Passerine

Chapter 3: When the cold wind rolls in from the north (what am i to do)

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.

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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.
“His Majesty has a lot of paperwork to do,” the guard said, trying—and failing—to be stern.
“If so, then His Majesty would certainly welcome my esteemed company,” Tommy replied, giving the guard a grin and a salute as he pushed his way into the king’s offices.
Beyond the door was a large, sparsely-decorated room. There used to be paintings on the walls of past kings—their forefathers with gold hair and brilliant-blue eyes—but the first thing Wilbur had done as king was take them all down. Tommy remembered sitting on the floor of the offices, staring up as Wilbur climbed a ladder, rolled his sleeves up to his elbow and began ripping the paintings from their hooks. There had been such violence in his movements, as if the task was the very bane of his existence. Once it was done, Wilbur stood in the center of his devastation, taking in the bare walls, and nodded once to himself, pleased. Tommy still didn’t know if Wilbur even noticed he was there, too.
The only paintings on the walls now were the landscapes Mama used to make. Tommy’s favorite was the one of a mountain range shrouded in blue mist, because he could see in the corner where Mama had given him the brush for a few seconds—three errant brushstrokes in an otherwise perfect painting that stood as a reminder that, once upon a time, Tommy had existed in the same universe as his mother.
Bookshelves stood against one wall, with the other two set with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens outside. At the center of all things was a desk, and a king.
Wilbur sat scribbling away at a roll of parchment. His crown lay discarded beside his inkpot and a cup of cold tea.
“What’re you doing?” Tommy asked, closing the door behind him.
Wilbur didn’t reply. He gave no indication of even hearing him.
Tommy rolled his eyes and produced two apples from his pockets. He made his way over to the desk, moved over a stack of heavy, important-looking books and hauled himself up to a sitting position, his legs dangling over the edge.
“You’ve been here all day, you know,” Tommy said idly, balancing one of the apples on the tip of his finger. “Missed breakfast and lunch.”
Wilbur only grunted in response.
“Kingdom’s on fire,” Tommy continued. “Rioting in the streets. The guards are staging a coup. Techno is leading them.”
“Sure, Tommy,” Wilbur said noncommittally, reaching to dip his quill into the inkpot.
Tommy casually moved the inkpot out of his reach. Wilbur glared up at him, finally acknowledging him, albeit with annoyance.
“What do you want, Tommy?” Wilbur asked, irritable.
Tommy took one of the apples and planted it squarely in front of his brother. “Starvation’s a pretty shit way to go,” Tommy said. “Find a less dumb way to die.”
Wilbur stared down at the fruit as if he had never seen one before. “I’m not hungry,” he said, at the exact moment his stomach started to growl.
Tommy snorted. “How embarrassing for you.”
“Shut up.” But Wilbur was putting down his quill and reaching for the apple. Tommy bit into his own to hide his self-satisfied smile.
Tommy leaned over to catch a glimpse at what Wilbur was writing. His brother’s familiar looping script had already covered most of the page with words like intentions and fortifications and 
conscription.
“Conscription?” Tommy repeated around a mouthful of apple. “What does that mean?”
“Swallow before speaking,” Wilbur said mildly.
“Swallow before speaking,” Tommy mocked. “You sound like our old governess. So grouchy—ack!”
He’d inhaled too quickly; unchewed apple slid suddenly down his throat and lodged there. Tommy gasped for air, reaching blindly for something to drink. Wilbur hastily placed his teacup into Tommy’s hand, and he drank it down with gusto until his airways were clear once more. When he looked at his brother through a blur of tears, Wilbur was desperately pursing his lips in a valiant fight to keep his laughter down.
“You’re an… ass,” Tommy wheezed. “And your tea is garbage.”
Wilbur swiped a thumb across his own mouth to wipe his smile away. “Techno made that tea.”
“Oh.” Tommy looked down at the tiny teacup with curiosity; he could not imagine his hardened tutor patiently brewing tea for anyone, even Wilbur. “It’s alright, then.”
“Gods, Tommy.” Wilbur placed his elbow on his desk and rested his cheek against the heel of his hand. The look he gave Tommy was one of utmost affection, despite the obvious exhaustion etched into every inch of his face. “Will you ever grow out of your hero-worship of him?”
Tommy took another, considerably smaller bite of his apple. He chewed on the sweet pulp, thinking all the while of the pink-haired tutor that had taught him and Wilbur all they knew of survival—and not just through fighting.
Techno could have left. He should have left, after those long nights of Tommy waking up crying, Wilbur’s dark moods, days where both of them felt so frayed that unravelling each other felt like the only way to fix it, of frustration and anger with no other way out than screaming. But he stayed. He stayed to watch Wilbur be crowned, stayed to be his most trusted adviser, stayed and kept him together when everyone else expected the boy-king to fall apart under the pressure. He stayed and marked Tommy’s height on one of the statues in the training pavilion despite his insistence that Tommy had not grown an inch. He stayed even after Wilbur forced him to attend balls and galas, and endured each one of Tommy’s jibes about the pompous suits he was made to wear.
