Pain creates a castle in Brielle's bones, stretching through every small crevice until she feels nothing but pulsating agony. She's certain there is some sort of fracture in her skull. Whoever hit her either held a grudge or murderous tendencies. Perhaps both from her understanding of Aylwin. "What a lovely wedding gift."

Caldwell's laugh sounds like he's been eating rocks day and night for the last three days. "Good to see you're not half out of your mind." He's seen men return to infancy after receiving similar blows to the head. Granted, their wounds happened in battle and not on their wedding day.

Brille hears scattered syllables--words too far apart to make any logical sentence. "I can't...I can't hear you." Syrup-coated delirium blocks her ears, distorting even the sounds that stumble from her own mouth.

"Can you see me?"

"What?" She raises a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes and willing her mind to clear. When she opens her eyes, all she can make out is a blurry figure against the opposite wall. He's standing in an awkward position and there is a large dark spot surrounding his left leg. "I can't exactly...see or hear properly."

The guard outside of the cell chuckles, dragging his blade across the bars to release a screech dragons would fear. Caldwell closes his eyes, releasing a sigh. "Thank you, we were in dire need of music."

"Funny man, aren't you? We'll see how funny you are when you're limping like a beaten dog."

Obscure men drag their limbs through cotton fog, mumbling in an unfamiliar language. Brielle grits her teeth, forcing her jaw together until the bones are burdened with the pressure of steel and her back is straight against the stone wall. "I need water." Wine would fare better with the pain, but would harm the child Aylwin must not know about. The moment he knows, he'll use it to fuel the rage within his brother's heart. Or he'll beat her until the heir does not exist.

"Water is for guards not prisoners." Sound breaks through the injured barrier, berating her eardrums and adding unbearable pressure in her temples.

He must not expect much from Harry in the form of retaliation. "How do you expect to ransom me if I am dead? He will slaughter all of you in your sleep." If stealing his wife on his wedding day hasn't already driven him to such a drastic course of action.

"Speak to the true King if you want a drink."

Brielle rolls her eyes, feigning ignorance to the nausea the small action of defiance brings. "The true King has not yet been crowned and is not hiding in the cells of an abandoned castle."

Unable to see his expression, she stares at the wall behind his head and wills it to focus. "Watch your tongue, Princess."

"Or what? You'll talk behind steel bars and arc your sword through an imagined enemy?"

Caldwell chokes on a laugh, coughing his lungs into his throat. "No, he prefers to talk and wield his sword in his weak hand. How does your wrist feel by the way? Still intact I see."

The nameless guard turns his back, twisting his wrist and grumbling about a weak attempt.

Her tongue feels like it's made of sand, yet she cannot seem to hold it. "How many?"

Caldwell knows what she's asking, hesitating with the number either to spare her the perilous nature of their situation or steel himself against his failure. He is the best of the King's guard, there is only one reason he is with her and not protecting Harry and his father inside the castle.

"Eight. The ninth held a knife to your unconscious throat."

Blood coats the left side of his trousers, from his knee to his ankle. "You didn't have to do that for me."

Something short of a sigh leaves his nostrils. "I did."

Either Harry asked him to or she's done something to earn his friendship more than she thought she had. Poor Farah is probably pacing her feet bloody worrying about him. "Was it a tear or a stab?"

Without his armor, he is much smaller in stature. She's never seen him so vulnerable--so unfettered from his duty to the crown. His eyes appear gray under such dim lighting, drained of energy yet still filled with threatening swells. The pain he feels will not show itself without his permission.

"A bit of both, I'm afraid. Bastard outside the cell swung while I was mid-battle with another of Aylwin's sellswords."

"No one here is a sellsword."

Caldwell scoffs and drags his foot through damp straw. "I'm sorry, were you not promised a place in the King's guard if you fought for him?"

His silence is answer enough. Every man that fights for the bastard Prince is seeking to gain something in return, whether it be wealth, status, or fame. If given the opportunity, every man in his army would pierce his chest without a second thought. Will Harry's men stand by him? How many stood with him at the chapel?

"Do you feel faint?" She knows he will hide behind his hard exterior before admitting the truth, but there is no harm in asking. A few needles are still hidden inside her dress, holding the back together amid the corset strings. June felt they didn't need to be so rigid and breathing would not hurt for a day.

Water drips from the ceiling in the center of the room, embracing the algae covered bricks. No one has been inside these cells for centuries, no one living anyway. Gray skeletons hold residence in every corner of the room, belonging to men whose names will never again be uttered. Men who were forgotten the moment the Iylion Castle fell under siege by the Wayland's hands.

Caldwell groans as he lowers himself to a seated position, his left leg outstretched to even out the pain. "Yes."

She's no master, but if he loses anymore blood he won't be able to function. Asking the guard for the torch in the hall will result in nothing. "Let me close it."

He rests his head against the wall, extending his arms as if giving her an offering. "By all means."

Pulling a needle from a space just below her corset, she closes her eyes and exhales the dread building in her lungs. All she has to do is sew the wound shut like she would bind two fabrics together. Easy.

The guard pays them no mind, staring at a blank wall as if it is a priceless painting. Caldwell feigns a smile. "Perhaps I will lose consciousness and wake to a pretty bow on my leg."

Brielle masks her panicked demeanor with a laugh as she tears a string from her dress, unraveling it until the string is long enough to seal his wound. Using string is a risk, but without the torch there is no other way to close the wound and ward off infection. "Would you like one?"

The last thing he wants is a girlish bow to accent such a lengthy scar. Farah is going stand over him day and night the moment they return. "Absolutely not."

