passerine by blujamas ((reupload))

chapter 3

Tommy knew a thing or two about secrets.

He was five years old when he first heard the word, whispered from father to son.

"Let's keep this a secret, alright, Wil?" Dad had said in the gentle hush of midnight, unaware that Tommy was right outside the library door, hanging on to every word. Even then, Tommy must have known Wilbur was special, if Dad was speaking to him like that: not like he was an annoying child, but like they were equals, bearing the same burdens and battle scars.

"But what if they never go away?" Wilbur had whispered back. Tommy had never heard his older brother so frightened.

Tommy walked away before he could hear the rest of the conversation he was obviously not privy to. Looking back, perhaps some part of him wanted to preserve his gilded image of his older brother—like a dead fossil crystallized in amber. Because older brothers were never scared. Older brothers never bled. Older brothers never cowered. Older brothers were immortal. He would hold on to that belief until it was too late.

He was six years old when he got a secret to keep of his own, and truly understood its burden.

A year later, and his brother is crowned.

Tommy stood proudly in the crowd as Wilbur kneeled before a man in white robes. The sunlight from the windows caught in the jewels of the crown held over Wilbur's head—a crown that was once their father's, but no longer. Wilbur recited oaths of protection and generosity, goodness and fairness, righteous justice and unwavering fealty to the kingdom, and the robed man proclaimed him King Wilbur, Protector of the Realm, Ruler of the Kingdom. Long may he reign. Tommy had cheered the loudest, enough to shake the rafters above, and when Wilbur smiled, he knew it was just for him.

Two years later, on the cusp of his tenth birthday, Tommy asked Technoblade the same question he'd been asking since they met. Will you train me? This time, Technoblade said yes.

Time unfurled like unbound parchment, rolling off into the distance without Tommy's notice. They grew together, him and his king brother. Taller and broader, stronger and smarter—more Wilbur for the latter, if Tommy were to be honest. Wilbur's duties took him from Tommy more often than not, but that was alright, too, because Tommy had Techno. They would spar and talk until Techno was inevitably called back to the king's side, but by then Tommy was appeased. The days he was alone were the worst, but mostly indistinguishable in their monotonous quiet.

On one of those days, he found himself drifting aimlessly through the castle. Halfway down a vaguely familiar hallway, he heard something that had been sorely missed since his mother's death. Music.

He followed the sound to a door that was slightly ajar. Tommy held his breath as he looked through the crack, and then lost his breath altogether when he found the source of the mournful melody: Wilbur, tiredness etched into the slope of his shoulders and the skin under his eyes, strumming his guitar, cursing as he missed a note or two, but still continuing, still playing, still soldiering on. And with him was Technoblade on a sweetly-keening violin, his scarred hands moving gently over the strings, his bow arm moving fluidly through the air. Both of them had their eyes closed, so completely lost to their own music, and Tommy knew—deep in his gut—that this was a world he could never breach. And so he closed the door and retreated to his silence.

At fifteen years old, Tommy was the oldest he'd ever been, but he never felt so young.

Wilbur's official chambers were not meant for those outside of his council, but Tommy had never been one for rules. The guard outside the carved double doors (truly pretentious, in Tommy's correct opinion) merely sighed at the sight of Tommy coming down the hallway, and shuffled to the side to let him pass.