How on earth could Tommy grow out of worshiping someone like that?
Tommy swallowed, shrugged. “Maybe if you were awesome, I’d hero-worship you, too.”
Wilbur scoffed. “I’m awesome.”
“Wilbur, if you have to say ‘I’m awesome’ to prove you’re awesome, you are not awesome.”
“Do you remember,” Wilbur said suddenly, straightening in his seat and staring at the blood-red fruit in his hand, “when we used to pick these with Mother?”
And Dad, Tommy almost added, before catching himself. “We’d go down to the orchards with big wicker baskets,” Tommy remembered. “You used to lift me up on your shoulders so I could get the ones on the higher branches.”
A wistful smile tugged on Wilbur’s lips. “I probably can’t lift you now.”
“I’m not that heavy—”
Wilbur shook his head. “It’s not a matter of whether I could, it’s a matter of whether you’d let me.”
Tommy opened his mouth to retort, then quickly shut it when he realized it was true. He probably wouldn’t appreciate being on Wilbur’s shoulders, nor would he even need to. He’d hit his growth spurt sometime last year, incensing Techno greatly when it was clear Tommy would be taller than him if he kept up the pace. That meant he would soon be taller than Wilbur, too.
“We could just try shooting apples down with arrows,” Tommy offered gently.
“I’ll try not to shoot for your eye this time,” Wilbur replied with a laugh.
“I don’t remember much about her,” Tommy admitted as he rolled his apple between his palms, as if that could somehow make her distant laughter clearer in his head. “But I remember how much she loved those apple-picking days. We would be there until midnight, if she got her way. She used to gather the apple blossoms and toss them at us just to make us laugh whenever we complained we were getting bored.”
“No,” Wilbur said quietly. “That was Father.”
Tommy wanted to kick himself. “Oh. Well. I’m sorry, I guess, I told you I don’t really remember—”
“It’s alright, Tommy, there’s no need to apologize.” Wilbur tossed his apple high into the air and caught it gracefully with one hand. “He abandoned you, too.”
They polished off the rest of their apples in silence, neither of them saying another word about the phantoms that had been hanging over them for nearly a decade. It seemed to Tommy that people were haunted by two types of ghosts: the ghosts of those who died, and those who left. It was just his luck that he had both.
When they were both done, Wilbur silently wrapped the cores in an extra sheet of parchment and placed it on the edge of his table for later disposal. As he did, Tommy’s attention was drawn back to the letter Wilbur had been working on when he entered.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Tommy said, idly kicking his heels against Wilbur’s desk. “What does conscription mean?”
Wilbur sighed as he took up his quill again. “You don’t need to know, Tommy.”
Tommy bristled at the careless dismissal. “I’m a prince of this kingdom, Wilbur. I deserve to know.”
Wilbur quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, suddenly you’re interested in the affairs of the realm?”
“I’ve always been interested.”
“What’s our highest-earning exported product, then?”
“Uh.” Tommy scanned the table. “Apples. Tea? Parchment.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “You are a ridiculous child.” He began scribbling away at the letter once more.
“I’m not a child,” Tommy murmured.
“You are. Look at yourself. You’re supposed to be a prince, and yet you spend your days play-fighting with Techno, or annoying the guards, or annoying me. What part of your behavior isn’t childlike?”
Wilbur’s quill stopped in the middle of a sentence as his words settled over them. Tommy felt heat rise to his cheeks and hurriedly got to his feet before Wilbur could see. His gut churned at the insult, and the lingering taste of apple on his tongue turned rancid and bitter.
“Tommy—” Wilbur called, but Tommy was already making his way towards the door. “Tommy, wait.”
“You’re not the fucking boss of me,” Tommy spat without turning, lacing his words with venomous anger.
“I am, actually, but that’s besides the point.” Tommy heard Wilbur’s seat scrape against the floor, but no footsteps running after him. “Tommy! Gods. You’re proving my point if you walk out that door.”
“I don’t care. Screw you, Wilbur, screw you!” Tommy threw the doors open, startling the guard outside. He marched past the threshold, slapping at his cheeks as if that might somehow dissipate the shame gathering there.
He shouldn’t be this angry. All three of them—Techno, Wilbur and Tommy himself—have said worse things in the past, to and about each other, but seldom did it ever sting like this. Perhaps because it came in the wake of their father’s memory being conjured up between them. Perhaps because it had been their first proper conversation in a week. Perhaps because Wilbur was right. Wilbur was always right.
The doors slammed shut behind him, echoing through the empty hallway.
Come on, Tommy prayed, run after me.
But the doors stayed closed, and that was answer enough.