, he doesn’t care to protect anyone there but Tubbo. Tubbo, who has done nothing wrong.
“Would you like something? It may be oversized but I do have a few spare things,” Ponk offers. A nice offer, honestly. Theseus shakes his head anyway. There’s nothing Ponk could have that wouldn’t also have to be removed to reach his injuries.
Theseus is allowed to remove his nightgown on his own, pulling the dirty thing over his head, struggling a bit around his injured wing. Biting his lip, Theseus powers through it. He lets the fabric fall to the floor.
It’s not a pretty sight. Theseus is painfully thin, ribs visible through his chest, his skin painted in splotches of alternating vibrant reds where it’s burnt and deep purples where it’s bruised.
Cuts line up his thighs, thin and purposefully carved. Despite his best efforts, the bruises on his calves and forearms had formed again, the places he was held down while the servants took out their anger. It had taken them a couple years to get this bad last time. Sam’s presence really has only made things worse.
Crunch. Ponk startles, whirling around to glare at Sam. Sam pulls his hand up from the arm of the chair, now a splintered mess. Theseus takes the opportunity to tuck his legs up, looking a bit closer at one of his cuts. Did it reopen? Again?
Ugh, he really hates these things sometimes. He hardly has access to regular medical supplies, regularly bleeding through whatever pants he wears. That’s one good thing about his step-mother actually. The servants couldn’t hurt him under her watch.
“Don’t break anything else, please,” Ponk grits. Sam places his hand back down on his thigh, leather pants creaking loudly as he grips them instead. Ponk groans, the least professional he’s been so far, and turns back to Theseus.
“Now, is there anywhere you’d like for me to start? If I had to pick, I would start with those cuts on your thighs. We wouldn’t want you losing too much blood.” Ponk taps Theseus’ knee. While Theseus could listen to the medical professional…
“My wings hurt a lot more, I think there’s something wrong with them.” Theseus opts for another option, speaking vaguely as if he can’t so clearly recall the wet pop and excruciating pain he’d felt.
Rough hands grabbing at his wing, forcing him to follow them to a place where hurting him would be a bit more convenient. His small form tries to shudder, had tried to fight back, but Theseus doesn’t let it.
Fighting doesn’t help anyone, let alone him.
“I can see that it's been pulled from its socket. Turn around for me,” Ponk orders. Theseus obeys, hearing a sharp hitch of breath from behind him. He isn’t as sure what his back looks like but it can be much better than his front.
Not as many burns, most of the boiling water soaking into his front, but his pin feathers are likely missing in decent chunks given how many he saw on the floor. Thin cuts burn between them where the knives had slipped between his shoulderblades, tugging with each motion of his wings.
“This will hurt,” Ponk warns. It doesn’t at first, one hand on Theseus’ opposing shoulder. Then he touches Theseus’ wing. Then Theseus’ world narrows.
Pain beats with each breath, each tiny shift of Ponk’s hand on his shoulder. Get it off. Get it off. Get it off. Get if off. Stop touching him! A screen appears before him, warm and soothing.
*Ping!*
[Host can do this! Host is doing so well. This system is so glad to have such a wonderful Host!]
Vapid compliments fill the screen, an endless scroll that gives him something to focus on while Ponk shifts his wing back into place. It pops back into its socket, a scream trapping behind his lips, before a burning relief sweeps through him.
“All done. See? It’s all over, you did wonderful, Princeling,” Ponk soothes, petting gently through his feathers, scratching lightly to dislodge a myriad of built up dust and dandruff.
Cheep. Thank you. Chirp. Theseus shudders, hunching over himself. He can’t tell what hurt more, the wing being pulled out or having it put back. All he knows is that he hates these damn things.
All his wings are is a massive target on his back for whoever wants to hurt him. Sensitive, oversized, and useless, a weight he can’t do anything with. At this rate, Theseus doesn’t even know if he’ll get to be old enough to fly.
*Ping!*
[Host is going to live a long, happy life. That is this System’s prime directive.]
“May I get these other injuries now? It might burn but it’s nothing like a dislocated joint. Just a moment while I gather a potion or two, alright?” Ponk’s hand leaves his wing. Thank the gods. If anyone else touches Theseus today, he might scream.
