Chapter Text
The warm air whips past Max as he rides through the night is suffocating, not something he is used to. Too stuffy, barely breathable. It leaves him panting, noises punched from his chest that are barely human.
Shaky hands cling to the reigns, eyes blinking frantically so Max can safely steer his horse through the densely populated pine forest. His sight keeps blurring, his body slumping forward as he struggles to stay in the saddle. He doesn't stop, though. He can't, not when he’s gotten this far.
For hours he's ridden, from sundown through the night, and now the sky is changing slowly, the darkness yielding for a few streaks of pinks and purples. They shine through the leaves, painting the heavens above beautifully. The sight makes Max's chest flutter and trash.
It isn't enough, no matter how much Max wants it to be.
He is exhausted and in a tremendous amount of pain, his wounds leaking through the sliced rags he is covered with. Sometimes he looks down, unsure whether he should feel worried or relieved over the ever growing blood stains covering his stomach area or the way his shoulder protest each time he moves it.
And then he remembers where he is going and what he is going to do—or rather what is going to happen to him once he arrives at his destination—and Max grits his teeth and tells his horse to speed up.
“Come on, Nineteen. Push, we’re almost there.”
The mare whinnies, her head thrashing to the side as if she wants to hit Max with it. She is tired, too, but there is nothing he can do for her anymore. He already made a stop a couple of hours ago to take off his heavy armour and dump it along with his sword, so she has an easier time carrying him.
They will simply have to get through this together, one last time.
Max knows what his horse can do, had raised and trained her for eighteen long years and during those he tested her boundaries. They aren't met yet, she can do what Max needs her to do, and after she finishes her last service for him, she'll get a better life. Be free, possibly.
Max isn't sure when he started crying, only aware of the wet streaks on his cheeks and the sobs he is holding back, but he assumes it must’ve begun somewhere around the same time as the shame settled into his guts, twisting them mercilessly. It is weak of him, needless too.
He is doing the right thing, he knows that, and he knew when he’d made his decision. The one that caused him to run away from a battlefield, the knights he fought along side of, the king he is subject to, and leave it all behind.
Just as Max dares to slack off again, body shifting forward, his tired arms wrapping around Nineteens neck in order for him not to fall, dawn painting his skin a warm orange, he hears it.
A crack, soft, but unmistakable. Branches breaking under the weight of a foot or a hoof. Then the whizz of something flying through the air at high speed.
It is too late to react or even dodge the object, and technically this is what Max had wants, so he doesn't even bother looking. He just hopes whoever shot at him has good aim, so he’ll be the one to be hit and not his horse.
There is no time for him to blink, really, or hold his breath. The arrow hits his shoulder cleanly, the one already aching from a stab wound, and Max can feel it dig its way through his flesh, the tip coming out the other side. Blinding pain erupts from the spot, shooting all the way down his arm and through his chest.
The impact of it isn't great, but, in his already weakened state, Max feels himself slip. He crashes into the ground a moment later, back first. All the air gets knocked out of his lungs. The arrow moves, pushing in deeper, tearing the wound further.
He screams, his sight momentarily blurring and there is a ringing in his ears, high and shrill, rendering him unable to hear properly.
Everything feels distant. Nineteen neighing, frightened, steps closing in, and the voices…
Multiple men. Some laugh, others sound excited or upset as they say things Max can't understand properly. Metallic clicking, which Max, after years and years spent on the most brutal of battle fields and training yards, will always recognize as the sound of chainmail and armour.
Knights, their silhouettes towering over him, casting long shadows.
Desperately, Max tries blinking himself out of his haze, but it won't work this time. He is stuck with his eyes half open, blurred around the edges, helpless due to the malfunction of his own body. A familiar sense of dread settles in his guts as he tries to steel himself for what they might do to him.
Yes, this was his plan, but he hoped to get through with it with a bit quicker. He hoped the shot would be enough to take him out. Or that one would simply stab him the moment he got close enough. But now here Max lay, defenceless and wounded, completely at their mercy. They can do whatever they want with him.
