Chapter Text
Phil doesn’t remember where he heard about it, but somehow, he found out about a brand new server where any land you choose would be yours, as long as you had the power to claim it.
Six months later, he and his family stood in front of their house and said goodbye to it, pulling out their communicators and typing in the IP address for SMP Earth.
*****
Tommy stands on the wooden bar of a tavern, holding up his glass of (ginger) ale as the people packed under him sing to a familiar tune. The windows on the walls are coated in a thick frost, snow building up in small piles where the panes meet the frame. The door is locked tight against the biting cold of the Antarctic Empire.
Tommy motions with his glass to the band on the small stage, ale sloshing out of his mug with the motion. The band happily starts the beat up again, instrumental voices harmonizing together perfectly, the sound swelling and spinning around the tavern, echos lingering in the high roof and around the beams where twinkling chandeliers hang.
When it’s time for the lyrics, Tommy holds his cup out to the crowd, starting the song over again with a loud but melodious voice, “There will come a soldier,”
The crowd joins in with very little prompting.
*****
There will come a soldier
Who carries a mighty sword
He will tear your city down, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
*****
“Tech, I wrote you a song.” Wilbur says, sitting on the floor of Techno’s room as Techno stands hunched over his desk, reviewing maps, plans, and statistics. He’s holding his guitar and strumming a few light tunes, waiting for his brother’s response.
Techno sighs and looks out one of the windows of his room, at the late night sky. It’s covered in small and large stars, and he can name three constellations off the top of his head, spotting each in turn. “Yes, Wil?”
Wilbur shifts on the carpet and plays a few loud chords in quick succession, stopping suddenly to say “Go to sleep,” completely monotone.
“Great song Wil.”
Wilbur huffs and starts strumming the first few chords to a song he plays often. By and By, if Techno remembers correctly. “Thank you. Do you understand the underlying theme and symbolism?”
Techno shakes his head, scratching a note down on the side of the map he’s looking at. “I don’t think so. It’s so intricately woven into the song that trying to isolate it would make the whole thing collapse. It’s a load bearing theme.”
Wilbur groans, not missing a beat in his strumming. “Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” He stops the song he’s in the middle of and dramatically strikes one chord. “Go to sleep, Techno. It’s midnight and you’ve been up since five thirty this morning.”
Techno shakes his head. “Darn. That’s a good theme. Too bad it doesn't pertain to my life in any way.”
Wilbur sighs and picks By and By back up, right where he left off. “Seriously, though. You need to go to sleep.”
“After I finish reading this report. It came in four hours ago and I’ve been putting it off for too long.” He sets his pencil aside and picks up three pieces of paper, turning around and holding them up for his older brother to see.
“Don’t make me pull out the big guns, Tech. You know I will.” Wilbur responds, voice grave. He stares down Techno as he flips through the report.
“I have no clue what you could be talking about.” Techno says, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.
Wilbur sets his guitar down and stands up, stretching. “Stay here.” He leaves the room and Techno sits down at his desk, writing the most important parts of the report in a notebook that’s half hanging off the side of his desk. He’s on the second page of six when he hears Wilbur come back. “I’m back.”
“I could tell.” Techno says, trying to ignore what he knows is going to happen.
A second later, the door to his room opens and closes again. “Alright, what’s this?” Tommy asks. Techno swivels his chair around to look at his brothers.
“Techno’s pulling another all-nighter so he can finish doing diplomatic things.” Wilbur says, sitting down on the floor again and picking his guitar back up.
“You're the diplomatic one.” Techno corrects, “I just make sure the army is doing its job.”
He’s ignored. “Well yeah, he’s a workaholic.” Tommy says to Wilbur, responding to his previous statement. Wilbur nods. Tommy moves to go sit on the bed and turns to Techno, pointing at the spot in front of him. “Sit.” Techno sighs and stands up, resigning himself to his fate. He brings the battle report with him and reads it as he sits on his bed with his back to Tommy. Tommy reaches over his shoulder and plucks the document out of his hands, handing it down to Wil. “No working. Tell us about your day.”
“I woke up.” Techno starts. He feels Tommy undo his braid, which can barely be classified as such anymore. It’s more like a few strands of hair tangled together and held loosely in place with an elastic by this point in the day. “I went down to the stables and did some stable work. I brushed and fed Rocket and did some other stuff before coming to eat breakfast with you two and Dad.” Tommy braids his hair as he talks, combing through the tangles with his fingers.
