bitter water // dreamnotfound

twenty three

the blanket given to george was that of a pathetic one, but it provided him more optimism than warmth.

It was quite thin and uncomfortable, but it was something nonetheless. Knowing it had been given to him by a prince like Clay had come as a great surprise to George. He least expected him of all people to show him an ounce of hospitality.

He was hoping Clay would come back. Maybe he could manage to obliquely request something else, such as a pillow. Mainly only royalty owned cozy pillows stuffed plushly with down feathers rather than scratchy silage. It would be pleasant to at least get to experience it once in his life; especially if it might end considerably soon.

The day seemed immeasurably long; painstakingly exhausting and he couldn't even manage to drift into sleep.

It was like his thoughts had been read aloud to someone who had sympathy for him. Footsteps echoed softly throughout the narrow walls. It was Clay. However, they abruptly stopped right as George had sat up and bound the blanket around his shoulders like a shawl.

George had considered calling out for Clay, but stayed quiet for his own good. He didn't know how Clay would react just yet, and he didn't want to be beaten to death before his trial date.

Once the footsteps fully dissolved into the distance, George sank back down. Maybe Clay didn't want to see him after all. He knew he wouldn't voluntarily come to see him anyways, he felt silly.

Silly and oh so lonesomely homesick.

However, a second pair of footsteps arose. These ones were slightly heavier. George was learning to distinguish them, believing it might come to be helpful at some point. "Oh George!" a voice beckoned, dragging out the middle part of his name. It would have been much more threatening if they hadn't had articulated it in such a sing-song way.

George immediately recognized the voice. He forced himself to memorize Clay's voice after not being able to put his finger on it in his shop.

Instead of answering, George's mind immediately rushed to the first footsteps. "Wait, who was walking in here before you?"

"Oh, that was Queen Niki. My mother. You needn't pay your attention towards her, she was going to come to console you or something. How touching," he fake gagged, "though, some knight showed up at the gates asking to talk with her about you."

Ranboo.

Clay continued his sentence with no regard for George. "I thought I might come down here to make sure you're not involved with him. You're too frail to escape on your own and I don't trust the newly knighted."

George silently took offense while shifting himself in the corner of his cell. "You don't trust anyone, though." While simply responding to the reason he was in the cell, his subconscious turned to Ranboo. If he was here for George, did that mean he was willing to testify for him?

"What about it? There's no reason to."

"Would you trust me?" George asked, looking directly at Clay, already knowing the answer.

The prince scoffed. "Like I'd ever trust a village boy. You're trying to toy with my emotions. News flash, little knife boy, I don't have any pity at all for you. I gave you that chance to remove the initials and you didn't. Now, who's at fault for that?" Clay asked, turning away from George as ocherous light poured in from the small window, his shadow reaching the ceiling. "But Clay-"

"Prince. Prince Clay. You do not address me like that, discourteous fool."

It was impossible to speak to Clay like a normal person.

"...May I speak to Ranboo?"

It was a rule for individuals imprisoned in the dungeon; they were not permitted to have any visitors of any kind. "No. And not just because it's a rule. I wouldn't let you anyway." It was evident Clay was receiving contorted satisfaction out of messing with George.

Everything was silent for a time. Neither knew why, nobody had spoken and that was that.

"Do you," Clay turned his head back towards George's voice, studying his small and scared frame as he spoke, "think I'll get out of here alive?" Again, George already knew the answer. And he knew Clay's answer, too.

Clay didn't even snicker. He just turned away, unable to bring himself to look upon George.

---

"Good evening, Sir Ranboo. Care for a refreshment?" Niki asked tenderly, leading the towering boy into the grand hall and throughput the vast halls. He politely refused, taking a seat directly across from Niki.

"I'm here to talk about George like I previously mentioned. Is he here?" He sounded entirely troubled. "Indeed he is. George is currently in the dungeon awaiting a trial date." It sounded as if Niki wanted to help so very badly.

Though, assisting in leading the monarchy was overall more important to her than the "murderer of her son." She knew undividedly that it was not him, but could not voice her opinions in fear of being told she was taking the side of her son's assassin.

In turn, Ranboo sighed in relief. "He's alive, thank goodness. May I speak to him?"

Niki hesitated. "I-I'm not supposed to let you but..." She looked up at Ranboo with a pained expression, a cup of rosemary tea warming her palms and the scars upon her bloodstained fingertips.

"I suppose. Follow me, but do not tell a word, understood?"