Max wouldn't be able to stop them.
But this is probably exactly what he deserves after everything-
A hand wrapps around his shoulder—the one that does not have an arrow stuck through it—pulling him up into a sitting position. The urge to fight it, remove whoever is touching him, is strong, but Max’s body is thankfully too weak to execute his brain's orders. So he remains half hanging in the air, listening faintly as the knights talk.
“Oh god, it is him!” A voice says, smooth and deep, right next to Max’s ear. The one that is holding him, then.
“Are you sure, Carlos?” Somebody else asks, steps coming closer. “I highly doubt that the Lion of the North would be seen around here. Without armor. Without a weapon. Wounded. We don't really have a way to identify him.”
“No, I am sure it is him.” The first man insists, the grip around Max’s shoulder tightening painfully as he is heaved forward, onto his knees. “I have seen him before.”
Max’s whole body slumps forward, his eyes slipping shut. They refuse to open again, every breath a strain on his lungs. The exhaustion really hits him then, along with the blood loss and the pain. That last remainder of the high one gets when in battle is fading quickly, leaving Max with nothing but the cruelty of simple humanity.
There is a hand seizing him by the back of the hated steel collar around his neck, ripping on it, so his head is tilted upwards, calloused fingers gripping his chin. The small pain the rough treatment causes is nothing compared to the one coursing through the rest of his body, so Max barely feels it.
“It is him. Max Emilian Verstappen.” A new voice says, cold and very matter-of-factly.
“Oh my god, oh my god-”
“Stop freaking out, Oliver! He clearly can’t do anything… Is he even alive?”
“If he is, we should take care of him now. When we got the chance- We- We’ve all heard of how dangerous he is… What he has done to our neighbouring kingdoms-”
Relief floods Max. He hears a small sigh making it past his parted lips, barely more than a breath. This is it-
“No!” Someone barks, the same sharp, cool voice as before. Everyone else falls silent as the knight continues. “We will do things properly. It doesn’t matter who he is, we will bring him back to the palace. To the king. He will decide what will happen to him.”
There was no resistance, no one questions the command. Max wants to throw up.
This is not what he’d wants. He wants to be dead, not a prisoner. Not again-
The hand on his shoulder moves, an arm was wraps around his torso, picking him up. He is thrown over something warm and solid. The back of a horse. He feels himself slipping, darkness threatening to consume him as they begin moving.
That’s when he hears it. A whinny, sounding all too much like a cry.
Gathering the last of his strength Max opens his eyes, barely more a slit, but even through the gloss of tears he can make out a familiar dark shape hovering between the surrounding trees, staying close by. Nineteen continuously neighs for him, her head thrashing unhappily. Panicked.
Max's heart aches and he almost cries out for her too. Just barely he manages to hold back the scream that scrapes at the back of his throat, because he knows she'd react to it, and that is not what he wants. He doesn't want them to notice her. He wants her to slip away, to leave him to his own miserable fate.
“Run…”
It is the last word Max can push past his lips before he passes out.
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There has been a bustle in the air all day. From the moment Charles is woken up by his servant it has carried into his chambers, travels with him as he goes to join the king for breakfast, continues as he walks the pristine halls of the palace to pursue his daily duties.
It isn't unusual, Charles knows that.
In his ten years at the court of Ferrari he learned that gossip is one the one things that really unites the people surrounding him, possibly even the whole city. Actually, it might be the whole kingdom, if Charles is being completely honest with himself.
He never minded, nor is he able to judge such a trait as Charles himself quite enjoys the occasional sharing of speculations with the knights or close advisors. It's not gossip exactly, but... Alright, Charles gossips just as badly as everyone else.
Today though, after the prince has taken a few moments to listen in, never really catching on to what the whispers really mean, Charles notices that it is a different energy carrying them from ear to ear, mouth to mouth. This isn't the quiet excitement sparked over the announcement of visitors from a foreign kingdom or the badly concealed amusement over improper affairs between a maiden and a stable boy…
It is harder to catch.
