Sleep had become Alistair's dearest company in recent months. While his older brothers brought with them love, compassion and strength during their visits, rare as they often were, it was sleep that brought the one thing Alistair truly sought; escape. Freedom. The ability to forego the stifling restraints this world had on him. Lucidity held him with cold, irdon chains that dug into his skin and forced him still by his throat and wrists. He never truly held them release while he was awake. They may loosen and drape over his arms calmly while he painted, or while being subject to Clovis's grooming, but never did they truly untie him.

Once the menial distractions were gone, the chains returned to tear open tender and barely mending wounds. They tore into his flesh to remain as permanent reminders; you're not safe. You can't truly declare your freedom. We own you. Your country owns you. Those of your own flesh and blood and heritage both control and shun you.

They constantly taunted him, never letting him feel truly at peace. His brothers could soothe him, fill his mind with pleasant stories and what if's for the future, but they only suppressed the truth. Alistair's reality wasn't one of parties he may some day attend, or schools he might be accepted to in some years. His world only flirted with the stories his family told of a society he wasn't a part of.

Alistair's reality, his waking moments, was constantly overcast by the true and looming possibility that he might be dead in a year's time.

But sleep consoled him. Though he'd crawl into bed knowing this, and wake up with him imminent grave on his mind, the few hours in between were almost always free of those obsessive thoughts. Nightmares occurred, but rarely, leaving the prince with wonderful lapses in consciousness, blessed escapes into a dreamworld.

But slumber had been a rarity this week. Since he arrived home from his trial, he supposed he's caught maybe 12 hours of sleep in total. He would crawl into bed, fingering the soft texture of his new sheets, and beg his body to sleep, but it rarely conceded.

New sheets, his old furniture, all arranged how it had been. Heavy drapes to shield his great room from the scorching afternoon sun. His easel, his palette, everything was back at it had been now. They must not see it as important now, to keep him from such dangerous hazards as dental floss. He was marked for death, so who cared now if he just hurried things along a bit?

He peered over to the large bank of windows, where his newest canvas was setup. The presence of his painting supplies marked this. Most of them came with warning labels foretelling a lifetime of cancer, birth defects and some horrific disorder where he assumed you pretty much hacked your lung up one bloody mass at a time. So it was essentially the Picasso version of standing in front of the microwave while pregnant.

"Maybe it's a good thing I'm gonna die," he bemused. "My kids would all have 3 arms anyway."

He was pondering just what would happen if he went on an artistic madman spree and smothered himself in sealant and gesso, whether he'd become something suitable for a lab study or a comic book, when a soft knock on his door begged his attention.

He ignored it. Whoever it was would let themselves in anyway.

Clovis's heeled boots clicked slowly across the hardwood. He should have known; Oddie had barely visited him this week. The shame across his face was evident, even when his eyes were trained to the floor. Alistair knew; he felt like a failure, like he'd let Alistair down. Pain filled his own chest when he found himself unable to truly feel otherwise.

"Hey. Ali-cat…!" Clovis tried to sound chipper, and upbeat, but it just came across strained. It reminded Alistair of how people always acted in movies when entering a hospital room. Hushed, with big smiles plastered across their faces, and soft tear filled eyes. Alistair wondered if Clovis would appreciate the dramatic atmosphere if he responded with a slow head turn, a squint, and a "Brother...is that you?"

He wagered on no. Which was a pity; Clovis has a flair for the overdramatic. But lately, it seemed Alistair couldn't so much as complain about his nonexistent diabetes flaring up again to get his family in a horrified, coddling tizzy. For a boy who thrived on hyperbole, idiom and sarcastic wit to fill up the uncomfortable silences, this posed quite a problem. How was he supposed to complain about the lack of comfortable seating by saying his ass was killing him without Oddie attempting to disarm his derier?

Clovis sat next to his brother. Alistair had hardly moved all day, quite comfortable where he was. The great room in his apartment was so spacious, yet cozy at the same time. Nearly twenty feet wide and twice as long, it was easily the most spacious and comfortable room in his suite. One wall was almost nothing but floor to ceiling windows, now swathed in heavy blue draperies, fringed in gold. The wallpaper was gold and cream, running in thick stripes from rich chocolate crown molding to the enameled paneling running four feet up each wall. The hardwood running over the entire floor gleamed, as perfect and unscuffed on the edges as it was under the protection of the truly giant blue and gold Persian rug.

Alistair fucking loved that rug, and he showed it now by staring intently at it. His true motive was to avoid Clovis's awkward condolences again for as long as possible, hoping he would think he was intensely appreciative of fine Asian craftsmanship and a high thread count.

