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whump-tr0pes · 3 months ago

Text

Relief

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Contents: nightmare, [captivity, beating, gaslighting, forced to hurt someone, torture, flaying, so much blood, begging, death] all in a nightmare, collared whumpee, conditioned whumpee, past murder, PTSD, emeto, comfort, flashbacks, permanent injury, chronic pain, misunderstanding whump, recovery

Morja instantly knew where he was; the peeling paint on the walls, the barred door, and the cold blue lights overhead told him everywhere he needed to know. He was back in his cell room, back in Crayton. He was back where he belonged.

There was an addition to the room, and the room seemed to have grown to accommodate it: a large metal table with leather cuffs at the top and bottom. Morja shuddered as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it was for. He had been on one himself, more than once. He wondered if his anóteros meant for him to climb onto it.

Before the lack of answer could worry him, there was a sound behind him. Boots. A voice.

“Hello, my diathésimos,” his owner benefactor said. A steady hand slid up the back of his neck, over his collar, and knotted in his hair. He dropped to his knees in an instant.

“Anóteros,” he said, his lips trembling. His hands settled in his lap and he tilted his head back, baring his throat. He was where he belonged at last - but his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain it. He belonged at his anóteros’ feet, did he not? He had never known another home than this.

No, there was another place, where he had a bed, not a cot - where there were no bars on the door, and there were windows that opened to the outside–

A blow snapped his head to the side. He accepted it without a gasp. His right ear rang.

“Where did you just go, Morja?” the mayor said, his voice low and smooth. Morja knew better, though - he could hear the threat beneath the words.

He answered honestly. He must always be honest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the correction.

Another blow whipped across his face, splitting his lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin. It itched. He did not lift his hand to wipe it. When it dripped on his wrists, then the floor, he knew he would need to clean it after this.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere but this,” his anóteros said conversationally. “Other than when you are serving me on my missions, of course.”

An image flashed behind Morja’s closed eyes: a breakfast table, laden with eggs, bacon, toast.

“Yes, anóteros,” he breathed.

“Open your eyes, Morja,” the mayor said.

Morja obeyed.

He barely caught his gasp when he realized there was someone lying on the table now: Sam, the youngest of the family that was harboring Gavin Uriah Stormbeck. He remembered where that room was now: in that family’s house.

Their wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table. With the table at eye level, he could see how tightly the restraints were buckled, the leather digging into their flesh. They trembled and stared back at him in terror, their mouth open but silent.

Morja’s owner benefactor drew the knife from his belt and held it out in front of Morja’s face. Morja held perfectly still, prepared for the knife to carve into his own cheek - but the knife hovered there, the blade between him and Sam. He could see himself reflected in the wickedly sharp steel.

“This one was captured harboring Gavin Stormbeck,” the mayor said coldly. “It is your job to punish them for this crime.”

Morja’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hands shook and he forced him to be still against his thighs. “Punish them… sir?” he croaked.

“Yes,” his anóteros said. “Gavin Stormbeck is a scourge upon this world, and they have actively worked to prolong his reign of terror. There must be punishment for this. You will deliver it.” The mayor flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, gesturing with the grip toward Sam. “Now, diathésimos,” he hissed.

Morja’s legs shook under him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam met his eyes, and their eyes went wider as Morja took the knife from the mayor. His anóteros stepped behind him as he moved forward, as if in a trance, until his legs pressed against the table. The knife trembled in his grip.

He forced his mind to go cold and blank - like it so often did before the kill - as he brought the knife to Sam Vasterling’s sleeve. He made quick work of slashing it away from their arm until it was bare, the thin muscles rippling and tugging beneath the skin as they struggled to free themself. Then, as he blew out a slow breath through his lips, he brought the knife to their forearm.

“Morja, please,” Sam begged.

The knife froze over Sam’s skin. Morja met their eyes. They looked so frightened, so young, strapped down to the table and pleading for their life.

But Morja had killed younger people than them. And he had never spared anyone just because they begged him to. He forced down the bile that clawed up his throat, and slid the knife into Sam’s forearm down to the muscle.

Sam screamed. They made no effort to bite it back. Tears welled in their eyes and streamed back over their temples. Morja carved into their arm again, staying within the first few layers of skin, fat, and muscle - avoiding the arteries. He could see the play of their muscles in the gash as they fought the restraints. Again, he cut, and veins stood out in their neck as they screamed.

He had seen his anóteros hurt people like this. He knew, now, how very effective it was.

After he had sliced their arm to ribbons, he cut away the rest of their shirt. He avoided touching their skin as much as he could, as if one touch would burn him. They looked at him, trying to meet his eyes, desperate, writhing against the leather cuffs. He looked away.

