Viva La Vida

Part 7

"What do you mean, you won't let me in? He's a—" The man who's trying to get into Liam's cell splutters, like words fail Liam's cruelty. "We're on the same side. He's on the other side. This is fucked up, you protecting him like this."

Louis shrugs, still standing in doorway of Liam's cell with his arms crossed over his chest and chin tilted up. "You tell me, Michael. But I'm not going to let you get involved with some sort of fucked up revenge killing like this. You deserve better and—" he glances over his shoulder to where Liam is standing, hunched and wary in the corner. "—this bloke deserves better. You know he's not to blame for your brothers. You just want a scapegoat. But trust me, as the king of taking my anger out on undeserving people, it will not make you feel better."

Michael—he's not a man, Liam realizes as he sees his face, but rather a boy—tries to dodge around Louis, but the other rebel is too fast, grabbing Michael by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall.

"You know better," Louis grits out. "Take another step towards him, and you're no better than a Circle member. You know better."

The two rebels stare at each other with the intensity of a nuclear bomb, Louis' fingers white where they dig into Michael's shoulders. Finally, Michael relaxes and looks away, face sagging in a way that you don't usually see on boys not yet old enough for even uni. He looks like an old man, drained of everything but exhaustion and bitter anger.

"You're right," he mumbles. "As always."

"As always," Louis agrees, stepping back and clapping him on the back. "Go find Niall; I'm sure he has something for you to do, and it'll make you feel better."

"Yeah."

Liam watches Michael slouch away, scuffing one foot against the ground. There's something terribly defeated about his posture.

"All right?" Louis asks breezily, turning around to check on Liam.

"Yeah." Liam feels subdued—whether it's from the acidic taste of guilt in the back of his throat that Michael had somehow managed to put there, or the fear of having his life endangered yet again, it's hard to tell. "What happened to him?"

Louis cocks his head to one side, a movement that somehow accentuates his smallness, the way his delicate frame belies his physical power and huge personality. "What d'you mean?"

"He wasn't quite . . ." Liam swallows, thinks of an old man's expression on a young face. "He isn't quite right, is it?"

Louis purses his lips, straightens his spine like a soldier, and fixates his gaze on a spot a few feet above Liam's head. "No, I reckon he's not. The crown's army killed his three adopted brothers in front of him a few months ago." He drags his eyes down to meet Liam's. "When I say 'killed,' I don't mean they did it nice and quick with a bullet to the head, either. It took hours."

Liam feels shame—an emotion he can hardly ever remember feeling—burning deep in his gut, a reminder that if the royal army did something like that, it was because of a failure on the part of the crown. Not an intentional shortcoming, because he doesn't believe any of the generals—men he all knows by name—would order such a thing, but because someone's orders were not clear, or failed to see rebellious soldiers in their troop.

"Why didn't they kill him?" His throat feels scratchy.

Louis' eyes are sharp and hard as diamonds. "There's not much point in playing a sport if there's no one there to watch, is there, Your Highness? They let him live as a warning, because those sick sons of bitches can't bear it if no one's there to tell the tale of how great and mighty and powerful they are." He draws in a deep breath and lets it out. "I'm not saying he was right to try and kill you, but you can see why he did it. The kid's fucked up."