#royal caretaker

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #18

Masterpost

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Warnings: domestic abuse

Kit escorted David inside.

“I shouldn’t be here,” David mumbled. “I should go home.”

“Hush,” soothed Kit. “You’ll feel better after some food.”

The servant’s entrance was less crowded, but the hall where the staff ate was full of people. Eyes landed on him and David, and he tried not to make contact with any of them.

David sniffed as they sidestepped the crowd, and Kit grabbed a napkin for his tears. He grabbed two plates of food for them as they sat in a corner.

“I don’t know what to do,” David whispered, picking at his meal.

Kit took a sip of his water. He was already finished; and his stomach yearned to ask if David was going to eat the rest of his food. He should probably eat another nighttime meal later if he didn’t want to wake up hungry.

“Why not stay in the castle? There’s servants quarters. Surely there’s space.”

“I can’t just abandon him.” David put his fork down, hanging his head. “What would Mom say?”

Kit didn’t know much about mothers and fathers. He was a proximity child, raised communally, but he knew this was wrong.

“I don’t think your mother would want you to stay with someone who hurts you.”

“He’s my father,” David weakly protested.

“What does it matter? He hits you. He takes your money. Family isn’t always good for you.”

“He’s sick!”

Kit hesitated. He didn’t know if humans died of grief like fae could, and perhaps David’s father was afflicted. “Sick with what?”

David shook his head. “He drinks, and loses his temper. It’s not his fault.”

“It isn’t your fault either.”

David worried his lip. “It isn’t your fault,” Kit repeated.

“I- If I were a better son-”

“Don’t say that,” Kit said, firm. “You are a good son. You love your father. You’ve been taking care of him.” He reached for David’s hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over his hand. “He hasn’t been a good father to you.”

David sobbed, his hand coming up to hide his face. “He’s going to be so mad at me,” he wept. “He’ll hurt me.”

Kit hummed low and soft. “I won’t let him,” he said. “Mistress won’t let him.”

“As if you could stop him,” David muttered bitterly.

“What?”

“You- I mean,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry. I was going to say something rude. I didn’t mean it.”

Kit’s gut twisted. He knew what David was thinking.

 If you couldn’t protect yourself, how could you protect him?

“It’s o-” Kit choked on the lie squeezing his throat. He took a sip of water to wash it out.

“I forgive you,” he said instead, the pain settling down to a dull throb.

David took one of the napkins to wipe his face, gingerly avoiding his black eye. “Her- her majesty knows?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I told her someone was hurting you. I didn’t tell her anything else.”

“Okay.” 

They sat in silence, the roar of the room filling in the lapse.

“Would you like to come to my room?” asked Kit. “You might relax more there.”

“Okay.”

___________________

The hallways were mostly clear, as everyone was at lunch. Only a few guards were posted, and a bad feeling weighed in his mind like a stone when he realized how few of them they had passed.

His intuition was rarely wrong.

They rounded a corner, and in the hall was a lone man. A stranger.

David stopped up short behind him. David’s breath caught in his throat, and Kit knew this was his father.

He was almost the same height as Kit, with a head of graying hair and a thin build. Kit could smell the alcohol coming off of him in waves, mixed with stale sweat.

He must have come in from a side entrance. Perhaps a guard had recognized him as David’s dad, and thought he was harmless enough.

David whimpered behind him, and the man turned. He was sober, guessed Kit, based on his eyes and posture. A rare occurrence from what David had told him.

“David!” he said, a smile on his face. “There you are. I was so worried when you weren’t at the house.”

“Dad? Are you… okay?” David stepped out from behind Kit, tremble gone.

“Of course, bud.” The man’s eyes wandered to the small sack in David’s hands. “Are you okay? Some of your things are missing.” 

Kit narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe the man’s concern was based in worry for his son, but rather for himself.

“Uh- yeah-”

David’s father advanced on them, his stride controlled underneath the relaxed veneer.

“Are you… moving out, son?” his voice was tight and unnerving.

“W-well,” David stuttered. “I just thought- I mean, I’m an adult now, and-”

The man kept coming, and Kit stepped forward.

The stranger drew up short. “Excuse me,” he said. “Step aside.”

“No.”

The man stared at him. “I’m only trying to talk to my kid.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“What the hell do you know?” snapped the man, his temper flaring.

