Disobedience [h.s.]

Twenty

"Get up." Harry's boot collides with the aging metal bars and sends vibrations through the dense structure.

The prisoner's ears twitch in time with the rapid rise of his shoulders and spike in his heartbeat. Every bone in his body rattles in time with the abused metal, the acerbic tone of the Prince's voice sears his eardrums and roots his feet to the glacial floor.

The man inside remains curled into himself, his bones pressed against the dank stone floor. An infantile sound crawls through the silence.

"Are you deaf? Get up."

He does not move. Rage reignites the forest fire inside Harry's irises and consumes what little control he holds over his actions, leaving him wild--impulsive. Thunder surges through the foundation as the cell door berates the adjacent wall. Fueled by untamed instinct, Harry grabs the the man by his collar and hoists him to his feet. "I suggest you follow orders if you value your head."

Disoriented and weak, he stumbles over his feet and forces his body to march as if it is not broken. The Prince pays no attention and shoves him between his shoulders when his pace falters. An uncountable number of guards surrounds them, anxious to calm the commotion and assure the safety of the temperamental Prince.

Harry adjusts his crown and scowls with an intensity that rivals the crudest expression his father is capable of and sends spears into the hearts of his men. "I do not require supervision."

Harry musters no reply, the interaction only furthers his umbrage. "Leave and do not follow me. Anyone who disregards my order will be tried for treason."

Men disperse like frightened geese. Harry's jaw is under so much pressure it wants to dislocate. The horses in the stable tramp the ground anxious in the wake of the storm that is approaching.

The edge of his jaw could slice skin. Harry's eyes melt into the blackness of night, drained of their vibrant color and filled with a rage he has never before possessed. His scowl is so ardent it elicits the vein in his neck to breach the surface and demonstrate his venomous pulse. "You will take me to the man who sent you. If you try to run or deceive me, my sword will replace your tongue."

His crown is no longer burdensome as he mounts his mare. The sword at his hip is dormant, waiting for its first opportunity to slice into a stranger and bathe in foreign blood. If Caldwell has not been following Brielle, the man under his glare could have had his way with her. A pyre would suit him better.

Harry allows his anger to deplete in response to the steady clip of horseshoes against the chirps and ticks of the nocturnal insects. Alaria is near sleep's warm embrace. Lanterns are surrounded by the depth of midnight's shadow as others are extinguished. He wonders what it's like to be inside the village, under a small roof without ornate trinkets decorating every blank space. Brielle's voice is in his head, describing the life she wants with him inside a house of their own, a house outside of the castle. The memory soothes the irritant that plagues his mind. He will have to stop and pick some pink flowers for her upon his return.

"Are you always this cruel?"

The crown atop his head glitters in the moonlight, its reflection a fragmented pattern inside the shadow of his horse. "Cruel is one thing I am not."

Ahead of him, the nameless man scoffs and throws a humorless smile over his shoulder. "Tell that to my bruises. Perhaps they will believe you."

The temptation to unsheathe his sword makes his fingers itch and fidget against the reins. "How much further?"

"Another bend."

Harry entertains the thought of dragging the man behind the horses if he decides to swindle him. "There is nothing but trees ahead."