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Shoes tapped on the cold marbled floor, the sound echoing off the castle walls, making it seem louder than it actually was. The sound of voices arguing snapped his mind back to reality. The brunette quietly crept closer to the sound, taking great care to keep his soft feathered wings close to his body.

The Prince glanced around the corner, only to find his older brother and the king having a stand off. Neither one was saying a word anymore, until the King spoke. "Just get to the training grounds, be useful instead of that useless thing you and Tommy call 'brother'."

Useless thing? The Prince shrunk back, his hands shaking. Before he could think or move, footsteps shuffled towards him. His head jerked up to look at his pink-haired brother, his red eyes blazingly cold. "Wilbur, what're you doing?" He demanded.

"I- uhm- I just- I didn't mean to listen in- I-" Wilbur choked on his own words, his heart pounding in his chest. You could say that he looked like a cornered animal. An injured and frightened one. "S-sorry, Techno..." He finally managed.

"Don't apologise to me, apologise to Father. And don't get your hopes up of getting away scott-free. You know how he is." Techno pushed past him, being sure to make Wilbur scrambled out of the way. There was the ghost of a grin on the older Prince's face.

Wilbur hesitated on the spot, pleading with the Gods to be let off easy. But the Gods weren't on his side. They never were. "Wilbur!" A bitter voice snarled. He quietly crept into the room, head down and limbs close to his body.

He awaited the yelling.

The lecture.

The pain.

The scolding.

The agony.

But...it never really came that way. Well, not that order. It seemed to be the opposite today.

What a lucky day.

Wilbur stumbled back and sunk down onto the ground as his Father's hand raked across his face, bringing white hot pain to his cheek. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill at any given moment. The sound had reverberated off of the wall, making it seem louder than it was in all actuality. The scene played over in his head as he tried to process what had just happened.

It wasn't his first time being hit, oh no, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He couldn't remember when it had started, he just wished it would end.

End.

End!

End!

"Stop..." The word fell from his mouth double-quick, making him do a mental double take. He fucked up this time. He always did. He felt a hand in his hair, shoving him onto the ground further, but it was a distant feeling now. He didn't experience the pain. His body did. But he wasn't his body. He wasn't himself. Wilbur was some distant soul. Detached and empty. His body was nothing more than a living corpse.

A thing.

Some kind of rotting experiment.

Something that's gone wrong.

Terribly wrong.

He allowed himself to just sulk on the cold tiled floor. His Father had left. Now he was alone. His black-feathered wings were splayed out on the floor underneath him. They weren't in the best condition. Some of his feathers had been burnt so others couldn't grow in properly. People had always pulled at his wings or 'accidentally' hit them. He didn't believe that. He knew it was on purpose. He knew that from a young age. His Father and brothers in particular were the cause of the damage. The culprits. But he never confronted anyone about it. No one would care. No one would listen.

He didn't matter to them.

All that mattered was the kingdom. Especially now with the threat of War being spread around. Something about trade. He hadn't cared to eavesdrop long enough to figure out what exactly was happening. What he did hear, and remember, was the name of the crown Prince. Quackity Nevadas. Crown Prince of Las Nevadas.

Wilbur pushed himself up into a sitting position, raising his fingers to his lips. They came away slick with blood. It was only then that he noticed the copper taste in his mouth. He must've had a busted lip. Not that he truly cared.

The brunette got to his feet, stumbling a bit, and started making his way back to his bed chambers. But he stopped short as he caught sight of himself in one of the large mirrors. Wilbur gazed at himself with wide eyes. His hair was just a knot of brown curls, he noticed the shake in his hands and the way his body twitched every now and then. There was a bruise on his jaw, and his lip was indeed busted. The main thing he stared at though, were his wings. They were a bit matted, feathers were singed and cut. They ached so bad.

They were hideous.

He needed to do something about them.

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Wilbur sat at the end of the table, like always. Away from everyone else. His Father didn't spare him a single glance, his brothers shot him disappointed glares, and his Mother...he didn't know what to make of her gaze. Something in-between pity and disappointment. It didn't matter to him anymore. This was routine. Yet, a small part of him died inside every time his Father scolded him, or whenever his brothers or Mother gave him that look.

He knew he was a disappointment.

A disgrace to the family.

He couldn't show his face to the public. He doubted that the townspeople even know that he exists. He wasn't the Crown Prince, his older brother was. The great Technoblade. A cold-hearted ruthless person. He would make a perfect feared King. Because that's how it worked, right? Every King of L'Manburg had ruled with fear and a stone fist. Wilbur wasn't fit to rule a kingdom like that. Maybe it was better that he wasn't the crown Prince.

Wilbur's eyes trailed down to his plate. Untouched. He picked up his fork and miserably picked through his food as he listened to the conversation at the opposite end of the table.

"And then Techno just looked at the guard and he backed down!" Tommy was saying excitedly. The blonde was bouncing in his seat as he stuffed mash and vegetables into his mouth.

"Toms, please don't talk with your mouth full." His Mother's voice was gentle and loving. There was a smile in her tone.

His Father gave a soft chuckle as Tommy continued talking ecstatically about how his training was going. Apparently he made progress and was able to hold his own. Wilbur wondered if he was able to hold his own. He never had a teacher so he had taught himself. But it was different when you were going against an actual opponent instead of a wooden figure.

He doubted that he could.

He'd be knocked to the ground in an instant.

But was it really so bad that he didn't enjoy sword play? That he preferred books and a simple stringed instrument?

To his family, it was.

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