The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Six - Solitary Confinement

The rest of the day passes far too slowly. Mark gives up the prospect of napping and instead spends his time pacing the room, watching as the sun disappears from view and the moon rises over the horizon. He observes the ant-like kingdom below him, wishing that he could be down there with his mother. The luxuries are nice, yes, but he would enjoy them more if he didn't spend every waking moment worrying about whether his mother's heart is still beating.

The farmer pulls off his boots and sets them beside his bed before moving to the window. The glass lets in moonlight, but it stops air from getting in. He desperately needs to feel the wind on his face and smell the night air because maybe, it will curb the homesickness and help him relax. With one swift motion, he pushes the window open and settles himself on the sill.

The breeze rustles his clothing and hair, clearing his mind and bringing with it the scent of straw and the cooling earth. Far below him, torches flicker brightly against the darkened village and illuminate the surrounding cottages. Mark's heart pangs uncomfortably. More than anything, he wants to at least know that someone is taking care of his mother. He hates the thought of her being alone in a dark, cold cottage, unable to collect firewood because of the illness that weakens her body.

Mark buries his fingers in his hair and exhales through his nose, the room seeming to constrict around him and suffocate him. He wants to run through the streets and feel the wind whip his hair around. He wants to sit in the grass while the sun warms his face. At home, he never spent more than a few hours indoors at a time. He was always outside, working the fields or strolling through the marketplace. Here, he's trapped in one room and forbidden to go outdoors for reasons he doesn't understand, and he isn't sure how much longer he can take it.

Hopping off the windowsill, Mark moves towards the door of his room and knocks on the wooden surface, the sound echoing in the hallway outside. A few moments later, a key scrapes in the lock and a guard peers his face inside.

"What do you need?" he asks, the armour over his face muffling his voice slightly.

"I want to go outside," Mark replies. When he gets no response, he continues. "I need to be in nature."

The guard shoots a glance towards the other soldier stationed at the door. "We can't let you leave. Not without orders from King Seán."

The farmer feels the hope in his heart sink as anxiety begins to claw at his gut once again. "Please. You can send escorts with me if you must, but I can't stay in here anymore."

"I'm sorry, but we can't take you outside."

Mark nods curtly and slips back into his room, shutting the door before allowing himself to sink to the floor. He was always taught to never show his emotions, but the farmer doesn't know what else to do. He's trapped in a tower, he has no friends here, and he has no hope of going home. Feeling completely and utterly defeated, Mark buries his face in his knees and cries. He doesn't care that home brings with it dying fields, little food, and a cottage that doesn't always keep the storms out. It's still home.

When his head and eyes hurt from crying, he pulls himself to his feet and pulls his shirt off, tossing it away before falling onto the bed. The blankets are soft against his bare chest and the pillows are made from the finest feathers, causing Mark to punch the mattress below him.

"Curse you for being so comfortable," he mutters, crawling under the covers.

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, imagining himself in his bed at home, listening to the wind that blows against the outside of the cottage. The image disappears as quickly as it appeared when Mark hears the fireplace crackling and popping nearby with much more power than the one at home, or pays attention to the chill that seeps off the walls and into his very bones. This place isn't like home at all. There's no smell of warm thatch or wood. There's no person there whom Mark can share his grievances with. His mother had always been a source of companionship, and now she's alone as well.

Mark opens his eyes again, resting his hand on his forehead. The stone wall behind him, showing from above the headboard, emanates a damp cold, a stark contrast to the warmth issued by the fire. He grimaces, liking this place less and less. Is it so hard to make a room one consistent temperature?

He sighs, realizing that he's just being irritable. Rest would definitely help, if only he could fall asleep. In his mind's eye, he can see himself approaching the king and demanding freedom. He can picture the emotionless expression of the king changing to one of compassion as he nods and allows him to go. Mark smiles a little at the image of King Seán smiling. Does the king know how to be happy? What does his laugh sound like? What is he like when he sheds the royal façade?

With these thoughts swirling around in his head, he finally manages to drift off.