The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Eight - Secrets Revealed

Once Flora is finished emptying the tub, she leads Mark to the throne room. The farmer practically bounces as he goes, ecstatic to be free from the confines of his chamber. Maybe he can convince the king to let his mom visit or possibly even go home. The list of possibilities buzz through his mind, exciting him more and more. His mother was right. If he's going to be in the castle, he might as well enjoy it and all its potential for escape.

King Seán watches Mark enter the throne room with the same emotionless gaze he seems to always be wearing. The farmer bows, but the Irishman waves him off.

"There's no need." He stands from the throne, his cloak swirling around him as he steps down to the ground. "Come, walk with me."

Mark obliges, falling into step beside the king. Every once in a while, the farmer glances over at the royal. King Seán carries himself with an air of confidence and regality, his head high and his back straight. Mark finds himself amazed that he can't find a single hint of emotion in those blue eyes. It takes growing up as royalty to be able to conceal feelings like that.

"You have been living in my castle for a week and a half," King Seán states, glancing at Mark. The farmer averts his eyes. "Flora showed me the letter you sent your mother, and the letter she sent in return."

Mark swallows, his arms fidgeting at his sides. "Oh."

"There is no need for worry. You wrote nothing that would offend me." The slightest of smiles pulls at the corners of the king's mouth and the farmer nearly chokes. "Your mother has helped me put the pieces of the puzzle together, however. For the most part, my suspicions of you have been put to rest."

Mark can barely contain his question. "So can I go home now?"

King Seán's eyes reveal nothing as he purses his lips. No consideration, no sympathy. Nothing. The farmer finds that it's equally intriguing and infuriating. "Not yet. I hope to find out more about you and your situation, as well as oblige your mother by helping you with your abilities."

"Maybe I could learn more if I am allowed to go see her," Mark inquires, folding his hands behind his back and looking over at King Seán.

"I will think about it," the royal replies, meeting the farmer's gaze for a moment. "For now, I would like your help."

Mark bites back the comments about home and follows King Seán into his study. He motions for the farmer to sit down before approaching his shelves, piling a few into his arms before returning.

"How much do you understand about magic?" King Seán asks, settling into his own chair.

Mark fiddles with the hem of his tunic. "I know that you have magic and that it's green, and I know that I can feel magic for some reason..."

"Oh." The king watches the farmer for a moment. "You have a lot of catching up to do."

"If my mother was here-"

Before Mark can continue his sentence, a tendril of green, smoke-like magic binds his mouth shut. The king stares at him, his gaze turning from emotionless to cold as ice. The farmer's heart pounds in his ears, amazed and terrified that King Seán didn't even need to lift a finger.

"If you continue to speak of her, I will grow tired of you very quickly."

Mark nods frantically and the magic retreats in an instant. King Seán nods once and continues.

"One thing I need to do is discover the colour of your magic. It is crucial. Most of the time, the colour of the magic corresponds to the kingdom or place of origin. Just sit and relax for a moment."

The farmer nods, although he can't help the tension that tightens his muscles. King Seán stands upon approval and approaches the chair, taking Mark's hand in his. The power buzzing between them becomes so strong that the American has to consciously keep his hand from shaking. He finds himself distracted not by the intensity, but by the cold clinging to King Seán's skin. Is it just the weather recently or is it something more?

After a moment, green magic starts to swirl around Mark's wrist and forearm. The strands are flawlessly connected and pleasantly warm, much to the farmer's surprise. They seem cold when he looks at them. A second after the green appears red magic joins it, spiralling around the king's arm. It's much more bold in colour, and instead of resembling smoke like King Seán's magic, it appears like glitter, fire, and light. Mark stares at it, utterly entranced.

"Interesting," the royal comments before dropping the farmer's hand. As soon as he does, the red and green magic vanish.

"What was that?" Mark demands, desperately wanting it back. That power... It had felt right. It was the most comforting thing he had felt in his entire life, filling a void in him that he was unaware even existed.

"What do you think it was?" King Seán replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, it was magic, of course, but how did it happen?"

"That is something for another day." The royal returns to his spot, the intensity of the power between them diminishing as he grows farther away. He picks up one of the books and flips through the pages, humming softly to himself.

Mark opens and closes his mouth a couple times, but figures it's better not to argue with the king. After all, the man controls his freedom and virtually everything about his life at the moment.

King Seán mutters something to himself and looks up at Mark. "You deserve a bit of an explanation before your mother can give you one. From what I have learned about you, the colour of your magic, your ability to feel magic, and the stories I have heard, you are royalty from a foreign kingdom. I cannot pretend to understand why you are in my kingdom and oblivious to your own origins, but those are things that your mother can explain."

Mark chokes on the air he's breathing. Coughing and spluttering, he stares at King Seán with incredulity. "That is impossible. There is no way I'm anything even remotely close to royalty."

The king shakes his head. "It is not impossible. Somehow, you are here now, with no knowledge of the fact that you are a king."

Mark places his head in his hands, unable to process the information he's just heard.

He, Mark Fischbach, the farmer with nothing, is actually a king.