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His exit from Nacre is rushed, to say the least. He manages to bribe way onto a ship heading towards Velas, and watches the beautiful white spires of his home shrink behind him, regret and excitement and anticipation all pooling together in his stomach.
He hadn't planned on this, and he had no idea what his life was going to be now.
But, if he was being honest with himself, he was pretty excited to find out.
The money he'd managed to take with him ran out faster than he'd anticipated. It's not hugely surprising, if he's being honest. Even if he's slumming it, he's never had to budget before.
He heads to the docks, looking for work, trying his best to look like he knows what he's doing. He doesn't.
"Have you ever worked on a ship before?" a bored-looking man asks him. Angelo hesitates.
"No," he admits, figuring that they'd know pretty fast that he didn't even if he lied, "But I'm strong, and I'm a fast learner."
"Are you afraid of heights?"
"......No?" He grew up in a city of towers, although he doesn't understand why that's relevant.
"We need someone in the crow's nest. Be here tomorrow before sunrise."
The man holds out his hand, which Angelo shakes eagerly. The ship sets out the next morning, Angelo tucked away in the crow's nest. He breathes in the salty air and, leaving Velas now, he feels... at peace.
It's easy to fall in love with the ocean, and Angelo does immensely. Life at sea becomes second nature in a way that royalty never was. He loves his job, his crewmates, his captain, with the kind of big, all-consuming love he'd never found in Nacre.
He lets his hair grow long, bites his nails down short, strips naked and swims in the sea, and no one ever, ever calls him "Prince."
He loves them for that, too.
He's never been punched before.
He was a prince. Princes don't drink too much in a dingy Fish District bar and insult someone's upbringing. But Angelo isn't a prince anymore, and he can make those dumb decisions, and get punched in the nose for his troubles.
He's about to retaliate when he feels a large hand on his shoulder.
"Now, no, no need for that," says a man, thrusting a handkerchief into Angelo's hand, "Come on. Let's get a drink."
Angelo holds the cloth to his bleeding nose and follows the man to his table.
"Jim Calhoun," the main says, holding out a hand.
"Angelo Triste," Angelo says, shaking it with the hand that isn't held to his nose. Calhoun buys him a drink, and it's easy for Angelo to add Calhoun to the list of reasons he's glad he left Nacre.
"So, tell us again about the magical place you're from," Calhoun says, his face red from equal parts laughter and drunkenness. Angelo's already had a few too many on Calhoun's coin, and struggles as he tries to explain about Nacre's spires, about a city so beautiful Death Himself wouldn't ruin it.
"And you've seen this mystical place?"
"Calhoun, I was a prince, " Angelo says, proud as a rooster, hand over his heart like he's offended, and when Calhoun laughs, he laughs, too. It seems silly, almost. A place where he had been royalty. Saying it now, he feels like he's finally starting to get the joke.
When Calhoun's son dies in a shipwreck, Angelo is unbelievably relieved that he was too drunk to remember being told about Nacre. THey hang out in their usual bar, and Angelo buys every other round, matching Calhoun drink for drink.
"You're a good boy, Angelo," Calhoun says, slumped over the table and slurring his words, "I'm sure your dad is proud of you."
Angelo barks a laugh, trying to pretend there aren't tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
"Pretty sure you're the only one who thinks so," he says. Calhoun wraps an arm around his shoulders and buys them another round.
Calhoun dies while Angelo is at sea. A bird brings him the message, and he reads it once, twice, then shoves it into his pocket and tries to get back to work.
He swims that night, diving off the side of the ship into the ocean. The cold saltwater stings his skin a little, and he stays under the surface until his lungs burn, and then a little longer.
He hadn't realized what it meant to live forever until he found people that wouldn't. In Nacre, people chose death. It was never sudden, or terrible, like this.
In bed, late that night, he thinks, Maybe my father was right , and he weeps, heavy, breathless, and alone.
Less than a month later, Angelo Triste dies, and a man named Calhoun buys a ship.
Hella Varal drinks him under the table the first time they meet, which is no easy task, and beats him at arm wrestling, which, unfortunately, is. She’s got massive hands and a wicked sense of humor, and he likes her almost immediately. She's decent company, turns out, and they become fast friends.. She’s stubborn as a mule, of course, but when he hears her talk about the shores of Ordenna, or of her friendship with Hadrian, he thinks there's a deep, hard-won loyalty in her, the kind he’s honored to count himself a part of.
