This chapter is one of the darkest plot, because big Marlee's canning and how everyone reacted to it.
I don't mean to show more of how they are tortured or anything, but this chapter shows how they are treated at traiters, and how Maxon can do nothing even if he wants to.
The journey from my room to the East wing of the palace grounds, to the stage that'd been staged for the devilish purpose of today was more than mystifying.
The whole list of what would happen made my heart twitch with every beat, whereas the long list of everything that could go wrong kept digging holes in my mind.
Crossing the hallway, through the wide gates that were open wide, passing the driveway that was filled with black cars—nearly every member of father's council was present—and through the far war walls—the very ones that divide the reality of Illéa from the palace—that yawned open to the streets filled with angry and smug and a very active crowd, I made my way to the seat beside the king, at the right of the stage that'd been setup just for today's purpose.
Crowd that filled with numbers in hundreds and thousands. With children and women and men. The children giggling as they sat on their elders' shoulders, the women's gossiping and men trying to get a better look for what was about to unfold.
Gavril was already present, his work as fluent as always as he did his part, the only sign of worry being his pale skin.
Sitting beside the king on the other side was the queen, dressed in immaculate black, mourning black with black eye-makeup and a tiara of black diamond, the black stone just as sparkling as the unshed tears in her eyes.
Across us, the Elites were seated, dressed in a mourning black, but confused. Everyone was refused to acknowledge them with what had happened last night.
Standing next to them were the parents of the said Elites, equally confused and terrified.
And next to them stood Mr. and Mrs. Tames, along with their younger child, their faces completely pale in comparison to their red rimmed eyes. They knew what their daughter did, but still they stood silently, anticipation of what they were going to witness creating another pit of failure in my already unsteady heart.
I could feel each and everyone's gaze on me, especially the Elites, specially America, trying to understand what was about to happen, and why. Their questions already dug holes more deeper in my mind.
What will they all think of me when they see this?
Will they think less of me?
What will they think of being a princess now when they see all these?
Will America try to understand why ?
How much will it affect my relationship and friendship with them?
The whole centre of the street was filled with angry crowd—angry both at the king for the retribution he was asking whereas also for the once Elite who crossed a line. With each passing moment, it got more and more hard to ignore their curses and hoots.
They only blurred when the punisher announced Marlee and Carter, telling them to step up so they could be punished for something that was very much right, yet too much wrong for the unseeing people.
While dressing, I'd buried the boy deep inside me—for he was too afraid for his friend and what he'd do—and the prince had resurfaced just immediately.
The prince that was unaffected and unfazed by any of this.
There was nothing that broke the prince.
He'd long since learnt to always stay unaffected, no matter what or where you are.
But not the boy.
The boy was terrified. Unable to lift his gaze even when the said Elite was pushed up the stage, the only shelter she had, my coat that she'd still hold tight to her shaking body, was snatched away by two guards, then pushing one of their brother up the stage even when they'd already beaten him up for good.
Yet the prince's face didn't crumble.
He didn't flinch.
Not when Marlee was trying to walk, still tied to chains even when she kneeled in front of the wooden box. Her torn dress and wings were nothing but another talk for people, the shaking of her body cause for the laughter that erupted. Or the 'ooh' and 'aahs' as Carter was tied up to a large A, his legs tied to the block's legs whereas his head hanging above his head, tight ropes holding him back even when he wasn't free of his chains either.
The boy inside me cringed and recoiled every second of it.
"This is a crime punishable by death!" The punisher said in his unflinching voice. "But, in his mercy, Prince Maxon is going to spare these two traitors their lives. Long live Prince Maxon!"
The whole street started to echo as the crowd cried my name, their claps and cheers giving a whole new life to my interfering.
The whole crowd or the chanting didn't intimidate Marlee or Carter. In fact, I could hear Marlee's deep breaths as she tried to prepare herself for the torture that was about to unleash on her and her beloved. And Carter's declaration of love to her even under these atrocious circumstances, his 'I love you' only for Marlee audible even to me over the crowd's cries, followed by something that sounded like "We're going to be okay. It'll be okay, I promise". Marlee's unflinching gaze on him, even when her eyes were glistening with moisture, said the words themselves, 'You're worth it. Worth everything.', echoing in my mind.
For the first time since last night, I was happy that there was at least one thing that I could do right under the given circumstances.
Father looked at me for a second, and I couldn't sit more straighter. His face was hidden behind his mask of indifference which be always wore, but still I could make out a few emotions. One was the always present resentment towards me for my yet another failure and not being the prince he wanted, but at the same time—and perhaps for the first time in a long time—I could feel his eyes full of praises as I was the prince Illéa needed as well.
