Archive of Our Own ^beta

The DM from Pangi came in the morning.

Wemmbu stared at the glowing message on his communicator, still half-invisible from habit. His claws—retracted, always retracted now unless he forgot—drummed against the walls of his temporary rest for the night (An abandoned village). The purple tint at the edges of his vision had gotten worse lately. He'd noticed it when looking at his reflection in still water: his sclera were darker, the irises bleeding violet like watercolor on wet paper.

Pangi whispers to you: Need your help. It's urgent. Zam's sick. Please come.

Wemmbu should have ignored it. Should have laughed, even. PrinceZam—ex-Emperor PrinceZam, because there was no empire anymore, just ash and memory—was not his problem. Hadn't been his problem since Wemmbu had watched the orbital cannon’s TNT rain down, watched the palace crumble like a sand castle against the tide.

And yet.

He grabbed his veil and started walking.

The cottage sat in a clearing that seemed too peaceful to be real, all dappled sunlight and birdsong. Wemmbu's boots crunched on fallen leaves as he approached, noting the neat lawn, the smoke curling from the chimney, the deliberately mundane quality of it all. A retirement cottage. He’s only been here a few times, and it looked exactly the same.

Pangi opened the door before Wemmbu could knock, scales catching the morning light in worried patterns across his cheeks. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic that made him look younger somehow, more vulnerable. He must have just gotten back from his forest patrol. 

"Wemmbu. Thank the—thank you for coming." Pangi's relief was palpable, almost uncomfortable to witness. "I didn't know who else to ask. Everyone else is too far, or they're..." He trailed off, and Wemmbu could fill in the blanks. Or they hate him. Or they don't care. Or they'd rather he stayed sick.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs. I've been trying to keep his fever down but it's not working and I'm almost out of healing potions and the nearest town is an hour's walk and I can't leave him alone that long—" Pangi's words tumbled over each other, the pangolin hybrid's usual calm cracking at the edges.

Wemmbu held up a hand, feeling his claws threaten to extend with the gesture. He forced them back. "Breathe. I'm here now. Go get your supplies."

"Are you sure? I know you and Zam aren't exactly—I mean, after everything—"

"Pangi." Wemmbu's voice came out sharper than intended. "Go. I'll handle it."

Pangi hesitated for one more moment, then grabbed his pack from beside the door. "There's tea in the kettle. Bread and fruits in the kitchen. He's been having trouble keeping food down but he needs to eat something. And—" He paused, looking back with those too-trusting eyes. "Thank you. Really."

Then he was gone, footsteps fading into the forest.

Wemmbu stood alone in the cottage's main room, surrounded by domesticity that felt wrong on PrinceZam. Bookshelf with actual books, not proclamations or military strategies. A knitted blanket draped over the back of a chair. Dried herbs hanging from the rafters.

He climbed the stairs.

Zam looked terrible.

That was Wemmbu's first thought, standing in the doorway of the small bedroom. The ex-emperor was curled under too many blankets despite the warmth of the room, his bright yellow skin flushed darker with fever. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were closed, squeezed tight.

Zam’s new, small crown was on the tabletop next to the bed, somehow making him look smaller. 

"Great," Wemmbu muttered, stepping inside. "Just fantastic."

He'd seen Zam in worse states, technically. Covered in blood after battle. Standing in the ruins of his empire with that expression that said he'd already moved on, already planning whatever came next.

But this felt different. Smaller. More real.

Wemmbu pulled up the room's single chair and sat down heavily, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. He could make out details other people might miss: the tremor in Zam's hands where they clutched the blanket, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the way his jaw was clenched even in sleep.

"You look like death warmed over," Wemmbu said conversationally to the unconscious figure. "Guess that's what you get for playing human."

No response. Obviously.

Wemmbu sighed and reached over to press the back of his hand against Zam's forehead. The heat that radiated from that touch made him jerk back instinctively. Fever. A bad one.

He got up and headed back downstairs, finding a basin and filling it with cool water. Grabbed the cleanest cloth he could find. When he returned, Zam was stirring, eyes fluttering open.

Those eyes. They'd always been strange—too bright and vibrant. Now they were glassy with fever, taking too long to focus on Wemmbu's face.

"You," Zam croaked. His voice sounded like gravel. "Why are you—did Pangi call you?"

"Unfortunately." Wemmbu sat back down, dipping the cloth in water and wringing it out. "Seems he's desperate."

"He shouldn't have." Zam tried to push himself up. Failed. Fell back against the pillows with a frustrated noise. "I don't need—I'm fine."