A fleeting tension, yet pulsing and steady like the faint beat of a heart. It causes a stir in Charles, only strengthened when he observes their faces, all the same in the ways the peoples brows knit, lips pinching into thigh lines, and eyes darting across the halls as if they are waiting for something.
Someone.
Whatever it is, it isn't anything good.
“Carlos, whatever is going on? Has something happened?” Charles asks the knight later that afternoon, when he runs into him on the way back from the stables.
Charles looked after his horse as he tends to do every day, and Carlos, judging by the looks of his dishevelled hair and sweat running down his neck, has just returned from patrol. But when the dark haired knight turns to Charles, his kind, brown eyes full of worry, Charles finds himself stilling, his hand grabbing for Carlos arm to get him to do the same, as the older's feet barely want to stop.
There are enough people around them for at least one of them to notice the improper exchange, but no one dares to point it out—that, technically, a prince and a knight aren't supposed to stand so close or touch each other with such familiarity—all pretending to go after their activities.
Or they have just gotten used to it over the time. The way the Prince of Ferrari and one of their most esteemed knights act around each other.
“Your Royal Highness,” Carlos says, an unnecessary formality followed by an even more unnecessary bow, which is aborted half way as he is pulled back up by Charles. “I do not know what you mean.”
He smiles, charmingly as ever, but the way it doesn't quite reach his eyes—which it always does when Carlos was actually being truthful—leave the prince unimpressed.
Charles huffs, his green eyes rolling dramatically, “You know exactly what I mean, Carlos. Everyone is acting very… out of sorts today.”
He nods to the side, to two stable boys. One is leaned up on a pitch fork as he listens to the other, wildly gesturing as he seems to share some very upsetting news, judging by the way the pitch fork boy widens his eyes further with each passing word. Carlos sees them too, his smile faltering.
“It must be the usual gossip. Maybe we are getting visitors again-”
“You know as well as I do that this-” Charles opts for a broader gesture this time, a hint of frustration sharpening his otherwise quiet voice. “is not that. They are upset, Carlos. They are never upset over a visitor or a simple mishap at court. Something big must’ve happened and I demand you tell me.”
Carlos cringes and he squints against the harsh sunlight as he directs his gaze towards the sky momentarily, searching his brain for an answer. When he looks back down, his face is smoothed out again, soft yet rugged at the same time. A devastatingly handsome mixture.
“It could still be visitors, but perhaps it is King Zak accompanying Prince Lando this time instead of-”
Charles groans loudly, interrupting his favourite knights rambling. He is much more composed usually, but the incompetence-
“Lying to your Prince is high treason, you know that, right?” He cocks his head to the side, arms crossed over his chest as he stares at Carlos.
It is supposed to be a challenging kind of look, but Charles almost breaks into a grin and Carlos—knowing his prince way too well—notices right away, assuming a similar stance.
“So, throw me in the dungeons! Who will protect your kingdom then, your Highness?” A title reserved for respect and devotion sounds mocking coming from Carlos’ lips.
“We have enough men. Sir Kimi, Sir Pierre, Sir Ollie, and Arthur-”
“Oh, please!” Carlos laughs, the volume of it has heads turning, but he couldn’t care less. “Oliver and Arthur are barely men! I highly doubt that even both of them together are half as dangerous as I am on my own.”
Having had enough of the lingering eyes, Charles pulls Carlos away from where they stand in the middle of the courtyard and instead moves to the shielding pillars that seam the entrance to the palace. They throw long shadows to protect them from the scorching sun.
Of course he can't drop the argument as they walk.
“I agree that they might not have as much training as you do, but at least they are young. Their spirits are high and their knees intact.”
The prince playfully kicks Carlos’ left knee, just hard enough to send the knight stumbling. Giggling Charles speeds up, reaching their goal first. When Carlos eventually catches up, he shoots Charles a glare, but even he isn't stupid enough to say anything. What might be a joke to them could easily be misunderstood as a threat by any passer-by and get passed on to someone like the king, or worse — his advisors.
“So, Carlos, I will ask you again…” Charles crosses his arms again, with more purpose this time, chin tilted up high, giving his knight a look that is truly commanding.
