Violet eyes fixed on a particular piece of rot in the wooden ceiling head of him, as if the mark of water damage had become so much more interesting than it was when he first woke up. That had been twenty minutes past, and still Cyrithil lay in the uncomfortable brick of a bed that his captor had placed him on. He didn't know when he'd been rendered unconscious, or when he'd arrived here, or how she managed to carry a fully grown man from the forest just outside of Omn Asari to... wherever it is that they were now. If he could use the fact that he was actually beginning to grow facial hair as any indication, it appeared that he'd been blissfully unaware of everything for the past two or so days at best.<br/><br/>The glow of the fire did little to warm his otherwise clammy and pallid skin. His entire body was covered in a thin sheet of cold sweat and the warmth seemed to waft over him without ever touching him. Without ever sitting up, Cyr could still feel the course fabric of a blanket but after poking and prodding at it with his fingers for a moment, he decided that it smelled horrible enough that there might actually be something dead beneath it. He made sure to stay at least clear enough from that side of the bed to where he wouldn't need to fear rolling over onto it, should he be right. The smell of the blanket mixed with the smoke of the fire and the mildew and mold of the rest of the cabin, as well as with the petrichor pouring in from a hole that had formed between wall and floor to create an absolutely overwhelming mix of smells that threatened quite suddenly to make him sick once more.<br/><br/>"Why are you doing this." It wasn't a question, and it was more to himself than the woman perched upon the rickety old chair. The Idhren family had been the ruling power in Elyria for thousands of years, very much as immortal and unchanging as the royal family members themselves. This was by no means the first time an Ihdren had fallen as a captive, but it was the first time to Cyr's knowledge that the heir to the throne had been taken outside of wartime, and most certainly the first time he himself had experienced it firsthand. He didn't<span style="font-style: italic">understand.</span>If this was about money, whoever was paying for his safety could have easily extorted just as much gold from kidnapping, say, one of his cousins. They still held royal importance in court without having legal ties to the throne, but the Idhren family was a proud one, and kidnapping any family member was taken as a ghastly affront to their power. And it would have been so much easier to take a cousin or an uncle or literally anyone else, but whoever was after him took a great deal of pain to see to it that the crown prince was abducted from his heavily guarded room, the day before his wedding and soon before his brother was to be put on trial for asinine crimes.<br/><br/>The uncomfortable reality dawned on him that the possibility that this was only for money was slim to none; this was politically motivated. Whoever masterminded this, they knew the strife that the Idhren family was in. One son crippled and homosexual, one son belligerent and actively protesting the crown's trial of its own family, a marriage of show and politics joining the two most powerful families in Elyria, Idhren and Yggdrasil. The weight of the likelihood of this kidnapping being for political gain rather than monetary bore down on his entire body and he seemed to sink inexplicably deeper into the mattress (if you could call it that.)<br/><br/>"Your name can't possibly be 'six minutes' or 'halfling,'" he concluded ironically, his head lulling over to the side to look at her. She held in her hand two vials, both very similar to each other but if Cyrithil was being honest, he was shit at alchemy and differentiating between two concoctions unless they were obviously different. For all he knew, one could be the drug and another could be really disgusting and discolored water. With the same grace he wore with everything he did, Cyr sat up with a straightened back and held his chin high enough to still be polite while also making it very clear that he was royal. His ribs hurt horribly, as did his neck, but he still maintained the dignity that would be expected of him by his father. "I can guarantee that whenever you hand me over, I won't be alive long enough to tell anyone else. So what is it?"