The Prince's Mark

Chapter Thirty Three

Mirthal spent as much time as he could asleep. Anything was preferable to sitting around wondering how long it would take until the Winleans decided to kill him.

Most of his dreams revolved around his home. The palace had contained him for nearly eighty years. All the villages Mirthal had seen were smaller than his palace, but having a big cage wasn't much better than a small one. Endless lessons, meetings with nobles, celebrations, and Pendaer dodging had been exhausting.

But it had been better than where he was now.

Now, Mirthal lay in his bed, buried under as many fluffy blankets as he could stand. Sunlight poured in from a circular window, making the room smell of warmth. Bliss.

Someone called his name from far away. At first, the light singing that echoed around the palace covered up the noise, but it kept getting louder. Didn't they know how tired he was? After all he had been through in Winlea, he deserved some extra time in his bed. He should be allowed to sleep for a hundred years.

Dimly, he recognized the voice. Tracou. He had told Tracou to come visit him in a decade—had that much time passed already?

It seemed natural that Tracou was in his castle with him. If someone had to wake him up every morning it should be Tracou. He could wake him up, eat meals with him, spend time with him, and whatever else he wanted to do. Ideally, he should have been sleeping next to him. Had he gotten up and started doing things alone? That wasn't good; he and Mirthal should be together. He was his guest, after all.

Tracou kept saying his name, sounding insistent. Hearing it comforted him, even with the tone he used, but he would have preferred something softer.

Then something smacked into his ear. Mirthal's facial features squeezed together as he rode out the stinging sensation.

Wait a minute.

"Get up!" Tracou hissed.

Mirthal shot up and turned. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark since he had been thrown into the dungeon that he recognized Tracou instantly.

Tracou. He had come to him somehow. Tracou, his only friend, and now his savior.

Why? He should be in Dezmer, living his little dezmek life. He couldn't be in horrible, frozen Winlea—the people here hated elves and didn't hold much affection for dezmek, either.

"Tracou?" he asked hesitantly, as though he might vanish at any moment.

"Mirthal," Tracou replied warmly. He then lifted his wand near his face and a small, wobbly ball of light escaped the tip and floated in the air next to him. His pupils, which had engulfed his eyes, receded at the introduction of light.

Winlea, the dungeon, his constant, dull hunger—these concerns all shriveled up and crumbled into dust compared to the blinding light that was Tracou. Beaming, he darted to the bars. Tracou sat right on the other side. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, content in basking in the other's presence.

A million questions bubbled within Mirthal. Tears did, too, but he wiped his eyes before any spilled. There was so much he could ask that he had no idea where to begin. Ultimately, the important thing was that Tracou was here with him now. Tracou looked worse for wear though—his hair hadn't been trimmed since the last time Mirthal had seen him and he had lost weight.

There were so many things he wanted to say, but Mirthal settled on an easy one.

"Oh, Tracou, I've missed you."

Slipping a hand through the bars, Mirthal reached out to him. Part of him wanted to cup Tracou's cheek and see his reaction to that, but it wouldn't be as fun with these bars in between them. Instead, he held his hand out, which Tracou grabbed. The warmth of his hands, one gloved and one bare, soothed him more even than the sight of Tracou had.