That wasn't what surprised me.
What surprised me was my mother sitting beside him, her face full of unrelenting pride she felt for me this moment.
She gave me a small nod, her glistening eyes blinking with understanding and secrets, and looked back at the stage in front of us.
At father's signal to proceed, the punisher nodded and the horns blazed, signalling the start of onslaught.
"Marlee Tames and Carter Woodwork, you are both hereby stripped of your castes. You are the lowest of the low. You are Eights!" The crowd cheered, their shouts swallowing the straining sound of Marlee's breathing. "And to inflict upon you the shame and pain you have brought on His Majesty, you will be publicly caned with fifteen strikes."
More gasps and claps and hoots erupted from the crowd.
"May your scars remind you of your many sins!"
As if on cue, two guards swished long wooden rods from the buckets full of sea water, swinging in the air, testing them, cutting the air with their strikes.
More applause broke from the crowd seeing the unusual warm-up.
Distantly I was aware of the horrified faces of the Elites as they understood what was about to happen, why, but a bigger part of me was trying to elude myself from everyone else in search of serenity from all these.
America's loud "No! No!" made the beautiful dreams I'd dreamt a mere night ago that itself. A dream.
Father groaned beside me. "Trust a Five to make a speculation of herself on a day like this!"
But my mind wasn't on his harsh words.
It was on the scene that unfolded in front of me. America launching herself out of her seat, frantic cries slipping from her mouth. But in the frenzy, she fell or maybe stumbled in her father's lap, her eyes still trying to search mine. Even without understanding the words she was trying to tell loudly but couldn't in the loud sound from the crowd, it was fairly easy to read the words she mouthed.
She wanted—needed—me to stop it.
What I couldn't tell her was that I couldn't do anything.
A guard tried to take her down but it soon turned up in a battle of wills, all the while the others were trying to decide what to do. The Elites were speaking among themselves, all their faces pale, their black gowns making their pale skin look deadly. While they were trying to stomach the whole scene, their parents were holding each others' hands, prayers being spoken.
The guard trying to talk with America fell down suddenly, trying to hold his guts together, while her mother held her.
Just as this scene cleared out, the punisher standing on the side of the stage yelled ONE and the sticks fell like whips on Marlee's hands, piercing the whole area by its sound, sucking out her breath as she tried to hold herself together yet a small whimper of unsurmountable pain escaping her lips. Before the sound could reverberate, another stick fell on Carter's back, his teeth clenching with the hurt, but still no sound came out of his lips.
The only thing he did was look at a crying Marlee, trying to make her see that everything would fall in the right place.
America's pleads to stop the whole commotion reached my ears. The only thing I did was close my eyes.
Father's fingers wrapped around my hand on the armrest, his nails digging in my skin. For anyone else it was a show of concern and emotion, showing how affected the king was as well.
But I knew better. Knew that he wanted me to see every second of it.
Only when did I open my eyes the punisher shouted for the next round, this time getting a heart piercing cry from Marlee's lips as a reward.
Carter was still silent. His eyes still only for Marlee.
Another round of caning.
Then another.
After the fifth strike, her body started quaking with her pain, her shrieks turning frantic. The crowd fed on her cries, cheering for more.
Carter didn't break.
Not yet.
His body was equally shaking with pain, but there was no sound of whimpers from him. His only sounds the comforting words he supplied after each strike to Marlee, even when he was gasping the words.
Those words were barely manageable to listen to or be read, still I heard and listened them. They were words of encouragement, of love, of shared secrets. Of everything they had to fight for. Words such as 'I love you', 'Look at me! Not at anybody else', 'It'll be over soon', 'You're very...brave, Marlee', 'Just ten more', 'It'll...be over soon'.
From the left side of the platform, a blur of red caught my eyes.
America.
Screaming, she struggled against two guards to get past them and reach Marlee, crying and fighting her best.
No one seemed to see her struggle, and those who did muttered how 'very unladylike manner'. Even father grunted his disapproval on such behaviour, saying "she was always a nuisance and a menace for our family, anyway. Pity we won't be able to eliminate her now."
It took an effort to not response to his comment, and even more to ignore America as the guards took her away, back into the palace.
My fingers dug into the arms of the chair, desperately trying not to act. It was necessary to stay in my place, to not let the prince drown and let my feelings resurface.
