Riddled with mold

He has to go all the way to the infirmary, pick up the basics, and then all the other way to the tent they’ve given him. The guard barely look up as he enters, saluting purely on instincts.

Hesitant, fearful eyes meet his when he enters, and Marcus raises the lantern.

“It’s just me. You… asked for me?” He raises the basket of bandages and salves he’s dragged through the whole camp for this.

The man nods almost shyly, shuffling a little closer. His voice is soft when he apologises, “I… forgive me if I disturbed your sleep, I thought-” His expression stutters for a moment; he bites his lips and it settles on something blank. “I thought you might prefer doing this during the night.”

Marcus would have preferred sleep, and much preferred having some boring report interrupted. He understands, however – there are only so many things you can be accused of doing when meeting an enemy soldier in the middle of the night. He waves the apology away. “No matter. Though, I’ll warn you, I’m not a doctor. Anything too serious and I’ll have to call for medical, alright?”

He gets only a nod in response and moves forward slowly. Otis obviously knows what wounds he has, but every one of his moves is hesitant. He starts to take off his shirt, eyes darting between Marcus and the floor. The commander tries to be reassuring. “Nothing to be ashamed of, hmm? Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Except it’s a soldier of the Empire and a commander from the kingdom trying to rebel, and that – shockingly – Marcus doesn’t usually see his soldiers half naked in the middle of the night to treat their wounds.

Otis lies down, twisting slightly to his side. He keeps his legs pressed together, knees bent just slightly.

With the shirt off, the wound that probably made Otis call for him is immediately apparent. There are- bruises, welts Marcus can’t begin to guess the origin of, small burns on the soldier’s arms.

Also. A truly gigantic, gaping, cut on the side of his chest. Crusted blood around and below it where it probably dripped for days, and a redness that suggests infection.

Marcus squints at the wound. He wets a cloth, gently wiping the blood away. The wound looks slightly better without its halo of blood, so he keeps going.

“Did you call because you felt it getting infected?”

Another shy, hesitant nod in response. “That’s good. We can’t have you dying, what would the emperor say.”

The joke doesn’t land with a loyal soldier of said emperor. Otis looks at him with – still – those wide, scared eyes of his, looking for all the world like he expects lighting to strike them down right this instant. Marcus forces a smile, muttering an apology.

He reaches for his basket, leaning over Otis. His fingers brush – accidentally, very slightly, barely – the top of the soldier’s thigh.

Immediately the man goes slack, legs skating apart in a move too precise to be mistaken. His eyes close, as well, and Marcus forces himself still. He takes a deep, silent breath, and forces himself to exhale slowly.

“Otis?”

“Sir?” Anxiety. Confusion Marcus doesn’t want to think about.

“That’s not going to happen.”

Otis makes a sound of realisation before moving again. His eyes open, dart up for just an instant, and then he grimaces as he twists his wound to get himself to his knees.

Marcus still hasn’t moved. He swallows, suddenly feeling very cold. He tries to wet his lips.

“Who- Did someone in this camp made you....”

Otis shakes his head, not meeting his eyes. He almost sounds reassuring when he adds, “Your soldiers are very disciplined, sir. They wouldn’t. They respect you.”

Which has nothing to do with not assaulting their prisoner. Should have nothing to do with not assaulting their prisoner. Marcus sighs, gently pushing Otis down so he stops worsening his already terrible wound.

“Would you- After, sir?”

“Never. God, I’m not going to- Why would you think-”

Marcus bites his tongue, forcing himself to focus on the wound in front of him. Otis doesn’t speak while he composes himself, and he loathes the knowledge that it’s out of fear. Ignorance truly is bliss.

“I don’t know if this is… What you were told about us,” Propaganda. “Or if prisoners in the empire are… mistreated” which he can’t think about because he happens to have friends in imperial prisons, “but I don’t do that. We don’t do that.”

He looks up slightly, meeting Otis’s scared but attentive eyes. He tries to force a smile. “There is… an accord, actually. The emperor signed it but. Well. He’s never respected anything, has he?” He shakes his head before Otis can recite another rote, inane speech about his fucking emperor. “Don’t answer that. It- It’s about how to treat prisoners. Among other things. Says you’re not supposed to rape them.”

He watches Otis swallow, head tilting to the side. Good to know enemy soldiers don’t know about the laws regarding war prisoners. Reassuring.

