The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter One - Desperate Measures

Mark opens his eyes, early morning sunlight streaming through the window and dancing on his face. The sky is strewn with pinks and oranges, casting the glow over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He yawns as he pulls himself into a sitting position, stretching out his arms and back. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he slowly pulls on his boots and stands while ruffling his messy black hair.

His one room cottage is small and cozy, with a large stone fireplace on the far wall. Two small beds sit on either side of the flames so their occupants don't freeze during the night, and one of them is taken up by Mark's mother. The rest of the room is lit by candles, all of which are currently blown out.

Mark stares at the blackened ashes in the fireplace and sighs, heading out the front door in order to retrieve wood from the back. As he steps out into the morning air, he catches sight of his crops. Most of them are wilting or dead, weak and unable to bear any kind of food. A knot of worry forms in his chest. Without plants that grow, how will he feed his remaining family or make any kind of income?

The man purses his lips and leans down, collecting a load of firewood into his arms. Doing his best to ignore his failing crops, he trudges back to the house and starts up a fire in the hearth. When the flames begin to crackle merrily, he straightens up and moves to the bedside where his mother sleeps. Gently, he presses his hand to her forehead, finding that she's still burning up. He grimaces and heads outside once again.

Working on the ground and trying to bring his crops back to life seems pointless. He's been trying to find the problem and fix it for months now, but he's never had the green thumb that his mother had. His father tilled the land for years in order to grow anything at all. Farming just doesn't run in his veins, for whatever reason. He kicks the dirt and groans, running his fingers through his hair. At this rate, the surviving members of his family will starve.

"Mark?"

He looks up, seeing his elderly mother standing in the doorway and tying her hair back with a bow. Pity resides in her wise brown eyes as she observes her son.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he replies.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Never mind that. I made breakfast. Do you want to come in and get some?"

He nods and follows her in, sitting down at the rickety wooden table as his mother places a lacking bowl of porridge and a small piece of bread in front him, then herself. They eat in silence for a moment before Mark finally speaks.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I can't provide for us."

The woman gives him a weak smile. "It's not your fault, dear."

"It is. If I wasn't such a horrible farmer..."

"Mark." Her face is serious now. "You've done your best, and I know that you'll find a way to survive." She smiles and pats his hand. "You're a big boy. I'm just an old lady who doesn't help much."

Mark chuckles weakly. "You wouldn't be mad if I had to do something drastic, would you?"

His mother purses her lips, observing her son with a thoughtful eye. A long sigh escapes her lips. "If you steal, you risk getting caught. I don't want guards at the door telling me that you're in the king's dungeon."

"I know, but you're sick," Mark replies. "I don't have the money to get your medicine and both Dad and Thomas aren't around anymore. We've got no food and our crops are dying. I don't know what else to do."

The woman sighs. "We'll find a way, dear."

—

Mark pulls his coat on, glancing back at his mother. The woman is back in bed, attempting to sleep away an illness that Mark knows will kill her if she doesn't get medicine. He frowns a little as he places his hand on the door handle and slips outside into the cool evening air.

She can sit there and pretend it's all okay, but Mark can't ignore the dying field and the cabinets that sit empty save for a few last items. He can't ignore the fact that every day, she looks sicker than the day before. If he doesn't get medicine or sufficient amounts of food, it won't be long before he's the only remaining Fischbach. He's already lost his dad and brother, he can't lose his mother.

He heads down the road, his boots scuffing against the cobblestone. Candles flicker behind the glass windows of people's houses, lighting the insides with a warm orange glow. It makes him yearn for his own home and the comfort of his bed, but he can't think about that right now. His mother needs him.

He enters the centre of town and heads towards the general store, mounting his courage. Inside, a few customers mill around, buying the novelties you can only get from a store like this. The kind of novelties that Mark will never be able to afford. To his dismay, he realizes that the medicine is behind the counter, so he'll have to talk to the clerk in order to get it. After reevaluating his plan for a moment, he settles on the "grab it and run" plan.

The clerk, a jolly man with a large moustache and bright red cheeks, approaches the counter and smiles brightly at Mark. "Good evening, sir. What may I get for you?"

Mark hesitates before taking a deep breath. "My mother is sick. Do you have anything that could help her?"  His mind wanders to the empty cabinets at home.  "I also need bread."

The clerk clasps his hands together and turns, digging through his shelves. Mark clenches his fists, trying his hardest not to reveal the nervousness he feels. He's not a bad person, just poor. The clerk places a few loaves of bread on the table followed by a bottle, the red liquid inside shimmering through the glass. Mark takes it in his hand, observing it.

"That there is a mixture of ginger, assorted roots, and some magical powder from a caravan of wizards. It'll heal your mother right quick, it will," the clerk explains, making wide gestures with his hands. Mark gave him a skeptical glance, though he doubts the man noticed. He's never been the kind to believe in magic. It seems a bit far fetched to him.

"How much?" Mark asks, clutching the small bottle in his hand as he gathers up the bread in his arms.

"Sixteen pieces of gold," the clerk replies.

With one last glance at the man and a sigh, Mark races off out of the store with the medicine and bread in hand. Instantly, the clerk begins to shout and point at the farmer's retreating figure while other townspeople watch in horror. Mark does his best to ignore everyone around him, intent on getting to the safety of his own home. There, he can give his mother the remedy and food and she'll be okay again. Yes, he'll have to deal with the consequences, but he can worry about that after his mother is on the mend.

The sound of pounding hooves and the clanging of armour rings behind him, signifying that he has definitely got royal guards on his tail. He curses and takes a quick detour through an alley, successfully throwing them off for a moment. It gives him enough time to bolt towards his house and barrel through the front door, frightening his mom in the process.

"Mark, you scared me!" she exclaims, clutching the spot over her heart. When she notices the sweat dripping down her son's face and his panting, she grows concerned. "What happened?"

"I got... medicine. And food," he gasps, handing it to her.  "I've also got guards on my tail that will be here in moments. I have to go, Mum. I'm sorry."

His mother furrows her eyebrows. "Honey..."

"No time to talk. That medicine is going to heal you. Make this worth it."

The horses and shouts grow louder, leading Mark to rush out the front door and sprint down the cobble streets, adrenaline coursing through his veins and urging him forward.  His lungs burn, but he's used to this kind of exertion. Growing up on a farm teaches you to be tough, although he can confidently say he's never attempted to outrun anything faster or more agile than a Clydesdale. Military horses? Much, much faster than farm horses.

He skids to a stop as two mounted guards appear at the end of the road, blocking his path. As he attempts to spin around, he realizes that the guards have blocked that direction as well. They surround him, swords drawn.

With defeat settling over his heart, he raises his hands in surrender.