Unless it’s Sam, some unknown part of him whispers. It gives no clear reason why Sam is the exception, merely brimming with warmth at the thought, the reminder of those protective arms. Words burrow past his lips.
“Sam? Could you come over here?” Theseus’ voice is far smaller than its been in years, not since he was an actual child, throwing a tantrum if only someone would look at him for a moment. Not since he realized being loud hurt far more than silence.
“Of course, Prince Theseus. Do you need something?” Sam asks from behind. Theseus wiggles back around, face burning, nose stuffy. Nothing about Sam’s appearance has changed, faintly glowing with demonic energy and quietly intimidating.
“Hold me again?” To Theseus, in this moment, Sam seems softer than Ponk could ever be. Ponk, who’s been careful never to startle him.
“Whatever you’d like, my prince,” Sam agrees without question. Good, Theseus wouldn’t be able to explain himself, head far too fuzzy to think, body aching in places he should ignore yet can’t. Failure after failure.
Theseus is rarely allowed to feel safe. Even when there’s no one around, when it was merely him and Tobias surrounded by nothing but plans and dreams, he was not truly safe. He could never truly trust Tobias even when he wanted to.
Even though Tobias was the only person on his side, that had only been out of a sense of duty, trailing after Theseus no matter how he felt. It’s unkind to think Tobias didn’t care, of course.
Really, there’s a chance Tobias did care to some degree. A person can care about someone and not like them at the same time, not want to smile at them, not want to be near them more than necessary.
What did Theseus do wrong back then? He didn’t mention Tobias’ curse mark, did not even know he had one, and gave Tobias far more freedom than even personal butlers were usually afforded. Theseus didn’t even make Tobias sleep in the same room as him. Tobias got his own room, his own clothes, his own food.
No, no, no. Theseus is being selfish. Tobias was never required to like him. No one is required to like him. He shouldn’t expect anyone to care, let alone about him.
“I’ll begin the application now.” Ponk returns, beginning to gently dab at the wounds on Theseus’ back with a potion soaked cloth. Muscle and skin stitch together slowly. It isn’t painful, the potions numbing, yet the feeling is agonizing. Each centimeter that regrows, he feels, an awful stretching pressure.
Sam remains a distraction, a solid weight to press into. Cold metal digging into his skin is easily offset by the buzzing at the back of his skull. Deep breaths carry him through the healing brush by brush.
He lets himself be manhandled around, only tensing a small bit when Ponk starts on his calves, goes up to his thighs, and forcibly reminds Theseus of harsh hands pushing him down. It hurts, it doesn’t hurt at all, he hates it.
“Sam,” Tommy whines, “I don’t like it.” His magic burns under his skin, trying to do something in response to his pain, too weak and unguided to cast anything. What spell would even help here?
Theseus doesn’t know enough about anatomy or healing to manage a healing spell, could focus enough to do so even if he did. All he manages is this restless shift. Sam doesn’t let him move away from Ponk, though doing so would have been a side effect rather than a reason.
“We’re almost done, just a bit more, alright? Then we can go. I even have a gift for you, for doing so well,” Sam murmurs, tightening his hold for only a moment. A gift? Tommy doesn’t want a gift. He wants Tubbo and to go home except he doesn’t have a home so where would he even go? Why does he want something so bad when it doesn’t even exist?
Only a few minutes later, the cloth pulls back. Blinking past watery eyes, Theseus watches Ponk drop it into a small bin, change out his gloves, and pull a folded fabric from a low drawer. Then, he returns.
“You may wear this while on your way.” Ponk sets the fabric on the bed beside Sam, “I’ll leave you to change.” He picks up the metal tray and begins to clean.
Sam pulls a long shirt onto Theseus, so many parts of his body left numb from the potion that he can’t really do it himself. He doesn’t even try to walk, digging his fingers into the edge of Sam’s armor when he makes an aborted attempt to put Theseus down.
“What did you get me?” Theseus asks, tucking his chin over Sam’s shoulder. Ponk doesn’t wave goodbye like Tubbo did, merely picking up the black notebook from Sam’s chair and tucking it into his pocket. He closes his eyes.