"Yeah. You look fine. Real convincing." Wemmbu leaned forward and pressed the cool cloth to Zam's forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle. Zam flinched but didn't pull away. "Stay still. I'm already here. Might as well make sure you don't die on my watch."

He let his hand linger for a moment, smoothing back some of the sweat-dampened hair from Zam's too-warm forehead. The skin felt paper-thin under his fingers.

"Since when do you care?" Zam asked quietly.

Wemmbu's hand stilled. He withdrew it, busying himself with re-wetting the cloth. "I'm just repaying you for last time," he muttered.

Zam's eyes widened slightly, recognition flickering through the fever haze. "That was different. You were—"

"Doesn't matter." Wemmbu cut him off, pressing the cloth to Zam's neck now. "Pangi cares about you. So here we are."

Zam laughed. It turned into a coughing fit that made his whole body shake. Wemmbu found himself moving without thinking, helping Zam sit up enough to breathe properly, one hand supporting his back while the other rubbed small circles between his shoulder blades.

When the coughing finally subsided, Zam slumped back, looking even worse than before. Wemmbu eased him down against the pillows, his touch careful.

"This is humiliating," Zam muttered.

"Being sick?"

"You. Here. Taking care of me." Zam's eyes slid closed again. "After everything."

After you destroyed my empire. After you killed my people. After you nearly killed me.

The words weren't said, but they echoed anyway.

"Yeah, well." Wemmbu dipped the cloth again, the cool water running over his fingers. "Consider it penance. Or entertainment. Haven't decided."

"Everything's entertainment to you."

Wemmbu let out a soft snort, pressed the cloth to Zam's wrists, then his temples. His movements were practiced, almost tender.

"It was peace for a while. Eventually." Zam's voice was getting weaker. "You should try it sometime."

"Peace is boring."

"Peace is earned."

Wemmbu barked out a laugh, reaching out to pat Zam's head—more condescending than comforting, but there was an odd gentleness to it. "And you've earned it? That's rich."

"Said the demon who blew up my empire."

"You built that empire on conquest. I just sped things up." Wemmbu's fingers lingered in Zam's hair for a moment before he pulled away. "Besides, you were getting sloppy. Someone had to do it."

They fell into silence, the old argument too familiar to have heat anymore. Wemmbu refreshed the cloth again, his movements mechanical now.

He could feel Zam watching him through half-lidded eyes.

"Your eyes are darker," Zam said quietly.

Wemmbu's hand stilled. "What?"

"They were never that dark before." Zam coughed again, softer this time.

"None of your business."

"Wemmbu—"

"I said it's none of your business." The words came out harsher than intended. He pressed the cloth to Zam's forehead maybe a bit too firmly, making the ex-emperor wince. "Worry about yourself. You're the one dying here."

"I'm not dying. Just sick."

"Same thing for us mortals."

"You're not mortal."

"Mortal enough." Wemmbu stood abruptly, needing distance. "I'm gonna make that tea. Try not to expire while I'm gone."

He made it to the stairs before Zam spoke again.

"Thanks."

Wemmbu froze. "Don't."

"For staying—"

"Don't," Wemmbu repeated, not turning around. "I'm not doing this for you. Remember that."

He descended the stairs before Zam could respond.

The kitchen was aggressively cozy. All worn wood and copper pots, herbs in jars with handwritten labels. Wemmbu found the kettle, found tea that smelled like chamomile and something else—probably medicinal. He set water to boil and tried not to think about the last time he'd been in a domestic space like this.

The kettle whistled. Wemmbu poured water over tea leaves and watched them unfurl, dark and delicate. He found bread like Pangi said, cut a slice, considered whether Zam could keep it down.

When he returned upstairs, Zam was awake again, watching the ceiling with that distant expression.

"Tea," Wemmbu announced, setting the cup on the bedside table. "And bread, if you can manage it."

Zam turned his head slowly. "Can't really sit up."

"Of course you can't." Wemmbu sighed and moved to help, pulling Zam upright and adjusting pillows behind him. The ex-emperor felt too light, too fragile. Wemmbu's hands were gentle as he arranged the pillows, even as he muttered complaints under his breath. "There. Don't spill it."

He handed over the cup, watching as Zam's hands shook bringing it to his lips. The first sip made him grimace.

"Tastes terrible."

"It's medicine. Not dessert. Drink it anyway." Wemmbu reached out and nudged Zam's shoulder playfully—or what would've been playful if Zam didn't look so miserable. "Come on. Don't be a baby about it."

Zam took another sip, shooting him a weak glare. "Bossy."

