Chapter Text
“Up” barked a voice at the door. It was one of the Coronan words he’d learned early on. He knew his limited dictionary would forever be full of hate: up, halt, silent, follow…
…the guard. Still waiting impatiently. What did he want again? Every day Varian’s focus drained a little more. Hunger didn’t help. His flesh often paid the price. Guards are impatient. Today the guard was unusually kind, repeating his order instead of simply kicking the prisoner.
“Up, dog. The king wants to show you off.” Again, Varian only knew a few of the words. “Dog” he recognized with tired hate.
Obediently he shrugged off his pretense of sleep and rose. His mechanical movements synchronized perfectly to the sound of his shackled feet.
No further orders were needed. Varian ducked his head to exit the narrow cell, falling in line between two armed guards. What time was it? It was always midnight in the dungeon. It might be the apocalypse outside and Varian wouldn’t know.
He knew well the twisted paths of the prison. It was a separate building from the castle keep, known simply as the Grate: left meant the refectory and possibly food. Right was the sacrosanct guardroom. Straight meant narrow spiraling stairs and sky. The guards led him straight.
Could there be stars? A breeze? Rain? Anything would be beautiful. Daylight would be painful, but even the sun’s warmth upon his squinting face would be a blessing.
As Varian struggled up the stairs, he knew it wasn’t day above. Too cold, too little light. The head guard unlocked the creaking dungeon grate, and Varian stepped out into a night…of stars!
The full moon smiled down on the scene, bathing everything in white light.
Already the guard behind was hustling him across the muddy courtyard. Varian could smell the coming rain and ocean spray in the chilly breeze, even the grassy hills and pastures beyond the foul city. Too fast. They were walking too fast. Please, he wanted to beg, just half a minute to feel the breeze, see the stars. A rude shove at his back almost propelled him stumbling into the mud. The head guard barked at his companion: was this wrong?
A new sound came to Varian’s attention as they entered the main keep: there was a great crowd in the throne room. Of course. How had he missed the lounging carriage attendants and men-at-arms waiting around the courtyard? The king was entertaining guests, which meant…
Varian raised his head, steadying himself for the torture of humiliation. He was to be displayed. In spite of himself, he felt his face flush red. His deepened breath he couldn’t even try to hide. Once this would have been an easy task: remain aloof, true to his princely station. But now? Four years of prison had stolen his ability to conceal his hatred.
In the light of the door, the leading guard turned to inspect his charge, frowning at Varian’s ragged appearance and gruffly brushing off stale straw with the back of his glove. His efforts futile, the guard turned to lead the boy inside.
Crossing the carpeted threshold, Varian was conscious of a swirling mass of light and color. Costly fabrics danced in the bright candlelight, and a savory smell—his head jerked to a table at the opposite wall. Food. Real, hot food. Could he steal a bite?
Characteristically serpentine, the king’s advisor, Nigel, noted his arrival with a sideways glance, gesturing with a nod that Varian was to stand between guards against the wall by the door. Past misbehavior had taught his captors to leave an easy exit during such public displays in case he acted out. Varian couldn’t help but smirk to himself at the memory of that fateful morning of the so-called Exposition of Sciences years prior, back when they were still trying to convince him of their nation’s superiority, and the inevitability of his own kingdom’s downfall. At least they’d finally given up on “teaching” him how to be “civilized” like they seemed to think they were.
Unfortunately, where Varian now stood beside his guards was a long way from the food. Varian decided to risk it, taking a confident step toward the still-steaming treasure, but a firm hand on his shoulder propelled him back against the wall, rattling the chains between his ankles. He was condemned to people-watch while his stomach growled.
Snobbish courtesans circled his way. Some were horrified at his disheveled state, dabbing handkerchiefs to their noses and hurrying on. Others intentionally came his way to gawk. Some simply stared. One bearded man with a red face looked for a moment like he was going to jab Varian in the stomach, but receiving a fierce glare from the prisoner, he lowered his hand and laughed to his friends.