“Something to wear, we are meeting with your father, after all.” Sam runs a hand down Theseus’ side, one of the few places he’s safe to do so. It take a minute for Theseus to work through that sentence.
And then, he’s drowning.
Honestly, as much as Schlatt doesn’t like the guy, the king is an angel. Perched upon an immaculately carved throne, wings sweeping out either side of himself, hair glittering in the light from towering glass windows- he’s quite the sight.
Enough of one that he’d made more than a few jokes with his sister about how jealous he was. A pity, really, that the king was obligated to produce a blood heir. Schlatt would have gladly dressed in drag and taken her place.
Clara had invited him to try, back when they were still speaking. Then something happened, then letters turned from once a week to once a month to not at all, then… then Schlatt was standing at her funeral, vying for attention from the man sitting before him.
Schlatt isn’t sure where he stands with her now. Maybe she hates him for letting her die in a marriage to a man she despises. Maybe she wishes they really had traded places, though they’re not exactly twins. It would have never worked out.
Maybe, if they tried anyway, she might still be alive? That one’s less clear. Schlatt shouldn’t be wondering about what-ifs to begin with, let alone standing off to the side in court, only here because someone must be. The queen’s family, royal in all but name, advising a king who cares little for his opinion.
Thinking about the recently deceased queen in court is a bad idea in general. Not necessarily because Schlatt is torn up about it, Clara and him had a longstanding agreement to kill each other if they cried at the other’s funeral, but because King Philza hated his sister.
Which is really quite rude. Were Clara married to any other suitor, Schlatt would have organized a few accidents to get her out of it. Except she was married to the king.
No one can say no to the king.
Focusing back on court is difficult so Schlatt doesn’t try, letting the words of the noble propositioning King Philza for some boon or another drift off his ears like sand, roaming his gaze over the waiting populace.
If King Philza ever actually used Schlatt for his intended purpose as an advisor, he might be in trouble. Thankfully, and regrettably at the same time, King Philza is an effective enough king to manage alone. Schlatt certainly won’t delude himself into believing he can garner favor for trying.
Amongst the crowd are many unfamiliar faces, court being a time primarily for smaller noble families to have their voices heard. Only two stand out, both here for different reasons.
Quackity, who Schlatt is particularly partial to, waits near the back, likely propositioning yet again for more funds for his ailing duchy. It’s likely those who hear him will assume his reason is greed, pushing him to wait until the very end of court.
Of course Schlatt knows the truth, having signed an alliance with the duke, a trade of men in return for particularly rare monster parts. Quackity’s duchy wouldn’t consider them very rare, constantly under fire as they are due to the nearby swamp.
Dream is another, the third in their triad of support. Where Schlatt’s family needs the monster parts for… particular experiments, Dream’s focuses more on the swamp itself. In return for a few hunting parties, they’re allowed to venture into and map out the swamp. No one in Schlatt’s circles is sure of why Dream’s house is so focused on those swamps but nobles aren’t known for asking bluntly.
King Philza waves up a new normal, sending away the old one with a pale, thin lipped face. Not a positive reaction, Schlatt surmises. Distantly, he wonders what they had even asked for, debating if they’re important enough to try and curry favor from.
Likely not. Schlatt’s family wants for very little, only struggling to achieve things that are genuinely a one-in-a-million chance of even finding. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden hush.
Walking in, back straight and face severe, is King Philza’s ever loyal dog. General Armati draws attention and respect from everyone who gazes upon him, even the ever tired, ever stressed Quackity.
No one would dare speak against the Dryad even as he skips the long waiting line. It’s only once he stands before King Philza, the slow drift of smoke flickering from his mouth curling around his head, that another figure becomes visible. Schlatt’s ears pin, not immune to General Armati’s… well, anything really.
Beside him, standing on thin legs, is a young boy. Pale white wings curl around his back, feathers oddly spotty. Golden hair glitters brighter than the king’s throne, bright blue eyes shimmering like teary gemstones.
For a moment, Schlatt’s convinced that it's a doll and not a kid. A frilly, lace trimmed, white shirt brings out the red of his cheeks, the- is that a black eye? Schlatt abandons his previous observations, focusing in.