But years later she leaves him there, sailing away on his ship while he stands, dumbstruck, on the deck of The Kingdom Come.
He's still royal enough to hate admitting he was wrong, but he's not too proud to admit that he may have overestimated her virtues.
They shackle him, which is understandable. He's wily. He'll fight them if he has to, like he has every time before. Just because Hella gave him up doesn't mean he's given himself up.
"I forgot I'm in the presence of royalty ," Brandish says, holding a hand over the wound in his throat. He sneers at Calhoun- at Angelo , abdicated prince, not Calhoun, ship captain and alcoholic- and bows mockingly. Angelo does not respond, staring straight ahead.
They put him in the brig, and he whistles sea shanties to himself for the rest of the trip to Nacre.
Nacre hasn't changed, not even after more than a century, but he'd never expected it to. That was the point of Nacre. It never changed. It never progressed. It was held in perfect picturesque limbo for all eternity.
The funny thing was, as soon as he saw the glorious white towers that he'd missed for years, Angelo was struck with an intense longing for the dingier streets of Velas. When he gets to Nacre, they take him to the top of the Sable Spire.
Adelaide is happy to see him, at least. She kisses his cheek and embraces him tightly enough that he struggles to breathe.
She doesn't want to put him on trial because they both know he's guilty, but he's not sure he wants to live as a figurehead. He's gotten so used to freedom, that elusive, magical thing that's brought him such happiness and such regret, he's not sure he can live without it anymore.
"Just give me some time to think about it, okay?" he asks, and she does.
Hella and her friends come to visit his cell, and there's a perfect, beautiful moment where he genuinely believes they're there to help him. He's afraid, and alone, and neither path set before him is a good one, and they almost seem to present a way out.
Which Hella provides, in a way, hands clasped tight around his throat, like the weight of every dodged responsibility come to get him, like the Sword of Damocles finally come crashing down.
Her tears splash against his face, and he's scared, and he's angry, and he's sad, and she kills him once, twice, three times, and then...
And then nothing.
He opens his eyes again in the throne room, staring up at his father, a scene he remembers countless times over from his childhood in the palace. Only his father is dead, and now, Angelo is as well. He reaches a tentative hand up to his throat, still feeling the phantom sensation of Hella's hands, still feeling the sting of tears in his eyes.
"Angelo," his father says, "Son. It's been a while."
Angelo, despite himself, laughs.
"Yeah," he says, nodding, "Yeah. Guess that's one way of putting it." His laughter fades into a tense silence, and he doesn't look up at his father when he says, "You asked Hella to kill me."
"I needed you."
When Angelo looks up, his father is standing in front of him. It's strange to him now that they're almost the same height; he remembers Tristero as so imposing, but now, facing him as an adult, he seems so... mundane.
Tristero takes the crown from his head and places it on Angelo's with a sad smile. As soon as it touches him, he feels a weight upon his shoulders, the kind of which he had been running from his whole life, and when he looks down again, he's wearing his father's royal robes, and sitting upon his throne.
"It's yours now," Tristero says.
"What? No, I-" he's panicking now, not even fully understanding what this means but knowing it's something that he does not want.
"This is your birthright." Tristero smiles, and there's an ironic edge to it. He knows what he's doing. "Try to bear it as best you can."
He turns like he's walking away, and Angelo starts to panic. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want this.
"Wait! Where- where are you going? " he asks, not even bothering to hide the fear in his voice. Tristero already knows this is what he never wanted, and they both know that.
Tristero shrugs.
"I don't know," he says, "Maybe nothing. Maybe something higher on." And then he's just... gone.
And Angelo is alone.
And time drags.
Hella looks exhausted, and Angelo tries his best not to feel smug. He's trying to shove that anger down, trying not to shake with rage, but damn. He has no idea how long he's been in this place, sitting alone, doing nothing, and all he wants to do is hurt her for dooming him to this.
But he doesn't. He sits on his throne, wishes her luck, and distance.
He's almost forgiven her when Adelaide appears in his new prison.
"Hello, brother," she says, with a smile, "I can take over from here."
"Adelaide-"
"Say hello to Father for me, when you see him."
She embraces him tightly, and he has a million questions he wants to ask her- was this what you wanted? , and what's your plan for Nacre? , and why did you let Hella go? , but he can't seem to find any words. She takes the crown from his head and puts it on her own.
And Angelo is free.