Chapter Text
The huge shadow passes in front of the window again, blocking out the golden light that tells him it’s late afternoon. This time the enormous figure pauses in front of his cage for a long time. Bill presses himself back into the wall behind him, willing himself to lie still and silent. Huddled behind a few leaves and sticks, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to slow his breathing. Playing dead has become his last resort, he thinks bitterly. What humiliation.
The cage shakes as the human opens the hatch at the side. Bill has to throw an arm out flat to keep from being tumbled about, and inwardly curses at the movement. But the old man doesn’t seem to notice. Through the barest gap in his eyelids Bill sees a rheumy eye, bigger than his head, peering into the cage. The old man doesn’t seem to have the best eyesight. It’s all Bill’s relying on to try and convince him that he’s nothing of interest after all—a strange bug, perhaps, or a misshapen mouse.
Bill hears a dull thud nearby, and the sound of the hatch being re-fastened. Thumping footsteps recede into the distance, and a distant door opens and closes. He breathes a small sigh of relief, and waits.
Cautious of moving too quickly, he stretches his aching limbs and wiggles his toes, shifting as little as possible. After a few minutes of silence, he peeks out from beneath his leaf.
The room is empty and still.
Still wary, he rolls, easing his body into a low crouch. The only movement comes from the window, far on the other side of the room. Distant curtains blow in the breeze, and dust motes fall in the warm light. Otherwise all is quiet.
Bill rises to his feet, brushing off his tunic. He raises a hand to check that his crown is still in place, feeling foolish even as he does it. Little chance anyone will see it. Little chance anyone will see you again at all, Prince Bill, he thinks bitterly.
He creeps carefully to the centre of his cage. A giant lump of some unidentifiable meat has been dropped into his cell, and he eyes it with distaste, even as his stomach growls. It’s already been three days, and he knows he can’t afford to grow any weaker. He must stay prepared, ready for any opportunity to escape.
He tries to tear off the smallest amount possible, hoping the human won’t notice that it’s been touched. He chews mechanically, staring off into the middle distance, and trying not to despair.
It’s as he’s taking a cautious drink of water—crouching, hands cupped over a metal trough—that movement catches his eye. He freezes in place.
There—he sees it again. A skitter of movement near the kitchen sink, something dashing behind a jug. Too small to be the human, but god—is it a rat? He checks the solid wooden bars that cage him in. Far too strong for him to prise apart; he’d tried for hours the first night he was captured. But hopefully strong enough to keep out a determined rat.
He rises to his feet, and steps slowly sideways towards his pile of leaf litter, eyes scanning the room all the while. He feels around to find the longest stick he can, and grips it tight in front of him.
He can hear it now, scrabbling around somewhere below him. The cage is sitting on what looks to be a work bench. There’s jars lined neatly on one side of him, each filled with nails or screws or other bits and bobs, and a battered old biscuit tin on the other. Nothing that he’s been able to reach so far, try as he might. The bars are just wide enough for him to stretch an arm through, but even his narrow chest and hips can’t squeeze between them.
As the sounds draw closer, Bill shuts his eyes briefly. That it’s come to this; crouching in a filthy cage, to be killed by a common rat, of all things. What would his father think? It’s some blessing that he’ll probably never know, Bill thinks, and grits his teeth. He crouches behind the water dish, gripping the stick with white-knuckled hands. He’ll go down with a fight, at least.
It comes as something of a surprise when a small, tousled head emerges over the table’s edge. “Hullo there!” a cheerful voice calls.
Bill can only gape.
The other Borrower grunts as he pulls himself up by his elbows, breathing heavily. He looks stocky and strong—a little shorter than Bill, but with a thick chest and arms that leave Bill in no doubt he could hold him over his head, if he wanted to. He’s wearing a short-sleeved brown shirt that only barely restrains his bulging arms, with a sack tied at his waist and—goodness, is that a kilt? Bill is annoyed that he can’t place him. One of Robertson’s young lads, perhaps, who live mostly out at the stables? He recovers slightly, hastily dropping the stick and rising up to a more regal height.
The man wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and places his hands on his hips.
“Hullo there,” he says again, gazing around at the cage appraisingly. “Quite a pickle you’ve got yourself in here.”
“Yes, quite,” Bill says, slightly taken aback. “I must say, I’m very grateful to see you—I’d rather started to wonder that the searchers were looking in entirely the wrong place. Is it just you, er—” he trails off questioningly, hoping the man will provide him a name.