“Dad, please,” David pleaded.

The man turned on David. “Did this faerie try and convince you to leave? Huh?!”

David stepped back. He shook his head. “No-”

David’s father stepped forward, raised a hand-

Kit dove in front of David, shoving the boy behind him.

The blow landed across his face.

David gasped, and Kit felt himself leave his own body, as if watching from far away.

David’s father started shouting at him, but a high-pitched buzzing in his head drowned out the words.

He could feel the sting on his cheek, and he could barely make out David clutching at the back of his shirt.

Tears ran down Kit’s face, but no sound left his throat. He could hardly breathe.

“Answer me!” screamed the man in his face, and spit landed on his shirt. He couldn’t move.

“What the hell?” said a guard from the end of the hall, and sensation rushed back into Kit’s body. He stumbled back, sucking in air.

David’s father started making excuses, and Kit couldn’t be bothered to listen. The guard’s eyes flicked between the three of them. Her gaze landed on David’s black eye, Kit’s burning cheek, and David’s father’s furious expression.

She drew up tall. “You need to leave,” she informed him. “Or you’re under arrest for assault and trespassing.”

“Assault?” he sputtered. “I was disciplining my son! It’s not my fault this creature got in the way!”

“Leave,” the guard pressed. “I’ve warned you once; you won’t get another.”

The man turned on David. “Your mother would be disgusted with you,” he spat. “I hope you’re happy. Don’t bother coming home.”

He turned and stalked away, the guard escorting him out.

David broke down, his hands on his knees, hunched over and his breath quick and shallow.

Kit watched helplessly, his own breathing irregular.

“I- oh god-” David clutched his chest. “I’m dying.”

“No,” Kit said, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. “You’re panicking.”

“Oh,” laughed David hysterically. “Is that all?”

Kit pulled at his arms, helping him stand. “Come one. You can sit on the couch in my room.”

David nodded, and shakily followed him deeper into the castle.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@hellodecisionparalysis @bitchaknso @starfields08000 @honeycollectswhump

@why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @currentlyinthesprial

[secretwhumplair]

Departure

1,424 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Ozriel)

Content | Power imbalance, mute whumpee, language barrier, mention of/implied: past captivity, past torture

Notes | Orafin and Elgar go on their way!

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations

Night had now properly fallen. The crown let them have their hug for a long moment—Elgar could feel their eyes on him like burning fire, and wondered what went through their head, seeing their regal brother so closely entangled with one like him; surely it reflected on them if it were known, somehow? he couldn’t imagine they approved, however affable they had been, but he desperately needed that hug—but eventually, they sat up all businesslike, and that little movement was enough to signal to the prince it was time to stop.

»You should get some rest,« the crown said, gently, when the prince turned back towards them. Their eyes, once again, grazed Elgar as well, as if they meant them both. »But we should lay out some plans. As soon as you feel ready to travel—«

The prince nodded firmly, and looked over at Elgar, who joined in, rather more hesitantly. Yes, no, he was ready to travel. He just wasn’t ready for this whole situation.

»I think the best thing will be to come back to Akreh with me, then Orina and her escort can take you from there. You’ll go to Borrim until you’re fully recovered, then you can return to Atcill. Although…« They sighed. »You should probably appear as soon as possible.«

The prince nodded, his eyes determined. Atcill was the capital of Ochuria, Elgar knew that much—as for Borrim, he could only guess. A sickhouse? Would a royal go to a common sickhouse, moreso if they weren’t physically ill?

The prince had scribbled something down on his slate, and now the crown eyed him with plain worry on their face. »If you’re quite sure.« Then they turned to Elgar. »You will travel to Borrim together, one of our countryside estates—it will be nice and quiet. His Highness has requested you go via our capital, so he may make a public appearance and put the people’s minds at ease about him.«

»Yes, your Majesty.« Elgar idly wondered if the offer to send him back home was permanent, or whether he had missed his chance. Not that it mattered, really. What could he do, anyway?

The crown considered him for a moment, then they nodded briefly and returned to the prince. »We’ll have to find someone to teach you to speak with your hands, of course. All of us, actually, when we have time. Why, of course,« they added with a small smile when the prince looked just about moved enough to start crying, giving him another half-hug. »And you,« they turned to Elgar once more, »will have to learn spoken Ochurian as well, if you intend to stay. It is probably best if you learn to read it, as well,« they added with a glance down at the prince’s slate.