“But… I thought I had your favour, sir. And that’s why you- why I had all these luxuries.”

Marcus blinks. Once, twice. Remembers to breathe.

“…Luxuries?” He almost chokes on the word, eyes quickly scanning the tent. It’s decent – because basic humane treatment of prisoners – but no one in their right mind would call it luxurious.

Otis swallows again. Marcus would hate to see humiliation or shame on the soldier’s face but the fear he sees there sends another pang of discomfort through his gut. He can’t imagine Otis is an exception to the norm.

The soldier won’t meet his eyes.

“The- the meals? And the- water for cleaning,” biting his lips, “the blanket?”

Marcus sits back on his haunches, because he needs something solid under him while his mind collapses. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Those are…luxuries? Food, basic hygiene and…” he clears his throat, “a blanket?”

Otis is looking at him with fear again, in the same position Marcus manhandled him a minute ago, and he kind of feels like marching all the way to the imperial camp and blowing it up. “You don’t… provide those to prisoners?”

The soldier shakes his head, hesitates. “His Exalted Majesty, in His infinite Grace provides… the necessities. But, sir, I meant… I received a lot of food. And the water was warm. And a blanket isn’t-” he bites his lips, like realising pointing out the blanket isn’t necessary will make it disappear.

“Those are things prisoners only get when… they’ve… gained the favour of an officer?” It’s a very specific turn of phrase, isn’t it. He watches Otis’s eyes dart up as the soldier butchers his lips, and a very bad feeling forms in his chest. There’s a bit of confusion in there as the man nods, and Marcus doesn’t want to ask his next question.

But he’s still an officer of the crown, and getting information from prisoners is part of his duties.

“Is it… similar for soldiers?”

Otis’s nod is much less confused, something almost like relief in there – like getting an answer he finally knows the answer to. He hesitates, speaking almost like a confession.

“It- It shouldn’t happen with prisoners, really. Soldiers earn luxuries, but the code says-” maybe he sees something in Marcus’s expression because he suddenly stops talking.

“But- I-” he has to swallow a few times to get the words out, and Marcus feels physically ill. “I know how to be grateful, sir, I- I genuinely mean to thank you for the- everything you’ve… granted me.”

Like the blanket. And adequate quantities of food. Marcus doesn’t look away from the tear in the tent he probably created with his glare, jaw clenched so hard he worries Otis can hear it grind.

“I’m not the one you have to thank for that, actually.”

Otis looks up sharply with an expression of pure terror and he curses himself for ruining the… thing they had. “-the accord. I meant the accord. Medical treatment and human decency and dignity and all that.”

 It’s such a mess. He’ll have so many things to report. He blinks a few times, forces down all the dark, huge feelings trying to claw their ways out of his chest.

“Why did you think… What have I done to make you think…” he can’t say it. “Besides the… gifts, I mean.”

Otis’s eyes dart up to meet his and- oh joy, there’s a bit of disbelief in them.

“You hand-fed me, sir.”

Marcus turns to look at the soldier incredulously. Firstly, there had been a spoon involved, he was sure, then-

“Your hands were bound. Was I supposed to let you, what,” he doesn’t want to finish the sentence but the eyes that meet his are wide and expectant and hesitant in a way that rattle him.

“I wouldn’t make you eat on the floor with only your mouth, like some sort of- of dog.” Otis looks at him with scepticism and Marcus swallows past the lump that just appeared in his throat.

“Otis. That’s… inhumane treatment. The goal isn’t to be cruel.” Otis shakes his head in a way that feels almost instinctive.

“I’m a prisoner, sir. For the security of the camp, anything goes.” Another rote, repeated sentence. Soon he’ll know every mantra the empire beats into their soldier. How wonderful.

“Right.”

Otis looks up at him again. “And… you spent a lot of time with me, sir. Taking care of prisoners is… It’s not for officers.”

“I’m the only one in the camp who speaks your tongue. And… protocols indicate officers should deal with prisoners to limit… retaliation.”

The soldier’s mouth make a little ‘o’ in realisation and Marcus once more feels the urge to blow up the empire and everyone with a shred of power in it.

“I assumed your men were being respectful, sir.”

Because he had claimed the prisoner. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Right.” He clears his throat. Somehow, he’s managed to finish dealing with the wound while fighting through this crisis. “Any other grievous wound?” He even manages to fish out a smile.