It's seven in the morning and Florian's already bored. He's been staring at the window for hours, the bars blurring until he's almost convinced himself they aren't there. As if he needed a reminder of his captivity.
He's been in this suite for three days, staring at the walls, the ceiling, out the window. He's been anxious every minute of that time, wondering if Ray is still locked in the cellar, two floors below. Wondering if Laila and Noel and the others are safe back at the hotel. Wondering when Azura will arrive in this room where Florian is, once again, his captive. Wondering if it will hurt as much this time as it did the first, when Azura overpowers him.
Maria's been to visit him each day, relaying Azura's messages, escorting the servants who bring Florian's meals, accompanying the tailor who measures Florian for the clothing he'll need tomorrow.
A matador's outfit. Florian can't think of anything more absurd, but tomorrow he'll dress as Azura commands and will walk out into an arena full of people to face an angry bull.
Azura's amused by the idea, he's made that clear enough. And he seems to feel quite proud of himself for manipulating Florian into agreeing to this charade.
They both know what this is - a death sentence. Azura could at least have the grace not to be so smug.
Some perverse part of Florian's brain dredges up the memory of Ray's face as Azura led Florian out of the cellar. Before day's end he'll probably find himself pleading with Azura to keep Ray locked up until it's all over. It's not that he doesn't want - doesn't ache - to see Ray one last time; it's that he doesn't think he'll have the strength to walk into that arena if Ray asks him not to go.
With a sigh, Florian turns onto his side, away from the window. He should get up but he doesn't. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to think of something simple, something with no connection to Ray. After long moments of trying, he gives up, unable to think of anything without his thoughts turning to Ray, downstairs in the filthy cellar.
It should be him down there, the condemned have no need of luxuries. But perhaps this is just one more of Azura's twisted amusements.
The key rattling in the lock startles Florian and he can't help the self-mocking smile that curves his lips. He gets up and makes a half-hearted effort to make himself presentable by brushing at his rumpled sleeping attire.
"Good morning." Maria greets him, her eyes not quite meeting his. She hasn't managed to look him in the eye since she brought him to this room and locked him in at Azura's bidding.
A servant enters and places a covered tray on the small table close to the unlit fireplace. Another man enters and bows to Florian before speaking a long string of Spanish. Florian doesn't understand a word he says.
"This is Azura's chef," Maria explains. "He's here to take your request for tonight's supper." When Florian looks puzzled she adds, "You can have anything you want. Tomorrow you'll only want a light breakfast before..." She clears her throat awkwardly and continues. "Choose whatever you would like - he's an excellent chef."
Florian's mind is busy for a moment, the idea of requesting his last meal overriding every other thought. He blinks a few times and notices that the chef is looking a bit impatient.
Out of nowhere, the memory of strawberry crepes enters Florian's head. When he was a child, long before he understood poverty, before he knew the feel of someone pressing him down against his will...
"Crepes," he says quickly before the memory can slip away. "With strawberries and fresh whipped cream."
Maria smiles at him and turns to the cook, presumably repeating the request in Spanish. The man frowns in confusion for a moment, then smiles and nods. He bows and motions to the servant and both men leave the room. Maria lingers for a moment, studying Florian with an expression that is both sweet and sad.
"He's moving Ray into this room tomorrow. There's stationery in the desk. If you want to leave a message, you can tell me where it's hidden when I return tonight."
"Maria?" Florian reaches out to her, but doesn't actually touch her arm. "Tell him I chose this. He knows, but he'll try to deny it and blame himself." Now he does touch her arm, his need for her to understand more urgent than propriety. "Promise me you'll make him understand that he is not to blame. No matter what happens."
She nods, then adds, "I prayed for you last night." Her confession is barely more than a whisper. "In that church where we first met. I will go there again today and pray."
"Thank you," Florian whispers back.
"Don't thank me!" She pulls away, taking a step back, her face stricken. "If we had never met you wouldn't be facing your death tomorrow."
"You must not think that." Florian steps forward again, taking both of Maria's hands in his. "This was inevitable. There is too much history between Azura, Ray and me. I'm just sorry Azura involved you."
"I involved myself by listening to him." Maria leans in and places a light kiss on Florian's cheek. "I'm sorry, I can't stay."
"Go." Florian releases her hands and steps back. He smiles. "I will see you this evening."
She looks at him a long moment, as if she's trying to memorize him. Then she turns away and quickly leaves the room, locking it behind her.
Florian sighs, dropping down onto the bed and putting his head in his hands. He allows himself a few moments of self-pity before pushing it away and looking up. His breakfast is waiting, he might as well enjoy it while it is warm.
The tray is piled high with eggs, sausage and toast. There is freshly squeezed orange juice and a small teapot emitting fragrant steam. Florian settles in and eats, his mind far away from this room, this house, this country.
Instead, he pictures a bright, cool morning in May, sitting in the garden of his family home with his mother. Her attention is focused on him and she is smiling, her eyes not yet shadowed by worries about money. They are waiting for the servants to deliver their breakfast and fill the time with silly conversation and bits of poetry that Florian's tutor had had him memorize.
Their food arrives in a parade of smiling servants with Mariette at the head carrying the tea service. Trays are set out, still covered and tea is poured. With a gesture, Mariette commands the trays to be uncovered.
Florian can still remember the moment, can almost feel the delight as the strawberry crepes are revealed. Mother seldom allows such indulgence - especially at breakfast. He looks up at her, eyes wide and wants to ask what has happened to inspire such a treat. She laughs before he can speak and leans close so their eyes are almost level.
"Just because, dear Florian. Just because." And they laugh and talk and eat every bite.
Florian looks down at the eggs on his fork, lifting them to his lips and eating them mechanically, pretending that the salt that seasons them isn't from his tears.
::end::