It is a thing only a prince can do, although, unlike others, Charles never needed any etiquette lessons to be taught how to do it properly. The effect comes immediately. Carlos drops his cocky grin and straightens his shoulders.
“What is going on at my court?”
A moment passes. Carlos scratches his scruffy chin, eyes wandering as they are once again unable to meet Charles’. The prince is about two short seconds away from grabbing said scruffy chin and forcing the knight to look at him-
“You should ask the king. He will tell you.”
Protest is the first thing coming to Charles’ mind, the urge to tell Carlos to just get his shit together and tell him himself strong, but the way Carlos steps back, hands hidden behind his back, make it very clear that this is his final answer.
Not wanting to waste anymore of his precious time, Charles sighs, shaking his head.
“Fine. I will see you later,” Charles mutters as he turns on his heels, marching through the broad double doors back inside the palace.
In long strides he marches through the hall, the hardness in his steps having servants and guards turn around left and right as their prince strides past them. Charles pays them no mind, gaze fixated ahead as he takes the quickest route to the throne room. He knows the king is there, as he always spends this part of his days there.
What Charles does not anticipated, however, is the dozen or so other people crowding the space around the throne. All are arguing wildly. They are the king's advisors, men selected with great care, there to support their leader in any way they can.
And today—as it seemed—the king needs a lot of support.
Charles isn't sure he’s ever even seen all of them gathered in the same place at once. He doesn't care for them too much, stepping right in front of the group, positioning himself in a way he can peer past them, right at the king.
Sebastian sits on his throne, legs spread in a way that probably does not qualify as proper etiquette for a king, but, as many of his staff had learned, Sebastian does not care much for such things.
He cares greatly, about many things, actually, just not proper manners or posture.
The blue eyes find Charles immediately, brows furrowing for the blink of an eye before the familiar bright, tooth-flashing smile the king is so loved for appears on his face. He stands up from his glorified chair and greets Charles with an open gesture of his hands.
Charles gives him a nod, not bothering to bow as never in his ten years at the Ferrari court has he done that, and steps closer. The advisors part like the Red Sea to let their prince through, all eyeing him rather nervously. It annoys Charles to the point he is barely able to keep up the smile he plastered on his face for Sebastian’s sake.
“Sebastian, what is going on?” Charles asks quickly, a little rude as he cuts off the king, who’d just opened his mouth to greet him.
Sebastian’s face stills, his breath stuttering visibly, and his smile turns forced. He doesn't look surprised though, not at the question or Charles’ unannounced appearance.
Of course he isn't.
They spend a great deal of time together ever since Sebastian chose Charles to be the next king of Ferrari, having brought him to the castle when Charles had only been a lanky fourteen year old. It bonded them in a way Charles has never quite been able to understand, but one thing was for sure — the two can read each other like a book.
It makes it easy for them to have a whole conversation by only looking at each other. The reluctance in Sebastian’s gaze and the burning demand in Charles’ battle as the rest of the room shares confused looks… Charles eventually wins, leaving the king to let out an exasperated sigh.
“Our knights have made a... prisoner this morning,” Sebastian begins as he sits back down, propping his head up on his hand. The concern in his tone matches the dark circles underneath his eyes. “A dangerous foe, not from here but another kingdom far beyond our lands… We do not know what he wants from us, but his appearance worries us greatly.”
“And this… foe, as you call him, who is he?” Charles asks, not fully satisfied with the answer he's given.
It is unusual for some ‘dangerous’ stranger to just waltz up in Ferrari. They are surrounded by allied kingdoms and rarely ever does any enemy of theirs make it past those, but the way Sebastian seems to dance around the actual core of the issue makes Charles grow even more impatient.
He always hats it when the king treats him like he is… a child, not worthy to be shared important information with. As if Sebastian didn't chose Charles to lead this country in his stead someday-
“Max Emilian Verstappen,” Sebastian only mumbles the name, but Charles understands him nonetheless.