Yes, yes it is. Looking quickly over the rest of the boy, he can pick out what might be more bruises on the kid’s legs, dark enough to tint his white stockings.
Then comes the worst realization, timed perfectly with King Philza freezing in his seat, having finally noticed the pair. Schlatt knows this boy’s face. He’s seen it in his memories, every time he thinks back to his childhood with his sister, sneaking through the holes into the garden wall to abscond into whatever festival was happening in the town square that evening. It’s a face he only got a glimpse of.
An almost mirror image of his dead sister stares back at him. Not the cold, angry woman she had become but the vibrant girl she’d been forced to leave behind. A girl of dancing and ripped petticoats and sticky cheeks. If only this boy smiled, he might be able to see her again one more time.
“King Philza Morentus Mycroft, I present to you the young prince Theseus Hendrick Mycroft. He only wishes to greet you.” Sam bows. That’s Clara’s son, the one he never got to meet.
Communication between them had broken down a year before this boy must have been born. The last letter Schlatt ever got of her, carefully pressed and folded into his office drawer, was merely with his name, speaking of the cutest baby boy with the brightest blue eyes.
I’m afraid you’d have to see him to believe it, he truly is so much like our grandmother. Clara had written. What a liar, Schlatt’s mouth twitches into a tight smile, Theseus looks nothing like their grandmother.
While she hadn’t written again, Schlatt had felt far more love for Theseus in those scant two hundred words than Clara had ever expressed for anyone else in their family. A fitting thing, in his opinion. Their house has an awful habit of chewing up their women and leaving them to rot.
Maybe it chewed Schlatt up too, leaving him standing here listless as the silence grows longer, unwilling to break it before the king. He should have done something, anything, when his sister was stolen away. No, when she was sold.
Though no one ever calls it selling, not when it’s a woman.
“Theseus, what a pleasure to see you again. Step forward,” King Philza finally speaks. His words are hollow, elegant, graceful- they remind Schlatt of his father, of his grandfather, of all the people that died to make Schlatt the head of the family.
What will happen if he’s the last of his family? He takes a deep breath. Their family will live on through Theseus, there’s no reason to think like that. There’s no reason to get distracted when Theseus is approaching.
He walks like she did. Careful steps, toes pointed outwards, like every one is a dance. The wings on his back shift minutely to balance him, making him smoother than she was at that age. Why, Clara would have likely given up at this point, skipping ahead to address someone who, had it been anyone but an adorable little girl speaking to them, would have been rightfully angry at her lack of class.
“Hello Father,” Theseus bows, unlike her curtsey, “it’s really nice to see you.” Theseus’ words are just as hollow. Another difference. Clara would have smiled, lopsided and cheeky, while the gap in her teeth made her slur her words, not that Schlatt was much better.
King Philza stands, a smooth motion as if gravity does not apply to him. He walks a single step, forcing Theseus to look up quite sharply, the kid even smaller than Clara was- unless Schlatt is remembering wrong. He could be.
Schlatt hasn’t seen that girl in over a decade. Memory fades even when he doesn’t want it too, full of bitter holes. Does Theseus really have her eyes or does Schlatt merely not remember them anymore?
The world holds its breath as King Philza reaches out to his son, aiming to place a hand on his shoulder. Or maybe it’s just Schlatt, maybe the world has narrowed down to him and the two before him.
All that exists is Schlatt, the man Clara hated, and the only evidence she ever existed, standing in the form of a small boy… a boy wearing her engagement ring on a necklace, her glorified cow tag. Decades of practice is all that keeps Schlatt’s face still.
Before King Philza can actually touch Theseus, inches from him, the world shatters. Schlatt winces, spots dancing in his eyes. The crowd erupts.
Gasps, whispers, rumors already starting to fly. Forcing himself to focus, Schlatt can fully understand where they got the audacity. Light fractures into rainbows in the space between Theseus’ shoulder and King Philza’s hand.
It’s not a massive shield, barely the width of said palm, but it’s telling. The bruises, the patchy feathers, the hollow words- it paints a picture that will light the gossip mills on fire.
