Work Text:
Mateus was really good at being a prisoner.
Too good. He's been on a hunger strike ever since he was captured and despite his weakening energy he's fought every bit of interrogation. No torture yet, but Hilda's been subtly hinting that Firion's going to have to go talk to him when he's being given the status updates. Not that he wants to, but it's better the enemy he knows. It's not like Hilda's senseless enough to send Leon down there.
It smells like stale piss when Firion winds his way around Fynn Castle's dungeons. He didn't like trapising down here in the basement when he had to. It's dank and dark and even his Fire spell does little to illuminate the way to the Emperor's cell.
The corner of his prison smells like vomit. There his food from the morning sits untouched. The chamberpot looks like it's been filled with throw-up. In the corner the Emperor is curled up, silent. Firion has to study his figure to see if he's still breathing. Maybe he's asleep. It's been enough time down here he probably can't tell what day it is. How often does someone come to check up on him?
Well. Firion has the key. He might as well extend an olive branch.
When Mateus hears the clicking and creaking of the door, he turns from the stone wall to glare at his interloper. Firion watches how his face hardens, how his hand outstretches. Even if he has no magic to cast he can still smell the static as he tries to defend himself.
He won't bother with saying he's not a threat. Firion bites back a lot of what he wants to say in favor of asking, "what's going to get you to eat?"
"I'd-" Mateus begins, voice husky from underuse. He clears his throat and tries again, pretending he's better than some fool beaten into submission. "I'd rather starve than eat your gruel."
Gruel? Firion glances over to the food. It's a crust of bread, a bit of fruit, and a small helping of dried meat. It's not flavorful or anything, but it's better than slop that they were trying to give him otherwise.
Unfortunately his insults don't matter. "You didn't answer my question." When Firion fixes his gaze back on Mateus, it's clear how the weeks have not been kind to him. He is haggard and sallow. Welts on his skin glisten under the glow of Firion's spell. He doesn't have enough magic to cure them. Mateus has been in this cell and hasn't done a thing except wallow and waste away.
If Mateus does have an answer, he doesn't share it. Instead he turns back towards the wall and curls up against the stone floor. Mateus' hair is matted. Firion wonders if he can brush it himself or if he had servants for that in Palamecia. He's probably had servants for everything if he's that wealthy, but judging him now isn't going to do him any favors.
Dumbly, Firion stands there for several more seconds. Once he knows Mateus isn't going to respond he collects the tray and the bucket to empty and clean. If they're going to treat him like a prisoner, he'll have to figure out how to suck up to him enough to get whatever Hilda wants out of him.
It's not like he can ask Leon about what food he ate in Palamecia, and the likely answer is war rations. He decides anything different might appease the Emperor, and so Firion comes back in the evening with two trays balanced precariously in one arm and a blanket shoved under his armpit. He's not that excellent of a mage to have his spell trail him, and so he holds a torch with his other hand. If this doesn't work Mateus might as well rot away for all he cares. One less evil in the world Firion has to contend with.
"Mateus, it's time for dinner." Firion has to do some more impressive balancing-and-holding to open his cell again. Unfortunately he's still in his corner, but Mateus seems to perk up a little more as Firion places the torch in its spot against the wall and sets the trays down.
"What is this?" Mateus asks. He sounds like Firion just woke him up.
Instead of answering like an ass, Firion extends the bundle of blanket towards him. "I found this. I figure you can use it to lay on or it might keep you a bit warmer. It was, uh…" being used in a nice closet is unimportant. Nobody is going to miss a singular woven blanket, even if it's precious to someone of nobility.
That's got him a little more invested. Mateus shifts on his knees, face pained as he reaches for the blanket. He sets it in his corner against the wall and scoots towards Firion, sitting opposite him with his tray.
Was it that easy? Firion stares at him. Mateus stares back, then looks down at his meal.
"What is this?"
"One of my neighbors had to get rid of a cow. These are beets. This is just oats, we didn't have anything else but I don't know if you'd like 'em." Firion points to all of them. Then he looks up. Mateus is looking at him like he's an idiot.
"Why are you doing this, Firion?"
Mostly for the good of Fynn. Mostly because Hilda wants him to interrogate Mateus. Mostly because nobody else wants to put in the effort. Mostly because they want to kill him and be done with it.
"It's not a fair fight if you're not up for fighting," Firion tells him, "so you better get to eating."
That makes Mateus huff. He's not smiling, but he's clearly not that angry. Mateus' hands shake as he grabs at a chunk of the beets and pushes it to his mouth. Firion joins his messy eating and eats like an animal more than a man.
As they sit in silence after their meal Firion wonders what Hilda could possibly want to interrogate him about. She probably suspected he wouldn't make any progress. It's awkward to sit here without conversation. Firion bites back most of what he wants to say and settles on something a bit tepid.
"So… do you have someone who can claim the Palamecian throne or…?"
Mateus glances up. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring blankly for a few moments. "I suppose so," he answers, "but I doubt they know of it. I have cousins who would love to rule Palamecia. Not that there would be anything left of it to rule."
The castle is fine, Firion's not too sure about the people. It probably doesn't matter. Hilda wouldn't let Mateus leave Fynn, much less go to Palamecia. Not without Firion killing him again. Not that he's going to be able to leave his prison cell anytime soon. If he does, he might as well go and conquer the rest of the land Fynn doesn't want to deal with. Hilda might be kind, but she's still a leader. It's either her or Gordon that's going to install some sort of government to take over Palamecia's troops or the remnants of them. Not that they have anyone left after Leon defected. Firion doesn't say any of that.
Either way, Mateus doesn't seem bothered about the prospect of someone else ruling Palamecia or a lack thereof. "I suppose I am— hhhhrrr—"
Mateus immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. A moment passes as his face grows pale and an emotion that might be terror flashes across his eyes. Firion stares at him blankly before reaching and grabbing at the bucket shoved back in the corner of the cell, shoving it in front of Mateus' face. It didn't take long at all for him to upchuck the contents of his dinner. Firion grimaces as Mateus heaves, knees scraping against stone as he leans down and vomits and vomits and vomits.
Finally, silence. Then Mateus pants, setting the pail down to wipe his mouth again.
"I apologize," he mutters. Even if the light of the torch is dim, he can see how embarrassed Mateus is.
Well. Maybe that's why he hasn't been eating. Firion will have to figure out how to feed him and get his strength back up. "I'll bring you some water," he says, gathering the trays and the bucket. "You just go ahead and lay down."
Mateus is already crawling like a child towards his corner, slumping and curling up. He's using the blanket as a pillow, curled up like a babe. Maybe he can find another blanket to bring down, but for now Firion leaves the cell, locks the door, and doesn't cast a glance back as he hurries to amend his own mistakes.