"One of my many charms." Wemmbu settled back in his chair, then leaned forward to brush some hair away from Zam's eyes so it wouldn’t get in his tea. The gesture was almost absent-minded. "So this is what you do now? Play house in the woods?"

"I walk around the forest," Zam said, taking another sip. "Read. Help Pangi with his training. Watch the stars at night."

"Sounds boring."

"It's nice." Zam's eyes met Wemmbu's, sharp despite the fever. "You should understand nice. You used to be good at it."

"I was never good at nice."

"You were. When we first met. Maybe you were still a little chaotic, but you were less ruthless." Zam paused. 

"People change." Wemmbu's voice was flat. He took the cup from Zam's trembling hands and set it aside, then reached out to check his forehead again. Still burning up.

"You chose to change. There's a difference." Zam leaned into the touch despite himself, his bright yellow skin stark against Wemmbu's purple fingers. "The potions. You're still using them constantly. Aren't you?"

"What's it to you?"

"They're poisoning you. Your eyes are almost completely dark. How much longer before it affects more than just appearance?"

Wemmbu's claws extended involuntarily. He pulled his hand back, forcing them to retract. "I can handle it."

"That's what everyone says."

"Rich, coming from someone who looks like they're about to pass out." Wemmbu picked up the teacup again, holding it to Zam's lips. "Drink more. You need fluids."

Zam took another sip obediently, then pushed the cup away. "You didn't answer the question."

"Because it's a stupid question." Wemmbu set the cup down with more force than necessary. "You’re lecturing when you’re the one sick—" He stopped himself.

"I'm not lecturing. I'm worried."

The words hung in the air. Wemmbu stared at him.

"Don't be," he finally said. "I'm fine."

"You're not." Zam's voice was getting weaker again. "But you're too stubborn to admit it."

"Takes one to know one." Wemmbu reached out and ruffled Zam's hair—a gesture that would've been annoying if it wasn't so clearly affectionate. "Now shut up and rest. You're exhausting when you're sick."

"I'm always exhausting."

"True." Wemmbu's lips twitched. "But at least usually you can stand up without help."

Zam tried to glare but it came out more like a pout. His eyelids were already drooping. "Stay?"

"Where else am I gonna go? Pangi would kill me if I left." Wemmbu adjusted the blankets, tucking them around Zam with surprising care. "Sleep. I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, yeah. Promise." Wemmbu patted Zam's head one more time, his touch lingering. "Now stop talking before you wear yourself out more."

Zam's eyes closed, a small smile on his face. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into sleep.

Wemmbu sat back in his chair, watching the ex-emperor sleep. Without thinking, he reached out and stroked Zam's hair gently, rhythmically. The bright yellow strands were soft under his fingers, still damp with sweat.

"You're an idiot," he murmured quietly.

He thought about the last time—when their positions had been reversed. When Wemmbu had been the one burning with fever from potion sickness, and Zam had found him in his temporary room in the old empire. When the ex-emperor had stayed, forcing water and food down Wemmbu's throat.

Wemmbu's hand stilled in Zam's hair. "Guess I’m one too," he whispered quietly.

Pangi returned an hour later, arms full of supplies and worry etched across his scaled features. He burst through the door like he expected disaster, then stopped short at the sight of Wemmbu still sitting in the chair, one hand resting gently on Zam's head, the ex-emperor sleeping peacefully.

"Everything okay?" Pangi asked carefully, his voice soft.

"Fine. He kept down some tea. Fever's still high but stable." Wemmbu carefully withdrew his hand, standing and stretching. "Your imperial pain-in-the-ass is still alive."

Relief flooded Pangi's expression. "Thank you. Really, Wemmbu—"

"Don't." Wemmbu held up a hand. "Just take care of him. Make sure he stays hydrated. The fever should break soon."

"You could stay," Pangi offered. "Until he's better. I'm sure he'd—"

"No." The word came out too quick, too sharp. Wemmbu softened it. "No. You've got this. He needs rest, not me hanging around being annoying."

Pangi looked like he wanted to argue, but Wemmbu was already heading for the stairs.

He paused at the doorway, looking back at Zam's sleeping form one more time. "Tell him... just tell him we're even now."

Then he was gone, descending the stairs and walking out into the afternoon sunlight. The forest stretched around him, peaceful and green and everything he wasn't.

But as he walked, Wemmbu found his hand moving to his pocket, checking the remaining invisibility potions there. Four left. Enough for a trip back to his temporary house for now, since he was mostly spending his time resting today.

He thought about Zam's words.

He thought about Zam's hand on his forehead when he'd been sick. About the gentle way the ex-emperor had stayed, had cared, had never once judged.

"Fuck," Wemmbu muttered.