Vanishing Grace

Part III - Chapter 3

War wakes up with his cheek pressed to the dirt and the sky rumbling above him. He's disoriented, having gotten used to the darkness of their hut, the scratch of the straw pillow under his cheek, the musty smell that has etched itself into the very structure. The only thing that isn't familiar is the taste of copper in his mouth. His nose is clogged with blood and there's an ache that sits so deep in his bones that he isn't sure if he'll ever be without it.

Once more the sky above him rumbles with the promise of rain, a sweet smell after weeks of heat and brutal sunshine. He turns his face to the side and sees the grey clouds shifting and when he tries to push himself up, he realises that his hands are tied behind his back with a rope that immediately drags across his skin, rubbing it raw.

"Fuck..." War curses under his breath, frustrated with lying helpless on the ground like this, legs scrambling for purchase he can't quite find in the stiffness of having not moved in hours. 

Memories are slowly coming back. He remembers being ambushed, eating dirt, tasting blood as he was shoved to the ground. Then things get hazy in his mind. He has no clue where exactly he is, he must have lost consciousness somewhere between all the hits and kicks and words flung at him.

"Ah, finally sleeping beauty is awake again. Our key witness!" 

The words boom even louder in War's ears than the thunder from above. 

Despite having heard this voice only once, it stays in his mind crystal clear and triggers his fight or flight instinct immediately. Good thing there's a helping hand grabbing him by the collar at his neck a moment later and he's being yanked up into a kneeling position without much care for the way his face contorts with discomfort.

War's head spins briefly from the rough treatment and he coughs, the taste of copper thickening, bile rising that he just about manages to keep down. When he looks around himself now, he realises he's back at the place where this ordeal started. It's the yard in front of Prince's residence, the building right in front of him just as imposing and ridiculous as it had been before. The owner stands there with his arms stretched out in what looks to be a purple silk robe with golden embroidery and matching trousers, the kind of crap you could buy at tourist traps like these palace grounds once upon a time. He's handsome, chest bare, hair a little wild; it matches his expression of unhinged excitement. War wants to smack it from his face.

Around them are a couple of guards lined up in a circle, as if War stands a single chance of getting up and making a run or doing much more than focusing on not throwing up. It's unclear whether that was an intentional choice or whether Prince's hand was forced after the events of the day.

The rest comes rushing back in then.

"Tor-!" War presses out, coughing around the word, throat and mouth so dry it's like he's being choked. 

He's sure he hadn't just imagined it. Just when that man was ready to bash his head in, Tutor had arrived like a guardian angel and rescued him from the clutches of death. There's no way he would just imagine that, no, his brain would surely come up with a better savior than that fucking rat. War squirms in the grip of the guard as he tries to look around him, but all he sees are uniforms and then —

"You're looking for someone. May I help?"

Prince steps to the side and there, right across from him at the foot of the steps, framed by two guards is a familiar bleached mop of hair. War tries to call for him, but his voice dies in his throat. For a moment he thinks Tutor must be unconscious, but he lifts his head just as War tries to shout out his name once more, their eyes meeting over the twenty metres or so that separate them from one another.