Something in him stirs at the name, an unsettling chill creeping down his spine. He recognises it… He just can't remember why-
Sebastian, obviously noticing the confused pause, adds, “The Lion of-”
“Oh!” Charles’ breath catches in his throat, his eyes going wide.
Of course he knows him.
The Lion of the North, The Lion Slayer, Red Bulls’ favourite Weapon, The Storm of Milton Keynes…
Charles has heard of all his names, but rarely ever the one he’s was given at birth, because the others are the ones Verstappen is known for.
The stories, the retellings, the myths… They are whispered late at night, told to children to keep them inside after dark, retold at feasts by the people who actually encountered him.
Charles has never known which to actually believe and which to take with a grain of salt, but one thing he is sure of — this man, the knight that has slain so many men, won so many battles, is a menace, no one he’s ever hoped to meet without proper protection, or at least a fighting chance to get out of the encounter alive.
And now he is here, in Charles’ kingdom.
In his palace.
As a prisoner, he reminds himself, to rid himself of the goosebumps that spread over his arms and shoulders.
His eyes flicker back to the king. Sebastian gives him an agreeing nod. A silent understanding.
“Where is he?”
It was Frédéric Vasseur who answers Charles’ question. He is a newer addition to the advisors, but his opinions are already valued deeply by them all. Vasseur always seems happy, cheerful even, but on this day even he has replaced his smile with a stern look, leaving a hollow feeling in Charles’ stomach.
“In the dungeons. He was found injured in the woods, riding on his horse, but was easily shot down by Sir Carlos.”
“Injured?” Charles frowns as the information does not really make sense to him.
“Yes, we suspect he’s been in battle previously and seemingly fled from it.” Mattia Binotto joins the discussion, his arms crossed over his chest. Charles fights the urge to roll his eyes—a feeling present whenever Binotto dares opening his mouth—and instead listen to the man. “By the time Verstappen was brought to us, he had already lost consciousness, making it fairly easy for us to bring him to the cells.”
Now, Charles is perfectly aware they are talking about a horrible man, one some people don't even see worth being called that anymore and would opt for the word monster instead, but he can't help the small pinch of worry that blooms in his chest. He feels the same way whenever his men come back from battle, scarred and wounded.
Again he doesn't have to voice his concerns out loud, Sebastian already having read his questions off the expression on Charles’ face.
“We had a physician look after him first, to tend after the most fatal wounds. Remove the arrow from his shoulder.”
“Hm.” Charles hums, the worry parting, making space for another emotion.
Curiosity.
He wants to see the man he’s heard so much about, take him in with his own eyes… The desire doesn't really have a reason, no sense behind it, but it is there nonetheless, burning under Charles’ fingertips and crawling through his veins.
Nobody takes note of the way he flexes his hands at his sides, his eyes zoning in and out focus as they resume their earlier discussion with the Prince still standing amongst them. He is caught up on everything anyway, so there's no reason to not have him listen in.
“I have sent out messengers to both Mercedes and McLaren as you requested, your Majesty.” Binotto says.
“Good.” Sebastian nods, eyes flickering between his advisor and Charles, who is still standing there uselessly. “I assume that there might’ve been a fight on the Mercedes grounds. They’ve had their fair share of disputes over land with RedBull lately… But even if that isn't the case, they still deserve to know we’ve finally caught Verstappen.”
“I am sure Sir Lewis will be thrilled.”
It is Sir Kimi who spoke, his voice snapping Charles back into reality. He didn't noticed the knight before, although he should have as Kimi is positioned to the right hand side of the throne.
Kind of symbolic, as Sir Kimi Räikkönen, in his many years of service, has become somewhat of a right hand man to the King — despite his title of knight, which technically doesn't allow such a position to be given to him. But no one can deny the benefit Kimi’s advice presents to the court, and Sebastian values him greatly, not only as a consultant, but also a friend.
“Probably, yes.” Sebastian chuckles, the sound coming out a little strangled. His eyes find the ground, brows pinched together. “But we must not forget that Verstappen is our prisoner, whatever will happen to him will be our decision.”
