the remarkable misfortunes of ryan ross

Chapter 8 - Doctor Walker's Mysterious Paper

'He can fucking kill me; I don't care,'

Ryan kept saying that to himself, over and over, convincing his mind of exactly where his morals lay. If the prince thought he could easily rape him then he was in for a BIG surprise.

Ryan had determined that he was not going to be used anymore. No one was going to shove fingers in his mouth; no one was going to smear fluids on his face; no one was going to get off because of him ever again. Period. There was a line in the sand, and it would not be crossed.

Brendon could fucking kill him; he didn't care.

He was nobody's toy. Not Brendon's and not Brent's. He was a person. He had emotions; he dreamt when he slept; he got hungry when he didn't eat, and once upon a time he had actually had ambitions to do something with his life.

So no, he wasn't going to be 'used' again. He would rather die than be someone's lapdog.

Though, speaking of 'hungry when he didn't eat'... he was starving.

Ryan lay on his side (the side that wasn't cracked) with his face on the cold, dirt scattered floor. It had been two weeks, and Brendon hadn't returned. Zack had returned a couple of times to change his bandage. But the man hadn't spoken to him... had just done his job and left.

The first two days since the prince had decided to leave him alone were by far the worst. He hadn't had anything to eat, and his heartbeat had somehow become heavy as though his blood were thick from lack of water. During that time he firmly believed he would be dying within a matter of days.

Then food came, but not a lot of food. He got fed once a day, and it was mostly bread and cheese. Using the word 'mostly' was necessary because ever so often he'd get something weird on his plate. Sometimes it would be vegetables, or, twice, he received meat. It wasn't cheap meat either, but center cut.

He wondered if Brendon had anything to do with this, not that hard feelings towards the prince would have kept him from eagerly devouring every bite.

It wasn't until a week after Brendon had left him, that his memory floated back to the piece of parchment he had crumbled into his pocket the day he was taken captive.

Ryan shot up, and rummaged frantically down the side pockets of his very thin legs. In seconds he had produced the scrap of paper in the palm of his hand.

How had he forgotten this! Everything had been so crazy, a blur of pain and misfortune, but even so he was still baffled that his mind had gone so numb as to not even look at the doctor's message.

In fact, he had not even once thought about the kind doctor who had saved his life from that whirling baton, and suddenly the desire to read the note was burning him alive.

The one fear he had, though, was that he wasn't entirely sure if he could read it or not. He had been very lucky as a child, because his grandfather had worked in a monastery and had learned how to read. He had tried to teach both Ryan and his sister.

Ryan had found it very interesting. His sister, however, could have cared less. His sister gave up reading, but Ryan continued, and when he was ten he had been befriended by a paper maker named Mr. Finnegan.

Mr. Finnegan was a caricature of a man, but he further encouraged Ryan's learning skills, especially after Mr. Finnegan sat up a shop on London Bridge complete with a printing press.

Still, Ryan wasn't sure he was actually all that good at it; it often depended on the handwriting. He could read Mr. Finnegan's writing, and he could read standard lettering, but he was hardly ever able to read the spidery scratches in some of the more casual daybooks that he had come across.

Ryan held Dr. Walker's note in his hand and pried the corners of the paper back. He kept his eyes closed, and thought anxiously about what the writing might say. When he'd finally opened his eyes again and looked down... the paper was blank.

"What?" he actually mumbled the word out loud, and frantically searched all over the page.

That couldn't be right? Wait, there was something else on the back, scratched out in jagged streaks of charcoal. He turned the paper over, and when he saw what was written, he smiled because the print was crisp, clear, and very readable.

The note read, simply: 'The nice one knows.'

"What?"

Dammit! He needed to stop speaking out loud. If he said 'what' one more time he would have to qualify it as talking to himself, and he wasn't going to let his mind go crazy in this hole.

The note was as peculiar as its creator. What could it mean? His mind was too dazed by hunger, loneliness, and suffering not to mention disappointment to concentrate on the mystery now. He would think about it later, for now he saw no way that the note could be of help to him.

A week after reading the doctor's peculiar note, and two weeks after Brendon had kicked dirt into his face, he lay derelict on the floor. Cold, and hoping food would come soon.