He does not. He’s started pacing around the cage, pausing every now and then to shake at the bars, testing for weaknesses.
“Just me,” he says, over his shoulder. “Was there someone else you were expecting?”
“No, no,” Bill says hastily, circling to watch the man. “I’d just thought, perhaps—well, I thought the king would have sent men out in raiding parties, not alone.”
The man pauses in his pacing, peering into the cage properly for the first time.
“Did you say…the king?” he asks, a little incredulously.
“Has—has my father not sent you?”.
“I’ve not been sent by anybody,” the man says, frankly. He scratches at his neck. “Who did you say you were?”
Bill finds himself colouring slightly. “I’m Bill Stirling.” He smooths his hair awkwardly, unconsciously touching his crown again. “Crown Prince Bill. Of the Stirlings?” he adds, seeing no hint of recognition in the other man’s eyes.
The man hoots with laughter, and Bill finds himself bristling slightly. “Well, Crown Prince Bill Stirling,” he repeats jovially. “I believe this is your lucky day. Shall we get you free?”.
“If you could, please,” Bill says, more stiffly than he intended. “I’m not sure how easy that will be, however. I’ve been trying to find a weakness for some time now, with no success.”
“Aye,” the man says, climbing up to examine the hatch. “I’ve been watching your efforts for most of today. It seemed to mostly involve sleeping, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“A tactical pause, obviously.” Bill bristles. “Or did you expect me to attempt to overpower the human with my bare hands?”.
The man laughs. “I’ve no expectations at all, your most royal highness,” he says, in what Bill regards as a far from respectful tone. But beggars can’t be choosers, he thinks, and this peculiar stranger seems to be his best hope of escaping this blasted cage. He tries for a more affable tone.
“I’d wondered if those bars at the top might be a little weaker,” he suggests. “Perhaps if we could find something to use as a lever?”
The man shakes his head, still concentrating on the latch. “Made for keeping songbirds in, cages like this. Not much chance of you or I breaking what their sharp beaks can’t.”
Bill pictures a bird, trapped and yearning for the freedom of flight, and shudders.
“Luckily,” the man says, rummaging in the sack at his waist, “I’ve a trick or two up my sleeve that the birdies don’t know.”
He pulls out a red lump, about the size of his palm. Bill leans in to watch with interest as he uses some twine to fasten it to the latch. “A match head?” he asks, in some surprise. “But however will you light it?”.
The man grins, pulling out a small glass flask and shaking it. “Sulphuric acid,” he says, proudly. “You might want to stand back.”
“Skies above,” Bill says, scrambling back as far as he can, and casting about for a leaf to shelter behind. “You're carrying sulphuric acid in your waist pouch?”
The man grins. “Ready?”.
Without waiting for a reply, he pulls the stopper out with his teeth and upends the flask over the match head, diving clear as soon as it's done. It fizzles to life immediately with a bang that makes Bill flinch. The explosion destroys the latch entirely, and as Bill peeks from beneath the leaf he sees the dry wood of the cage bars start to catch.
Bill races toward the hatch and shakes it in desperation. The latch is broken, but the heavy door is caught, unable to slide open. Heedless of the flames near his hands, he grits his teeth and pulls, managing to slide it half an inch. Not enough.
Outside the cage, the man has made it to his feet. He joins Bill in pulling, roaring with the effort, until the hatch slides back all the way. “Come on!” he shouts, reaching a hand in to Bill.
Bill clasps the stranger’s hand, and is dragged bodily outside the cage. He stumbles to his feet, pausing for a moment with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“Well done, your highness,” the man says, slapping him heartily on the back with a laugh.
Bill can’t help but grin up at him in relief. He clasps the man’s hand in a formal shake of thanks. “All credit to you. And please—call me Bill, won’t you.”
“Jock,” the man says, shaking his hand vigorously. Bill raises an eyebrow. “Just Jock.”
“As you wish.”
Bill straightens. Jock stares at him, as if there’s something he wants to say.
“I like your boots, Bill.”
“Thank you?” Bill says, perplexed. He really is a very peculiar fellow, this Jock.
“I hope they’re good for running,” Jock says, peering down over table’s edge. “Because I think we’ll need to get out of here, quick smart.”
Bill joins him at the table’s edge and looks down.
He stares straight down into the deep black eyes of a Jack Russell terrier, watching them from the floor below. Bill is frozen in horror as the beast settles back on its haunches, ready to jump.