"Closer," Roger says, indicating for Mark to scoot closer to him. Awkwardly, Mark does. Once his body is actually touching Roger's, he lets out the tiniest of whimpers. "Don't be scared," Roger tells him, but his voice sounds almost disgusted, which only serves to make Mark more worried.
"I know you're scared, but just calm down," Roger reassures him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not."
Mark nods. "Okay," he whispers.
"Okay," Roger repeats. "Where were you born?"
His voice wavering, Mark says, "Viyage. Western Viyage, where it was – sorry. You don't want to hear about that."
"I do," Roger insists. "Tell me."
"Well," Mark says, "Western Viyage was the farthest part of it from Aveb. We weren't conservative the way people are here. It wasn't uncommon to find two men or two women kissing publicly. And Viyage, well, it wasn't perfect – it wasn't beautiful in that it had all these trees and so much sun to look up at. But it was still beautiful. There was color everywhere, paintings and fire shows and the river and the sunset. And at night, we would gather on the roofs of our buildings – we lived in apartments – and stare at the stars. That was beautiful."
Roger smiles wistfully. "It sounds amazing."
"It was," Mark agrees eagerly. "An – my best friend – used to just sit on the street and play the harp. People would see her sitting there and give her money. People don't do that here, I guess."
"No, they don't," murmurs the prince. "That's sad, because I would love to see something like that."
Mark laughs. "So would I, Highness," he says, almost conversationally, "but that simply isn't possible. As we speak, the Gracerm army is tearing my homeland to shreds. When I was captured from Viyage, so were thousands of other Viyagians. It is Gracerm's mission to conquer the entire country – for what, I don't know. It's so small a land that most other countries overlook it."
"Oh," says Roger. For all that he is a prince, he knows very little about war. His father always manages to stay neutral – he is neither for or against war, and a time has never come when he was forced to choose to or not to fight. Politics interest the prince, but battle has always seemed a far-off concept to him, something with which he would do well not to concern himself.
The slave shifts in the bed. Quietly, almost to himself, he begins to speak again. "That girl from my village had prophecies. Small things, mostly – when flowers were only buds, she made a game out of identifying what they would grow to look like, and she was always right. But there were big ones, too: she spoke of the day when Gracerm would conquer us long before it actually happened. And once… when she was very young, she told us of a leader, one who would deliver us from times of turmoil. She said that he would be from Aveb."
Roger raises an eyebrow. "Aveb? I don't see anyone particularly interesting in this godforsaken country, Mark."
"The boy with depths in his eyes, she said," Mark muses. "The softest hands and the softest heart."
"A boy," Roger repeats. "A boy. Collins, perhaps? His eyes are the deepest of anyone's I know, except maybe Angel."
"He's a slave," Mark points out. "He wasn't born here. Besides, his hands are rough from all the work he has to do."
Roger laughs hoarsely. "You should see how little work he actually does and then make that assumption."
"Why don't you make him do work?" Mark asks quietly. "I mean, you've said to me that the two of you are friends, but he's still your inferior. I am too. We're your slaves – your country has captured us – we should have to work."
Roger shakes his head. "I don't believe in that," he says firmly. "I don't believe that anyone should have to work without pay, and I certainly don't believe that just because of my parentage, something's special about me. I do think that there is something that makes me unique, but – not that. I'm not going to take advantage of kids that are just the same as me, except unluckier. It isn't fair."
For a long moment, Mark closes his eyes. "I agree with you, Highness," he says quietly. "I know it probably seems like I don't, but I'm conditioned to act as an inferior."
Roger shifts, sliding his arm around Mark's shoulder, counting the cracks in the ceiling. "And I, for the most part, have been trained to act like a prince."
"Do you?" Mark asks. It's pretty much a toss-up – true, there are times when Roger acts regal and princely, but just as equal are the times when he goes out riding, emerging with his face streaked with mud. Mark has never seen this, but he knows. Angel and Collins speak about the prince as though he were a god, talking of all the amazing things he can do. Riding is his strong suit, they say. Riding and music.
He laughs. "When I want to," he says. "It's not as frequent as you might think."
"No, I can imagine," Mark tells him sleepily.