“Please, no, no, no!” Sam shrieked as Morja sliced through the thin skin over their breastbone. They shuddered and writhed, tears streaming, wrists twisting in the restraints. Morja’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands shook as he gripped the knife. He cut again, and again, and again. Blood pooled in the hollows of Sam’s body. It rolled down their sides and onto the table, then dripped onto the floor. The entire room smelled thick with blood.

And behind him, his anóteros stood silent as a sentinel. He chewed his lip and continued cutting Sam to pieces. They screamed and sobbed. The handle of the knife was slippery with sweat.

“Isaac!” Sam screamed, finally squeezing their eyes shut and turning their face away from Morja. “Isaac, h-help me!”

Morja shuddered. The knife froze above Sam, dripping blood onto their skin.

Sam whimpered and cringed away from Morja. “I-Isaac,” they sobbed. “Please…”

“Continue,” Morja’s anóteros hissed from behind him. A chill feathered down Morja’s spine as he squeezed his eyes shut.

His hand tightened around the knife. The smell of blood was making him sick. Sam was barely more than a child, and Morja felt - he felt, he knew - they had nothing to do with the evil his owner benefactor was claiming. But if he could make them scream loud enough that Isaac heard them…

If Isaac Moore came, he could force Morja to stop this.

He brought the knife to patch of unbroken skin over Sam’s stomach and dug the blade in. Sam screamed anew.

He fileted them open, carving into them with a cruelty he had only seen his anóteros reserve for the most depraved traitors of the North. He flayed them alive until his hands were soaked with their blood. They screamed and screamed until their voice went raw and began to fade. Still, he cut. Still, he carved. He slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. Everything was red. He was drowning in it. And still, Isaac Moore did not come and rip the knife from his hands, strike him down, shoot him dead.

Still, he carved.

Sam Vasterling screamed.

“Keep going, diathésimos,” the mayor said. “Remember, this is the fate that awaits all who harbor traitors to the North. They are guilty. They deserve this.”

The small body on the table juddered and bled and screamed. They barely looked human anymore. Still, they did not die. More blood had come out of them than Morja had ever seen in his life. Still they did not die. They only screamed and bled.

Morja’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He stared down into Sam’s chest, at their beating heart. He had carved away everything else. Still, they lived, and cried, and bled.

“Isaac,” they rasped. “Isaac, please…”

Bile seared the back of his throat.

They raised their eyes to his. Their eyes were bloodshot, red from crying, but they were brown, he noticed. They looked so frightened. “Morja,” they breathed. “Help me.”

Morja stared back at them for an eternal moment. Tears streamed from their eyes.

He raised the knife and plunged it into their exposed heart. They shuddered once, then their head fell back. Their eyes were blank, their mouth open. They were - finally, mercifully - dead.

Morja braced for the correction.

His anóteros said nothing for a breath. Then, the mayor said, “No matter. You still have the rest of that family to get through.”

Morja opened his eyes.

His room was pitch black, and the sheets on his bed were soaked through with cold sweat. He could still smell blood thick in his nostrils.

He staggered out of bed and fumbled for the doorknob. When he found it, he wrenched the door open and dashed down the dimly-lit hall and into the kitchen. He threw open the sliding door to the backyard and made it a few shaky steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching into the grass. When he was done, he slumped over and sobbed weakly.

He still felt the youngest one’s blood on his hands, tacky and warm. He still smelled it. He still heard their screams. He still felt his anóteros’ hand on the back of his neck.

“Morja?” a small voice called out behind him.

He gasped and spun around. Sam Vasterling stood in the sliding door, silhouetted by the light in the kitchen. The golden light illuminated their curls like a halo. They took a halting step out of the house. Their hand was extended towards him. “Are… you alright?”

Morja blinked. In the fraction of a second that his eyes were closed, he saw them - bound to the table, coated in blood, flayed and screaming and begging for mercy. His stomach heaved again. He bowed his head in shame and horror.

Sam drew closer. They were so young, but they showed no fear as they went to their knees and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Morja wasn’t sure if they didn’t know that he could break their neck with just his hands, could drag them inside and cut their throat with a kitchen knife… or if they knew, and chose to master the fear. He trembled, but held still as their hand rubbed up and down on his arm. The touch was gentle, so unlike–

He flinched at the memory - it was just a dream, but he had so many real memories of it, too - of his anóteros’ hand whipping across his face. Sam’s hand paused on his shoulder. “Is this… is it okay that I’m doing this?” they whispered.

A chasm opened inside Morja’s chest. His face crumpled and he began to weep.