She wonders how much people bleed when the needle breaks through the punctured skin. Watching from a bed of her own in the infirmary wasn't the best view and pain always sounds the same regardless of where it is felt. And guards are known to tolerate wounds better than most.

Crossing the small room feels like breaking every bone in her legs. Apparently, being knocked unconscious wasn't enough to satiate the bitter appetite of her captors. His skin lays open like a flayed fish, sinew and muscle exposed but not enough to reveal the bone beneath. "How are you still awake?"

Hesitation lingers in his lungs. "I've been in worse pain."

"I'm sorry." The needle pierces his skin, drawing little blood. Brielle bites the inside of her cheek, forcing her breathing to remain stable. Sewing is easy...as long as she pretends it's dense fabric and not her friends leg.

"Don't be. How do you know what to do?" Rather than watch her hands, he stares at the ceiling, forcing his teeth together to eliminate any sound that might escape. Imagining the pain he feels brings tremors to her fingers.

Brielle wants to rip her lungs from her chest--expel the memory from her body before it leaves her mind. Watching those poor people suffer and watching herself bleed to clear the fever is a hell she never wants to return to. "I listened and watched while I was in the infirmary with consumption. There wasn't much else to do when Harry didn't visit." He only came when she was being bled, half out of her mind with fever dreams.

"He went every night, you know. Slept by your bedside and left before dawn despite his parents wishes. Bastard is lucky he didn't ruin his lungs as well." The needle dips too far and strikes something that forces a laden groan through his lips. "He was afraid...afraid you would turn him away after what he'd done. Wouldn't shut up about he destroyed the only good thing in his life. Bloody talked my ear off all day."

Harry throws his book at the grass. "Elle! Please talk to me."

She ignores him, running her fingers through soft petals and humming to a song she made up. He keeps begging her to speak to him and she's determined not to. First he bought her a dress, covered in pretty lace and drowned in rich blue dyes. Then he bought her a fancy doll that felt like ice and held a creepy expression from every angle. As if buying her forgiveness was an option for leaving her alone, waiting for him under the cold weight of a winter night until her toes felt like they would break off.

"I didn't mean to." A pout overtakes the false smile he wore when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She is not another lesson he can master or an object he can buy. "Mother locked my doors from the outside and posted guards beneath my window."

Brielle doesn't spare him a glance. "Why would she do that?"

He's silent for too long, forming sentences that will either make sense or float into oblivion. "I told her I meant to see you. To watch the stars."

"You shouldn't have."

"Why not? I'm allowed to see you if I want to."

A laugh masks the tears roaring to life in her eyes. "No you're not. That's why she did it. She doesn't like me. I'm a commoner. Unworthy of any attention you may wish to give me."

Harry takes her hand, ignoring the way she flinches. "And why do you think I've come to see you so much since? They can't stop me, you know."

"Aye, will you shut up in there? Prisoners aren't meant to speak so much."

A bone flies into the steel bars, rattling in the empty corridor with a sickening volume. "Neither are guards." Caldwell picks up another bone the size of his finger, twisting it around like a weapon. The guard makes an animalistic sound, straightening his shoulders and shifting his feet. For a guard, he's not very solid in his position.

Looking down at Caldwell's swollen leg breaks something inside her stomach. Skin is not cloth.

Vomit creeps up her throat before she can make it to the opposite corner. A hand is on her back but it does not ease the acidic taste or the convulsions in her throat. Darkness plagues her eyes, dragging her mind back to dreams of Harry, laughing and swinging a little girl in circles and telling her she is the prettiest butterfly to ever live.

Warm hands encase her cheeks. "Brielle?"

Sleep consumes her vision, coercing her eyelids to falter and see an image of another man with the same expression but green eyes. "Harry? How did you--"

Aylwin laughs, a sound worthy of cringing that echoes through the vacant halls. "Wrong Prince, dove."

He reaches for a spot on her forehead, iron fingers cold against her skin. "I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Brielle wants to lunge for him, tear the look right off his face. He is anything but sorry for abducting her on her wedding day. All he wants is a throne that will never belong to him and name that will never fit. She settles for a burning glare.

"Does it hurt?"

He can starve her if he wants to, she will not speak to the man who stole the happiest moment of her life from her without regard for anyone but himself.

Silence prompts him to press further, caressing her cheek as if she were a doll. A blade would be preferable. "I have to admit, I never understood why he was so infatuated with you. That is, until I met you of course." She turns her head, desperate to rid her skin of the venom creeping through his fingertips. "Such a pretty face." He lingers above her, waiting for a reaction. Testing her.

Richard's crown would suit him well.

"And why are you here?" The soles of his shoes hiss as he attempts the same tactic with Caldwell. "What does a peasant girl mean to a King's guard?"

Caldwell replies with an indifferent shrug, keeping his intentions to himself lest someone else decides to take up a sword against him. She wonders how he would fare if another of Aylwin's followers tried to challenge him with a wounded leg. Harry's told her a few stories about his childhood and he was made to become stone, not someone who could love or seek something other than honor and duty.

Faint bird calls wind their way through the aged bricks, eliciting a twitch in Aylwin's left eye. Without much interaction he is nothing but an angry man, looking for someone to abuse. He takes his leave, ensuring the door to the cell reverberates with his maddening temper.

Brielle unleashes the tension building in her lungs, closing her eyes to imagine a way out that won't end in their deaths. "Looks like we'll be spending a lot of time together."

He wears a contagious smile, tinged with a hopeful despair. "Good, keeps me miles away from fencing practice with your husband."

Under King Richard's rule, they are more likely to rot and join the men scattered among the floor. Merciless men care little about love, he'll do everything he can to keep Harry encased in silver and gold. She hums "A Lover's Promise" under her breath, thread unraveling between her fingers like a madman's mind.