No matter how for how long he dwelt in the darkness, he could not evade it. Non-present, yet hauntingly omniscient and piercing. He could not stop seeing those beautiful eyes, no matter if his own green ones were closed. No matter how much he cowered against the cold stone wall behind him, he could still feel them fixed on him, gazing past the unbreakable iron that kept him prisoner.

The steps echoed through the unending hallway; even if harmless, he could not avoid feeling oppressed and threatened. He counted each one, unable to escape or prepare for their arrival.

It was not a guard, it was none of the men that kept him locked in the damp claustrophobic cell where he lamented. Nothing but a girl, a young maid that could not be much older than he himself. Yet far more innocent and gentle, still yet to learn the coldness that he had.

Once, he would have stood from the ground, to face her, even if she could be part of a wretched kingdom. Now, he avoided her gaze, her curious warm blue eyes.

The maid crouched and softly laid a plate of food through the cell bars. Looking at him with a lean, she showed pity and worry at his unkempt form, which always came as a surprise.

Her lips moved uncertainly, no sound escaping them. She stood by the cell, looking down at him. And even if she seemed to want to whisper something… she didn’t. With a last timid glance, she turned to leave, not without giving him time to battle his own silence.

As her steps faded into the far guts of the dungeon, he quivered, sinking deeper into his anger and misery. He refused to let sleep take him. She would visit him in his dreams, to haunt him with her sad gaze.

And still, even awake, he could not avoid remembering it.

***************************************

His eyes opened tiredly, ever so slowly. Soreness is what he felt first, then the icy air. Not even his thick fur coat prevented him from shivering, feeling the damp stone under him. Carefully, he stretched himself up, to move away from the cold ground. When his eyes adapted to the dark, he was able to focus on the chains, the iron bars, the windowless stone walls around him. Almost no light touched him; the only thing that allowed seeing were the glimmers of a torch in the far distance of the corridor. Of which he could not see the beginning or end, locked in a suffocating small prison.

He stood, knowing that he was alone, but not truly. A few days he had been here, enough for him to dread any presence that neared. The sound of armored boots was always bad news. It always preceded the glares of his captors, all ever content with his impotence.

An undignified sigh escaped him, as he laid his forehead against the iron door of the cell. His hands almost bled when he pressured the bars over which he rested his weight. His mournful gestures made him all ever angrier, and in turn sorrowful.

A prince should stay strong. Even like this, even under such oppression. Yet… he could not avoid mourning his loss. Not only his, or his father’s, but the price his kingdom had paid for their weakness. A price he was sure would be high, and bloody if unpaid.

The blood had already bathed his home, after all.

He grimaced and closed his eyes, hoping he could block the thought of soldiers running their sword through his father’s heart. Not even the queen was spared, not when she had tried to fight near the throne. Only the weak and feeble were left alive, because of a simple fact. Many eyes saw him without a weapon that day.

A new ruler would not wish to create a martyr. Simple arrogance from the invading force, fake mercy. They prefer to lock him away and tell of his cowardice than risk an uprising by killing him.

So here he was… waiting, for something that God only knew that would be.

They could hide beatings, but not his death. They still needed his people to believe he could return one day, to reclaim his throne. They needed him to be forgotten, to assert their presence in his land, so they could steal the populace’s loyalty with time. Easier, and with lesser revolts. For when you take everything away from someone, they don’t have anything to lose in a fight.

Hope was ironically their kingdoms’ demise. It was clear to him that he would never escape and fulfil such a role. For he was far far away, taken deep into the enemy’s own land.

With narrowed eyes, he looked upward, to the mossy ceiling of his cell. Far above rested a huge palace, which buried and kept this dungeon away from sight.

Unless… you had the privilege to venture in it.

The sound of a slam made him flinch, tense and stay alert. He took two steps back before he found the wall behind him. Someone had gone through the main gate of the dungeon and was now descending the stairs that led to his floor.

He had been taken prisoner a few weeks ago. The memory of soldiers and the emperor halting by his door was still fresh. That madman had taunted him with the promise of lashings and beatings, torture. Until now, they had only committed to slight beatings, mockery from the guards.

The steps were closing in. It was only one person. He had heard the voices of the soldiers at the gate, but they did not echo again. It could no be that dammed tyrant.

His fists clenched. His posture became prideful. The hatred and rage burned in his eyes, while he pierced the vacant darkness, waiting for the incoming soldier to appear. He would welcome him and his whip; he would not quiver upon its sight. He would make them feel futility and impotence, realize their failure to make him bend his dignity. No pleading, and no shame.

The shadowed figure finally came close enough. Before it could make the first move and smirk, he did. His arm dashed out the bars as soon as the visitor stepped into view, even if faintly. He grabbed and pulled fiercely their robe, making them slam onto their division. His other arm raised, ready to bolt down and strike.

But he stopped, frozen, when he met her shocked scared eyes.

The plate in her hands had fallen and shattered to pieces at her feet. And yet, she had not moved an inch from where he had pulled her to. It was him who recoiled, as surprised as her.

“I-” He had never struck a maiden. His remorseful whisper trembled as much as her hands. “I am-”

He could not say sorry, did not have time. She was made to react and stop staring at him when a guard rushed, alarmed by the slam and shattering plate.

“What happened?!”

There was no doubt in his mind that she would speak up. Her face was now shadowed, her stance finally defensive. She had taken steps towards the guard, who was now glaring into his cell, seeking any trace of an attempted escape.

“Did he-”.

“No”.

Both he and the soldier blinked in surprise when she spoke up, shutting the trail of thought that the guard offered. She smiled nervously, still looking away, and spoke words with a tone he could not decipher.

“I tripped and… dropped the plate. Forgive me, sir.”

Both stared at her. While he reacted surprised and short of breath, the guard did so with growing annoyance. He swatted her off, bothered by the fact that there was really no crime attempted by his prisoner.

“Was there no clumsier servant to send to feed this rat? Pick the shards quickly and disappear from my sight, before I kick you out.”

“Yes, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”

Diligently and with haste, she grasped the glass in her hands. In a second, she hurried off, never glancing back.

Still, he could tell there were tears in her eyes.