He sighed to himself; nothing made sense. Brendon's kindness and then sudden spitefulness didn't make sense. Then there were the random pieces of meat he was given; what had he done to earn that? ... Oh, and the fact that they had never replaced the guard that had been fired seemed a little off to Ryan as well.

Still, the one thing that made less sense than all of the other senseless occurrences thus far... was Dr. Walker's odd note. That one definitely made, without a doubt, positively zero sense in even the slightest stretch of his imagination.

'The nice one knows?'

What did that have to do with, 'Incase you need my help'? That WAS what the doctor had said to him when he had given him the piece of paper. Ryan hadn't imagined it; it was very clearly stated.

Bah, what did he expect? The man was crazy, and he was very possibly not even a medical doctor to begin with! No matter what he was, he was also certainly a criminal, and Ryan had been stupid to bring such a dangerous outlaw into his family's home. Wow ... he was an imbecile.

"Ouch!"

Something had struck him hard in the small of his neck. He shot his eyes down towards his chest and saw a small rock, smaller than the size of an egg, teetering on the ground.

"Uhh!"

Another stone crashed into his sternum. His eyes followed the path from which the items had launched. He saw two figures standing at the mouth of his cell.

"Wake up!" A boy with long brown hair and a venom laced tongue droned the words as though speaking in slow motion. The owner of the unusual voice slinked his way to Ryan's cell and rested his head against the bars of the cage, "You are now in the presence of royalty."

The other man next to the boy hurled a third stone from the dungeon floor towards Ryan and it crashed directly into the boy's ribs. The pain was so severe he went dizzy for a moment, and his heart muscle seized up and skipped beats.

At first Ryan was afraid that he'd had a heart attack, but then he came back to earth thanks to the sensation of heavy hands pulling him from the floor and standing him in front of the boy with the long brown hair.

"Allow me to introduce myself, because I am sure that you'll want to remember my name." The royal creature rolled his hand in tight circles as though stirring the air between him and the pauper. "I am his majesty, Brent Matthew Wilson Urie. Now I know it's a mouth full, but you'll only need to remember one of those titles: Majesty."

Ryan studied the boy who wore a constant smirk as though that were the only facial expression he was able to perform.

"Aren't you going to bow?" Brent waited and kept his hand rhythmically stirring in the air.

Ryan dipped his head as best he could.

"Bow lower."

"I – I can't," Ryan pointed towards his ribcage, "I'm injured."

"Ah, I heard about that. How rude of me." Brent's hand stopped stirring, and he motioned to the guard accompanying him, "Sam, would you please assist Mr. Ross in performing his respectful duties.

The large framed man marched up to Ryan, shoved one hand against the boy's waist and used the other hand to force the pauper's back to bend into a very low bow.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ryan cursed in excruciating pain, "Please! Please! I can't!" He was gasping for air, and his face was turning dark red.

After about a minute the guard released him, and Ryan's knees quickly buckled which sent him crashing down headfirst.

Brent sighed with boredom. "Pick him up; take him to be washed and cleaned."

Ryan groaned as the man carelessly scooped him from the ground, and the party made its way up the dungeon stairs and out into the main castle.

"W-what's happening?" Ryan stuttered; dazed by the pain in his chest.

"We're having a party! Or didn't you know?"

Brent casually strode next to the weaker boy who was struggling to protect his ribs from further injury in the bulky arms of the guard.

"It is mine and Brendon's birthday, and you, my subject, are the present." The prince continued.

"I'm the what?"

Brent gave off what seemed like a mix between a laugh and a cough, before watching as the guard hauled Ryan down a separate hallway from the one he needed to take.

The last thing Ryan saw from the other boy was a sardonic flick of his wrist as though to wave goodbye to the misfortunate peasant.

Over the course of the rest of the afternoon Ryan was stripped, scrubbed, shampooed, shaven, re-bandaged, and re-dressed in new clothes. The clothes weren't all that fancy, but they were nicer than anything he had ever worn before. Plus, they were clean, and un-frayed... he had to admit that such things were a welcome change of pace.

The outfit consisted of a plain white over shirt, black trousers, and a periwinkle and silver vest.