Wilbur plays a soft lullaby and Techno feels his eyes start to close. He opens them wide, stubbornly refusing to fall for this same routine again. “And what did you do for the rest of the day?” Wilbur asks.
Techno mulls over the question for a minute. “Reviewed reports, looked at the crop yield this season for wheat, planned another attack on the northeastern front-”
“Work.” Tommy cuts him off. “You’ve done work all day.”
“It’s my job.” He says, fighting off the drowsy feeling coming with Wilbur’s soft music and Tommy running his hands through his hair.
“It’s also your job to take breaks so you don’t get overworked.” Wilbur says, standing up and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Techno says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not overworkin’ myself, I promise. I’m just plannin’ for the future. I’m just doin’ my job.” He yawns. Tommy ties off the end of the new braid and shifts to Techno’s side, putting his head on his older brother's shoulder once he’s there.
“Mhm.” Wilbur nods, noting the way Techno starts clipping the ends of his present participles, a habit that he could never shake, always coming out when he was tired, stressed, or unfocused.
“So you’re not tired?” Tommy asks.
“No.” Techno says quietly, head leaning against Tommy’s and his eyes closed.
He’s asleep within another five minutes.
*****
Technoblade isn’t a soldier. He’s a warrior.
He wears the blood of his enemies like it’s the crown that sits on his head whenever he returns home. He holds his head high as he walks towards armies, letting his head bounce slightly with the weight of his skull mask and letting his feet hit the ground to the tune of whatever song Wilbur had gotten stuck in his head. He falls upon armies, cape billowing behind him and sword heavy in his hand, though he wields it as if it were to weigh nothing. He cuts through ranks with deadly precision and accuracy, his shot just as deadly as his slice. He’s followed everywhere he goes by a disembodied choir, heralding the blood and destruction that come to those who oppose him, always rising to a chant that only he can hear.
He is Technoblade, the warrior to be feared by all bearing ill intentions towards him or those he holds dear.
But he’s not Technoblade when he comes home from wars. He’s not the blood god when he goes back to his family after a long day of war meetings. He’s just Techno. He’s the middle child who holes himself up in the library for hours at a time, next in line for the throne despite having an older sibling. He’s the older brother who will fall on the couch, right on top of Tommy, ignoring the playful screams of his younger brother as he leans more of his weight onto him. He’s Phil’s shy kid, who won’t speak or laugh near anyone who he hasn’t known for at least two weeks, playing it off every time as an egotistical confidence.
He’s the twenty-one year old with control over all the army regiments in the Empire, despite multiple advisors warning Phil against giving him the battle plans and war reports as soon as they come in. Phil doesn’t listen to any of them, of course.
He’s the brother of two loveable idiots and the son of a chaotic but softhearted man.
He’s the crown prince and the head of the army of the largest and most powerful Empire on Earth SMP. He’s the man on the front lines of battles, fighting amongst the men he controls, and against the enemies who dare threaten the peace he and his family have worked so hard to achieve.
He is Technoblade, and he would decimate countries for his family.
*****
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord
He will tear your city down, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
*****
Tommy does a few simple dance steps on the bar, his brown cloak swishing around him with every movement he makes.
The tavern dances with him. At some point in the first verse, the crowd had moved to the sides of the room to make a small dance floor in the center, where people currently dance to the upbeat tune. Everyone has a partner, and each of them had a hand held up between them, laying their hand flat against their partner’s, slowly stepping around each other during the lulls in the rhythm and twisting and turning rapidly when the tempo picks up. With every fast twist and spin, the dance floor shifts, a new pair of dancing mates circling each other during each new diminuendo.
Tommy laughs, holding up his half full glass to the dancers. The people lining the walls do the same, everyone cheering and singing the last lines of the first verse over and over.
The band hits a series of new notes and Tommy twirls expertly on the wooden countertop, stopping when it’s time for the lyrics to come in.
“There will come a poet!” He shouts out into the crowd, one hand cupped over his mouth, not even trying to match the melody.
They loudly harmonize their response, getting louder with each note, but still keeping the beat.
*****
There will come a poet
Whose weapon is His word
He will slay you with His tongue, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
*****
Wilbur sighs and slumps farther down into his chair at the table. Phil glances at him from his place at his side. He smiles fondly at his oldest son and pokes him in the ribs. “Sit up, Wil. This won’t be too bad.”
Wilbur sits up in his chair, holding back the laugh coming from his father poking him in the stomach. “But Phil,” he whines, dragging the name out, “it’s a meeting. A political meeting.”
