Matilda & Patrick (ON HOLD)

Chapter Four

Author's Note:
Okay guys, another violent chapter, more so to the end of the chapter, but thought I'd let you know now x

Patrick was taken through the castle, his eyes glancing at the tall white walls as he passed, trying to form some sort of plan. He knew he wasn't going to be let go, the madness in the Fairy Kings eyes and the delirium of Maxwell proved this. I'm probably going to die here, and Matilda will never know, he thought. He knew that this was a good thing, even as the bile in his stomach rose, he knew that Matilda believing that he was let go was as good as anything.

But the guards and Maxwell were not taking him outside, not even out a door, but down stairs that seemed endless and which seemed to slope ever deeper as they went down. He was being half dragged and the other half was his own feet trying to keep up with the fast pace that the guards were going. It wasn't working, Patrick had been beaten so much already that his eyes were good for nothing and his ribs ached with every muscle that dared moved. All he could do was try to look at the walls, for any kind of noticeable indentations that would help him escape.

Patrick tried to think of the morning, when he saw Matilda sitting at their tree so peacefully. It was only a few hours ago, but it seemed like an eternity. He woke up every day accepting that it could be his last with Matilda, but never once had that reality hit him so hard as the moment that he saw the bushes moving. 

After Matilda left Elf territory, Patrick went back to work, only to hear rustling and then dozens of fluttering wings come towards him all at once. The rest of the Elves had gone for lunch so no one was around to see where he had gone. Maxwell had knocked him out before he could even register what happened, and when he woke, it was due to a punch to his face and he was in the throne room. He didn't have time to register what had happened before Matilda was screaming and begging them to stop.

And now, as Patrick could make out the faint glow of fire at the end of the steps, he tried hard to picture Matilda's face, but fear had a vice grip on his brain and he couldn't make out her face. He could only make out all the different ways Maxwell intended on ending his life. He could be beaten, starved, maybe it would be a quick knife to the heart. It would be the fastest way he could think of. It would be the nicest way he could think of.

When they reached the bottom of the steps they changed directions so quickly that Patrick's ankles jerked painfully and he fell. He didn't intend to get back up. He gave up suddenly, all the fight in him stopped. He was thrown onto the hard, cold cement floor, his head slamming painfully against it making his head swim. When he focused again he could make out the bars behind Maxwell who stood triumphantly in front of him. He was in a dark, moist cell, they didn't intend on killing him at all, realisation hitting Patrick harder than the floor. He was a prisoner.

"Wakey wakey," Maxwell sung, "we've got some work to do." 

Patrick tried to sit up but his arms failed him, all he could manage was lifting his head and turning it upwards to try and sending a scathing look towards Maxwell.

"Now now, is that anyway to greet your saviour? Without me, you'd be dead right now!" Maxwell said, his voice like nails, his face a picture of innocence, but his eyes were black. At his words, Patrick realised that he wouldn't be a normal prisoner. He'd be Maxwell's prisoner, and that made death seem like a fancy holiday.

"I thought we'd get to know each other. Hi, my name's Maxwell-" he waved and smiled, "-I'm a Fairy, and my ability is fire. I know what you're thinking-" Maxwell put his hands up in mock defence, "-fire is such a weird ability when mostly everyone gets, well, literally anything else but I really do consider myself lucky. Cause I get to do all kinds of things like this," and just like that, a small flame began dancing atop of his palms and then it flew in the air a few inches into his other palm and back again. Maxwell's wings matched the flame. Bright orange with patterns like flames, they stood upright and over his head.