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Rats.
João had come to despise the creatures. The ambient patter of their feet along every hall. Reverberating off walls. Cloaked in shadows, yet still haughty enough to deny him the peace of silence.
They were a plague.
And they plagued him now. Running over his boot. Nipping at the leather. Their chirps accenting the moans of the barracks' prisoners. Many marred with red, inflamed bites. And too defeated to complain.
João shook the little monsters off his leg in apathetic disregard. He did not care for if he crushed the vermin like grapes for wine. Rather, he stepped — long, wide, purposeful steps — with little observance over where his feet fell. Flooding the barracks with clicks along the stones. A warning to the earth that he had arrived.
Few prisoners, those with fight still left in them, reached for him through their metal bars. Beckoning his aid.
He did not heed. He had only come for one.
João paused in front of the cell. Small and decrepit, at the farthest end of the hall.
Arthur was crumpled, sheepishly, on the cobbled, damp floor. His head lulled back, and green eyes glazed over. Closely watching a spider in the ceiling's corner, wrapping its most recent prey in silver webbing. Arthur's own red burn of rope still branded into his wrists.
João muttered a curse under his breath. Then thanked his God that Arthur's brother had displayed enough benevolence as to notify João of his lover's crimes. His fingers shook as he unlocked the cell, metal keys clanking against metal bars.
Arthur's eyes lazily drifted towards him, blinking slow. The warm, scarce, candlelight illuminating João's features. "Are you a dream?" he whispered. His lips dry, and voice hoarse.
João hummed in reply, "Quite."
He was a dream for Arthur. In no other reality would this audacious, reckless fool reap the benefits of a lover as attentive and reliable as João.
And yet, João's knees buckled beside him. He too, crumpled to the cobbled, damp floor. Hands instinctively moving to Arthur's body. Investigating his arms, his wrists, his eyes, his neck, his scalp.
It was only with his touch that Arthur spoke again, "How'd you get in here?"
João held back a scoff. There was no need to lie. No daring tale to tell. Alasdair had organized his arrival. Even provided him the keys. It was his land, after all. And his brother. Not that he wished to save him himself, of course. Just wished that he were saved, in general.
Rather than dignify his lover with an answer, João glanced around the cell. "You are a dead man walking," he sighed, "And you haven't even eaten your last meal."
Arthur followed João's ocean eyes to the plate of stale bread, untouched by even the rats. He twisted his mouth, as if holding back a gag. "Look at it," he replied matter-of-factly, "Tastes like shit."
"Couldn't you just magic it better?" João willed his tone to be innocent as a child. Still, the sarcasm dripped through.
Arthur groaned, rolling his head back against the stone wall. "So, then I take it you are upset with me?"
João swatted Arthur on the shoulder. His action earning a wince. More from shock than pain, he reasoned in his mind. But he reached over to massage the spot, nonetheless. Arthur's body relaxing under his hold.
"Why does you insist on doing spells?" João interrogated, desperate to understand his lover's delusional quests.
"I wasn't doing spells," Arthur retorted. Eyes wide, magnetic and hypnotic to a degree in which João, too, questioned his status as a witch.
"Then what did it this time?"
This time. Because it was not Arthur's first foray on death's row. Arthur who, in their moments around a shared fire or star-shaded sleep, had told stories of his encounters with magic. Who would leave gold offerings beside ancient trees, and encourage João to drink his elixirs before battle.
Arthur sighed. His brows furrowing in anger, as if reliving the scenario once again, "The locals didn't want to listen to me about fae traps," he crossed his arms tightly, "Their funeral."
"No, Arthur." João reprimanded, "Not their funeral. Yours. They are planning to hang you at first light."
"Whatever."
João shook his head. "Come," he stood, offering a hand to his lover, "Quickly."
Arthur accepted the assist. Being pulled up onto his feet. And then immediately into a kiss, that remained cloaked in the barracks' darkness.
"One day," João murmured into Arthur's lips, "I'll be too busy to save the witch. What will happen to you then?"
"I'm not worried," Arthur kissed him once more, wanting and hungry, "I know a love spell."
João smiled, "I'm sure you do."