With dragon’s fire, Schlatt amends. Fat, rolling tears start to pour down Theseus’ cheeks, the kid absolutely breaking down in front of his father. Heartwrenching sniffles and tiny hiccups combine into an inconsolable mess of a child.
And Schlatt might be part of the problem because the first thing that comes to mind is ‘yeah, Clara had cried like that too.’ In his defense, she had. Clara had wanted nothing to do with marriage, not even to the King. Her goal, as Schlatt remembers, was to become a professional dancer if she could.
Queens are not dancers, let alone professional ones. They are cold and distant and untouchable. They must marry the king and produce a viable heir. They are everything Clara didn’t want to be.
“Excuse us, my king.” General Armati adds more fuel to the first by stooping to pick up the sobbing child. No magical shield appears, not even a flinch. Theseus clings to General Armati.
Clara had clung to Schlatt the night before her wedding. It was the last time she had done so, the first in several years. She hadn’t been very loud, though Theseus isn’t either, nor had she begged him, even jokingly, to actually take her place.
She knew there was no chance for her. Clara had given up. Theseus is far too young to look so much like her.
Really, Schlatt should stay here, amongst the gossiping nobles and the stricken king. His role in this court does not permit him to leave before the king does, let alone trail after the king’s son. It’s his duty.
Yet his feet move for him, one step at a time, fixated on a singular thought. A single, repeating thought that he knows Clara would hate if she could hear it. A thought that is unfair for Theseus to have aimed at him because he isn’t really her.
She’s leaving me again, except she isn’t. Except Clara could take care of herself and would never have let Schlatt actually help. Except she couldn’t manage it and now she’s dead and Schlatt is seeing ghosts.
Following them out into the hall, Schlatt doesn’t get much further, Captain Armati turning to confront him. They stare at each other for a long moment, Theseus still blubbering in Captain Armati’s arms. It’s almost funny. Schlatt would never have taken Captain Armati as the kind to even like children.
Captain Armati silently raises a brow, questioning Schlatt’s presence. While he can’t quite pull himself together, ears stubbornly pinned and tail drooping, Schlatt managed an empty smile full of sharpened teeth.
“Don’t mind me, I just wanted to introduce myself to my dearest nephew. We didn’t get to talk last time we met. It’s really a pity, he reminds me so much of my dear sister.” Schlatt isn’t proud of how raw his words come out. They should be vapid, vain, the thoughtless things more fitting of the renowned Grand Duke Schlatt of Endova.
“Grand Duke, is now really the time?” Captain Armati sends a purposeful look down at Theseus. Yes, now is exactly the time. The last time Schlatt let someone leave like this, he never saw her again.
“It won’t take long,” Schlatt lies, “Let me greet him directly and I’ll be on my way.” Captain Armati, who knows Schlatt and many other nobles far better than anyone is comfortable with, doesn’t believe him. He shouldn’t.
Theseus sniffles, pulling back from Captain Armati, turning his head towards Schlatt. His eyes are red, face splotchy, nose dripping with snot. Then, he speaks.
“...Uncle?” Theseus calls for him, quiet and broken by sniffles. Schlatt’s smile grows even more strained, unprepared to have that title, one he knows he doesn’t deserve, turned on him with such earnestness.
“Yeah, it’s me. Grand Duke Jebediah Caprinius Schlatt at your service.” Schlatt gives a short, teasing bow. Before he can even straighten up, Theseus lets go of Captain Armati. Suspended only by the arms around his waist, Theseus reaches out to Schlatt with grabbing hands.
“Uncle,” Theseus repeats, choking on a fresh wave of tears. It’s Clara again, desperate and clinging, silently begging him to do something. She needs him, she has never needed him, Schlatt wants her to need him if only because that means he can help her.
“Right here, kid. I’m right here,” Schlatt stammers, mask fracturing at the seams. He sways forward a step, Captain Armati’s glare burning his skin, but she’s right there. Her face, her son, for once she needs him. He can help. Let him help.
Schlatt takes Theseus, barely noting the fact Captain Armati lets him. He’s not as strong as the general, unable to maintain his perfectly curated posture with Theseus' weight, but he doesn’t even try. Clara had rarely been able to hold her weight, her emotions robbing her of her balance.
