The next week Marianne returned to the small cell at the very bottom of the Palace. The brilliant light and polished marble walls belied its location. Getting to it was no easier than it had been the first time, and walking between the cells still gave her a chill. She had almost dropped her basket as hands had reached through the bars to try and grasp at her.

The footsteps of the retreating guards made her posture stiffen as she was reminded of the predicament she was in. The back of the man was in the same position it had been in the last week, unchanged in any way that she could tell. She still had no idea who the man was, and no one else seemed to know either.

What has he done to warrant this treatment? She thought as she sidled around the edge of the cell to make her way to his front.

“Welcome back,” came the voice of the prisoner, barely above a whisper but the closeness of the room and her looming apprehension caused the words to ring like a gong and she shrank back.

“Thank you?” Marianne managed as she set the basket down, though it turned into more a question than she had hoped.

“I am glad you came back,” he raised his head to look at her with his striking eyes, a twinkle in his eyes making the grin he had even more genuine, “It feels like you have been gone but moments.”

“It’s been a week,” the week had gone slowly for Marianne, with little else to do in the Palace. But it was a good life to have. She could brave a difficult walk through the prisons to only have to work once a week.

“An hour, a day, a week, a month, a year…” he let a sigh out and lowered his head, “Time means nothing down here. I know the passing of the days from when the cell changes from light to dark, but I have since given up on keeping track of anything. Memories just meld into one now, time flows on, and I sit here.”

“That is sad.”

He shrugged, “That it may be, but it is my lot in life now. I once cared. How long ago that was, I do not recall.”

Marianne began the process of cleaning him again as he bit into juicy pieces of chicken. It was much easier now, since the grime he had displayed last time was now at a more manageable level. While she scrubbed his back her stomach growled. She tried to ignore it, but his back starting to shake as he suppressed silent laughter.

Grabbing the rough metal plate he placed it on the ground before him and stopped eating. He calmed his laughter and waited silently as she finished washing his back and hair and dumped the bucket over his head like last time. Once sufficiently dry she moved back around to the front and began to get the cutthroat ready to remove his weeks worth of growth.

“Why not join me first,” he motioned to the other side of the plate.

“Oh, no. I could not do that,” she placed the razor down and eyed the food, “I am not hungry, I eat a good three meals a day.”

“You are not doing a good job of fooling yourself,” he smiled and motioned again for her to sit across from him, “Your stomach has other plans, and it includes whatever is on my plate.”

Obediently she moved across to sit before him, unsure what he might do if she pressed the issue too much. She still did not know what warranted having a prisoner under such tight security. She sat with both her legs to the side, and as she adjusted her dress her stomach let out another growl. She looked away from the plate, her cheeks beginning to flush a rosy colour.

“Please, feel free to eat,” he picked up another piece of chicken and started chewy on it, his other hand pushing the plate a little closer to her.

“No, I could not eat a prisoners food, that is wrong,” her eyes kept darting to the bread roll that adorned the edge of the plate, its crispy crust shouting out for her to eat it. He picked it up and offered it to her.

“I have no real need for this food,” he swallowed the last of the chicken and pressed the roll into her hands, “I only eat because the food is there, and I would rather not waste it. They only bring it to me when someone like you comes along.”

She crunched down on the roll at the same moment that realisation dawned on her, her eyes widening like saucers.

“Your lasb meal was lasb weeb?” She swallowed her food as he cocked an eyebrow at her, “Do you mean, this is the first food you have had since I was here last?”

He nodded and Marianne started to lower the roll back to the plate.

“If I give you the food, do you not think it rude to put it back?” He grabbed the edge of the plate and moved it out of her reach, “Especially after you have taken a bite out of the roll already!”

“But, but, you only have food when someone comes down to clean you…” Marianne bowed her head, refusing to look his way, “I am sorry, the way I phrased that was insensitive.”

“Ha, not at all. You only said the truth. You came here to clean me, and that is when my food is brought. Do you not think it would be odd if I didn’t give them back the plate still full with food. This way the guards do not ask too many questions. Not that I speak to them anyway.”

“I have more questions, do you mind if I ask?” Marianne risked a glance up to see him nod and shrug at the same time, “So your last food before I came was when the previous person was here?”

He nodded.

“Do you realise that was three months before I came?”

“I told you before, time means nothing to me anymore,” he shrugged and glanced around the room, “Who knows when the meal before that was.”

