Viva La Vida

Part 6

For the first time since leaving the palace—actually, probably for the first time ever—Liam is completely and utterly alone. There's nothing in his austere cell to keep him company except a slender beam of sunlight that's thrown onto the floor from a five-inch slit in the ceiling that's a poor excuse for a window. It's unnerving, to say the least, and sets his heart racing uncomfortably with the thought that the rebels could be doing anything to Harry, could be about to do anything to him.

The little rectangle of sunlight is the only friendly thing in his comfortably yet sparsely furnished room, so he forgoes the two metal folding chairs set up at the card table in the corner and sits down on the concrete floor next to it, thinking of all the choices and events and accidents that led to him being here, totally alone for what may be the first time in his life. He's never not had a friend or a guard or a family member at his side, never not been accompanied by someone to ensure his safe passage. In the quietness that remains after all the chattering has died away—a silence he'd once thought he'd craved—Liam is small and lonely and frightened, a burnt-out match after its entourage of flame has been doused.

For a long time he just sits there, frozen in the alien silence and unable to move from where he sits, watching the light on the floor change colors and finally fade away. His stomach grumbles and he begins to wonder if they plan to feed him, or if he'll just be locked away here forever, alone and starving. Forgotten. Liam has experienced his share of pain in his life, but the one thing that is totally foreign to him is the thought of being forgotten. He's always been the center of the attention, the most important person in the room, a figure everyone else accommodated and deferred to.

He supposes being forgotten comes right after being alone.

The door is flung open, and Louis stalks in carrying a school-lunch style tray of food, chin tilted haughtily up in a manner Liam's not used to being directed at him. Behind him are two armed rebels—middle aged, grizzled, ready to kill at a moment's notice—but Liam's not even thinking of trying to make a run for it at this point.

Louis slaps the tray down on the card table and gestures to it. "That's for you, innit." He frowns. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Liam tries to come up with a good answer for this and can think of nothing. "I thought I'd seen the last of you."

"Apparently I'm to help you adjust," Louis says, to his credit not sounding bitter or contemptuous at all, "because we're already somewhat acquainted."

"Fine." Liam stands up, brushes himself off, and sits down in front of the food. "Do I get to go to the bathroom? Do I get fresh clothes?"

Louis raises an eyebrow. "You really haven't done a good job at exploring this place, have you?" He strides over to a rickety set of drawers in the opposite corner of the card table and flings open the top one; there's a few neatly folded pairs of boxers and socks, a couple clean T-shirts underneath that. "There should be a laundry bag in here somewhere; just put your dirty things in there when you're done."

"How do I know they'll fit?"

Louis glares. "We estimated; you'll make do. Sorry there aren't any royal tailors here, Your Highness."

The two rebels behind him snort in derision and Liam immediately feels a deep enmity towards them. It's not his fault he was raised in a palace; in fact, if things had gone his way, he wouldn't have even been the crown prince at all. They don't need to mock him like that.

"Is that it?" he asks coldly.

"There'll be someone here to take you to the bathroom in about an hour," Louis says. "Bon appetite, Your Highness."