Page 11 of A War of Three Kings

For a long time, I sit on the ground next to that empty mug and plate, blinking and trying to stay awake.

After what feels like an eternity, I wield enough air magic to lift the mug from the ground and scrape another mark into the wall, counting the days. It clatters to the ground as my power flees me. A single, pitiful drop is all that has returned.

I know I have made a mistake when my stomach growls loudly. It churns and churns until the cramps become unbearable. I vomit right here in the center of the room, again and again until there is nothing left to come up, but my body still heaves and pants. A fever runs through me and sweat prickles my skin.

I hate myself for my weakness. For giving in to yet another trap.

I must have fallen asleep, because I wake to icy water raining heavily onto my face. It is I who wins this round, because my skin is so hot that the coldness of the water is a blessing.

I lie there, mouth open, allowing what I can catch to slide down my throat. It has become an art form, holding on to the last clutches of sleep for long enough to drink. I couldn’t have managed it earlier, without this sheer level of fatigue.

Sleep takes me again and I wake to a piercing headache. Instead of a shower falling upon me, it is single, large droplets, falling upon the exact same spot rhythmically until it feels like a nail is being hammered into my head. I groggily wipe the water from my face and sit up. The water evaporates.

The magic in this place is completely fucked up. But I win here too, because the room is now washed clean. Silver linings.

The door of the cell crashes open and I register the stomps of heavy boots and curt words shared between guards, but I cannot see them. My eyes struggle to focus.

Rough hands pull me up from under my shoulders and I am dragged to my feet and out the door. I blink in the harsh white light as I am practically carried down a corridor. There is a significance here that I am not quite grasping.

“By the gods, he is heavy,” a guard grumbles.

A blast of hot air hits me as I am brought into a room with flickering, warm light. Crackling hits my ears and a smoky essence fills my nose. A fireplace. This room has a fireplace. That is nice.

I am deposited into a chair, my full weight slamming into it. My weak body lolls dangerously to the side until thick ropes of air catch me and strap me in. The receding footsteps tell me the guards are walking away. They shut the door behind them.

Two people remain in this room with me. I can hear their heartbeats and breaths and smell their unique scents. I cannot see beyond the vague impression of colors, and even that fades in and out. They don’t say anything for the longest time.

A masculine voice finally breaks the silence.“This has gone too far.”

“I agree,” a woman says. “We have waited for the bastard to crack under these conditions and it is clearly not going to happen.”

“I don’t like what this has turned me into.” The man’s voice is low, not for my ears. Do they forget I am fae? “I never thought I would have?—”

“A parent goes to extremes to fight for their child,” the woman cuts in. “It might not be right, but you have three daughters and all your people to think of. You are Lord Protector for a reason: as the first line of defense against another fae invasion.” There is a grunt in reply, and the woman continues. “We can’t question him in this state. It is time we changed tactics.”

I blink, then blink again. The room moves around me and those voices continue, but I no longer hear them.

I fall into a deep sleep like I haven’t experienced in almost a week. The oblivion that consumes me is the sweetest thing I have felt in the longest time.

A light slap to the face wakes me instead of that horrible water, and I find I prefer it.

“Drink.”

Wrinkled hands hold a chalice to my lips and I obey the sharp command.I drink as much as they will allow. The water is so pure and clean of poison, it tastes of utter bliss.

“Open your mouth,” she orders again, and a piece of warm, juicy chicken is placed between my lips. I am fed a generous serve, and the grease coats my insides and lifts some of the fog from my mind.

When I am brought back to my cell, I am placed straight into the bed, and I sleep and sleep. The abyss I fall into is so deep and dark that no dreams follow me there, but it is the curative I need. Nothing wakes me—no cruelly designed torment, no showers of water or slaps. My body rouses when it is ready.

I notice two things immediately: the shadows that creep from evening to night, meaning I slept for a full day and night, and the platter of food on the ground waiting for me.

It is like a mirage I don’t dare believe.

Slices of pink ham and two large chicken drumsticks. Wedges of roasted pumpkin, sauteed red onions, mushroom caps dripping with butter and peas. A bowl of green olives and dried tomatoes. Slices of fresh bread and an orange. There are two jugs, one of water and one of wine.

I descend on the food with abandon, not caring where they put the poison, because I know they will get it into me regardless of what I do.

When I am done, I etch another two scratches into the wall, then fall into bed again. I sleep for the entire night and awake to the protest of hinges as the cell door is opened.

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