Phil shakes his head. “Come on Wil. It isn’t too bad. You don’t even have to do anything.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes and slumps back into his seat. “Fine.”
After a few more minutes of banter, a guard walks into the meeting room and informs them that the nobles from the other nation have arrived. Phil tells him to bring them in and Wilbur finally sits up in his chair, straightening the gold circlet on his head. A minute later, a few nobles walk into the room. Leading the group is the king, a thin, weasley man with a too large cloak on his shoulders and a golden crown sitting on his head, jewels covering much of it, a far contrast from the simple black crown on Phil’s head. Wilbur narrows his eyes at him.
The man and the four people following him, also covered in furs and jewels, sit at the table, across from Phil and Wilbur. Phil calls to a servant, who brings over a few maps and a box of tacks and colored pencils.
Once everything is set up, they launch into the pleasantries that make Wilbur want to gag. “Hello, King Tybalt. It is an honor to have you here.” Phil starts off, dipping his head to the king.
The man gives him a wry smile. “Please, the pleasure is all mine. This is Duke Ridro, Duke Tuffit, Marquiess Penchell, and Earl Eston.” With each name, he gestures to one of men surrounding him, each of them dipping their head in turn with being introduced. “And who might this be?” He asks, motioning to Wilbur.
“This is prince Wilbur, my oldest son.” Phil says, pride radiating off him in waves.
“Is he not the crown prince?” One of the dukes asks.
Phil shakes his head. “Unlike other regions, we do not determine future nobility by birth order. Technoblade is my middle child and the crown prince of the empire.”
The king scrunches his nose. Wilbur notices the tension in his shoulders at the mention of his brother. “The general? Wouldn’t he be,” he pauses, looking for an acceptable word to use, “unfit to rule?”
Unfortunately for him, Wilbur decides that that word was not the word he was looking for. “If it is my place to say,” he says, knowing full well that it isn’t. A side glance from Phil only confirms that point, “out of all the royal blood in the castle, Techno is the most fit to rule. His knowledge of battles, plans, and past historical conflicts make him an aware and adaptive man, and his care for the general populous will make him a great leader when the time comes.”
Tybalt hesitantly nods, and Phil beams, folding his hands on the table. He stretches his wings out the slightest bit behind him, which Wilbur has always liked. It makes him look more intimidating, more kingly. “Well now that we’ve covered that, shall we continue with plans for future trade routes?”
King Tybalt nods. Wilbur doesn’t miss the relief that flashes through the eyes of the king of Oglil.
An hour after the meeting ends, Wilbur calls an impromptu meeting between him, Phil, and Techno, laying out the maps from the meeting as they sit around the library’s largest table.
“If we’re going to make the best of this opportunity, we need to do it quickly.” He says, getting odd looks from his family.
“Huh?” Techno says.
Wilbur places his finger on the map, outlining the trade route that Phil had just secured an hour earlier, with little hassle. “Their nation is collapsing under their feet. The people are in an uproar. They need these trade routes.”
Phil holds his chin in his hand. “I thought something was going on, but I wasn’t quite sure. What are you suggesting we do about it?”
Wilbur smiles. “We fund a revolution and help overthrow the monarchy. We put the power in the hands of the people in exchange for some of the power that we then use to expand our own land. Since we funded the revolution, we’ll also be able to easily secure an alliance.”
The two other men at the table smile.
*****
Wilbur is more than a poet. He’s a master of music and rhymes, lyrics and poems. He’s incredibly skilled with the guitar, and a geography wizz.
But he’s got another talent that no one sees on the surface. The same skill that allows him to rile up audiences with his songs allows him to twist his words around, making those same crowds do whatever he wants them to. His skills with a map have allowed him to draw and erase, draw and erase nation’s borders, expanding his own and shrinking others. He can spin any document into whatever he wants it to be, weaving his words into an elegant tapestry. His knowledge of other nations will help him ineffably when he eventually starts going into construction, building vital bridges for nations to use, funneling all the information he learns right back into his family’s own empire.
And one day, he might make his own country, his own fame. He’ll fight tooth and nail for what he believes in and he’ll use every tool in his arsenal to keep it safe. Maybe he’ll give it big black walls like the ones in the village near Phil’s old house. He always liked those walls.
He is Wilbur Soot, the poet. The musician. The diplomat.
