Dinner came with some sweet potatoes, a cup of dirty water, and a dash of betrayal.
“Please have some food, sirs,” Helen pushed the tray towards them, unable to look the two prisoners in the eye. Normally, he’d be included to spit out curses and expletives at anyone who dared double-cross him, especially on his rare moments of kindness.
But as Aster caught a glimpse of the little slash on the kids’ throat, right where his knife had touched, Aster found himself unable to open his mouth.
“Say sorry,” Florence’s voice immediately snapped.
The kid dropped to her knees on command. “I’m sorry –” She sounded close to tears, but whether or not they fell, Aster couldn’t tell. “I swear I didn’t mean it–”
“NO!” The scribe screeched. “I mean you, Aster! Apologise to the child!”
The scribe nudged Aster through their restraints, his joints pressing into some of Aster’s still tender injuries. Unable to help it, Aster let out a string of curses, wishing he could cut the man where he stood. He cursed Florence, for his stupid joints and his stupid orders.
Then, in a moment of self-betrayal, he cursed the kid.
“Why should I apologise, even?” He gritted his teeth. “We gave her food, and she sold us out! Like hell I’d–wait. What’s that on your face?”
This time, Helen finally looked up. Her frightened eyes met Aster’s, all freckled cheeks and black and blues. Not that much difference from the first time they met, really. However, even in the dim light of the cave, Aster could notice the split lip and a bruise on her cheek – something that Aster definitely did not remember inflicting.
The kid put her hands on her face, a little confused. “Wha-what do you mean, sir?”
“You’re hurt,” Florence said, stating the obvious.
And then, ‘you’re hurt’ became:
“Who did this to you?”
Helen opened her mouth, then closed it again. The look in her eyes was no less terrified.
“Children,” a voice cut in, “You know how they are. Dastardly little things.”
Her mother came up behind her, putting on her hand on Helen’s shoulder. Helen visibly trembled, which told Aster and Florence all that they needed to know.
“Has the envoy decided to reveal himself?” The mother asked, in a sickly sweet voice sent shivers up Aster’s spine. “Or do we proceed in sending both of you as a package?”
Aster considered their options.The first step to breaking out is breaking free of their restraints, and as of this moment, Aster had nothing in him that could cut the ropes. Even if he managed to break free, he also had the scribe with him, which leads one more body to protect. Then there was the child, whom Aster couldn’t possibly kill, and her parents too, that Aster couldn’t hope to touch either.
(Not unless, of course, the kid had other requests.)
How troublesome. This is exactly why he insisted on going alone. If it had been him, he’d probably have covered half of their route, or simply killed everyone and everything that stood in his path. He’d have made everyone pay for the humiliation of being duped, or at least got the chance to walk away with his dignity. This would be his last good deed for the year.
God forbid you ever held good intentions, his prison mate had told him once. What was so shameful about wanting to do good?
Back then, Aster focused on results. Good and bad didn’t matter – one could only live or die. That was the truth of this world.
But then again, the truth of his world once dictated that Emperor Sibylla had never known a day of struggle in his life. A fact that, upon recent discovery, was subject to change.
“Fine, you got me.” Aster spoke up, finally coming to a decision. “I’m the envoy. His Highness sent me here, I was supposed to meet up with a merchant here. Didn’t think the whole plains would have my head for it.”
The scribe went stiff as a board as he heard those words, probably unable to believe that Aster actually had serious acting skills. He was a bad negotiator, for fuck’s sake, not a bad liar!
“Oh, you’re lucky that you were wanted alive,” the mother crooned. “And don’t think about lying, because your, erm, beloved friend will have it.”
“Beloved?!” Aster screeched.
“Have what?” Florence called out.
But the mother had already disappeared, taking the little girl with them. Nobody even seemed to notice the fact that the little kid might have brought food, but she brought food to two tied up men with no way of eating them.
Another betrayal, so it seemed.
***
Once, the Sybillas had tried to serve Florence with lunch.
He sat at the Sybilla’s family table, finally acknowledged enough to take his seat without being treated like dirt. The table was long enough to house the Duke and Duchess Sybilla along with their brood, then children of their children, and who knows what else shared their cursed lineage.
Food was spread out in a banquet – piles of grapes, honey-glazed meats, caramelised dates, leafy greens, ice-cold beverages, and more. Everyone in the family sat with their backs ramrod straight, the picture perfect image of nobility, but no one dared to eat. Their plates remained empty, the utensils stayed perfectly lined up.
All eyes were on Florence. Waiting.
The Sibyllas were smart. They invited Florence suddenly, knowing there would be no opportunity for him to refuse, and they did it right in front of the Emperor, knowing that His Highness would put more pressure on Florence to attend. They knew that Florence liked sweet things, so the food selection was savoury. They saved him a seat and refused to eat until he had taken the first bite.
They probably thought that Florence would simply do as he was told, as he had always done. Visit the main house and serve his cousins, find his aunts and uncles and be their verbal punching bag – all the usual treatment reserved for the pariahs of the family. But on that particular day, Florence had received the Emperor’s favour – the highest achievement of any noble family in the empire. This elevated him from ‘the commoner child that aced the Imperial Exams’ to an actual foothold for the family.
“Are you not hungry, child?” The duchess – his grandmother – asked.
Truth be told, Florence was starving. His stomach rumbled, and the smell wafting from the table was mouth-watering to the point he could almost taste it. But none came close to the high of holding his family hostage to their seats, unable to utter a word. There’s no way to rush the guest of honour.
He stared at the food, wishing he could flip the table. He wished he could send everyone here in Taratus to live in exile, see if their luxuries can help them survive the bitter cold. He wished he could do more than delay their meals and make them uncomfortable.
He took a bite out of the meat and watched as everyone else followed.
