Emeral In Shadow

The Bloody King [#12]

Breathe in, breathe out. He told himself.
Blink, breathe. Blink, breathe.

Gustaaf sat in the dark, damp, filth that was the Palace dungeon. He lost count of the days, he believed it had been a week, but with no sunlight his inner clock had been thrown out of wack.

They gave him a bed, a simple cot, but he didn't use it. He had just started eating their food, usually extra cuts of meat the kitchen threw out and old bread, but only after Marcellus made the guards beat him to a pulp each time he refused a bite.
That was how it had went during his stay behind bars. Any bit of rebellion Marcellus had beaten out of him. Every spark of his stubborn, conniving, personality stomped out and into the ground.

Breathe in, breathe out, He told himself. It was all he could do now, make sure his normal bodily faculties didn't quit.

The hope of a normal life, the dream of growing old beside Madelief, out far away from nasty royals and sharp knives and dangerous poisons, running through fields and watching the stars, all of it felt like sand slowly falling out of his hand, between his fingers.

It seemed now only a single razor-sharp grain was imbedded in his metaphorical palm, the memory of nearly dying beside her at the farm. Those dizzying moments of blood and sweat beside her seemed to always resurface, no matter how hard Marcellus tried to beat him into a suitable mold to fit whatever role he needed him to be.

Metal creaked forward in front of him, Gustaaf looked up, seeing Marcellus filling the doorway of his cell. His body was framed menacingly by the bare lightbulb hanging down from the short rocky ceiling, the light causing his silhouette to near fill the cell.

He wore dark green trousers and shirt, a cape of eye-catching gold tied around his neck and billowing down his back, and a black cap with a golden design and jewels that Gustaaf thought looked awfully close to a crown.

"Gustaaf, looking awfully..." He narrowed his eyes and looking over Gustaaf dirt-covered rag adorned body "Well, you look like the little disgusting street urchin you should be."

Gustaaf barely registered his words, staring blankly behind Marcellus with his dull green eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.
Marcellus waited for any sign of a condescending remark, a flash of stubborn determination.... Gustaaf continued to stare off uselessly.

Marcellus smiled a little at that, it seemed he had finally broken in his new pawn.
"But, no matter how much you enjoy the luxurious life of a rat in this cell, I have much more use for you then to let you rot." He said showing his perfect pearly teeth to Gustaaf, who, again, did nothing.
Marcellus sighed, before winding up his foot backwards, and placing a stern kick to Gustaaf's side. Gustaaf sighed out heavily not even putting out a hand to protect himself.

"Listen when I'm talking to you, boy." Marcellus said darkly, and Gustaaf focused his eyes up into Marcellus' dark brown pupils.

"According to a tricky little rule in the Emeral Heirloom Decree, something I doubt you even have heard of, the heir to the throne must be of their blood." He leaned in close, Gustaaf smelling his warm meaty breath.

"I, of course, am not of the blood. So I must have a stand in if I wish to rule..." He smiled, like he was telling a good joke and was just getting to the punchline, "That. Is. Where. You. Come. In." He tapped Gustaaf's shoulder with each word.

Gustaaf wrinkled his eyebrows in thought, but didn't speak. He choked out a sentence, his throat feeling like dry desert sands and tongue like the grizzle of a chicken, "I don't understand."

Marcellus straightened back up, "I don't see what there isn't to understand; you are of the Emeral bloodline. The son of the late prince Leopold with some woman off the streets. A bit of a tainted son, but the son of the eldest son regardless."