The Royal's Assassin //Manthony fanfiction

Chapter 13 (Practice)

Mitchel

It was concerning, how quickly time passed yet seemed to drag along. Christian didn't show signs of getting any better, and the date of his coronation only approached. Mitchel watched from a fair distance as the prince grew more physically and mentally ill. 

The Prince stayed in bed, no matter how much his parents tried to get him to at least crack open a window. It was all in vain; the Prince had completely changed. There was no loner any light in his eyes. He'd been in the same state before Mitchel had arrived. It happened after his brother died all those years ago, and slowly but surely he recovered. Still, he appeared to be much worse than before.  

Mitchel wondered how he could have possibly had such an affect on the man. He'd been through so much more, dealing with his brother's death and indifferent parents. Surely the Prince had developed a thick skin after all that. Still, he figured that his separation from him was the last straw. Mitchel still felt guilty about how he talked to the Prince, and knew that the feeling would never go away. He could tell that Christian really needed someone, but he knew that he was not the right person for him. 

He wished that he'd never came to Sydland because deep down, he knew that his feelings toward the Prince would never fade. It didn't matter that Christian felt the same way towards him because he'd be dead within less than a month. For a brief moment, Mitchel allowed himself to be selfish and think about what would have happened if he never separated with the Prince. What if he allowed Christian to be happy with him until he died? What if his last moments were happy instead of dreadful? The thought ripped through Mitchel's soul as he scrubbed the bathtub in His Highness' bathroom. 

Mitchel finished cleaning it then filled it with warm water. He pulled a few strings in order to get another servant to bathe the Prince and dress him, in exchange for a small portion of his salary. He knew that it would be too cruel to say such harsh words to Christian and then continue to care for him like he used to. 

The servant stepped into the room, rolling up his sleeves. Mitchel's eye caught sight of the sickly Prince who laid in his ridiculously large mattress, staring blankly out of his window. His body was limp, and he looked almost lifeless. 
"All clean?" The servant asked, bring Mitchel out of his trance. He nodded wordlessly, getting to his feet and drying his hands. 
"Thanks again," He said. The servant smiled. 
"I get it," They replied. "I'm sure you can only handle so much of the brat," He joked, leaning in and whispering the last sentence. 

Mitchel nodded stiffly, then left the room. Only when he was down the hall, did he exhale. 

•••

Christian's POV 

The light in the sky is so much dimmer. It's grey everywhere. Is it the world that's changed, or is it me?
It's pointless, all of it. 
What's the point of being alive if I'm not living?
If the one that I love doesn't return the affection?
If even my family leaves me?
Would anyone care if I disappeared?
Not me.  

I manage to get out of bed. My legs do not feel the same. My entire body feels like a shell but I still walk. A new servant dresses me. He is not as handsome or caring as Him. He pulls at my hair when he braids it, and jabs at my skin when he dresses me. He treats me like the ragdoll I am. 

My father meets me halfway. I follow him to the coronation room, vaguely aware of the number of guards who join us. I listen to his instructions, and we go through the ceremony again and again. It has to be perfect, he says. But I can barely stand.  

I repeat my vows over and over until I have them engraved in my brain. And still, the King does not meet my eyes. The Queen does not even show up. I have not seen her since that day. My last memory of her is of her face as she cried from my words. 

I feel a dull throbbing in my chest as my eyes trail over the room, looking at the paintings framed in gold. I lean against the cold stone wall, staring at my reflection on the floor. I do not look like me.

I look down at my hands that are thin and veiny. 
My father calls my name. 
I look up. 
"Again," He says, and we do it again. 

I kneel on the blue carpet, facing the King. The crown is still locked in its box, but I see it through the corner of my eye. I try to imagine it on my head, but I cannot. It still does not feel real.
Being King is not a reality I would wish upon anyone.  

"Good," The King says, and I am allowed to leave. That was the practice round. In a week, I will have my ceremony. In a week, I will be King, and I still feel nothing. I cannot imagine the hundreds of people that will sit in rows and watch me kneel. I cannot imagine their clapping hands, and I cannot imagine His face in the crowd. 

As I walk to my room followed by guards, I look at their sheaths and wonder how the sharp length of their blades feel. Would it hurt if the blade sliced my skin? Or would it be clean, effortless, and painless? The thought passes my mind when I look up for once and see Him. He is walking out of my chamber with a mound of towels in his arms. 

He barely seems to notice me, but I see him. I stop and watch him turn and walk down the hall. I watch as he stops to rearrange the towels. I listen to the sound of his boots connecting with the marble floor in a rhythmic pace. 

I turn and head back into my room. 
I notice him but he doesn't notice me. 
And my heart aches. 

The Royal's assassin is to be continued!