»Yes, your Majesty. I—I would like that.« It was a terrifying prospect, to be stranded in this strange land with no way to communicate.

He wouldn’t be stranded, of course.

He would be at the mercy of the royal family. No one would be able to help him if things went awry.

He had to shove these thoughts down. The prince had promised to protect him. He simply had to cling on to that promise.

Presently, the crown smiled. »Very good. That’s settled, then. If you both are ready, we will travel tomorrow morning. After breakfast, you look-« They fell silent, their eyes filled with worry when they looked over their brother, skin and bones, worse than Elgar. He remembered how light the prince, who in his mind could not have been further from a prince then, had felt in his arms.

The prince swallowed, but smiled, and nodded.

* Orafin woke early, the first light of dawn barely creeping in, yet found Elgar already awake, lying with his open eyes resting on him. Ozriel was already up—they had gone to sleep beside him, but now they were at the desk, writing letters. It felt so warm and safe to see them there, all busy being monarch; although the thought was immediately followed up with the sting of knowing it would never be their mother doing these duties again.

They immediately glanced over to him when he sat up. He shoved the grief aside for the moment—there would be time to grieve, surely; now wasn’t it—, smiled, and waved good morning.

Their smile in return looked strained. »Good morning. One moment.«

Orafin looked over to Elgar while they finished their paperwork. He couldn’t do anything but smile at him and squeeze his hand and he couldn’t wait for him to learn to read, for both of them to learn to speak in and understand signs, and he couldn’t even tell him that.

Elgar smiled and squeezed back, but his smile, too, seemed strained.

Orafin wondered whether he was still in pain, now unhappily looking forward to travelling with it. He had told the medic he was sore, but he hadn’t elaborated—and Orafin hadn’t wanted to expose him—and whether his body had been able to fully recover in the past two days, while dealing with the starvation and the exhaustion and the obvious anxiety, Orafin didn’t know.

It seemed unlikely, after everything Orafin had witnessed. Elgar had never been given time to recover any more than he had, and though his injuries might be subtler, Orafin didn’t doubt they were still there, struggling to heal amid renewed assaults.

It would probably hurt him to ride. But Orafin couldn’t tell him to tell the medic without revealing at least some of what had been done to him to Ozriel or someone else, so he could only hope Elgar would know to speak up if things got too bad.

Orafin would hurt, too. He was bruised all over. But it would be worth it to see his sister, and go home, and see the rest of his family and friends.

Once Ozriel had finished what couldn’t be more than the sentence they had been writing, they called for breakfast. Two days of consistent food hadn’t been enough to take the magic out of it for Orafin. He briefly tried to remember his manners before the crown, like he was supposed to, but Ozriel just shook their head.

»Please just eat. No-one’s here to watch.« They were speaking in Teeradian, and once again included Elgar with a smile.

Maybe, if he stayed with them, he would eventually have to learn courteous manners. Orafin hoped he wouldn’t mind.

Then it was time for Orafin to get used to his legs again.

They felt fragile and weak under him, having been out of use for a week now. Ozriel helped him up and called for one of his attendants to support him on his way to the stables, so that Orafin could pick out a horse.

The soldiers cheered when they saw him, and his lips smiled all by themselves. He even managed a little wave.

Terrav was going with them, and pointed out the horse they had arrived on. By light of day, and with a clear mind, the mare was certainly nothing special; a pack pony probably, black and soft-eyed and small next to the crown’s horse, Maple, who stretched his head out to welcome his master.

Yet Orafin instantly knew he didn’t want to leave her behind. But now that he thought about it-

Elgar should have her. He took her.

The corner of Ozriel’s mouth twitched. »You’re right. This horse is rightfully yours,« they continued towards Elgar. »You took her as your prize. You can keep her, or you can sell her later when we can get you a better ride.«

Elgar simply stared at Ozriel, then at Orafin, who grinned at him, giving him an enthusiastic nod. »The horse… belongs to me?«

»Yes, if you will have her. You should probably name her.«

»Um.« Elgar stepped up to the pony, who was clearly indifferent to all of these humans around her, but accepted an awkward little face rub. »I think I’ll call her. Sparrow?«

He met Orafin’s eyes, and Orafin thought they were both reminded of the night they met the horse.