“Mine too?” Charles challenges, reminding everyone of his presence by straightening up and crossing his arms over his broad chest. The fine fabric of his garments stretch uncomfortably over his chest, a reminder to finally get his tailor to come in and take his measurements for new clothing.
The king hesitates, blue eyes fixating on his protegee for a moment. Then he nods, chest rising heavily under a silent sigh. “Yours too.”
Charles’ lips finally pulled into a grin, but the internal celebrations seized in an instant when Sebastian opened his mouth again, his voice much firmer this time, the hint of the king Charles got to experience so rarely shining through.
“But you shall not see him before I allow you to.”
“What?!” Charles exclaims, his voice echoing through the vast room, loud and outraged. “Why should I not?”
“He is dangerous-”
“You said he is hurt and locked up! What oh so horrible thing could he do to me in the position he’s in?”
“That is not what I mean!” Sebastian half rises from his throne, eyes burning with a fire that is extinguished as quickly as it flared up, and he lets himself sink back into his seat. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the king exhales, gaze finding that of the Prince. “I do not want you near him, Charles. Do you understand?”
Charles digs his heels into the ground, hands balling to fists so tight the nails of his fingers cut into the soft flesh of his palms. But with the twenty or so pairs of eyes staring at him, he knows protesting will only come across as disrespectful. So he unclenches his jaw and nods.
“Yes, I understand.”
Technically it isn't a lie.
Not even when Charles does sneak down into the dungeons after excusing himself from the gathering. He only said that he understands, not that he agrees with the king's decision. Or that he'll follow it.
He still sneaks around the dark corridors like a thief, not eager for anyone to discover him, just in case Sebastian has already ordered the guards to remove him should Charles be seen in the dungeons.
Luck seems to be on his side though, as Charles doesn't encounter anyone as he tiptoes along the rows of cells, most of them empty.
Ferrari has a surprisingly low rate of crime, having enough policies in place for people to get help through before having to turn illegal acts out of desperation, like stealing or killing or black-mailing.
It is the cell all the way at the end that Charles hears the slow, ragged breaths from.
As he approaches it, he slows down, steeling himself for what he is about to see. Still his heart pounds violently in his chest. He's not sure what he is even doing here.
Is his curiosity really strong enough for him to ignore direct orders from his king? And for what? A man-
Charles’ breath hitches in his throat when he turns, finally standing in front of the compartment holding the most infamous knight of their time.
At first he can't make out much, only a dark silhouette against the wet bricks of the walls that enclose him, but when Charles steps aside, letting the light of a torch on the opposite wall shine through the bars, the prisoner slowly comes into focus.
He sits on the floor, arms pinned on either side of his head as his wrists are fixated with manacles that are anchored into the wall, slumped into himself.
His head hangs low, legs spread out in front of him. He doesn't seem conscious.
The first thing catching Charles’ focus is the knight's face—the small part of it he can make out—shock freezing his limbs like a wave of ice when he realizes how innocent the man looks. Nothing like Charles imagined.
No harsh lines on aged skin, no grey stricken beard or hair, no dangerous grin or sharp teeth poking out from between dry parted lips-
None of that.
Instead, Verstappen's face is almost soft, almost free of any sharp features, his skin pale and lips a rosy pink. There is barely a stubble on his chin and cheeks. It's spotty, like he can't even grow a beard if he tried. His brows are furrowed in a pained expression, matching the strained breaths escaping through the gap between his lips.
He looks… He looks younger than Charles, a harsh fact that sends him stumbling back.
For a brief moment, he questions if this really is Verstappen-
He can't be right?
The proof that this man is , in fact, Max Verstappen is found a moment later, when Charles had recovers, his gaze finding back on the limp body. His clothes, simple and torn rags, are covered in blood, most of it pooling around his stomach area, which leads Charles to discover the next frightening thing about the knight.
