Chapter Text
Harry does not know how long he has been sitting here. His only friend is the moon, which was currently shining through his little window, and it seems to be taunting him with its freedom. The night air is sharp and cool, and dark shadows cast themselves across the small room that Harry is currently. His capturers are up near the front of the carriage, with a door separating them. Every once in awhile, there’s a soft chatter, but it’s mostly quiet.
Eventually, the stars started to fade out, and bright oranges and reds and yellows burst from the ground. The sight is breathtaking, and Harry takes a moment to admire the view. Harry rarely gets to be outdoors and see the sunrise, so he doesn’t take it for granted. He blinks lazily at the brilliant sun and slumps further down the rough wooden wall, trying to wiggle his fingers that are tied tightly behind his back.
His body is almost completely numb-the nasty looking bruises and cuts scattered across his torso had lost their feeling. Dried blood sticks to his shirt, and Harry knew that it was going to be painful to separate the cloth from his skin. The cuts are raw, because he had gotten them just a little while before Rebels burst into his bedroom. It wasn’t even that bad-his father had been pissed when he saw Harry giving some bread to a servant and he’d gave him a few blows, but he knew that they probably wouldn’t scar.
“They’re slaves, Harry, peasants! You’re the next king. Kings don’t associate with people like them, and they definitely don’t help them. You’re already sixteen, so start acting like it!” His hand lashed out and caught him in the chest. Harry stumbled backwards and slammed against the wall, but he kept his face impassive. Inside, he’s screaming, but he knows by now to keep his mouth shut until his father leaves. He wasn’t able to sleep at all because his father had him doing continuous laps around the entire castle last night, and his eyes feel like they want to be sewn shut.
“I don’t give a shit about them, so you don’t give a shit about them. If I see you giving any of those bastards more food, you won’t be sleeping for an entire week. I’ll have you out with slaves doing work. Understand?”
What about his family, Harry wanted to yell. What about his wife and his children? Harry didn’t know the servant that well, but he had heard him talking about his two daughters and how they hadn’t eaten the entire day. What else was he supposed to do, let them starve and know that he had pretty much killed two kids? Harry knew that he should be tougher, less kind, but it was his fatal flaw. He couldn’t just let someone suffer because of his father, and was often getting in trouble for it.
Harry stood there as blows rained down on him, and hoped that the servant had gotten too far for his father to track him. When his father decided that he was done with Harry, he whipped around and stalked off, his fancy velvet robes swirling around his feet. Harry glared hatefully at his expensive boots until they rounded the corner and disappeared. He could hear his father already yelling at some other poor person that had gotten in his way. Harry looked down at the damage done-he was wearing a simple white tunic, which was already starting to dye red, and his black pants were darkening slightly.
Harry dragged himself back to his own personal chambers, ignoring the pitying looks of those around him. He probably looked like a mess, stumbling, bleeding, with dark circles around his eyes and an air of exhaustion. It really wasn’t anything new-almost all servants and guards had either been saved by Harry or had seen him beaten up, but no one would dare to say anything against the King. The people around him parted to let him through, and a few murmured words of encouragement.
The kind words and the people around him were the only reason Harry was even living. He knew that his father was a tyrant and ruled with an iron fist, but he also knew that his father would eventually die. Then, Harry could take over and make things right, but for now all he could do was keep his head down and wait.
The thought of his people gave him a sense hope and determination, but today, Harry was exhausted. Being a good person could wait until tomorrow. Harry made it up to his room, and put on a new, darker shirt. He could feel the sweat and blood that he was coated in, but the urge to sleep was too much. He curled up on the ground, too lazy to take a shower and not wanting to get the bed dirty. Harry promised himself that he’d clean the cuts later, when he had the energy-but he never got the chance to.
The rebels came at night, bursting through his door. Harry was wide awake immediately, hoping that it wasn’t his father. The king would usually come up to his rooms, drunk off his ass, screaming cuss words and throwing things. He hadn’t taken the death of the Queen well, and when Gemma had--well, things changed. Normally, his father could control himself, but when he drank, his anger towards Harry increased, and the words cut deeper than the actual blows. The drunk version was more terrifying than his normal father, because he was a whole new person, one that wouldn’t know how far he could go without actually killing Harry. Those nights, Harry would truly fear for his life.