How Orafin had convinced Elgar to come with him by mimicking the protection of a vulnerable small animal. An injured little bird, perhaps.

Orafin swallowed down the knot in his throat, and nodded earnestly. He didn’t need to be reminded of his promise, and he would make sure his actions would eventually convince Elgar of that.

At sunrise, they left the outpost.

[geode-crystal]

And we finally have a sequel to the Used as Bait story!

Rescue time! Darius and Mianu have gotten themselves into a bit of trouble. Can Mianu get them out? Or will his own dark magic just make things worse?

("Porque no los dos" lol)

Directly continues my previous story. Characters: Darius the knight, Prince Mianu, and some random mercenary whumpers.

Contents: kidnapping, restraints (chains), a little bit of magic torture, a little bit of blood, tons of threats, a knife, implied minor character death (left somewhat open ended)

______________________

“Let. Him. Go.”

Mianu’s voice rang through the room. There was power behind it, more than just the typical authority of royalty. His magic, already swirling around his arm, was making him even more imposing than usual.

It was terrifying. But gods, even in these circumstances, Darius couldn’t help but find it insanely attractive.

Not that he had time to think about that.  

The mercenary woman stepped forward, looming right in front of Darius. Darius couldn’t even see Mianu anymore. But that didn’t stop his heart from pounding so hard it nearly burst out of his chest.

“Ah, the lost little prince,” the mercenary sneered. “So glad you made it.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Mianu hissed. “We both know I'm not here for games.”

Darius didn’t need to see his captor’s face to know she was smirking. “True enough. There’s far more at stake here than any simple game, isn’t there? Especially if you want your darling knight returned to you in one piece.”

Darius struggled against his chains once more. It was infuriating. It was agony. Mianu was right there, already falling to his dark magic, and Darius couldn’t reach him.

Not with his actions, anyway. But his captors had made a mistake. They hadn’t bothered to gag or silence him.

“Mianu, run!” Darius shouted. “Whatever she wants, it’s not worth it! I’ll be fine, just get out of here!”

“Silence.”

The mercenary’s command was followed up by another spell. The same one from before. The burst of magic flew right towards his head. Darius flinched, barely managing to avoid the worst of the damage. The curse cut into his cheek. He gasped at the harsh sting of it.

Mianu let out a wordless scream.

The room instantly got colder. And there was another sound, one that echoed and amplified Mianu’s cry. It was like the growl of a furious beast.

Darius struggled against his chains again. Mianu’s power was only growing. Gods knew what kind of a toll it would take on him…

“You have made a big mistake,” Mianu growled. “I will give you one. More. Chance. Let him go, now. Or I will show now mercy.”

“Yes, yes, very intimidating,” said the mercenary.

She snapped her fingers. The sound seemed to echo, repeated over and over. And more mercenaries appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Mianu hissed in surprise. Darius tried to cry out again, to warn him, to get him the hell out of there—but any attempt was cut short as someone roughly grabbed his hair from behind. His head was yanked back. Something cold was pressed against his throat.

He didn’t need to see it. He knew the bite of steel all too well.

Mianu froze. Even the air seemed to go utterly still. The other mercenaries moved around them, drawing weapons, preparing more spells. Darius sensed more than saw the movements, only catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye. The only thing he could see clearly was the look on Mianu’s face.  

Gods, that expression was going to haunt him, no matter what happened next.

“You strike any one of us down, your highness, and your knight will be the next to fall,” Darius’ captor warned.

Slowly, his eyes never once leaving Darius’ face, Mianu lowered his hand. Magic still curled around his fingers. But he closed his fist, making sure that none of it could escape.

Not yet.

The lead mercenary laughed, a cold, cruel sound, as sharp as the knife against Darius’ throat.

“Much better.” She swept off to the side, deliberately walking right in front of Darius and over to something else that he—infuriatingly—still couldn’t see. But Mianu clearly could. The prince’s eyes went wide.

“Do you recognize this?” the mercenary hissed.

“Where did you get that?” Mianu demanded.