“Uncle, uncle, uncle,” Theseus mutters again and again, as incapable of forming words as she was. No, he’s a little better purely because he can speak at all.
Out of habit, Schlatt sinks to the ground, letting Theseus rest in his lap. He sits in the middle of a wide hallway in the palace his sister died in, cradling her son like the precious thing he is, like the priceless baby boy he never got treated as.
“I’m right here. I’m not leaving you,” Schlatt promises, though he knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to leave Theseus but he’ll have to. He never wants to leave her again. It’s a lie he wants to be true, hurting all the more for that fact.
Why must he have to leave?
It’s long after court has disbanded, standing within Philza’s chambers as he prepares for bed, that Sam finally dares to speak. Words that he’s been holding back, untrusting of the ever listening walls, burst forth in this otherwise quiet moment.
“My king, could I be impertinent for a moment?” Sam asks, standing by the door as he is. Philza looks up at him with tired eyes, picking at the delicate silks of his sleepwear. Silks, important and delicately embroidered, while Theseus had been dealing with cotton fiber. The disparity burns.
“Go ahead mate, I’m sick of formality,” Philza laughs. It’s a bitter thing, the crown weighing heavy upon his brow. On any other day, with any other emotion brewing in Sam’s chest, he might take a moment to commiserate with his old friend.
Can he even call Philza a friend? When he knows what he’s done? No, Sam doesn’t know anything, he’s been over that. That’s why he’s asking now.
“It’s about Theseus-” Sam is cut off by a loud groan. Philza tips back in his ottoman, rubbing a hand over his face, wings drooping carelessly behind him. Sam- flinches, taking himself by surprise.
“What did he do now? Ugh, I’m too tired to deal with that little shit. I’ll get around to seeing him, I promise, unless he’s done something that bad- no, it can’t be any worse than what happened in court.” Philza shakes his head. “Since when could he even use magic?”
Ah- Sam’s shoulders climb to his ears, the muscles in his back aching, wishing he were still wearing his mask for something to fidget with. Alas, they are supposed to be relaxing. Much of his armor is left in the sitting room.
“As far as I’m aware, it’s a recent development,” Sam admits, “but that’s not what I was going to say. Theseus hasn’t done anything.” Philza laughs, disbelieving, leaning forward again. The king twists about on his ottoman to properly face Sam.
“You sure? That’s not what I heard, though I guess I haven’t been paying as much attention as I should. Go on, feel free to tell me, mate, I can take it,” Philza encourages. It could not be more clear he doesn’t know.
Philza can’t know. Sam isn’t sure what he would do if this is the behavior of a man who does know, this blase attitude towards his own son from a man Sam knows cares about people. Philza cares so much.
“It’s come to my attention that the servants of the Queen’s Wing have not only been negligent in their duties but actively malicious,” Sam explains. Philza slinks over to one side, slowly laying down on the ottoman.
“More work?” Philza sighs, “I thought we weren’t talking about stuff like this here.” Since when is Theseus considered work? Was he ever considered anything but? Sam doesn’t want the answer.
“They’ve been harming Theseus, neglecting his basic needs. I have evidence that they’ve been stealing from the kitchens, taking food that was meant for Theseus and leaving nothing behind. They also don’t appear to be bathing him,” Sam continues, trying to make Philza understand. Clearly, he simply doesn’t understand yet. He can’t.
“Isn’t he old enough to wash himself? What age do children become that self-sufficient at?” Philza, who had been bathed solely by servants well into his teens and still utilizes them before major events, brushes off Sam’s concern.
“And, really, I don’t think there’s a servant that doesn’t sneak a snack or two. I stock the kitchens with extra with that specifically in mind.” Philza also doesn’t know, just like Sam didn’t. It’s so much more than what he thinks.
“Philza, the boy is starving,” Sam stresses, “He’s far too light, too thin.” Philza literally waves him off, flapping his hand delicately in the air as if to bat the words away from his ears.
“A high metabolism on an active kid, it happens, especially with us avians. I was tiny as a kid, he’ll even out as his wings grow,” Philza speaks as if Sam didn’t see him grow, as if Philza doesn’t have a paunch that’s specifically meant to help with cold at higher temperatures. Theseus’ stomach was nearly concave. He needs to breathe.