Something clicks in Mark's mind. A mere five minutes ago, he was shaking with fear of the prince, but now, he feels something beginning to form between them. Friendship? It makes him nervous, because he hasn't had a friend in so long, but still, he can't help but imagine the feeling of being wanted and needed by someone, his presence craved, his secrets known and understood.
A tugging at his heartstrings makes his hoping all the more frantic, and he turns over on his side to face Roger.
Before he can say anything, Roger is talking again, and Mark listens attentively.
"It's been so long since the last time I was able to relax and just talk about things," he says. "Like how I don't want to marry Mimi, and how I feel like my parents like Maureen better, and how I'm scared for her, because as soon as people find out that she has – "
Suddenly, Roger stops.
"Never mind," he mumbles.
Going off on a limb, Mark reviews Roger's last sentence in his head. "as soon as people find out that she has…"
Has what?
Magic?
"Magic?" Mark asks quietly.
Sharply, Roger spins around. "How did you know about that?" he demands.
Mark cringes, but answers honestly. "A – a man in the kitchens told me," he says softly. "He said the princess has magic, and that people persecute people with magic here."
Shaking his head, Roger growls, low in his throat. "Was it Bernard?"
"I think so," Mark replies. "He was – he was Collins' father. And there was a girl with him… April."
He idly wonders why he is telling all this to Roger. Slaves and servants usually abide by a strict code of honor, not betraying anyone else's secrets if they can help it. But Mark feels comfortable with Roger, or as close as he could possibly feel to a master, and something tells him that Roger won't punish April or Collins' father for it.
"Yes," Roger says. "Well. They're right, Maureen does have magic. Just a bit."
"He said your father won't let anything happen to her," Mark murmurs in an attempt to be comforting.
Roger laughs hollowly. "That's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried she'll get involved in sorcery. It's happened in all the old books, mostly conservative anti-magic texts – people get sucked into magic, Mark; they get sucked into it and get so wrapped up in the power that they never come out."
"The texts could be warped, to – to say what they want to say – "
The prince shakes his head. "A little girl with so much power is dangerous," he says. "Even if she doesn't get sucked into it herself, as soon as other people find out, they'll want things from her. The magic-oriented cults will want to use her as a poster girl. The ultra-conservatives will want to make an example out of her, to have her killed and pass it off as something caused by magic. The villagers will all ask things of her, throwing guilt trips, saying that as long as she has power, by not helping them, she's being evil. And she's just twelve and she doesn't know what's going on."
"Does she know she has magic?"
Roger bursts out laughing. "She knew before she could talk. I don't know how much you know of Maureen at this point, but she is the most self-sure person I know. She knows everything there is to know about herself. Such a curious kid."
"Oh. So… why don't you just explain it to her? Or have Collins' father do it? He explained it pretty well to me…"
"Look, Mark," Roger says, his tone suddenly blunt. "I appreciate your trying to help, but it's really a family issue and I'd appreciate it if you'd just stay out of it."
Mark's eyes fluttered downward. Vaguely, he is aware that he said something wrong, and apologies flow to the top of his mind.
"No," Roger murmurs. Aloud, he says, "I'm sorry."
Mark double-takes. "What?"
Looking sheepish, Roger repeats, "I'm sorry. I know how fragile you are right now. I shouldn't've said that to you. I just meant… I was getting angry. I shouldn't've."
"I don't understand."
Roger claps Mark on the shoulder. "It's not a big thing, really. Just… I shouldn't've spoken that way to you, and I apologize."
Mark blushes. "Oh. Okay…"
Roger glances outside, where the sun was just barely beginning to go down. "I have to start getting ready," he remarks. "Do I have time for a bath? – Yeah, I think so. Can you run a bath for me, please, Mark?"
"You don't have to say please," Mark mumbles, still a little embarrassed over receiving an apology. "
Roger doesn't hear, just starts stripping down and getting ready for his bath. Mark kneels down beside the tub, running the water.
He is starting to think that there's a routine even here. He spends time with Roger, he can be his equal, but he always has to listen. That's fine. Mark can do that.
Then the water's all ready, and Roger steps inside.
"Here's the soap," Mark says, trying to avert his eyes.
Roger laughs. "I trust you. Go ahead, wash me."
Mark's eyes widen.
