Their base of operations had been thrown together in a rush and without much consideration for placement or thoroughfare. Tents were erected haphazardly and it sometimes made it impossible to walk in a straight line without hitting a roadblock. Campfires burned around the perimeter, driving away small animals and giving light to the quickly darkening sky, and there were scores of crates filled with weapons and provisions stacked and scattered about. The banana guards had never been good at organization, let alone maintaining a functioning encampment without near constant supervision.
Cello is sitting on a stack of boxes labeled with incomprehensible writing he's sure only the banana guards can make sense of, glaring at nothing and pushing around the venison pudding on his plate. He had gotten about two mouthfuls in before completely losing interest, his hunger evaporating only to be replaced by a ball of anxiety that sits in his belly like a rock. He knows he should eat, but forcing food down his throat just made him feel like throwing up.
One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum.
He casts his plate and fork aside, certain he can't stand a single bite more, and scrubs at his face in annoyance. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, but how could there possibly be any calm with dozens of bananas scurrying about with orders to pass out food or equipment or to guard the perimeter of the camp or whatever other menial tasks Princess Bubblegum decided they could handle.
Two: Meringue is his brother and, as the eldest, it's his duty to protect and take care of him. Even if too often it ended up being the other way around.
His brother, Finn, Queen Marceline, and that stupid, annoying dog (Meringue insisted that he call them "teammates") are sure to be back soon for dinner and rest. Then they will convene with mother princess in the main tent to talk through strategies and objectives and if any of the others actually pay attention for once and actually follow orders tomorrow, Cello swears he'll eat his left boot.
Three: He left his dear pet camel, Cammy, in the care of the Candy Kingdom's stable hands and they had better be treating her well and remembering to brush her coat everyday.
"Uh, Earlness sir?"
Cello looks up to see a banana guard before him, two others peeking out from behind the canvas of a nearby tent like spooked pigeons. The expression on his face must have been vicious and bordering on intent to murder the closest warm body because the banana quakes pitifully in front of him. Some part of him deep down takes satisfaction in that. Sometimes he pretends that part of him, ancient and bloodthirsty and monstrous, doesn't exist.
"Uh, uh, uh," it stutters and trembles, forcing itself to speak, "Th-the princess wants t-t-to see you, Earlness s-sir."
There were usually only two reasons why mother princess would wish to speak to him: Either A) she wanted his input on a new strategy or invention or something of the like or, more likely, B) whether on purpose or by accident, he had gone and done or said something wrong and she was going to scold him for his callousness in not taking into account other people's feelings. Once, when Cello had been feeling particularly cheeky, he asked her why he should care about what others felt or what they thought of him. She had sputtered and mumbled something about "bad manners" and "not good for the state" before dropping the matter entirely.
He grunts an acknowledgement and the banana does an odd half-bow, half-salute like it can't decide which is more correct and skitters away with the two others around the tent and out of sight. Cello runs a hand over his face one last time and rises to make a beeline to the princess' tent.
Or as much of a beeline he can manage. Again, bad organization, and he's forced to go around campfires and scoot past occupied tables. The banana guards know to clear a path for him and most stumble over themselves to do so. The remaining ones - the unlucky ones - he shoves out of the way as he moves past and towards the center of the camp.
Princess Bubblegum's tent was magenta and modest in size with only the kingdom's crest hanging above the entrance and a pair of stationed banana guards to give any indication of its importance. With annoyance still burning in his gut, Cello barges in without warning, catching the princess frowning and chewing her bottom lip a little as she looks over the maps and placement markers strewn about the table placed in the center of the tent. A small cot was set up to her right, though it sagged with various books, half-folded maps, and her jawbreaker guns and looked like it hadn't been used for its intended purpose in quite awhile. She looks up at him in surprise, her mouth parting slightly. The canvas flutters closed behind him.
"You called for me?"
"Limon! Yes!" Her hands hover uncertainly for a moment, eyes roving over the maps before seeming to notice the plates and bowls of partially eaten meals that had gone cold and crusty and the stacked mugs of drained coffee leaving brown rings on the papers and how it honestly looked a mess and not fitting at all for royalty, "I wanted to know how it's going out there. Please take a seat!"
He sits heavily across from her while she busies herself with clearing away as many dishes and strewn about wrappers as possible, shoving them onto one end of the already creakingly full cot. He chooses to ignore that even if it does make his brain itch.
"How's it looking?" Mother princess asks as soon as she finishes. She's still standing and hasn't made a move for her own chair. "Better or worse?"
"The same as yesterday," he tells her, "And the day before that. And the day before that. No strategy compels their movements and their numbers haven't dwindled in the slightest," his chair creaks as he leans back, crossing one leg over the other, "Take out one prancer and another replaces it."
She sighs and rubs a hand over her mouth in thought. "So, worse, huh?"
