Royally Marked

Chapter Six

I hate interviews.

The month until my birthday has passed far quicker than I'd have liked it to, and now I'm here, doing about the absolute last thing I'd ever want to do on my birthday.

So is the life of a prince, I suppose.

I'm sweating under the studio lights, trying not to fidget as the TV host attempts to rip my parent's marriage apart.

"So, August," she says, her voiced clipped, her red lipstick reminding me vividly of blood. "With the arrival of your Mark so close on the horizon, how do you feel about your own parent's choice to keep their Marks private?"

I paste a carefully bland smile on my face and rattle off one of many prepared answers I have for just this topic. "My parents love and support each other. Their marriage is a source of inspiration, something I hope I will be able to achieve with my own bride one day."

Hopefully far in the future, I add in my mind.

The reference to my birthday was just an attempt on the host's part to keep the question related to the true purpose of this interview, which is me appearing on some insanely popular and truly terrible daytime TV, "in honour of my upcoming birthday."

It is a day early, as my birthday isn't until tomorrow, though luckily even my parents seem to understand that no one wants to do live TV on their birthday, especially me. Especially tomorrow.

My stylists are apparently taking the last opportunity they have to show off as much of me as possible as the sleeves of my white button up have been rolled up above my elbows. I can see the hosts eyes darting to my wrist every five seconds, as if imagining her own Mark there.

I know it's just a clever piece of PR - I know what I look like, okay? I know I'm branded as a modern Prince Charming. And I understand why, even if it makes me want to barf. And obviously I was going to do interviews about my birthday. Interviews about my Mark. About my soulmate.

But I'm allowed to be annoyed - inside the privacy of my own head, at least.

"Do you have any ideas - or hopes, perhaps - about who your future soulmate might be?" The woman leans closer.

I sigh, and resist the urge to fidget again. My wrist is itching terribly, and I glance down quickly, trying to see if the skin is red or anything.

The host takes this as a sign that I am, in fact, thinking of some lovely lady, and practically squeals.

I interrupt her before she can explode. "I'm very excited to receive my Mark, and hopeful about the prospects it allows." This, too, is a line coined by my publicist - utter trash, as I will be marrying whomever my parents choose.

No matter who my soulmate is.

The itching in my arm is starting to feel more like burning, now, and I allow myself to casually clasp my left hand around my wrist and scratch it just a bit.

This proves to be a terrible idea, as the itching has now escalated to full-out burning. I'm fairly sure I've missed one of the host's questions, as she now seems to be calling my name.

We're on live TV, though, and they won't stop the broadcast unless I'm unconscious. Actually, they probably wouldn't even stop it then - what's better television than the crown prince fainting dead away?

I summon every scrap of composure I have left and attempt to smile. "I -"

The mild burning transforms into the worst pain imaginable. It's excruciating, like white-hot flames are licking their way up my arm, like someone has cut open my wrist and poured lava into it.

I'm bent over my arm, wrapping myself around it protectively, gritting my teeth in an effort not to scream.

Then it's over, quicker than it came, and I'm left shivering and breathless. I straighten up slowly, my limbs tingly and loose, my mind blank, like the pain stole all of my thoughts and there's nothing left.

The quiet, "Oh my god," of the TV host drags me out of my stupor, my gaze flicking up to her face - which is fixated, shocked and unbelieving, on the inner forearm of my right wrist.

In a single moment, I realize what must have happened and look at my wrist, focusing on the black lines there for a single second before clapping my hand over it.

But it's too late. The host has seen it, and so have the cameras - which means that the whole world has.

I tighten the grip I have on my wrist, as if that could erase the last few moments. I'm vaguely aware of a commotion going on around me, of cameras being turned off, of people calling my name - but I all can do is sit here in shock.

I just got my Mark, and by the end of the day, everyone will have seen it.

It doesn't matter anymore that I was never going to meet my soulmate. It doesn't matter anymore that I wasn't even sure I was going to get my Mark.

It does rather matter that apparently I've been told the wrong birthday my entire life, but even that I can't care about right now.

There's only one thought running through my head - hysterical, half-formed, and probably an early indicator of a mental breakdown:

None of it matters. 

A/N: As an effort not to leave anyone on a complete cliffhanger, especially since it's such a short chapter, today will be a double update!