Though he really did fucking love that rug.

He and Clovis spent much of their childhood rolling around on this rug, which wouldn't have meant much, except for where the rug was. They rarely played in Alistairs home, his part of the palace, considering what delicate condition his mother was usually in. Playtime was almost exclusively outside, or with Clovis's mother. Rolling and romping around on this carpet meant Annabelle was having a well spell. It meant her emotions were all aligned how they were suppose to, and she could be trusted to be around small children without traumatizing them for life.

Clovis, following Alistair's gaze, also had a small appreciation for that rug.

"They never could get that stain out," he ventured, pointing to a faint blotch darkening the royal blue to a deep less regally named navy. "That was where you spilled your rinse water."

No, that wasn't it at all. It was where Clovis decided that four fizzy cans of pop didn't go very well with rich birthday cake with buttercream icing, chocolate candy and a milkshake. But Alistair didn't feel like falling for the bait. He'd correct him in a smart ass way, Clovis would act indignant, he'd take a jab at his supposed sexual orientation…it was normally a familiar routine, a comedic play that no one else would really see as funny, but was as comfortable as a favorite pair of slippers. For now, though, Alistair couldn't concur up the will to snark back.

12 hours of sleep in 6 days could do that to someone. He felt so damned exhausted. He'd been sitting there for hours, unable to move, but not able to sleep either. He wondered if he sat there long enough, if he'd just pass out from sleep deprivation. Sounded nice enough. Sort of like those sedative-induced mini comas he often woke from in hospitals; intensely disturbing when he examined the circumstances, but the best fucking sleep of his life.

Clovis didn't seem willing to let that happen, though. He traipsed all the way up here to see his death row inmate of a brother, and he was damn well going to get the most for his troubles!

He coughed. "Er…Alistair?" he began. Alistair gave a noncommittal twitch. Something that said, I may not be listening, but I am conscious enough to respond to audio stimuli.

"Right…" Clovis flipped a lock of pale hair over his shoulder. "Well. I see you have your paints back."

Alistair glanced over. "Yeah. I guess they figure they can save themselves the price of a triple dose of Pavulon, if I asphyxiate on a can of Winsor-Newton first."

Through his peripheral vision, Alistair could see his brother visibly flinch. At various points over the past two years, such a reaction would elicit feelings of delicious triumph in Alistair, who would have been quite pleased with himself. At others, he would have been enveloped by an immediate guilt compelling him to crawl into their laps and cry and cling.

He wasn't in the mood for clinging, or touching at all, yet he didn't have the will to shove Clovis's hand away when it came to rest gently on his shoulder. His hand was warm through his t-shirt, and he felt rather comforted just by being able to feel it. He'd felt so little over this past week. No fear, no grief, no terror. There wasn't acceptance yet, and he doubted that there ever would be. There was only a hollow, empty numbness that seemed to encase his entire being. Save, of course, for the ever scratching feeling of unrest at the back of his mind.

The prince didn't push his older brother off when he reached out to pull him into his thin arms, encasing him in linen, silk and the scent of ginger. He must have been to dinner recently. Was it already evening? He didn't know. He supposed so. The drapes were framed and their edges softened by the fiery light seeping from behind them.

Alistair wasn't hungry.

Clovis's chest wasn't broad and strong like Odysseus's was. It wasn't built to comfort and hold someone abreast, nor were his hands strong enough to truly make him feel safe and protected, but Alistair didn't refuse their attempts to sooth.

He thought, maybe, he was crying, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't feel them, no burn at his throat or behind his eyes. But somehow his face was wet and he found himself shaking, a choked gasping sound to offset Clovis's gentle shushing.

)o(

"Father, please, I only need a moment of your time!" Odysseus begged of the emperor. He'd hardly had time to lower himself on one knee and address the man who'd given him life in the coldest and most formal way possible when he'd been dismissed.

His majesty tried to wave his firstborn on, his face bored and unresponsive. His voice was deep and scornful as it filled his throne room.

"I know what you're here about, Odysseus," he droned. "And I already know about it."

"You mean about your son," Odysseus brazenly corrected, trying to keep his tone reverent to counteract his attitude.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgement crossed Charles's face, though he knew his father recognized this small bit of impatience.

"I know about the hearing," he affirmed. He seemed intent on keeping the conversation as dry and legal as possible. "I was delivered his papers before you even arrived home."

"Then why did you wait almost a week before allowing me an audience?" he wanted to know.

Charles sunk deeper into his throne, seeming quite comfortable for one whose child was to be euthanized in nine months time. Indeed he seemed almost casual as his gloved hand pushed back a heavy curtain of heavily grayed hair.

