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He should have known that something was wrong when he felt sleepy following dinner.
It's been a week since Epic was relieved of his duty to Queen Nim as a Graceling, following the discovery of his Grace. It's useless — the ability to go without sleep. He can doze, but that's all, and on the off chance he somehow manages to fall asleep deeply enough to dream, he wakes up with nightmares that he can only thank his father for.
He hadn't wanted to go back home with the shame of being dismissed. It's not meant to be shameful — and really, it isn't to most people in Arbre. His father isn't most people, though, and he doesn't care that it isn't anything to be sorry for.
Fate must have other thoughts for you, the Queen had told him.
Apparently those thoughts included letting him get tied to a table in the basement of his house. He thinks it's the basement — it's hard to see, because there's a lamp right above his head, and everything else looks dim beyond that, nevermind how gritty his eyes feel.
He hasn't felt tired like this since before his eyes changed. He hadn't noticed, at the time, but he was only sleeping because he had been keeping himself on a schedule. Once his Grace was discovered, he finally noticed that he hadn't been sleepy — he was simply going through the motions.
The discovery of his Grace was a fluke, anyway, just like all of his other observations related to it. He got too focused on research he was asked to do for the Queen, something regarding troop movements during a past war, and he ended up staying awake in the library for three days. He hadn't been tired, just hungry, once he was snapped out of his focus on long gone soldiers.
He can remember the heavy anxiety that had settled in his false gut as the pieces were put together by his superiors, and it was discovered that he had a Grace for going without sleep. It's the same anxiety in his gut now, sitting under a bright light in silence, tied to a table for stars only knew what reason.
"Ah, I thought you might be more resistant to the drugs. I suppose I was wrong." There's a scratching sound, a pen scribbling something. He can't see his father, but his body tenses up the second he speaks. "I did think about using a more potent dose, but I'm glad I didn't now. I decided to hazard that you would be more affected, rather than less, but it seems it didn't affect you much differently at all."
Epic doesn't say anything. He's a talker, he knows that, but his father hates it. It's probably why he's giving Epic a whole monologue right now, anyway — trying to bait him into speaking, so that he can get in Epic's face about disrespecting him. It's always better to keep quiet around him.
Tentatively, he tugs at the straps around his wrists — tight, but he could probably work his way out of them. His father might pose an issue, unless Epic can overpower him with brute force. He's been frail since Epic can remember, and though he's still much taller than his son, he's much weaker in everything except academics and magic. At fourteen, he's starting to hit his growth spurts, and while he isn't muscular, he's fast, and he can hold his own sparring with some of the guards at the castle.
He just has to hope he gets a chance to get himself out.
With a tray of tools in hand, his father steps into view and adjusts the lamp above him. The glare makes him squint, and something in the tray glints in the light.
"Not a very useful Grace, if it hardly affects how tranquilizers work on you… That would have been good for the spies, and maybe you could have done something meaningful," his father says, picking up a sharp tool from the tray. It has a serrated edge — good for sawing through thick bone, Epic's mind supplies.
Suddenly, he's very, very scared, but he forces himself still. Struggling always made things worse.
But then again, his father hasn't ever gone quite this far. He's hoping he's wrong about what he plans to do, but unfortunately Epic knows his father pretty well.
"Hold still," his father orders, leaning over him. His hand constructs, phantom-like in appearance but corporeal as anything, brace Epic's skull against the table, shoving it against the wood with a thump. "If you cooperate, all you will lose is the eye."
"You're — what?!" Epic can't help himself, and his father's face twists with annoyance as he struggles.
"Your Grace is useless." His father's voice is acidic. "If you give me your colored eye, we may be able to do something more meaningful with it."
The hand constructs come down harder this time, but Epic isn't trying as hard as he ought to. He's all to conscious that he might just make things worse for himself if he struggles without breaking free, but he doesn't want to lose his eye. He already has enough issues that stem from how his father treats him.
His father's free hand goes to his skull, holding his left socket open as the scalpel descends. Epic can only watch as the sharp instrument gets nearer and nearer. He jerks in pain as it pierces the labyrinth of magic holding his eyelight in place, and he chokes on a scream as his father drags the scalpel upwards towards his forehead.
Then, it's gone, and Epic hacks unproductively. The matrix in his skull is trying to repair itself, forcing the unstable magic to his mouth, but tied up as he is, all he can do is gag and cough. He can hear the table creak dangerously, and his father mutters something that he can only guess is disparaging.
He's in too much pain to really notice that the scalpel is coming closer again, and this time he manages to scream and writhe as his father once again pierces the magic in his skull, dragging the scalpel down towards his mouth.
There's a harsh snapping sound as the straps binding his arms give under the force of his flailing. It's not how he imagined getting out of them when he was coherent enough to think, but it'll do.
Without thinking, he clamps a hand to his face, still hacking up magic. His father comes closer, saying something that he can't make out, but Epic lurches away, taking the wooden table with him. It splinters as it hits the stone floor, and the plank that the leg restraints are attached to snaps easily, weakened by its time spent in the dampness of the basement.