However, it wasn’t his father. Shadowed figures flooded into his room with a sense of purpose, and Harry was too exhausted to understand what was going on. The relief that came when he realized that it wasn’t his father gave him a feeling of numb happiness, and he really wasn’t thinking straight as the men efficiently tied his hands together and smuggled him down to the waiting carriage. He could see white symbol sticking out of the black shirt of one of the men. It was the Rebel symbol.
The rebellion had been happening for a while-so many people were angry at the King, and it was only a matter of time before they banded together to fight back. Harry had heard about the fires, the battles, the dead and injured. It didn’t really matter much to him-if his father died, the world would be a better place, anyways. Harry would probably banished from the throne or killed, but that wasn’t important-he didn’t have anyone or anything important to live for.
The white symbol wavered in and out of his vision, and Harry suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion. He was so numb at that moment that he actually closed his eyes and felt his consciousness drifting off. Everything went black, and Harry drifted into a dreamless sleep.
When Harry had woken up, it was dark. He guessed that it had been over twenty four hours-the longest he’d ever slept-because he felt well-rested. The carriage rocked under him, and it took him a while to remember where he was. Rebels. For some reason, that idea created a burst of something in his stomach. Knowing his father first hand made him hate the King, and although the people of the rebellion didn’t know it, he was on their side.
Harry tried to stretch, but his shoulders were stiff, and he wasn’t able to move very much. The wooden floor of the carriage was hard, and every movement jolted his entire body. Although he was aching with pain, he knew that the Rebels had not laid a hand on him-everything was his father’s doing. It was almost ironic, really, how the people that had kidnapped weren’t the ones who gave him bruises. Harry preferred the rebels, and so far, no one had laid a hand on him. It was like a strange case of Stockholm syndrome.
Harry sat there in silence, thinking about what would happen. Kidnapping of royalty like this wasn’t very common, but Harry guessed that it was most likely a hostage situation. What was different was that Harry’s father didn’t give a shit about him, and definitely wouldn’t stand down or give money in order to get him back. The whole operation would be a flop, but Harry hoped that he’d get a while of freedom before he was probably killed, or whatever happens to unneeded royalty.
Before his mind wandered any further, there was a small click and the door on the opposite side of the room creaked open. A boy, probably around twenty or so, stepped inside. He was pretty muscular, with a hint of a beard, and brown hair and eyes. His jaw was set, and it looked like his mouth was set in a permanent frown. Then, without a word, he took a quick glance at Harry’s stiff form, turned around, and walked right out. Before Harry could question it, a muffled voice ringed out-
“He’s awake.” The voice is low and soft, and Harry attached it to the boy from earlier.
“Already?” The next voice is loud and-Irish? It sounds slightly surprised. “He hit his head on the door pretty hard.”
Oh, I did? Harry frowns. He vaguely remembers a small, fake struggle before he had fallen back asleep. They must have thought that he had been knocked unconscious when they accidentally bumped him against the door frame. It would take a lot more than that to actually knock him out. But they didn’t need to know. If they thought that Harry was fragile, hopefully they’d be easier on him.
It went silent after that, and Harry continued to stare out the window as the sun kept rising, and eventually, sinking. The same boy as before would come in to check on him, probably to make sure that Harry hadn’t escaped. There were a few muffled conversations, and Harry counted three voices.
Only three voices-three people to capture the crown prince of Europe. It was sad, how little they thought of Harry. He could have easily fought and probably won against the three, if he wanted to. Then again, most people think that Harry is kind of like a flower prince-no one ever really sees him, but when they do, it’s all smiles and dimples and curls. During public dinners and parades, Harry is always told to keep quiet and wave, to charm the people, but never have voice. He’s pretty sure that majority of the people like him-the image of a naive and innocent teen means that he isn’t to blame for anything. So while Harry sits, waves, and shows off his dimples, he imagines the most gruesome ways to kill the King.