“His Majesty sent me on a mission, my lady,” he began.
The duchess smiled serenely. “Ah, yes. He did mention that. We’re very happy that one of ours can serve the empire.”
One of ours. It wasn’t too long ago that she liked to refer to Florence as that bastard child and that woman’s spawn.
His relatives were quick to offer their assent, praising Florence for being able to work his way to His Majesty’s graces. This was a good thing, they said.
“Finally,” one of his uncles said, “Elise did something right.”
Florence clenched his jaw. If his mother were here, sitting on his table, perhaps it’d be easier to swallow his fury. The Sibylla’s weren’t masters of trade for nothing – they were experts at using people to their advantage, especially when it comes to holding them on a leash. Then, when the leash snaps or chokes their pet, they blame it for being unruly.
(They say nothing when the pet dies, and perhaps that was the worst of it.)
“I will be General Ettore on his trip to the outskirts,” he said. He made sure to return the duchess’ politeness tenfold, unwavering in his modesty. “He said he needed someone he could trust to watch over the General, and this humble one is glad to be of service.”
The duchess beamed at him from the head of the table. It was the closest thing to pride that she could ever hold for him, and whereas a younger Florence would have melted at the gesture, all he felt at that moment was indifference. He could sense the jealousy emanating from the others – not only did Florence manage to gain the attention of his Highness, he was also close to the empire’s White Knight.
He’d be lying if he said that his friendship with Percival was purely out of shared values and interests. But then again, as if he’d let anyone else accompany the General in his most dangerous mission. He’d rather stew his own hypocrisy than risk the man being stabbed in the back.
“General Ettore is another strong contender for the throne,” the duke said. “Protect him with your life, if you have to.”
Florence almost snorted. The Sybillas thought that they could rest their laurels even if Florence died, and thought they could reap the benefits if he happened to die honourably.
“You all die if I die, though,” Florence chirped.
Utensils fell. Some choked, while the duke and duchess themselves sat up straighter. The duchess wiped some imaginary stain off her mouth.
“Come again?”
Florence took out a wine bottle and popped it open.Then, ignoring the table’s flabbergasted looks, he sipped his wine straight from the lips of the bottle.
Delicious.
“That was my condition,” he explained.”Because we all share the same blood, and we’re all loyal to the Great Empire, then it should only be right that we die together, yeah?”
This was one of his favourite memories — the slamming of the table, the collective gasps, the looks of betrayal. Some had cried, calling him ungrateful, then there were those that drew their swords, demanding that Florence be ended right then and there.
“If your authority is greater than His Highness, then by all means, go ahead,” he challenged. He sat back on his seat, finally comfortable. “Until then, I would advise you all to sit down and eat this wonderful lunch, it would be a shame to see this much food go to waste.”
As it turned out, forcing people to eat was better than having them starve.
***
When Florence came to, he was left all alone in their cell, with Aster nowhere to be found.
His hands and feet remain bound, tighter than it used to be. The ropes burned in his skin, and he struggled to feel his wrists. There was a horrible taste in his mouth, and it took him a few moments to realise that he’d been gagged with some strange, dirty cloth that he’d rather not think about. The tray stood a few feet across from him, empty now, as if the rats had decided the food was better off in their stomach than left to rot.
If it was hard to tell the time before, it was harder to tell what’s real now. For one moment, a flash of panic seized him:
How long have I been here?
Where am I?
Where was Aster?
The last thing he remembered was drifting off to sleep, and even then Aster had been tied right against him. Tied. His ropes show no traces of being cut or loosened, as if it had only been him inside this cell the entire time.
The urge to scream for help sat on the back of his throat, like a cough itching to be let out. He didn’t have any trouble being tied up before, especially knowing that he wasn’t on his own. Ever since he set out to join the army, he was always accompanied by either a soldier, Sir Marzio, or the General himself.
It hit him that he had never been completely alone, up until now.
Florence felt his breathing get heavier. He needed to get out, he needed to be free, he needed to see another person. Anyone would do, so long as it saved him from these mossy walls. Anything but the silence.
His saviour came in the form of Helen’s father – the big, burly man dressed in a black overcoat and winter boots. According to Helen’s story, this man was supposed to have been beaten within an inch of his life in order to save his wife.
The reality looked like he’d be the one doing the opposite. He stepped towards Florence with a sickly, sweet smile.
Florence felt the hit before he saw it coming. The man’s face collided with his pretty, pretty face, sending him reeling despite his ropes. Florence hadn’t been hit in a long time, much less square in the face, so at first his reaction was to have the man seized.
How dare you! He screamed through his restraints.
“You slut,” another hit. This one caught the side of Florence’s cheeks. “Where is he?”
Florence glared at the man. What the fuck did you just say?
“You think this is funny, huh? Where’s your man?” Another punch, this time accompanied with a kick. Florence tasted blood. At this point, the stack of offences piled up like incoming bruises.
Florence’s head slumped, too shocked to feel the sting of his injuries. He felt lightheaded, as if he was one punch away from drifting back to sleep. The man knelt down, stared at Florence for a second, then removed his gag. The idiot must have realised his mistake just now.
“This is the last time I’ll repeat myself,” the man threatened. “Where’s your man?”
Florence considered his options. He could bite this man’s head off and forfeit his own life easily, if he was that spiteful. Or he could spit in the man’s face and get clocked one more time, and risk having his nose broken for good. Killing was no good, because for some reason Florence drew the line at killing other people’s family members. But it was a close call.
He spat the blood from his mouth and held the man’s gaze, ensuring that he looked at the man straight in the eye as he said the words.
“For the last time, he’s not–”
“Here.”
The man crumpled to the floor, right next to Florence. Standing above him with a shit-eating grin on his face was none other than Aster.
“What,” he said, “You didn’t think I’d leave you, right?”
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