The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Clean

Mark stares at the far wall of the cell, his entire body aching as the cold from the damp stone floor seeps into his wounds and skin.  He can't sleep.  He can't breathe without it hurting.  He can't get his mind off Seán.

    Footsteps sound behind him, followed by a rough hand on Mark's bicep. The farmer immediately tenses up as a wave of panic floods him.  Deriding laughter follows, and the hand yanks him upright.

    "Feeling tense, princess?" the man sneers.  Mark recognizes him as one of the kidnapper's henchmen and grimaces.  Greasy black hair frames his thin face, paired with a sorry excuse for a beard.  His hand is calloused and cold against Mark's arm, his fingernails pressing hard against his skin.

    "Don't touch me," the prince growls, his voice a harsh murmur.

    "Oh, Mark."  The man pulls his head to the side so Mark is looking at him.  "You don't get a choice."

    The farmer tries to pull himself away from the harsh grip, but the man just steels his hold.  Mark tries not to hyperventilate, but his panic makes it difficult.

    "I was told to clean you up a bit before we bring you the rest of the way to Rubellus," the man states, scratching away a bit of the dried blood on Mark's lips with a dirty fingernail.  The farmer flinches, jerking his head away from the man's finger.  "The conquerer wants you to look a very specific way before he kills you for everyone to see."

    The man stands and Mark slumps back to the floor, too exhausted and achy to even hold himself up.  The man makes a disapproving sound and disappears momentarily, returning with a bucket of water, rags, and a knife.

    "Your shirt is in shreds, princess," he says, kneeling down beside Mark.  "Let's fix that.  And I'm warning you, if you squirm, my blade could slip."

    Mark lies there, his chest rising and falling irregularly, as the man starts slowly cutting the farmer's shirt off his body.  When the white cotton falls away, it reveals dark bruises and a large gash across his pectorals.  Dried blood runs from his face to his torso, red mingling with blue and purple.

    "Ooh my, you're in rough shape," the man comments with a cold grin.  He grabs his bucket of water and dunks the rag in it, pulling the wetted cloth out.  "I'll help you out."

    He slaps the wet rag down on Mark's chest, earning a pained hiss from the prince.  He scrubs with rough, jagged motions until Mark's skin is raw and what had been dried blood is pooling around him on the stone floor.  The prince shivers from the cold that clings to him, every muscle in his body rigid.

    "I don't think we're quite done," the man comments, standing up again and tossing his rag to the side. 

    After a moment, he cackles and grabs the handle of his bucket, dumping the remaining water over Mark and soaking him to the bone.  Mark gasps, shivering even worse, and raises a hand to wipe the water from his eyes.  Before he can, the man slams his hand back against the stone and earns a strangled yell from the prince.

    "This is how the conquerer wants to see you.  Yes, clean but broken.  Physically strong..." He traces the muscles of Mark's stomach, and the farmer tries to turn away even more.  He reaches over and grabs the prince's hair, pulling the wet strands so that Mark looks at him.  "But mentally weak."

    He drags his thumb over Mark's lips, wiping away the moisture, before standing up once again.  The prince scowls and lifts his hand, channeling his magic and sending a surge of agony through every tissue in his body.  He doesn't care.  He knocks the man down with a strand of red magic and drags himself into the corner, curled up and trembling.

    The man scrambles to his feet, yelling to his comrades for help.  In mere moments, three other men are rushing into the room.

    "He used his magic against me!" the man exclaims, gesturing wildly at the prince.

    The original kidnapper scowls and steps forward.  "Well, I guess we have to teach him a lesson then."

    Mark braces himself as the men approach him, dragging him out of his safe corner and into the centre of the room.  They punch and kick him until he's black and blue in a brand new variety of places, his eyes welling with tears.  He can't even bring himself to cry.  Between the all-too-familiar pain coursing through his body, the pangs of hunger in his stomach, and the water that chills him to the core instead of quenching his thirst, Mark doesn't have the energy to cry or even move, for that matter.  His ears ring, making it difficult for him to hear the laughing of his tormentors. He just lies there, painfully submissive and horrifically weak.

    Seán, please save me.