“Liam, could you give pretty boy some water?” A voice calls out, cutting into his thoughts, and there’s a muffled grunt of assent before the door opens again. The boy, which Harry now recognizes as Liam, comes in with a metal canteen. As he silently approaches him, Harry starts to notice the slight dehydration of his throat. It’s completely quiet as Liam unscrews the cap, raises it to his lips, and lets him drink. The process is done quickly, Liam is back out of the door, and Harry is left alone to his thoughts.
This routine continues for a few days. They feed him and give him water, but the contact is limited and no one ever says a word. Harry himself has not spoken the entire time, but he is starting to recover from his sleepless days and injuries from the palace, and most of his cuts have started healing.
Harry starts wonders if his father actually sent out troops to find him. Although they did not have a father-son relationship or any kind of bond, his father had spent his entire life training Harry to be strong, skilled, and ready to be King. Even if he wasn’t thought of as a son, Harry knew that he was a trophy of sorts, a prize for his father, to show how well the King could make a near-unstoppable machine. All of the pain that he’d went through was because his father had a strange idea of how to raise a son and no morals when it came to blood. He knew that he was replaceable, just another object for his father to use, but he didn’t know whether his father would find it easier to chase after Harry or find someone completely new to do sixteen years of training on.
But now that Harry thought about it, it sounded stupid. Of course his father wasn’t going to leave him alone, not after he’d put so much effort into shaping Harry into a King. He wasn’t going to throw sixteen years away. Harry’s heart sank. He was stupid to imagine being free. He’d just enjoy his time alone, before eventually being caught and taken back to his father, or killed.
Taken back to his father.
Shit.
His father was probably furious right now. The King was one of the only people that knew that Harry could singlehandedly take on a few rebels-easily. His father would definitely know that Harry didn’t try, that he had let the rebels take him. He’d know that Harry had escaped him on purpose. Harry had spent his entire life learning how to fight-there was no way that a handful of people could easily subdue him and take him, without even a hint of a struggle. It was obvious that Harry left.
His father never went easy, not even on the small mistakes that Harry makes. Not being able to do something or disobeying him might get him a few bruises, but actually escaping was a whole new thing. It wasn’t just crossing the line, it was jumping over, completely obliterating it. Harry would be lucky if he got out alive after his father was done with him. The sudden realization left Harry’s breathing ragged and his heart pounding.
Harry takes in deep gasps of air, trying to calm his beating heart. He can feel the last strings keeping him mentally attached to Earth breaking. It’s not often that Harry slips into a panic attack, but when he does, they’re awful and painful. Harry tries to calm down, but his mind is jumbled and all of this thoughts swirl around. A pained sound escapes his lips, and Harry slumps down against the wall, thumping his head.
His eyes glaze over and his breathing is irregular. He can feel cold sweat dripping down his neck, and it’s hot then cold then hot then cold. The only conscious part of him knows that his panic attacks were long, and he desperately hopes that no one comes in. They’re crushed immediately, as the door opens up and someone steps into the room.
“What’s going on? I heard-” Liam’s voice cuts off as he sees Harry. He probably looks awful, trembling and choking for air. Harry can hear the words bounce around in his head, but he can’t connect them together. It’s as though his head’s underwater.
“Shit, Louis, come here. Something’s wrong.” A second later, footsteps echo and Harry can vaguely see another silhouette join Liam. They just stand there, watching Harry shaking violently and gasping. It’s unnerving, being in such a strange situation, but Harry is almost glad that he’s here, with complete strangers watching him freak out, rather than his father. The King always just kicked him until he snapped out of it, or fell unconscious. The thought of his father makes Harry’s throat starts to close up and he tries to focus on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
“What’s goin’ on? Lou, Li, did Princey do somethin’?” The Irish voice rings out, but Harry is too far gone to understand. He’s still shaking, but he can feel his breathing start to even out. He knows that after the first stage is over, his body usually starts to feel like it’s being twisted by an invisible force, and his insides get crushed by an imaginary pressure. Harry lies there and waits.
In. Out. In. Out.