But when the meetings are over and he’s laying on a couch in the palace’s large living room, Tommy laying on the floor, Phil sitting in an armchair reviewing documents, and Techno reading some book on another chair, he’s not Wilbur Soot, master musician and revolutionary. He’s Wil. He’s the older brother of two gremlins and the son of the nicest man to ever walk the server. He’s the man who badly plays the guitar while screeching insults, pretending it’s a song, because he knows how to get a rise out of Tommy. He’s the dirty crime boy who pickpockets his brothers and father whenever they pass him in the hall, enjoying the surprise on Techno and Phil’s faces when he empties his pockets at the dinner table.
He is Wilbur Soot, and he would stir a thousand hearts and turn them all to rebellion and revolution for his family.
*****
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord
He will slay you with His tongue, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
*****
Tommy drinks the last dregs of the sugary drink in his mug before handing it off to a bartender behind him. While he waits for the drink to come back, he looks out over the dancing crowd as they sing the last lines of the second verse.
He always thought there should be another verse right between the second and the third. Soldier, Poet, His Verse, King. He could never figure out what it should be, though, only what he wanted it to feel like. He shakes his head. Writing music was always Wilbur’s thing, not his.
He gets his drink back from the bartender and turns back to the crowd, watching them dance.
*****
Tommy is the only prince of the Antarctic Empire that doesn’t openly bask in the limelight. Wilbur has his music, poems, and the alliances he secures with nations through flattery and careful word choice. Techno has his battles, his plans, and a razor sharp mind to go with it. They’re both known across the empire for the things they do for it.
The third prince, though, is not.
Everyone knows Phil has three sons. Everyone knows two of them. Wilbur and Techno are household names. Tommy is not.
And surprisingly enough, Tommy is more than happy with that. He wants his fame to be his own, not built on the fame of his family and their legacy. And he knows that he’ll have his chance. He’ll go off and make a name for himself. Just… not today.
Because today, he’s being chased through the palace halls, his brothers hot on his heels.
He rounds a corner, almost running into two servants. “Sorry ladies!” He yells over his shoulder, picking up speed as his bare feet hit the carpet. They both sigh fondly at the young prince.
“Tommy!” Techno roars.
“Tomathy!” Wilbur yells.
Tommy ignores them and runs up to a door at the end of the hall, yanking it open and running into the king’s office. Phil’s sitting at the large desk facing the door but he stands up when Tommy shuts the door, pressing up against it to hold it closed. “Tommy?” He runs to Phil and tackles him in a hug. Phil hugs his back, wings wrapping around him out of habit. He starts running his hand through Tommy’s hair as Tommy buries his face into his chest. “Hey, hey, it’s ok. What’s wrong?”
The doors fly open and Techno and Wilbur stand there, both wearing comfortable clothes, both barefoot, and both covered in fluorescent orange slime. Wilbur bends over, putting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Techno, a literal general in the army, isn’t winded in the slightest.
Techno points the iron sword in his hand at Tommy. He’d probably nicked it from a suit of armor along the wall or taken it straight off of any one of the guards they passed. “Don’t pity him Dad. He’s a traitor. Hand him over, and it will all be resolved peacefully.”
Tommy looks up at Phil. “Don’t listen to them, Phil. I have never betrayed anyone in my entire life, ever.”
Poor Phil looks so confused. “W-what is happening?” He looks between his sons, brow furrowed.
Wilbur straightens up, having finally caught his breath. “He freaking poured this goop,” He gestures to the slime coating his hair and shoulders. “on us while we were walking down the hall.”
Tommy turns around to face Techno and Wilbur, Phil letting him go and lowering his wings. “You deserved it. This was brought on you completely by yourselves.”
Wilbur grabs some slime off his shoulder and flicks it at Tommy. It lands on his shirt. Tommy flips him off and Phil sighs. “You two go clean up. I’ll deal with this traitor.”
“So he’s not getting punished.” Wilbur pouts.
Phil holds his hand in his chin and nods. “Hour and a half sparring session with Tech.” Techno and Wilbur high five victoriously while Tommy groans. “Now go clean up.” Wilbur and Techno leave, shutting the door behind them.
Tommy whirls around to face Phil. “Come on! You had to admit that was pretty funny.”
Phil chuckles and rifles through his pockets, handing Tommy a handkerchief. Tommy wipes the slime off his shirt. “Oh it was. You can stay here with me until they cool off for a bit.” He says, turning around and walking back to his desk.
Tommy follows him and looks over the papers scattered across the desk. “What’re you working on?”
Phil sits in the chair beside him with a sign. “Trade deals.”
Tommy looks over the papers for exactly two seconds before nodding his head. “We’re getting scammed.”