"Not worse and not better. The same," he tilts his head at her, narrowing his eyes, "Unless you meant for me to give a report on personnel and inventory? Because those numbers have been getting worse."
Normally, it wouldn't have been expected of Cello to keep track of all the supplies and banana guards – certainly not when he was already an integral part of the front lines – but he had a mind for figures and calculations and an eidetic memory to boot. Mother princess had merely decided to put it to good use and placed that responsibility on his shoulders along with seemingly everything else.
She's not paying attention to him, tracing a finger across the map and to the squiggly circle that represented the seemingly endless forest just to the northwest. She taps at it thoughtfully. "If we could just figure out exactly where they were coming from-"
"The last reconnaissance team we sent to find the nest is missing in action," he reminds her pointedly, uncrossing his legs to lean forward and rest his elbows on the table, crinkling the paper. He laces his fingers under his chin. "And I would strongly advise against sending any of our actually competent recruits on a suicide mission."
So easily he slips into speaking like a military officer and he hates it. Too much like the old days. Gritting his teeth, he forces back thoughts of dark times long since passed, times before the expansion of the lands under their jurisdiction.
"Speaking of which," she starts hesitantly and not quite looking him in the eyes and he knows what's coming and drops his hands to the table, "I heard you had a bit of a, let's say, spirited discussion today…"
Here we go. He really should have made a bet with himself over how fast banana guard gossip spread.
"He started it," he grumbles, even though that accusation has been put into question. He looks at his gloved hands and curls them into fists. "It's not my fault-"
"If I'm not there," she speaks over him, firm and corrective and making him feel very much like the small child he never was, "I'm really relying on you to keep them in line, you know? Make sure they don't do something stupid? Or dangerous? Or dangerously stupid?"
He knows and it's all the more humiliating hearing it from her.
"You're good at that kind of stuff, watching out for everyone. You were good at it back then, too," and her voice takes on a gentle, teasing tone, but his muscles are tensing, tensing, tensing, because he dreads what she might say next and he hopes and wishes that it isn't-
"Weren't you, General Limonce-?"
"Don't!" He all but roars, lips curling back from sharp teeth and spots dancing in front of his eyes. The maps crackle and tear under his fingers curling and digging into the wood of table. Anger is burning savagely like hot coals in his stomach and shooting fire into every limb. Mother princess jumps and backs away a few steps like she's frightened and her eyes go big and black. Underneath all the rage and hatred twisting his insides and the red haze clouding his mind, something in him is quailing in fear as well.
She should be frightened of him. He's frightened of himself. Of what he might do. Of what he knows he can do.
One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs and assuaging some of the fire burning him up from the inside. Fighting it never went well, so he let that fire wash over him and burn and smolder into warm ashes in his heart, not daring to stoke it with anything other than three things he knows to be true.
Two: Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum is his mother and creator and he loves her and she loves him, regardless of the things they've said and the things they've done.
"Don't," he repeats, soft and deadly serious, "Never call me that again."
That name had belonged to him once, before he had been christened an Earl, but not anymore. It had been cast aside centuries ago, every document or medal that bore it smashed, torn to shreds, burned, and forgotten. If that name – so much like his own, but not his own – never graced the lips of another living being, it would be too soon.
When he opens his eyes again, his body has gone icy, though there was still something sizzling and crackling in his chest. He leaves those embers where they are, knowing that there was nothing in his heart they could reach and, even if they did, nothing they could consume without being smothered by everything he kept safe within it.
Three: If it is something important, he will keep it in his head. If it is something essential, he will keep it in his heart.
Mother princess is looking at him like he's some dangerous animal she let in on accident (in a way, she had) and the silence between them fills the tent until it rings loudly in his ears.
"May I leave now?"
Her brow furrows and she is about to say something, but instead she drops her gaze and ducks her head. He takes it as assent all the same. He stands to leave, but as he's pushing back the canvas of the doorway, he catches sight of his brother and his teammates making their way into camp. They're battered and bruised and Meringue is examining a cut on his arm, but they look pleased with themselves. The dog says something that makes everyone laugh and Finn pushes at him playfully. The sight of them together makes Cello feel small and cold and like he doesn't belong.
"I was really hoping," the princess finally speaks up behind him, unusually timid, "That you would be taking this chance to get to know your friends better."
Friends. The word doesn't feel right and like it's too big to fit anywhere inside of him. "Allies" and "teammates", those words are small and manageable and he knows where to place them so that they don't get out of hand. Finn had asked him once – insisted really – that he think of him as a "friend" and it filled his heart until it was fat and heavy and thudding almost painfully against his rib cage. He is certain that he doesn't have any more room inside lest he explode from trying to keep it all within him.
Worse still, he could leave it – this delicate, burdensome thing called a friend – lying somewhere where the blazing inferno of his anger could reach it, consume it, and leave a hollowed, burnt out husk in its wake.
Cello can't decide which option is more unacceptable.
End of Chapter