The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Three - An Audience with the King

Mark had expected the king to be a wise old man with a greying beard and aged eyes, but he finds that he's terribly, terribly wrong. A young man with bright green hair sits in the throne and leans on one hand, his crown slipping slightly to one side. His blue eyes are intense, making the man almost radiate with a power that Mark swears he can feel.

"Bring him forward," the royal says. The farmer had never realized that his king was Irish, but he finds that it suits him.  It matches the unnatural hair colour. 

One of the guards pokes Mark in the small of his back with a sword, urging the American forward. With every step Mark takes, the power radiating off the royal grows stronger. The king watches him, his eyebrows furrowed.

"King Seán, this man has been charged with theft," one guard states.

"Name?" the king asks, looking to Mark.

The farmer glances at the guards, expecting them to speak. When they don't, he swallows. "Mark Fischbach."

King Seán's eyes never stray from him.  "What was stolen?"

This time, a guard answers. "Medicine and bread, worth sixteen pieces of gold in total."

The king strokes his beard, his eyes still narrowed. He watches Mark like a mother watches their disobedient child, the stare alone making the farmer want to shrink away. After a few moments, King Seán shakes his head.

"There's no way."

"There's no way... what, sire?" one of the guards asks.

The king ignores him, staring straight at Mark. "You said you're a peasant?"

"I was born and raised on the farm. I've known no other life, sire, I swear," Mark replies, shrinking away. The tip of a sword pokes him again and he jerks forward.

King Seán stands up from his throne slowly, stepping down to face Mark. His long, red cloak reaches from his shoulders to the floor, brushing against the ground as he approaches. Mark realizes that the king is a little shorter than him, which is surprising considering the fact that on the throne he seems so much taller.  However, the farmer soon finds out that King Seán makes up for height in gaze alone.  With the king so close, Mark can feel the surge of his power even more keenly.

"I hope, for your sake, that you aren't lying." He steps back, gesturing to the guards. "Keep him here. I'll see him again first thing tomorrow morning."

Mark's mouth falls open. Staying at the castle? Sleeping in the dungeon? "Wait, why?! I can't stay here, I have a sick mother at home that needs me! Please don't keep me here!"

King Seán glares at him, his expression serious. "I'm suspicious of you, Fischbach. Don't make me change my mind and have you executed instead."

Instantly, Mark shuts his mouth. With a wave of his hand, the guards drag the American back to the dungeon. The cold, musty air is just as unpleasant as the first time; the general atmosphere is just as depressing. Mark cringes at the thought of spending the night here.

His cell door clangs open and the guards guide him inside, although this time they cut his wrist bindings and attach shackles to his ankles before leaving. The farmer shifts his feet, already hating the weight and the way it makes moving difficult. With a grimace, he glances over at Felix's cell, only to realize that the guards are taking him upstairs. The Swede glances at Mark for a moment before following the armoured men.

The American wraps his arms around his legs and buries his face in his knees, taking in a deep, shaky breath. He can't pretend to understand what happened while he was in the presence of the king, but whatever it was, it was terrifying. A royal was skeptical of him. A man with endless amounts of power and control thinks he's lying. Mark doubts he's felt more anxious about anything else in his whole life.

As time ticks on, Mark feels himself growing more and more sleepy. Although he dreads the discomfort, he begrudgingly pulls himself upright and settles onto the wooden bench. It's a sorry excuse for a bed or seat, but at least it's better than the cold floor. He lies down and takes a deep breath, staring into the darkness and towards the stone ceilings. His mind swirls with thoughts, most of them dark and fearful. Is his mother going to be alright if he's stuck at the castle? Is the king going to execute him tomorrow? What's going to happen to him after this whole ordeal is finished?

The cell across the hall creaks open before slamming shut again, leading Mark to glance over. Felix stands inside as the guards head back down the hall, his ankles chained together just like Mark's. The Swede looks surprisingly cheerful as he sits down on his own bench, his blue eyes flickering in the torch light.

"I'm free to go tomorrow morning," he says, grinning.

"Good for you," Mark mutters, folding his arms over his stomach as a shiver runs through them.

Felix watches him, the smile on his face disappearing.  "What happened?"

"The king was skeptical of me. He's seeing me again tomorrow morning."

"Oh." The Swede frowns, his eyes flickering with some semblance of pity.  "Sorry about that."

"Yeah." Mark looks back towards the ceiling and sighs heavily. "Goodnight, Felix."

The viking mumbles a response in Swedish and lies down on his own bench. Silence falls between the two of them as Mark finally manages to drift off.

A/N: I forgot to mention this earlier, so before this story goes too far...

I am fully aware that during the medieval times, America was not a country.  However, this is a fantasy story, therefor I can do whatever I want with international relations and country borders. 

That is all. :)