“What.”
He points at the documents and Phil sits up to look at them. “Wheat isn’t sold in bulk for that much and they’re not giving you enough potions for you to be paying that much. Basically all of these prices are jacked up.”
Phil looks over the papers again, Tommy pointing out more flaws in the documents.
Phil sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. “You should make a business. You’d be good at it.”
Tommy stores that information away for later. “I’ll sell the best drugs on the server.”
Phil laughs so hard that he almost falls out of his chair.
*****
Tommy isn’t like his brothers. He’s not an elegant speaker and he’s not some genius tactician. He doesn’t go out into the world to do great things and then come home
to his family to be known for who he is and not what he does.
And that’s fine. He has his own strengths. He’s great with business and Phil often runs future deals by him before they’re approved. He’s a good fighter, though it isn’t shown that much since he’s compared to the literal head of the army. He’s cunning and quick, and he has a burning passion for his home and his family.
He’s TommyInnit and he would do whatever he could for his family.
*****
Tommy smiles to himself as the crowd on the floor finishes the last lines of the second verse, imagining they’re signing the last lines of the verse he imagines.
He beams as it ends and the band strikes a few new notes. He lets the new chords ring out for a few seconds before doing a full spin on the bar and shouting as loud as he can, “There will come a ruler!”
A few people raise their glasses at the mention of a member of nobility, while the rest scream the new verse.
*****
There will come a ruler
Whose brow is laid in thorn
Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
*****
Phil opens his eyes with a gasp. It takes his tired brain a minute to remember that he’s not on a battlefield, or in a burned down village holding the corpse of an old love. He’s in his palace (which is still weird for him to think about). He’s in his room, on his bed, laying on his stomach. His wings stretch out behind him, one on top of the blankets and the other partially covered by them.
He shifts so that he’s sitting up in bed. He puts his head in his hands and evens out his breathing as much as he can, trying to think about what he can do to calm down.
He doesn’t have his pond anymore. He misses it. He loves his palace, but he misses his pond. He knows that all he would have to do to get another one is ask, but he can’t bring himself to. It wouldn’t be the same. He’s had a few nightmares before while in the palace. Just enough for the servants to know not to disturb him when he wanders the cold halls of the building at night.
He groans into his hands and gets out of bed. The stone is cold against his feet, but not unbearably so. Besides, the change in temperature helps ground him.
He opens his door and walks out of his room, into the halls. He closes the door behind him softly, looking at the doors to the three rooms also in the hall to make sure he wasn’t heard. When none of his kids are alerted by the noise, he begins his nightly pacing. He walks through the halls, with their high walls and colorful windows. He curls his wings around himself, both as a safety blanket and as a way to block out the slight chill in the air.
He keeps walking, turning down halls and looking out the windows every now and then. He only comes across one servant, who he gives a nod and a smile, which he receives back. He turns another corner and walks to the doors inlaid in the walls instead of continuing his walk along the red carpet stretching across the center of the hall.
He opens the doors and steps into the palace library, taking a deep breath in when he smells the old parchment and fresh ink that always permeated the room. The large fireplace on the right wall is unlit, and he walks over to it to fix that. He sidesteps the couch and the few armchairs to get there, almost stubbing his toe against one of the furniture legs. A small stack of wood sits by the fireplace and he takes a few logs, stacking them in the basket in the center of the bricks. He grabs a box of matches from the mantle and lights one, throwing it into the fire.
Once the fire gets going, he goes to the couch in front of the fireplace. He sits on the center cushion, letting his wings spread out beside him.
He sits there for a few minutes, letting the light and warmth from the fireplace wash over him, before he finally speaks. “You can come in.”
The door slowly squeaks open and his three kids enter the room, slowly closing the door behind them. Tommy’s in front and Wilbur’s in the back, Techo squeezed between them. They’re all wearing their night clothes, except for Techno, who’s also wearing his fluffy red cape.
Phil smiles. “Now what are you all doing up so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Techno mumbles, once it’s clear that the other two aren’t going to respond.
“All three of you couldn’t sleep?” He asks. They all shake their heads. “Ok. Come on.” He folds his wings back in and pats the couch beside him. They all come over to him and sit on the couch, Techno and Wilbur curled into his side, Tommy laying down with his head in Wilbur’s lap. Techno has his hand out, carding a hand through his blonde curls as a way of making up for the fact that he’s with Wilbur and not him. Whenever Tommy rests his head in Techno’s lap, Wilbur does the same thing.
