The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Salvation

The men leave and Mark is left on the floor, curled up, bleeding, and unable to hear through the ringing in his ears. His eyes burn, but he can't cry. He doesn't know what time it is, or how long he's been trapped here.

Mark turns his body towards the wall, his cheek pressing against the cold floor. It's soothing against the massive bruise on his jaw and face, but chills the rest of his body. He doesn't care. He just wants the aching and stinging to stop. He wants Seán to save him.

Shouts and sword clashes echo through the dungeon halls, but they seem distant to Mark's exhausted mind. He clutches an arm limply over the wound on his chest, becoming more and more listless the longer he lies there.

"Mark!" Someone crouches beside him, saying his name over and over again. He flinches away from them, expecting another boot to the gut or another tsunami of disgusting words and actions. They lay their hand on his shoulder and he tenses, trying desperately to get away. "Come on, you're freezing..."

Someone enters and the person glances at them, barking an order before turning back to Mark. The prince curls into a tight ball, hiding his face in his knees as he lies there. He can't formulate a thought. He just knows that voices means the rendezvous group is here to lead him to the slaughter.

"Mark, it's me. Seán. Let me help you," the voice pleads. Hands are placed on Mark again, and although he tenses, he doesn't try to move away. The words start making sense slowly, some of the fog lifting from his mind. "If I try to heal you fully I'll be too weak to ride back, so just hang in there. I will do what I can, okay?"

Seán... Is this real? Is this some sort of exhaustion-induced mind game? Mark cracks open one eye and nearly sobs when he recognizes a head of green hair.  His voice comes out as a whimper as he slowly reaches out, but before he takes the king's hand he hesitates. "Seán..."

"Shh." The royal takes his hand and squeezes it gently. "Shh, you're going to be alright. Stay still."

The person from earlier enters the room and Seán mumbles something to him before untying his cloak and draping it around Mark. The farmer pulls it closer, shuddering slightly from the sudden warmth. As soon as he's adequately covered, Seán lifts him into his arms as gently as possible, using some of his magic to help ease a little of the weight. Mark goes rigid for a moment, his eyes filling with panic, before becoming listless again as he lets his head fall back against Seán's shoulder. He coughs into his arm weakly, leaving a splatter of blood behind that makes the king's eyes crease with worry.

Seán slowly allows some of magic to soak into the prince's veins, helping Mark fall asleep. The king may not be able to heal him completely without nearly killing himself, but at least he can knock him out so the pain subsides a little.

He exits the town dungeon and rejoins the caravan of soldiers and horses. Immediately, his guards are shouting to each other and flanking the king.

"Your highness, is he okay?" one of the men asks, eyeing the bloodied, bruised, and unconscious prince.

"He will live," the royal replies, donning his emotionless mask to hide the fear and anger beneath. "I cannot heal him at the moment. We will stop for the night at the next town, where we will find a doctor. I want to leave here as soon as possible."

The guards listen without another word, mounting their horses and helping the king get Mark onto his horse. Seán mounts afterwards, holding the prince in place as the guards lead the caravan away from Nuxvar.

—

The moment they get to the town, the guards find them a place in the inn and Seán brings Mark inside, immediately settling him on the bed. His head spins from exertion, forcing him to pull his magic back into his body. Almost instantly, Mark regains consciousness and stiffens, his breathing panicked as he looks around. The moment he moves he winces, clenching his hands into fists and covering the wound on his chest with one weak arm.

"Mark, you're okay," Seán whispers, his voice breaking as he rests his hand on the prince's. "Breathe."

Mark inhales and immediately breaks into a ferocious, bloody coughing fit. With every cough, he curls into a tighter and tighter ball, scooting away from the king. Hesitantly, Seán pulls his hand away from Mark and wipes the moisture from his eyes, a dagger in his heart.

"Don't move. You could make your injuries worse."

Mark glances over at him, his eyes flicking from the king's wounded gaze to the cloak that now lies beneath him over and over again. After several moments, he manages to settle into the pillows. Every breath comes out as a wheeze and every movement makes his brown eyes swim with pain.  Soon, a doctor comes in and bandages the external injuries as gently as possible while Seán finds the energy in him to heal the internal ones.  Although Mark remains rigid through the whole ordeal, he's left in pain but better off than before.  The doctor, after confirming that the prince would be alright with time, leaves them alone.

Seán rests his head on the bed beside Mark, nearly nodding off from exhaustion and the massive ache that throbs in his skull. The farmer falls asleep next to him, his fingers just barely brushing Seán's. Bruises and cuts, less severe now thanks to the healing, still mar his face and bare torso and make Seán's stomach boil with anger. At least his breathing is normal and not a wheeze anymore. He lifts his head, keeping one hand near Mark's as he gently runs his free hand down an undamaged area of the prince's face. In sleep, Mark doesn't tense up or move away. Tears well in Seán's eyes and his heart aches as he watches him.

What did they do to you?

He wraps the prince in his cloak again before carefully moving his hand to cover Mark's. With a deep sigh, he rests his head on the bed and lets himself nod off.