"Eight!" called the punisher, not even when I knew what could these many horrible lashes could do to a person. How Marlee's hands would be permanently ruined with the marks of these event, and how Carter's skin would be torn in pieces by now. Or how Marlee was bearing all these, or how much strong Carter was for not letting a single sound for Marlee's sake.
It was after a few more strokes when Marlee's body started shaking with uncontrollable sobs, but I could just see—maybe because I knew or because I've seen both of them—that her tears weren't for herself but for her love, who was slowly losing his conscious, his back hanging in pieces, completely torn. And still Carter's words of reassurances that everything is going to be fine..., we'll be together..., just a few minutes more...
"Thirteen!" The punisher announced, but Carter had fallen unconscious, hanging limply from his position, his body swaying by the force of the wooden beating he was still enduring, Marlee uttering soothing words to him despite her tears.
"Fourteen!"
"Fifteen!"
After the caning had stopped and her hands were pried open of her restraints, she crawled to Carter, trying to wake him up, cupping her cheeks and talking to him.
"Another nuisance!" Father shook his head with annoyance, his eyes burning with hate at her act—as he put it. "She'd rather become an eight than thinking of her life with you! At least that Five is better than her. At least she has a little hopes than believing in some disgusting tales of love."
"Clarkson!" Mom said, fazed by such harsh words.
Instead of feeling remorseful for his tone or words, he shook he head at her, gave me a hard look, and went to Gavril who wanted to have his special interview.
"Shall we?" I asked her instead, taking her hand.
She smiled at me, her eyes all teary. Instead of saying anything, she nodded and walked with me back to the palace.
A final glance at my back showed me the guards carrying an almost unconscious Marlee and a completely fainted Carter like a trashbag, not at all caring that their skin were completely torn or they were badly beaten.
No! They treated her like a scum, like garbage.
But there was nothing I could do. Nothing! Not if I wanted them go have a chance at some normalcy.
A chance for their fairytale.
My eyes met Mom's, and she gave me the same look. She understood what I was thinking. She knew there was nothing we could do for now.
So she squeezed my hand and looked in the front, the queen back who knew how to tackle everything.
Always unfazed and regal.
Beside her, I wore my best poker face, not letting any of my feelings about anything surface.
.
.
.
While a woman whose only crime was to fall in love was beaten for the sin which even God considers a blessing; while a protector was being caned for feeling unworthy for not being able to protect the one he loves the most; while the heir of a kingdom was not able to save his friend from the unjust punishment of a crime for which he always wished upon since the previous month, a nobody was laying a trap to lure the other guards out so he and his friend could help without being noticed.
While Maxon sat rigid in his throne-like-seat, trying his best to not flinch with every caning his friend endured, his childhood friend, the one who always had his back, walked through the secret passageway to the prison, holding a torch in one hand and the supplies in another, trying his best to remain unnoticed.
There was a benefit of being unnoticed. Of being a wallflower. Always in the background. Unlike the other who always rest in the centre, he has the liberty to roam around the edges and do whatever he likes.
After all, who would suspect him?
No one would expect him to be the one doing the most chivalry. Or defying against the king with the help of his friend, the heir himself.
Following the route he'd learnt through the map of the secret passageway of the palace since he was nine and more thoroughly since he'd been the butler of the second most important person, he counted the steps and took the turns.
After a hundred steps to the right, another hundred and half to the left and a half century steps straight, he reached the gate that opened in the prison.
Being as dark as it was always in there, no one noticed as he stepped in through a door only a few knew about. And thanks to his most trusted guards, Warner Shaw and Pete Fisher, he knew the guards on duty would be standing outside the prison wing, witnessing the caning of two innocent people, all the time betting on what time will they break or laughing on their once friend's injuries—after all, only the most cold-hearted guards are given the duty of guarding the prison, no one would expect anything else of them. Just like he'd planned.
Keeping a check on his feelings, he slipped in the prison as soundlessly as he could. A practice he was given that no one knew about, thanks to the another part of his identity.
Nobody ever thought a friend of the prince could be someone who was one of the most wanted.
As said, a benefit of being a wallflower, of being unnoticeable.
Stepping on as silent feet as be could, making sure to make no noise and checking at every corner to make sure there is no one to witness him doing the unthinkable, he trailed along the black marks Maxon had left on the dark grey walls of the prison during his visit this morning.
As expected, there were no guards to keep an eye on the now empty cells.
Checking once again for privacy, he slipped in the first cell using the duplicate key Maxon had acquired the prints of. Lightening the dark cell with the torch, he checked the room. A small cot not big enough for a man as big as Carter. A chamber pot in the corner which was very much likely to give him a disease rather than help him relieve. No sign of water containing or food plates. No torch to lighten the room from the darkness coating it, or to provide any kind of warmth against the chilliness of the cell.