“I dunno. He’s just lying there, shaking, and I don’t think he’s breathing properly. It’s kinda weird.” Liam replies. His eyes are glued on Harry, and he seems at a loss as to what to do.
“I think it’s a panic attack. My friend used to get ‘em.” Louis speaks this time, but the words are disconnected. Harry can see his mouth moving, and his eyes tracing Harry’s trembling body. After that, they’re completely silent, except for Harry’s choked breathing. Then the pain comes.
Harry lets out an invisible scream, arching his back. It feels like his rib cage is being pushed together, and his lungs are being crushed. He can take pain and blood, but this imaginary force, the feelings inside of himself that he can’t control, is a whole new level. Harry tries to scream again, and this time, a pained cry escapes his lips.
In. Out. In. Out.
Then, suddenly, the silhouettes are moving close, and Harry has a person on either side of him. His ropes are being cut and he can move his arms. They’re stiff and throb slightly but Harry barely notices. Someone’s speaking, and the voices float around, just out of reach.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Someone is running their hands through his tangled curls, and another rests on his shoulder. It’s a strange feeling, these two complete strangers comforting him, comforting part of the monarchy that they want to destroy. It’s even stranger for Harry, because he’s not used to feeling this vulnerable, this human. Usually, he just has this detached feeling, like he’s watching everything play out, but right now, it’s all him. Everything that is happening is because of him.
“Is there anything that we can do?” Liam’s voice is loud and breaks through the foggy wall that Harry’s mind has built.
“No, I think that we just wait it out.” After the reply, the voices fade away from Harry’s mind. The pain continues for a while, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, pretending that he’s not there, that these two Rebels aren’t seeing him having a panic attack.
But they are. Louis and Liam are both still kneeling there, watching with a slight concern, and it’s over thirty minutes later that Harry completely calms down. Once his breathing is regular and he has control over his body, Harry slightly opens his eyes and looks up. It’s completely silent for a moment, before the new boy, Louis, says,
“You alright?” His voice is soft and floaty, and Harry can’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut again and nod. The concern still feels strange-he’s the son of the guy that they want to kill. Harry continues to lie there, thinking of anything but the helpless position he’s in.
The effects of the panic attack start to fade away. Harry lets out a small sigh and slightly cracks open his eyes, looking up at the two people. They’re now standing, looking at him curiously, and Harry wishes that they’d go away and leave him alone to wallow in his own misery. The entire thing is too overwhelming, and Harry’s exhausted. These two Rebels are so different from anyone that he’s ever met, and the unfamiliarity of it is unsettling.
Eventually, they both decide to not question it and turn around, giving him one last glance before stepping through the door and closing it. The muffled talking starts again, but Harry cancels it out and stares up at the ceiling.
As Harry lies there, the feeling of embarrassment starts to trickle in. He hadn’t had a panic attack in over a year, but having two people witness it was even worse. The one thing that bothered him was simply how normal everything was. They came in, acted like he was someone they knew, like he wasn’t weird for randomly having a panic attack, like it was an everyday thing. As he wasn’t the Prince, as if he wasn’t kidnapped, as if he was a normal boy.
Harry stares out the window, seeing the clouds float by. It’s midday but the sun is faint, and it’s completely quiet. The carriage continues on, rolling over the gravel path, and things slowly return back to normal. Liam comes in a while later with more water and some food, but Harry turns it away, knowing that if he ate anything, he’d probably throw up.
It’s in the middle of the afternoon when Harry notices it-smoke. It seems quite far away, but gets thicker as they continue on. The smell is strong and Harry can feel his lungs tighten. Soon, a bright red flickers into his vision. It’s a small farmhouse, completely on fire. The flames flicker, illuminating the pale blue sky, and the stench of ashes rises and floats around. There doesn’t seem to be anything else around, just the lone building and surrounding fields. Harry wonders what caused it, and if the people in the carriage would do something. He can barely hear the muffled voices coming from the front of the carriage because his ears are still sensitive from the panic attack, and he can’t hear properly. They’re nearing the burning house when the whole carriage suddenly jerks to a stop.
It takes Harry a second to hear the screaming.