(Trust his father to half-ass everything except his research.)
Epic spits a glob of blood and magic onto the floor, still coughing. It's lessening now, but the pain and bleeding from his eye isn't. His vision is tunneling, but he can still sense his father hovering on the other side of the ruined table.
"Epic," he says, falsely patient. Epic steps back, too woozy to use magic. He's afraid to try to go up the stairs, but he feels like a feral cat in that he'll do anything to get out of a corner.
His father steps forward again, and Epic hacks up as much blood and magic residue as he can before spitting it across the floor at him. His father looks stunned and offended, and Epic takes his opening, scrabbling up the stairs clumsily.
His left hand is slippery with blood now, still held to his eye, and his right hand is getting the same way as he bleeds. The doorknob slips under his hand, but he still manages to get it open before he hears the creak of his father's footsteps on the stairs.
On solid ground, it's easier to stumble around, and he rushes through the house out to the street without a second thought. It's barely dark now — whatever his father had given him must have worked fast — and the streetlamps are still being lit by the lamplighters. He hears, but doesn't acknowledge, the questions from the boys up on their ladders, single-mindedly heading to his destination.
The castle looms in front of him before he knows it, and the guards at the gate look shocked to see him. He hears his name, but his vision is still tunneling as he rushes headlong into the gate, only stopped by one of the guards catching him.
He hears his father shout something far behind him, and the murmuring of the guards closer, but then everything goes blissfully, finally dark.
When he blinks awake, Epic is shocked that he can still see.
He's in the castle infirmary, from the looks of it, but it's dark, and none of the other beds are filled. The large windows on the wall across from the line of cots are filled with the inky black of the sky, only tinted by the courtyard lamps near the bottom.
At his bedside is a lamp, so Epic tries once, twice to light it with magic. It's on his third try that he succeeds, but it's dim at first. After a few minutes, it brightens, from the deep purple of his magic to a healthy, normal but purple-tinged flame.
"They said you wouldn't wake up until at least tomorrow, but Mother said you always rose above and beyond when she received your reports." Epic jolts, ready at first to fight, but he relaxes just as quickly when Prince Dream steps out from the healers' office.
"Lord Prince," Epic says. His voice is more ragged than he expected, and he's suddenly aware of how weak his magic feels.
"How do you feel?" Dream asks, taking no heed of status as he hops onto the edge of Epic's bed with a fresh roll of bandages.
"A little lightheaded," Epic replies honestly, too confused to do anything but follow Dream's direction as he guides Epic to lay his head back down.
Dream chatters as he unwraps and rewraps Epic's skull. "They said you might not be able to see again, but it's too early to tell because you would have to be using your eyelight for that. You're going to have a scar, though."
"Why are you here, Lord Prince?" Epic asks. He feels like he's in a fever dream.
"I was worried!" Dream says. "Plus, I like to help the healers, and Mother said it would be good for you to wake up with someone your own age around to help you decompress." Conspiratorially, he adds, "You can call me Dream, if you want."
Too exhausted to be phased by any of this, Epic mumbles, "Thank you, Dream… it's nice not to have to act for any adults."
"Yeah, I think that's what Mother was getting at. I'm pretty used to being in here anyway — Nighty was in here a lot a few years ago! And for a head injury, too…" The prince looks troubled, but Epic's tongue feels too heavy to console him.
Before he knows it, it's daytime, and the infirmary is bright.
Epic blinks as he sits up, confused. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he feels much better now than he did when Dream visited him… last night? Longer ago than that? The sky outside is the bright blue of mid-afternoon, so he'd been asleep for quite a bit.
"How do you feel?"
This time Epic doesn't jump too badly, just turns to his side. Lanny, Prince Nightmare's guard, is sitting on the next bed over. She looks completely unimpressed, a far cry from how exuberant Dream had been the night before.
"Well, I'm not dead," Epic replies in a raspy voice. He must have screamed more than he thought.
Lanny hands him a glass of water. "That you aren't," she says. "Your father certainly seems to wish you were, though."
"...Where is he?"
"Dungeons," Lanny replies. "The guards at the gate put two and two together. He'll be prosecuted." She gives him an odd look, as if daring him to ask not to press charges.
"Good," Epic says instead.
Lanny says nothing else. Her iridescent wings flutter as she stands, making her way towards the door, before she turns back and says, "You're cleared for basic training, by the way. The Queen thought you could use a permanent position here."
"As a guard?"
"No, as a horse," Lanny rolls her eyes. "Yes, as a guard. You'll be reporting to me once you're cleared to leave here, unless you'd rather try striking out on your own."
"No," Epic says quickly. "I'll be a guard. Stars, I'll be a horse, as long as I can stay in the Queen's service."
Lanny seems to see through him — she knows his eagerness isn't out of love for Queen Nim, but fear of going home — but she doesn't comment. Instead, she says, "Come find me when you're cleared, then. In the meantime, I'm sure Prince Dream will be back to visit you again soon."
With wide eyes, Epic watches her leave, clenching his fists so his hands don't shake. He'll be useful again. He has to be.