How could someone be so heartless to give them no comfort in their misery, he thought, was beyond me.
He'd helped Maxon make the plan next to foolproof, corrected it in places and given him his best advices being his hindsight and extra ears.
For everyone else, a butler was nothing but another tool for a novelty to make himself presentable. But not Maxon. For his friend had not only given him the position of a butler to have him always close, but also made him his spy. His extra ears and eyes on the whole of palace.
Once again making sure no one was coming inside, he quickly went to work. Putting the medicines under the cot—then on the second thought that neither Marlee not Carter would be in any condition to bend, he put it on the side table where no one would think of glancing. A water pitcher beside the cot and a few fruits along with it. And at last a letter describing the procedure of applying the ointments and telling them what to expect next precisely written by Maxon was put carefully along with the medicines.
Then, after he was convinced there was nothing else to look upon, he quickly worked on the adjoining gate between the two cells. Learning the whole map by heart had given him the knowledge of having adjoining gates between each two cells, which were mostly hidden and so well rusted that even when opened an inch, they made a loud screeching noise. Making sure to work well with the oil and the hinges, he was able to easily open the door and close it without any such sound. Leaving it open an inch, he went out.
He was almost back to the hidden passageway back to the main labyrinth that were the hidden paths surrounding the palace then he heard the sound of a few guards laughing and a moans and whimpers followed quickly after them. Risking his chance, he glanced through the inch of space between the door.
The laughter was coming from a few guards who were carrying the almost broken and feinted body of Carter Woodwork, his skin completely shredded, just like his back, blood coating him like a second skin and the bruises on his face making him look like a ghost.
That explains the whimpers, he thought remorsefully with bile in his mouth. How could his former friends and brothers be so sick of him to make fun and bets on his condition was beyond his imagination.
The moans of discomfort were coming from a nearly unconscious Marlee, her mouth still forming the words 'Carter'.
But that wasn't what disgusted him more.
No. The part that made his blood boil was the guards pointing to the almost torn shoulder of the dress of Marlee and the blood stains marking her holy dress of an angel. The guards were enjoying the look of an unconscious Marlee and the fantasies that now enveloped their mind by considering her an untouchable Eight.
He knew what the guards were thinking about. After all, they were given their position as the guards of the most horrible place in Illéa due to their undeniable yet unclaimed crimes. A guard in Illéa was a position of virtue, a position worth sacrificing everything. But not the position of guard at the prison. One only had to do the most horrible crime for which they were given redemption by giving them a whole lifetime of torture. Of never seeing light or eating tasty food.
It was with sheer practice of him as a spy, not only for his friend but also for his family—both blood and chosen—that helped him regain his composure and not twist their useless mouths for even smiling at their discomfort.
Closing the door, he went back to the prince's room, all the while thinking of their condition and what will happen to them. No matter what he thought, he always stumbled with he idea of them living in a disguised identity.
He knew the burden of such events, of such betrayal to his friend that he had to make for the sake of his family, for the success of a whole another and important topic.
He had barely managed to make his best decisions, always trying to do his best regarding both his duties, but he couldn't picture a former Four doing well as a Six, or a guard who has been stripped of his virtue by the king himself.
For the hundredth time in the day, he touched the Northern star that hung from his neck, dangling on a chain hidden under his dress. He wished for guidance from the Star that always showed him the proper path. And also hoped the Star would guide Marlee and Carter, too. For they also needed them now .
Just like Maxon needed a guide for himself so he could bear what was going to fall upon him.
Upon the last moment he changed his mind and made his way to the kitchen, where he met his favourite person whenever he was in a dilemma himself. Agatha Sweetings. The old lady who always looked after him since he'd lost his mother and introduced him to a new world where he got a motive for his life.
When she saw him entering the storage area through the secret door, she quickly excused herself and went in the store area, where she was enveloped in a large embrace from a man who appeared no more than a child for the moment.
He needed a motherly embrace to forget everything else and concentrate on what was about to unfold in the near future. Just like the prince who, despite being called a coward from his own father for crying his heart out again and again, became a child once again and cried his heart out in his mother's lap.
Both the gentlemen forgot everything else and became the children they once were, seven and five, not sure what they were supposed to be or do, but knew what the future required of them, the very future that stole their childhood from their grasp to mould them into their best version.
But sometimes, even the glass needs to break to make a more beautiful version of itself.
The heart needed to empty itself from its feelings and burden to carry on.