His dark blue shirt has ridden up, gathered just around his navel, exposing a mark right above his hip bone. Charles has to squint to inspect it more closely, and figure out what it is… It is too dark to be a simple scar, too defined and neat-
Gasping, Charles slaps a hand across his mouth when he recognizes it to be a brand mark. Faded and a little lighter than it probably was when it was inflicted upon the man, but unmistakable.
Disgust and rage rush through the Prince's chest. Never has he heard of such an atrocity being committed against a human.
In his kingdom, not even horses are brand marked, and if someone dares to, they are punished severely. And yet here lies a man-
Once Charles recovers from the initial shock, he steps closer to the cell, until his chest is pressed against the bars separating him from the prisoner, so he can take a proper look. He believes to see two letters, left and right of it two bulls, looking as if they’d butt their heads if it wasn’t for the letters separating them.
RedBull’s heraldic animals, but what are the letters…
Charles strains, his eyes pressed into slits as he finally deciphers them.
HM. Helmut Marko, King of RedBull.
Charles has heard of the man, every single person swearing up and down what a monster the King is, but he never would have dared to assume that something like this even crosses the most depraved man’s mind. Permanently scaring a human being with ones name, and in such a cruel way too.
Biting his lip Charles lets his eyes roam further, taking in the rest of Verstappen's body.
He has to admit that for someone so young, the knight sure is toned. All muscles and veins and taut skin. Broad shoulders and chest, only narrowing at the waist before widening again into thick thighs and calves. Of course most of the man is hidden by clothing, but Charles can… appreciate what he sees.
Well, he might’ve, if it wasn’t for the red stained bandages wrapped around Verstappen’s belly and shoulder, or the countless scars peeking out from underneath the ripped parts of his garments.
The knight seems to be littered with them.
Charles can't tell where all of them come from, but some look familiar enough. After all, he spent a lot of time around his own knights, training with them often enough to know what the cut of a sword or the piercing force of an arrow looks like once the wound it left healed. But there are others, so many others-
A sudden movement, Verstappen’s chin inching upwards, directed right towards him, startles Charles. A screech escapes him as he jumps away from the bars, frightened by the half moons appearing on the pale face, staring right back at him.
They are a pair of eyes, icy blue and half-lidded. Clearly it takes the man a great effort to look at Charles as he doesn't move or speak — or maybe he just doesn't feel like doing so.
The Prince presses a hand over his heart, breath going too fast as he tries to recovers from the shock, but the way the irises seemed to dig into him, reading him, questioning him, doesn't help at all…
All Charles can do is return the favour, stare in a way that would be been perceived as rude in any other setting. What he finds in the narrow gaze takes Charles’ breath once more, leaving him with his hanging mouth open and his eyes wide.
Because there is none of the the expected anger or hate in those blue eyes. Not even a spark of defiance, which can be expected from a man in the position Verstappen was in.
But no, there is just… defeat, exhaustion, and dread, all veiled vaguely by a sense of fear. The knight actually seems to be scared.
If it is due the whole being taken prisoner thing or just Charles was standing there isn't clear.
It makes Charles uneasy, the anxiety the expression gives him crawling under his skin, drawing him closer to the bars again. He wants to be near Verstappen. Charles has never been the type of person able to ignore someone else's distress, no matter who they are.
There is no time for him to do anything though, as a hand appears on his shoulder, grabbing him firmly and spinning him around, putting Charles face to face with Sir Kimi. The knight has a stern expression on his face, mouth pinched into a straight line.
“I-” Charles stutters, clearly caught in a rather suboptimal situation. He isn't sure he can talk his way out of this one.
No, he definitely won't be able to. Not with Kimi, who’s been right there when Charles received the order not to step foot into the dungeon. And, also, because it is Kimi, the one knight that's never willing to let anyone’s bullshit slide. Especially, for some reason, not Charles’.
“Bwoah, come on!” Kimi groans, dragging the Prince with him.
Away from Verstappen, away from his cell, and out of the dungeons. Yet, the further the distance grows, the stronger Charles’ need to figure out exactly what had happened to Max Verstappen grows. The questions burn in him, don't let him find rest for the remainder of the day, or for the following night, for that matter.
One question in particular.
Who is he?