He would have been smiling endlessly at the pleasure of being clean again with his teeth spotless, and his nails neat if only the guard hadn't handled him so rough in the process.

Now his ribs ached dully no matter which way he positioned himself or how softly he tried to breath. The one saving grace was the dull ache became a tiny bit less when he remained sitting with his back perfectly erect.

After a while of waiting, he was ushered into an oval shaped room with every inch of the walls covered in bright floral cloth. A lady named Susan was sitting in the center of the oval chambers, and she had apparently been assigned the job of making him 'presentable' before royalty.

The first thing she saw to was that his hair was 'fixed' although, in the end, it still looked a bit unruly and wind blown.

She actually put a very tiny amount of make up on his face and rubbed lotion over his skin. The make up was disgusting, but the lotion felt spectacular enough that he decided it was okay to forgive her for having dolled him up like a girl.

Not that she was a hard person to forgive in the first place. She was painfully sweet and let him sit perfectly straight the entire time so as to cause minimal pain for his injuries.

The only down side was that she never seemed to take her eyes off him, even after they were finished, and Ryan had a sick feeling as to why. Girls did this a lot, and for all that his beauty had 'gotten him' in life he wished he had been born ugly.

She smiled at him though, and that was the first comforting expression he'd seen in weeks. He smiled back and complimented her dress which was various shades of lavender and that led to her asking to hold his hand.

He had almost told her then and there that he didn't really care for women, but he hadn't felt anyone touch him in a compassionate way since his arrival, and he caved inside, letting her gently scoop his fingers into her own.

It felt wonderful, soft, warm and full of life. His blood pulsed to the end of his fingertips and then rushed away again. He laced his fingers through hers and just sat there relishing the simple, tender connection with another human being that didn't want to hurt him, use him, or humiliate him. It was just two human beings, touching each other, linked at the palms, and knowing, for that brief span of time, that they were not truly alone.

It was comforting, but after a while they came and took him to another room, just off from the royal ballroom. He was told to sit and to wait for the party in the next room to finish, and that when it was over, the princes would be in to see him. Then he was left all alone.

He looked around the room, as there wasn't much else to do while merely waiting.

Who would wallpaper a room in embossed leather? Oh that's right, conceited assholes. How could he forget? He'd been surrounded by them all evening. Still, the effect was stunning; rich brown leather panels covered the walls, ceiling to floor except for a dark cherry chair rail around the middle. Ryan touched the covering with his spindly fingers as though reading their embossed dents like braille.

It was hard to think about the kind of wealth it would take to build a room like this, with intricate beige molding and lattice work wood covering the ceiling. There were paintings and tapestries and white and rose sofas that didn't feel all that comfortable to sit on but were simply amazing to look at. This one room contained more money that Ryan had ever seen or experienced in his entire life.

Yet, despite all of this, he would have given anything to leave it behind and be laughing with his family in their one room house with a thatched straw roof and walls made out of wooden bars and woven twigs and caked solid with mud. It was cold, and barren there, but so much happier than here.

Still, some occupants in the palace were happy. He could hear people laughing on the other side of the large thick doors in front of him, and he crept forward to press his eye against the keyhole.

Everyone in the ballroom looked so much more cheerful than he. There was smiling, and dancing; there were people eating meat using knives and fingers. Sickeningly pink cakes and sticky candies lined trays as the party guests tossed red paper confetti, and five musicians played string instruments in the corner.

One of the musicians was playing a lute. Ryan missed his lute. It would have helped so much with the shit he was going through right now. Playing it always helped him to forget at least for a few minutes. He looked down at his fingers and at the rough calluses on his right hand from having pushed down the gut strings time after time. He sighed; he wouldn't see it again.

One by one the party guests left, and the food was cleared. He watched as the musicians got paid before bowing low and making their way out of the palace.

"Ow!"

The door swung open sending the keyhole directly into Ryan's eye. Why hadn't he seen that person coming?

His hand shot protectively to his face, and then to his ribs as he twisted awkwardly to avoid the rest of the incoming door.

"What the fuck! Were you spying on us?" Brent shouted down at Ryan who tried to steady himself on his hands and knees.