“Okay, next question,” she leaned in closer and held the bread roll in two hands tightly, “How do you still look so healthy?”

“I have no idea, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t look like this,” he raised his arms and began looking at his well-defined body, “How about this. Rather than asking me questions I cannot answer, how about you eat the food I have given you, and I will tell you a story.”

“A story?” She managed to get out just before shoving the roll back in her mouth.

“I cannot piece fiction from fact. There is so much going on in my mind, I do not know what is real, and what has been imagined. I will try and find something that is interesting for you though, so you can eat while I talk.”

With the roll now more than half gone Marianne just nodded. He didn’t seem to need to eat if he could look like he does after months without food, it would just go to waste if he ate it, and the food was leaps and bounds above what the servants had to eat, even if it was just simple roasted meat and fresh bread.

“Ah, I know. I don’t know where it is from, but I feel I remember something. There was this young man. He was the youngest of seven sons. He came from a rich family, but as the seventh son he did not have a big part to play in the family affairs. He learnt bits and pieces of what his brothers learnt, but they had gone off to specialise in different aspects of the family, and he was left to make his own way.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“His father paid him little attention, so he was constantly trying to do things that would garner some sort of look from him, but his efforts were to no avail as his father’s eyes were on his older brothers as they were groomed to take over when he passed on.

"His mother, on the other hand, doted over him. He was her baby, no matter how old he got, and he could not bring himself to disobey her as he did his father. If she asked something of him he would not let anything keep it from being done. Her every wish was his command. Oh, how he loved his mother so.

“But then came a time when things would change…”

* * *

Tyran threw his cards down on the table in disgust. Hand after hand he had lost. The funds he had brought with him had slowly dwindled to nothing. He clinked the last few gold coins he had piled up before him. Quickly he picked them up and tossed them into a small pouch tied to the belt around his waist.

“I think, fellas,” he stood up and moved his chair out of the way, bowing his head to the others around the table, “That I will have to call it a day. My coins are running low and I had best stop before I get in debt with anyone here.”

The others just continued their game and paid him no mind. He tried to flash a smile their way, but they did not even look up from their cards. Tyran’s smile slowly dropped as he realised he wasn’t getting a reaction. This was always the way, friendly while the money was flowing but as soon as it stopped they turned to ice. Tyran shook his head slightly and stepped out of the tavern and into the brisk air that marked the setting of the sun.

Even if the days were warm bordering on hot, Tyran’s home was almost in a desert, and the temperatures at night dropped rather quickly. Thankfully they were just on the border, and the cold was bearable. He slipped his arms into his coat and set off in the darkness on his way home.

The Palace loomed above him as he trudged along, and he continued down the wide road that led directly to it. The guards standing at the gate gave him a curt nod as he passed, but did not budge from their position looking out onto the street.

Tyran turned from the front entrance and made his way around the side, trying to get to one of the servants' entrances to get back into the building. Even at this time of night the Palace was still a hive of activity, with maids and stable hands ducking around the various courtyards.

He made his way to a kitchen entrance and moved inside, trying to make his presence as inconspicuous as possible. Cooks and kitchen hands were bustling about as they had already started preparing the meals for the morning. The appeared to pay him no mind as he made his way deeper inside.

The long, carpeted hallways, walls glistening white, were illuminated by sconces places down their length. When he reached the one that led to his bedroom he froze. A figure stood in the hall, right in front of his door. His heart sank and his shoulders slumped as he slowly made his way closer.

“Hi, Mother,” he stopped a short distance away from the figure.

Moving forward his mother grabbed him by the ear and pulled him down so she could hiss in it, "Don't you 'Mother' me. Your Father has been looking for you all evening. The Palace has been in an uproar trying to find you," she let him go and stood there, arms folded, foot-tapping, "And you reek of smoke! What have you been doing?"

“I was just out having a quiet drink with my friends?” He looked down at the ground, the tapping foot drawing his attention as he was trying to avoid her gaze.

“Oh, right…” he could hear her eyes rolling in her voice, “We asked your friends since they were all still here in the Palace…"

“Fine, I was out playing cards.”

His mother tutted, turned on her heel and started pacing down the hallway. He was slow to react, so she called out, “Your Father is still looking for you, so you had better hurry. Come with me, I don’t want you getting ‘lost’ on your way to his study.”

Tyran walked a step behind his mother as she led him through other hallways until they stood before a large, ornate set of double doors. The exotic wood was painstakingly carved with intricate patterns telling of legends long past. His Mother raised her hand and politely knocked.