Phil curls his wings back on the couch, but he positions them so that they’re covering his sons, like the way they used to back in their old server, when they were all smaller.
Phil knows why they’re here. Techno has always had a weird sense for whenever Phil had a nightmare, and he’d always be there to help Phil, claiming that he couldn’t sleep. It was a habit that had rapidly spread between Wilbur and Tommy as well, and now whenever he has a bad night, he doesn’t have to wait long before his children find him and comfort him.
He doesn’t speak, instead running his hands through Wilbur and Techno’s hair as they rest their heads on his shoulders. He pulls his wing on top of Tommy like a blanket. He feels their breathing even out and he feels them relax against him, though they’re not quite asleep. Techno’s hand slowly slows in Tommy’s hair until it stops moving, instead just laying gently on top of his head.
None of them talk.
None of them have to.
*****
Phil is more than a ruler. He’s an emperor.
He sits through meetings, he makes laws, he handles all the strings tied to the most minor things. Everything comes to him and he divides it up among himself and others, and everything goes through him before being sent back out. Trade deals get passed to Tommy, diplomatic documents go to Wilbur, and anything with an army insignia goes to Techno. When they're done with their work, he gets it all back and gives it a once over before sending it back out.
Once, he thought it unfair that his sons were doing work that was supposed to be his, so he insisted on taking back the work he was allowing them to do. He lasted a week before his boys convinced him to let them help again. ‘You’re trying to carry an entire empire on your shoulders.’ Techno had told him. ‘No one can handle that kind of stress. Why do you think kings hire advisors and equerries? And they’re running a kingdom a quarter of the size of the Empire.’ He relented after that and his sons started helping him again.
He’s Philza, emperor of the Antarctic Empire.
But when the day ends, he goes back to his family, where he isn’t the man with the regal black crown. He’s the father of three rowdy boys, and he’s the man who has to stop his kids from killing each other when they get into an argument about who should get cereal first in the morning, even though they all get served according to who wakes up first (Techno). He’s the one who stands there with raised eyebrows and concerns when Wilbur tries to convince him to eat sand. He’s the one who has to try to not give into Techno’s pleas when he presents plans on how to conquer the entire SMP (He’ll give in eventually and he has to watch Wilbur try not to smile at the trial).
He’s Philza and he would burn the world down for his family, although they probably would have destroyed everything worth burning beforehand for him.
*****
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord
Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord
He will tear your city down, oh lei-oh lai... oh
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh
*****
Tommy listens as the crowd sings, smiling.
The beat picks up immensely and everyone starts spinning around the room, yelling the lyrics as loud as they can. Tommy joins from his place on the bar, spinning and dancing in tune with the guitar and the drums.
A minute in, he feels a tug on his pants. He looks down and sees Wilbur standing there, smiling up at him. He tilts his head over to the door and Tommy looks that way. Two hooded figures stand in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame.
“It’s time to go.” Wilbur says. Tommy can barely hear him over the music and revelry. He sighs and sits on the bar, setting his glass to the side and sliding off the wood. Wilbur leads him to the door, where Techno and Phil wait. Once they see that he’s coming, they open the door and step outside. Wilbur steps outside and looks back at Tommy, who’s looking back at the crowd. “Come on, Toms.” Tommy huffs and pulls his hood over his head, lightly tapping his chest as he leaves the building.
The air is cold but after so long of living there, Tommy’s used to it. “I could have stayed for another two songs.” He pouts.
Phil smiles and shakes his wings out from behind his coat, stretching them out. “Yeah, you could have. But you’ve been here for two hours already.”
Tommy rolls his eyes and starts walking down the town’s streets. “Ok, yeah, but I could have stayed for another two songs.”
Phil comes up on his right and Techno and Wilbur walk up and take their place on his left, with Wilbur right next to him. “How many sodas have you had?” Techno asks.
He shrugs. “Oh we’re never getting you to go to sleep.” Wilbur groans, running a hand down his face. Phil chuckles. “What song were they playing?”
He loses pace slightly with his family, watching their backs as they walk forward.
Soldier, Poet, King.
He doesn’t exactly fit into the narrative.
Wilbur turns to look at him. “You coming?”
*****
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh
*****
He smiles and runs back up to his family. “Yeah.”
“What song were they playing?” Phil repeats.
He smiles and shakes his head, a warm feeling spreading through his chest, fighting off the cold. “A familiar one.”
He may not fit into the narrative.
But what’s the point of having a story if there's no one to tell it?