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Chapter 16: well, well - look who's inside again

Chapter 16: well, well - look who's inside again

He hates the throne.

Ranboo stumbles off it. His skin prickles. His lips curl and his teeth bare, the feathers of his wings flaring. The throne is as much of an enemy as he's ever needed. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it so much.

Meanwhile, it's indifferent. It's simply a chair. A symbol of his status. His immortality.

The Void screams at him, through the open windows. It knows he's here - knows he's...back. It's louder than Ranboo remembers. Or maybe he's used to the silence of the Sky, and had forgotten the strength of the Void's rage.

The Prince hisses, softly. He shakes his head, and his fingers twitch. He can't cover his ears without accidentally axing himself in the head, so he finds himself struggling to drown out its calls.

Then, he breathes. He chokes. He hefts the axe.

The throne stares back at him. It's indifferent to the pain he's in, it's indifferent to what he's been through. To what he's lost, to how much he hates it. It's simply a chair.

He hates it.

Ranboo takes a moment, circling around. The throne is befitting, for a Prince. Meant for him. It's the very thing that keeps him alive - it is, quite literally, his lifeline.

He stops.

Will he die?

Now, only now, he confesses to himself - admits, that he doesn't know. Will he die the moment the throne is in pieces? Or will destroying it only destroy his immortality, finally allowing him to cross the threshold?

He supposes the question is more like this; just how quickly will he get to see Tubbo?

Ranboo swallows. He chokes, he breathes, he gasps.

His grip tightens around the shaft of the axe. He steps closer to the throne. It's not alive, and it will not die. It's not him - it's not Ranboo, they are separate.

He is himself, his own person. He is Ranboo.

He lifts the axe over his head. The weight swings, beautifully.

He breathes in. He breathes out.

He brings it down.

The first blow embeds the blade. It doesn't hurt - defying his expectation that he'll stumble, retch and die. It makes him feel...good, and hopeful for once. Hope, a fragile thing, one that grows as he lifts the axe back up again.

Thud.

Another blow, this time to the seat. Some part crumbles to the ground. His breath hitches.

Thud.

The axe embeds into one of the arms. It leaves a crack. He's breathless, now - slightly giddy, giggling softly.

Thud.

Then, it hurts. His fingers spasm. The axe falls to the ground with a clatter. He hears whining, a wretched wail of pain, echoing with the tones of his own voice. The floor is harsh on his knees. The End is cold.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Tearing him apart, swords through every piece of him. His eyes sting with unshed tears - tears he will not shed, not as long as there is life in his veins.

And yet now, dying, Ranboo has never felt more alive.

He doesn't know how long it takes, for when the spots in his eyes vanish. He gasps a desperate breath of air. The throne still stands, and he's not done yet.