“Perhaps so,” Sam grits, “but the injuries cannot be excused. He has bruises, cuts, and burns given to him by the servants. It looks to me like they’ve been plucking his wings. Surely, this concerns you.”
“Have we refreshed the newer servants in proper preening procedure?” Philza asks, hearing none of it. They don’t even teach servants how to preen. Sam is the only one allowed to help, along with a few incredibly select servants that decorate his wings for galas and decrees.
“My king, they’ve made him bleed.” Sam’s voice rises. Why isn’t he getting this? What is Sam doing wrong? It has to be something. It has to be.
“Maybe that will fix him.” Those damning words echo through the room. Sam can’t breathe, he can’t- he needs his mask, needs to break- either a training dummy or himself. His teeth grind together.
“Oh, I haven’t told you, have I?” Philza shifts, finally looking a bit guilty, “While I was preening him, I noticed a curse mark beneath his feathers. It could be multiple, honestly, the thing was so big. It certainly explains a lot, a monstrous child born from a monster of a woman.”
That… that can’t be it. All of this over a veritable birth mark? Sam knows about the condemnation of curse marks, no one can avoid it. The difference is, he knows, is that Sam was a lowborn man. Philza has always had a soft spot for people like him.
How his original economic status has anything to do with such an awful difference in attitude, he isn’t sure. It doesn’t make any sense. How does a man like Philza with so much empathy for his fellow man act like this? About a child no less?
“But- he’s eight,” Sam gasps. Right, he should breathe. Even as a Dryad, possessing a limited ability to breathe through the skin, he does have to use his lungs at least a little. The tension in him isn’t helping.
“Which means we have time. Honestly, that brat should consider himself lucky, I could be one of those people who cut off curse marks to save face.” Philza scrunches his face, sticking out his tongue. It would be cute on a normal day, on any other day.
“You’re a monster.” Sam’s face feels numb, he might be sick? He needs a moment. Sure, he isn’t supposed to leave this room, let alone Philza’s chambers without his armour, but he's craving a moment to lay down in the sun.
“Rude,” Philza straightens up, “Mate, I’m not doing anything!” That’s the problem. Sam’s hands are warm, wet, slowly dripping with his own blood. He doesn’t understand. This- is this the same man Sam swore his life to so many years ago?
“We should still change out the servants in the Queen’s Wing, they’re stealing more than food.” Did Sam really waste so much time following a man like this? He was only ten, how could he have known?
“So? I’m not keeping anything important there.” Philza’s son is here. Sam should leave, move, find Theseus. He should have let Grand Duke Schlatt leave with him, duties be damned. It can’t be any worse than this.
“Then we should move Prince Theseus here. You need an heir. You can’t have an heir if that heir is dead.” At least Theseus will have one night away, currently resting in Sam’s rooms. His official rooms, though he’s spent most of his nights in Philza’s quarters the past few years.
“I don’t need him. I- well, you aren’t going to tell anyone but I met the most wonderful woman by the barracks the other day,” Philza sighs, soft and-and Sam really will be sick, “she has these absolutely delightful twin boys. Techno and Wilbur, I think Wilbur might hate me right now but Techno’s warming up to me!”
“Her name is Kristin, isn’t that lovely? Kristin. She reminds me a lot of you actually. Strong, warm, caring, the perfect woman,” Philza fans his face, “look at me, I’m getting all worked up.” His wings puff up behind him, mantling at the memory.
“What about Theseus?” Sam interjects. He has to. Sam’s mind devolves into an incomprehensible whirlwind of thoughts. What is with this change of topic?
“Do you think they’d like it here? Oh, what am I saying, you haven’t met them! I should have time in my schedule tomorrow, I can introduce you. I do warn you, Techno might try to fight you, don’t go too hard on him.” Philza doesn’t even hear him. Unless he does and he doesn’t care.
“What should I do about Theseus?” Sam needs an answer, just one. He steels his voice, though it comes out tinny and thin despite his best efforts. Skulks crawls over his body, searching for the source of his distress. It can’t help him here.