He leaned against Sam, bending his head so low that it rested in their lap. Their hand rested on his shoulder again. He reached out, his own hand shaking badly, and covered their hand with his own. His broad hand swallowed theirs.

“Shhh,” Sam soothed. “I’m sorry, was it… a nightmare?”

Morja shuddered with shame. He pressed his head against their knee and nodded.

Sam pushed out a slow breath. “Gotcha. I… I get them too, sometimes.”

Morja blinked and tightened his hand over theirs. The thought of them waking, cold and shuddering, from a nightmare, made his chest ache. He rolled his shoulder to ease the old twinge there.

“I get them less now,” Sam said, stroking their thumb along his arm. “But they still happen from time to time. About… our time in Colleen Stormbeck’s house. I… I get a lot of nightmares about getting shot.”

Morja’s eyes went wide, and he sat up. His eyes darted over Sam, looking for a scar - and his eyes finally settled on their right hand, the one they always held curled against their stomach.

Sam followed their gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “It was a few years ago now. I was shot by a Stormbeck guard as we were escaping Colleen.” They smiled. “Finn saved my life.”

“Does it hurt?” Morja asked, before he could stop himself. He looked at his hands and bowed his head for his impertinence.

Sam didn’t deliver a correction, though; they said, “Sometimes. Well… pretty often, yeah. It twinges. Sometimes I need to wear a sling.” They shrugged. “But it’s gotten better as time has gone on.”

Morja’s own shoulder twinged again, and he rolled it in its socket.

Sam inclined their head. “You hurt, too?”

Morja’s mouth went dry. “I… no. Nothing so bad as… no.”

Sam looked at him for a long time. Then they said, “Gray says comparing things doesn’t do anyone any good.” They glanced out into the night.

Morja stared down at his hands. His mind churned as he tried to decipher the meaning in Sam’s words. Slowly, he said, “My… shoulder. It hurts. Often.” He pointed to it stiffly.

“Don’t complain, diathésimos, or I will teach you the true meaning of pain. Back up on your knees, or I’ll string you up by your collar. Five more lashes for your impertinence.”

He shuddered and waited for the correction, or the promise of one.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” they said. They looked toward the house. “I’ll be right back.” They pushed themself to their feet and made their way inside to fetch a cane, or perhaps a whip, to punish Morja for the complaint.

His head dipped low and his stomach churned with guilt and shame - and a flash of something else, something he could not allow himself to name. Something that felt dangerous to feel. Something that rankled for having been guided right into that trap.

Still, he should have known better. He had a lifetime of pain, telling him that he should have known better. His hands curled into fists as he waited for Sam to return. When he heard their footsteps at the back door, and then the swoosh of their feet through the grass, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together. He must be silent when accepting this correction. He must not wake anyone in the sleeping house with a gasp or a cry.

He had earned Sam’s disgust with his weakness. He must not make a sound, now.

Sam went to their knees beside him, and he held perfectly still - save for his hands, which he slid together, palm to palm, so they could tie him.

“Here,” they said softly.

He held back a whimper. Perhaps they had not returned with a cane at all, but something worse - like a knife. He forced his eyes open. Their hand was moving toward his shoulder - the bad one. He froze. He braced.

Something warm pressed against the knot that always lived in the flesh there. He flinched and uttered a shocked sound.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Is it too hot still?”

Morja turned his eyes to theirs. Their eyebrows were tugged together, holding something out to him - a warm compress. They had another one, balanced on their injured hand. “Here,” they said, holding one out to him. “The heat… it helps, sometimes. With me. Maybe it might with you, too.”

Morja stared at the compress with wide eyes. Sam held it a little higher, and he finally took it. Heat soaked into his finger tips. Sam took their own compress in their good hand and pressed it to their injured arm, over their bicep. They took a deep, shivering breath and let their eyes fall shut.

Morja’s back ached in thwarted anticipation of the cane. He glanced at the compress in his hand, then back to Sam; their face wasn’t twisted in disgust - not at him, nor at anything else that he could see. They were smiling lightly. And they were using the compress. Haltingly, hesitantly, he pressed it to his own shoulder like Sam had done for him.

Heat bloomed in the knotted muscles and he let out a trapped breath. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He slumped a little to the side - a little closer to Sam. They opened their eyes and smiled at him.

“Nice, huh?” they said.

Morja’s throat tightened. His head hung low. A dry sob shivered in his chest.

Sam raised their curled hand and rested it on his shoulder. They slid it across his back, over the healed scars. Morja’s head dipped lower, lower still, until he was folded in half over his knees. He cried softly as Sam rubbed his back, not saying anything at all.

Continued here

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