bitter water // dreamnotfound

twenty five

it was a cool night, very out of the ordinary.

George could faintly see his warm breath form swirly clouds in the air that hung stagnantly in front of him. Often, nights were warm in the dungeon because the fires in the above rooms would also heat the stones beneath them during the nighttime. However, they must've decided not to heat the castle that night. It was appropriate seeing as the day had been very warm already, it would be considerably annoying to be sweating throughout the night as well.

This was, however, an issue to George. He looked forward to the nights where he could stop shivering just for a moment. This was going to be the most difficult night to get through by far. He hadn't even had a hot meal. Just bread and ale.

Skin frigid to the touch, he tucked his head underneath his blanket and tried to conceal the hot air from his breathing. George just wanted to make it through this night. If he could get through this night, he could easily get through the others.

Of course, just his luck, someone came capering down the halls. Right when the torches burnt out, too. The only light was that of the moon that seeped through the thick windows above him.

He sighed, remaining underneath his blanket. Maybe he'd go away if he acted as if he was asleep.

"You're still breathing. Shameful."

He didn't move.

"You know, I've made it a habit to come and speak to you." "More like torture me."

"See. I knew you were faking it. Just like everyone thinks you're doing in regards to... I don't know. A murder, perhaps?" His tone was malicious and triumphant. He had complete control over George and they both knew it.

"Will you stop bringing it up!? I get it, please just leave me alone!" George begged, turning away from Clay under his blanket. "It's more fun to see you so pissed about it," Clay responded, "and no, I will not be leaving you alone. I'll keep bugging you every night until you go coo-coo and 'admit' to murdering Alastair at your trial."

"You're sick in the head. You killed your own brother so you could become king?"

Clay stepped closer to the bars, moonlight now illuminating his terrifying face. "Sick, maybe. Smart, yes. I did what I needed to." George scoffed, thrashing the blanket to the floor and standing up. "You didn't need to do anything, you were not given the monarch training courses for a reason. Your brother was going to do astonishing things and you stripped him from that possibility solely because of your own indulgence."

The prince took one step closer, his face inches away from the bars that constricted George. "I didn't need the training courses. They teach you how to rule a certain way, do things their way, follow their rules. I want to rule my way. And a stupid little peasant boy like you is not going to stop me."

George had gone through enough. "Shut up. Stop talking right this moment. Look at yourself. You are fucking insane. You framed me for murdering your brother. You grew up with him your entire life and in an instant, you took the chance to plunge one of my knives into his chest. You are not fit to be a king. No king would treat another like that."

Silence ensued for a single moment before a rough hand grabbed a fistful of George's tunic and rammed him up against the cold metal bars. The pain instantly rushed through George's jaw, but he was too pent up with rage to react to it. Clay was enraged. "You do not speak to me that way. You are immensely inferior to me. I could kill you myself right now without any repercussions. Understood?"

George shook his head. "I am not inferior to a murderer." His voice was shaky and his nose was bloody, but he was going to stand up for himself no matter what. Clay let go of his shirt and pushed him away. George wasn't done. "What did he look like when you stabbed him? I bet he felt sorry. That's how he was. A sorry person. He thought it was his fault that you hurt him. I would bet on the fact that I know him better than you and I am, as you said, but a stupid peasant boy."

No answer was given. Just a dormant shadowy figure in front of his cell. "You stripped him of everything. Smiles, a family, a sense of accomplishment and belonging. You betrayed him. Stabbing him right in the fucking heart." He was shouting now, holding back the prickly tears that threatened to spill. It was evident to both of them that George was no longer only talking about Eret. "You took things from him that you'll never be able to replace or give back. And I hope you realize one day that you are the worst kind of human. You deserve his pain."

Footsteps signaled that Clay was no longer in the room. George's face was flushed with tears and the blood from his nose. He had a headache and still felt bitterly cold. He felt a little worse than before.

---

Clay's reflection taunted him. Telling him the truth when he only wanted to recommence living in a realm of distortions and fabrications. His little world of dishonesty.

He didn't like his reflection. It looked like it did when it flashed in the dagger blade that morning. Bloody fists smashed the mirror until he could no longer make out a face, nor feel his knuckles. He didn't want to look at himself anymore.

author's note ///

as we progress into the story, i just want to make a few things very clear! please do not romanticize this type of relationship. do not glamorize it, do not call clay hot, it makes me uncomfortable. in this story, clay is not a good person. i don't want anyone thinking he is. there's a reason he's like this, you'll find out later. the overall meaning of this story will become clearer as we get further, i just wanted to make it clear to please just not think this is normal or healthy. it's for fictional purposes only, please do not romanticize it. i love you guys :)