Varian knew his purpose: he was only a display of the king’s power, and by extension, the empire. Step out of line, refuse royal authority as Varian’s uncle had done, and this could be your son, your brother, your father. Misbehave, and another sad head would join the gruesome pikes you passed beneath to enter this dark castle.
Everyone in the room knew Varian’s story. The merchant caravan which had come to the Dark Kingdom under the pretext of selling fine wines and rare scientific equipment, the famous kidnapping, and more recently his botched (though magnificently explosive) escape which landed him in shackles.
Varian studied the room by habit, just in case an agent or ally might be among the partygoers, waiting for an opportunity to pass a subtle message. It would be deadly dangerous. When Varian escaped last January, he’d only just avoided the noose because of his value as a hostage. Still, they had by no means shown mercy. He still had the long scars across his back to prove it.
No sign came.
There seemed to be no ambassadors or merchants from the Dark Kingdom at all. Other nations were represented, but he saw no face he recognized, let alone hearing any words he actually knew. As an aspiring scientist and scholar, he delighted in the dead and archaic tongues of the ancients, but his interest in mastering the language of his nation’s would-be conquerors was admittedly null.
Disheartened, the boy leaned against the wall. The guards didn’t appear to mind; they were groggy too. A politician’s whim had summoned him in the night; who knows when they’d be allowed to return to their sleep.
After a long, painful hour, Varian followed his guard back across the courtyard.
Clouds had covered the moonlight, and the rain he’d smelled earlier was just starting to fall. The guards quickened their pace.
Hungry and exhausted, Varian ducked his head to avoid the cold raindrops. Just then, two of the younger stablehands were teasing one another to stay awake. Varian’s ears quickly attuned to the familiar sounds of his native tongue.
“Is that him?”
“Must be. He has the hair, like they say—“
“What a shame.”
“When do you think this stupid party will finally end and we can go home?”
“Home? That’s an odd way to say ‘fancy house of a fat Coronan ass we’ve been forced to serve for two years.’”
“Yeah, well. Still, how long?”
“Meh, let’s see, we got here a week ago for Coronation day, so that puts us at—“
“Oh, shut up.”
The boy’s companion mumbled something back, pulling his cloak closer against the rain.
As the Grate was unlocked before him, Varian’s eyes opened wide with the shock of realization.
Coronation day was a week ago? The annual anniversary of the princess’s crowning? That would make today . . .
Was it really March 24?
The guard behind him gave a tired nudge, eager to be out of the rain. Obediently, Varian entered the Grate and began the winding descent, his now-muddied shackles scraping dully over the worn stone stairs.
He shuddered at the too-familiar sound.
It was silly, he knew. Silly to care.
But as the cage-like door of his cell closed resolutely in front of him and was locked once again in place, the young prince settled back into his bed of straw with a cold tear forming in his eye.
March 24.
So he was . . . eighteen? No . . . nineteen.
He shivered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, failing to stop something as trivial as a date on the calendar from resurfacing memories he usually tried to burry.
He’d been a month from fifteen when they’d brought him here. Just a child, really. And now. . .
Varian brushed away the tear, feeling the scratch of his still-sparse beard.
He wouldn’t let himself fall back into darkness again. Not on his birthday.
A noble resolution, but the only thing really keeping the dark thoughts at bay was the hunger pain in his stomach. It is so hard to think when you haven’t really eaten in a few days.
Those hot foods had smelled so good! He’d have given almost anything for a taste.
Maybe, he dared to hope, there’d be leftovers, and some of it would make its way to him and the other hungry boys of the Grate.
Maybe he’d get food tomorrow.
Somehow, he could still smell it. The other hostages would be so happy to listen to the story of his midnight summons, and play their favorite game of verbally trashing the Coronan nobility.
The haunting words of the stable boys echoed in his ears. He knew his people had knives to their throat. He WAS the knife. He knew the king’s demands for tributes were increasingly harsh, but to see other young men, his own age, carted off into servitude just for the crime of speaking another tongue? He shuddered.
Oh, Moon above, what he wouldn’t have given for just a bite. . . .
They may not have considered him a threat when they took him those years ago, but when he got free, by the Moonstone, he’d show them he was more than hostage meat. He’d make them pay.