The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Two - Capture

The guards jump off their horses immediately, tying his hands together in no time at all.  Mark tries to catch his breath, but finds that that becomes increasingly more difficult as he thinks about what could happen to him.  The guard who tied Mark up takes the loose end of the rope and fastens it to his horse's saddle before mounting the animal.

    With that, the group of guards leads Mark away.  He trails behind the horses, guilt burrowing in his gut.  He never wanted to steal, but what else could he have done?  The guilty feeling only gets worse when he sees the townspeople watching, their gazes full of scorn.  The clerk is among them, flustered and frustrated.  Mark does his best to avoid eye contact.

    After what feels like ages, the guards arrive at the castle.  Up close, Mark can see the stained glass windows and the embellished wooden doors in detail.  He can't help but stare in awe.  It's more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. If only he could see them in the full sunlight rather than the darkness of the evening...

He's so distracted that he only notices that they've reached the dungeon when they head down the stairs into the dark, damp room. Torches line the corridor of cells, the light barely reaching the insides of the human cages.  Wooden planks held up by chains serve as something of a sitting or sleeping area, but Mark can't tell.  They look too uncomfortable to be either.  Mark eyes some of the few prisoners there, realizing quickly that he doesn't belong here.  Most of them are burly or covered in tattoos, sending murderous looks towards the farmer as he passes.

    They reach his cell and Mark is thrown inside right after his ropes are cut off.  Without saying anything, the guards leave.  The farmer watches them go, panic rising in his chest.  Is he going to die? He doesn't belong here.  It was one vial of medicine.  Surely that's not a crime punishable by death, right?

    "You look like you're going to pass out," says someone with a thick Scandinavian accent.  Mark looks in the direction of the voice, seeing a blond man in furs sitting in the cell across from him.

The farmer crosses his arms. "I'm not going to pass out."

    "Sure.  Whatever you say," the man replies.

    Mark glances at him again.  "What are you, a viking from Denmark?"

    The man scoffs.  "Denmark.  More like Sweden."

    "If you're from Sweden, what are you doing here?"

    "I could ask you the same question.  You don't exactly have the same accent as the other people in this kingdom," the man replies.

    Mark looks down at his lap.  "My parents weren't born here."

    The viking smirks. His blue eyes glitter with a certain mischievousness that the farmer recognizes from growing up with brothers.

"My name is Felix."

    "Mark."

    "Why are you here?"

    The farmer sighs.  "Stole some medicine and bread."

    "Ah."  Felix pauses, a light chuckle leaving him.  "I stopped by this stupid country for some trading and ended up drunk and fighting with a whole bunch of guards.  I've heard your king is graceful, though, so I'm not worried."

    "I wouldn't know," Mark mutters.

    The viking rests his head against the wall, a long sigh escaping his lips.  "They took my axe, you know."

    "That's unfortunate," the farmer replies monotonously. After a day of stealing, running, getting captured, and being placed in a dark, dank cell that smells like wet stone and sweat, he finds that he's not really in the mood for conversation.

    Felix glances over at him.  "A viking without an axe is like a dog without a bone.  Still strong, but incomplete.  You look like a farmer, however.  I wouldn't expect you to understand."

    "Thanks," Mark mutters, wrapping his arms around himself tighter.  He shivers, the cell growing colder the longer he sits there.  More than anything, he wants to go home and sleep in his own bed, but he has a sinking feeling that he might not get that for a while.

    A guard approaches their cells, glancing at the two men before speaking.  "The king would like to see you."  He gestures to Mark before turning to Felix.  "Then you."

    Felix makes a sound of protest.  "I got here first!"

    "King's orders," the guard snaps.  He grabs the keys from his belt and unlocks Mark's cell.  "Come along."

    The farmer stands up, allowing himself to be chained up and led down the hall as Felix slumps against the wall and crosses his arms, muttering to himself in Swedish.  The guard keeps his sword pointed at Mark's back as two other guards join him in accompanying the American up the stairs.

    The halls alone are bigger than Mark's entire homestead.  Huge stained glass windows filter coloured moonlight onto the red-carpeted floors, filling the space with a lovely glow.  Vaulted ceilings loom overhead, supporting crystal chandeliers.  Paintings of past kings and queens don the walls, all of them regal and majestic.  The entire place takes Mark's breath away.

    They approach two large wooden doors and the guards stationed there push them open, revealing the throne room.