"It's an unimportant matter," he said, once again trying to get Odysseus out of his sight.

But Alistair wasn't the only one who hadn't been getting a full night's rest, and a lack of sleep wasn't doing anything positive for the first prince's inhibitions. Where fear and reverence generally had him shrinking from his father well before he'd fully made his point, he really didn't have terribly much to loose right now. Alistair was already legally dead, if he wanted to get technical, and the most that could be done to him was a stripping of power, which he already cared little for.

"I think the life of one's child should be a very important matter," he challenged, drudging up a bravery that was unlike him. He wondered if his father would at least be slightly impressed with his brazen attitude. Well, brazen for him.

Nothing. A wave of his hand. On each side, his guards stood on edge, awaiting their turn to stretch their legs, and their gun arms, if this situation continued to escalate.

Oddie scowled. "Father, Alistair will be dead before next spring, and you alone have the power to stop it!" he insisted, though he had already pleaded this case a thousand times before. "You don't need to make an example out of him! Tell everyone he's recovering, showing improvement! I know that with more time, and care, Alistair can keep getting better! All he needs i-"

"Is the right doctor," Charles finished mockingly. "Or the right medication, the right hospital. Yes. Because that has done him quite well heretofore."

Odysseus grimaced at his crass treatment of such a delicate subject. It was all he could do to keep himself bowed subjectively before this man. He won't lie and deny that he wasn't fearful as the emperor stood.

"Odysseus, you're not my brightest child, but I assumed you better off than this," he tsked. "Alistair is weak. A hospital will do him no good at this point, and you know that!" heavy boots strode forward, and Odysseus bowed his head lower, feeling his hear begin to race in his chest. Hardly even a disobedient word, and he was going to be punished, he was sure.

"However…" Charles bemused, stopping so close to his firstborn that Odysseus could see his reflection in his glossed, black boots. "However, He has shown a certain fighting Britannian spirit one does not tend to see in those as inform as he," Charles conceded.

Oddie didn't move, and didn't dare to breathe, hardly. He was afraid the sound of air too quickly passing from his lips would obscure whatever words his father spoke.

"Odysseus, I waited to speak to you till now because Alistair's health is a subject of little importance," he repeated, "But also because his situation has already been taken care of."

He let his heart soar upwards, hopeful, for all of four seconds. Was father going to send him somewhere for help? Write a formal stay of execution? Free him?

…His brothers and sister always did call him a fool.

His fathers plans were not those of inspiring peace or health. Instead, he merely informed the Crown Prince of certain remodeling going on in the East wing of the third floor. A whole corner of the palace sealed off, locked. A safe a shrouded bit of living space for Alistair to live his final months in supposed peace. Protected from those prying for a look at him, from the stress of palace life.

Odysseus listened with ears he wished would fall deaf. This didn't sound like a sanctuary for the ill. It sounded like a prison, a soundproof jail cell to put away something you wished to quickly forget. It was like putting him into storage, and here he was lauding ti as though it was a gift of mercy to his poor, deranged son!

He glowed, still facing the floor, resisting the urge to spit at those impossibly shiny boots. Far too pristine, the apparel of a man who had nothing to do with the tru workings of his family. Oddie's clothes were stained with blood, with sickness and sweat and tears from his brothers care, But Charles had never even came to see Alistair, not even as he lay so weak in intensive care, body nearly drained of life giving blood.

"It's really what's best for him, Odysseus," his father voice simpered, and he didn't even pretend it was any tone but entertained malice. He knelt down before Odysseus, in a mirrored stance to his own genuflection. "Alistair is holding you back, can't you see that? You're wasting what little intelligence you have playing nurse to a boy who'll never amount to anything. Even if his psychosis abates, he's lost too many years to this sickness to gain them back timely! And what of Clovis? Would you really continue to hinder his well being for the sake of Alistairs?"

He made no reply. The fact that he was dragging Clovis into this debate was enough to clench his fists, nails digging into his palms.

Charles was smirking. He could hear it in his voice. "Really, Odysseus. Just accept this token. You have nine months left to throw your brother a funeral fit for royalty!"

Finally Odysseus lifted his head to meet his fathers eyes, but still couldn't speak. He couldn't. There weren't any words left, no insisting or arguing or pleading.

Instead, he merely conjured up his formerly scrapped compulsion, and spit squarely in his fathers face.

)o(

Later, he would tell Alistair not to worry, not to be concerned. The bruises hardly hurt at all, really. No, they were only tender. He should have known better, really, than to try and ride a horse not yet broken.

And he knew Alistair would believe it unquestioningly, lapping up every word from his brother, his hero.

)o(