“Oh, I don’t care. Just don’t bother me about it,” Philza huffs, “now listen.” He’s whining like a child while his son is starving, risking beatings on the daily because he dares to want food. Philza is more focused on a random woman than his own son.
Philza has always had a soft spot for lowborns, people like Sam. Never before has that made his skin crawl like it does now.
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
A Light From Within
- Unravel the magical coils within Host’s body into a usable state (Completed!)
- Discover the Host’s Foci hidden within the Queen’s Wing (Completed!)
- Cast one low-level spell in front of two or more witnesses, don’t hide away after (Completed!)
(Suggestion: perform sub-tasks in order)
(Hint: Host’s Foci can be found within the Former Queen’s Bedroom)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- 15 S-Points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 5 D-Points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 30 A-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 15 S-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 20 D-Points with Tobias Elenore James II
- 5 A-Points with Penelope Ulysses James
- 20 S-Points with Penelope Ulysses James
- 30 D-Points with Penelope Ulysses James
- 50 S-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 25 S-Points with Jebediah Carpinius Schlatt
- 20 D-Points with Jebediah Carpinius Schlatt
- 15 S-Points with Alexis Polux Quackity
- 5 S-Points with Exdrianus Andromeda Dream
*Ping!*
[Task Completed!]
A Day In Court
- Patiently attend the meeting set up by Samuel Edward Armati (Success!)
- Greet Philza Morentus Mycroft without drawing negative attention from the visiting nobles (Double Success!)
- Maintain composure while interacting with Jebediah Caprinius Schlatt, endear yourself to him (Failed!)
(Suggestion: cooperate with the Royal Healer) (Triple Success!)
[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Through Host’s actions, he has achieved:
- -5 A-Points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 5 S-Points with Philza Morentus Mycroft
- 30 A-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 100 S-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 100 D-Points with Samuel Edward Armati
- 5 A-Points with Panya Barroque Adeleye
- 10 S-Points with Panya Barroque Adeleye
- 75 D-Points with Panya Barroque Adeleye
- 45 A-Points with Jebediah Carpinius Schlatt
- 75 S-Points with Jebediah Carpinius Schlatt
- 55 D-Points with Jebediah Carpinius Schlatt
[Things are getting excited Host! Just a little longer!]
Notes:
I am currently undergoing threats of death should I let Theseus be brought back to the Queen's Wing. To be fair, it is also being demanded that every servant in the Queen's Wing be sentenced to death for their crimes. I'm not saying I agree but I absolutely agree, these people are terrible. I'm really proud of myself for this.
You know the angst hit great when it hurts you too. Also! Don't worry, this isn't a 'it gets worse before it gets better' kind of story. It only seems like it's getting worse because I'm taking my time introducing your to just how bad things are. It doesn't hit as hard if you show the abuse all at once, in my opinion.
-=- Relationships -=-
-
Philza Morentus Mycroft - Father
A-Points: 20
S-Points: 55
D-Points: 20
-
Ranboo Clarion Mycroft - Replacement
A-Points: 0
S-Points: 0
D-Points: 0
-
Tobias Eleanore James II - Butler
A-Points: 140
S-Points: 90
D-Points: 105
Holding Your Mother’s Knife
-
Penelope Ulysses James - Head Housekeeper
A-Points: 15
S-Points: 80
D-Points: 40
-
Samuel Edward Armati - Favored General
A-Points: 55
S-Points: 250
D-Points: 150
-
Panya Barroque Adeleye - Royal Healer
A-Points: 5
S-Points: 10
D-Points: 75
-
Jebediah Caprinius Schlatt - Mother’s Brother
A-Points: 45 (+45)
S-Points: 100 (+75)
D-Points: 75 (+55)
-
Alexis Polux Quackity - Monster Hunter
A-Points: 0
S-Points: 15
D-Points:0
-
Exdrianus Andromeda Dream - Obsessive Explorer
A-Points: 0
S-Points: 5
D-Points:0
-
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Casper_Sea on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 02:37PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 24 Aug 2025 02:38PM UTC
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Aceptame_el_nombre on Chapter 2 Mon 14 Jul 2025 11:49PM UTC
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