“Come in,” the stern voice of his Father called out.

Tyran stepped inside as his Mother opened the door for him. He looked over at where his Father was sitting behind his desk, scowling. A sharp movement of his hand directed Tyran to stand off to the side, beside one of the many bookshelves that filled the study. His Mother moved off to the other side and sat down in a chair that was prepared for her.

There was a figure sitting opposite his Father, deep in conversation with him. He turned to look at Tyran and Tyran was stunned by his appearance. His hair was a deep blonde and wavy, his eyes sparkled, and the smile that adorned his face seemed like it was a work of art. The man's body was also a marvel, and even through his swathes of armour and cloth, Tyran could still tell that he was well built, a trained soldier through and through.

“Finally my delinquent son arrives,” his Father snarled at him before turning back to his guest with the face of a hustler, “Ah, excuse his lateness, Grand Marshall, he is still young. He was probably out spending his free time on something beneath his status.”

The words stung Tyran, even though they were directed at the man. Realisation dawned on him, and he cocked an eyebrow. His Father had called him Grand Marshall. The only person who Tyran was aware of that went by that title was the leader of the Resistance. The most hard-working and brilliant man to put his feet forward, one after the other, and fight back against the Overlord. He was amazing at everything he did and was yet to lose a battle.

The man turned in his chair again, arm casually hanging over the back, eyeing Tyran up and down, “I would be happy to have him join with me.”

Tyran’s other eyebrow shot up.

"Ah, good, good," his Father turned his attention back to him, "Drop those eyebrows, boy. GM West here is graciously taking you on as a protégé. This is a great honour for our country! Do not disappoint!" A finger rose into the air to add credence to the last words.

Breaking his stance Tyran rushed to the table and faced his Father, slamming his hands onto the wooden desktop.

“Father, you promised me!” he started blurting out, the guest all but forgotten about, “You said I would take command soon. That I would be given my own men to look after and take into war. Why do I have to follow this pretty boy around?”

West burst out into roaring laughter at being called a pretty boy and slapped his hand on the edge of the table a few times. The Father and son both looked at him, befuddled.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” he calmed himself, “But, as the King has stated, Tyran, I am in need of a protégé, and your father has pointed to you as an ideal candidate.”

A thought began to boil in Tyran’s mind, his disgust at his Father’s decision was turning into a slight smile as he tilted his head over to West.

“If I am your protégé, does that mean I might get to command at the front lines? That’s an important job right? I’ll get recognised?”

"Sorry to say, Tyran," West interjected, "But I will not be returning to the front lines anytime soon. I have another task at hand and have left the front lines in capable hands. They should hold out long enough for me to complete my own objectives."

Tyran’s head slumped to the table, “Father, I am not going. You promised! I want to go to the war!”

A gentle hand suddenly rested on his back and he lifted his eyes to look at his Mother. His rage died down and he raised himself to stand before her. She cupped his cheek with a hand and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he felt a sharp pain as she slapped him. He stepped back.

“Don’t you dare talk that way to your Father!” She scolded him, “You will do as your told, whether you like it or not. I did not raise you to be a spoiled brat always trying to get his way.”

Tyran was taken aback. The King was nodding slowly, a look of desire in his eyes as he watched his wife take control of the situation. West tried to suppress even more laughter.

“Fine,” Tyran said, kicking his foot at the carpet.

“Oh good,” West clapped his hands together and broke the tension, “I do not wish to dally here. Let us leave at first light. Assuming you have no problems with that,” he held a hand towards the King and Queen, asking their permission.

“I see no issues,” the King said, “I’ll get a maid to see you to your room, Grand Marshall West, and at first light you and Tyran can be on your way to wherever it is you are going.”

Tyran walked out of the study feeling dejected as he made his way back to his room, where he finally managed to flop in his bed and fall asleep.

* * *

“…And from then on the young man would accompany the more experienced soldier on his travels.”

Marianne swallowed the last morsel of food as he finished his story. Remembering where she was and why she was there she quickly finished her routine as the prisoner appeared to now be lost in thought. She shaved him and cleaned up. Gathering everything together she called out to the guards through the door.

The prisoner had not moved since he had finished, his eyes staring blankly into nothingness, as if he had forgotten all about Marianne.

“I will return next week,” she called to him as the guards opened the door to let her out of the cell.

Still he sat, his back to the door, unmoving.