His shock sounded genuine. Darius tried to shift a bit, struggling in vain to get away. Of course, the figure just gripped his hair even tighter. The knife pricked his skin, drawing beads of blood. Not that Darius cared about his own state at the moment.

“Mianu, don’t listen to her,” he choked out. “She’s a liar. A thief. She’ll—”

“Oh, good, I’m glad you recognize it,” said the lead mercenary. She was completely casual. And completely ignoring Darius’ shouts.

Mianu scoffed. “Of course I do. It’s my sigil.”

That cut Darius off far more effectively than any threat. The royal sigil? How in the name of all the gods did these cowards get their hands on something like that? Especially when they were so far from home?

“Then you understand why we needed you,” the mercenary smirked. “Our task for you is really quite simple. All you have to do is get this open.”

“You don’t even know what’s in there,” Mianu countered. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

The mercenary sneered. “I’m eager to find out.”  

Open it? Darius desperately wanted to know what was going on. And why Mianu was hesitating. If it was something that made him respond like that, then it was something that should stay firmly shut. Especially when magic was involved. Who knew what could be sealed in… whatever it was that happened to be sealed up.

Darius looked right at Mianu. It was all he could do. Mianu met his eye just for a moment. Darius could feel his hesitation. He could see the magic still curling around Mianu’s fingers, down his arm, like a snake coiling around its prey.

Then Mianu’s eyes flicked back to the mercenary.

“Release Darius first.”

Mianu’s tone made Darius shiver. Or maybe that was just the way the temperature in the room had dropped even more. But that clearly did nothing to the mercenary.

“And lose the most important card I have on the table?” she said. “Not likely.”

Mianu scowled. “Fine. Then step back. All of you. I think we both know how dangerous this might get.”

It was a warning to Darius as well. But when Mianu looked back at him, he saw something more than that. Mianu’s eyes blazed with determination. He had a plan. All Darius needed to do was trust him.

Darius wanted to nod. To give any kind of sign that he did trust Mianu. But he could hardly even move. So he hoped the look on his face would be enough. And he risked speaking once more.

“Do what you have to do,” he whispered.

Even across the room, Mianu heard. So, unfortunately, did the mercenary.

“Oh, how noble,” she jeered. “A knight’s loyalty in action. However foolish that might be.”

Mianu said nothing. His eyes remained locked on Darius.

“Perhaps I must remind you what’s at stake,” the mercenary hissed.

She must have given some kind of signal. Darius’ head was jerked further back, fully exposing his throat. He couldn’t help another hiss of startled pain. Mianu visibly flinched, his magic surging again.

“Do what we ask, or we kill him,” his captor said simply.

Darius tried to keep his breathing steady. He wasn’t sure if it worked. But he kept his gaze firmly on Mianu, unwavering.

Mianu’s eyes went ice cold. He glared at the mercenary with pure hatred.

“You kill him, and you’ve lost any chance of me doing anything you want,” he hissed. “He dies, and you fall next.”

“Of course,” said the mercenary. She didn’t believe a word. “How about a compromise, hmm? We will step back. Allow you to do what you must. But he stays exactly where he is. And you know what will happen if you fail to comply.”

As though to prove her threat, there was another bright flash. Another spell cast. Darius didn’t have a clue what hit him this time. But he would have buckled under the agony of it if he hadn’t been held up by the hair. He tried to bite back his pain. It didn’t work. A strangled noise burst from his throat.

“I understand,” Mianu said quickly. “Just get out of the way.”

The mercenary laughed. Darius had heard laughs like that before. It was the laugh of someone who had already claimed their victory.

With a single quick order, the other mercenaries immediately went into action. Darius was finally released. His head dropped and he gasped for air, just for a moment. He was sickened by his own sense of relief.

He forced his head back up as quickly as he could. He locked eyes with Mianu. He didn’t even care that the other mercenaries clearly still held his life in their hands. Though they stood back, away from whatever magical object they wanted Mianu to deal with, all weapons and dark spells were trained directly on him. Darius could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on his back.

The leader was the only one who didn’t look directly at him. Her gaze was still firmly fixed on Mianu. Which was made clear by the way Mianu glared back at her.

But then, finally, Mianu looked at Darius again. And he whispered something that even Darius couldn’t hear. But the message was clear just from the shape of his lips.

Brace yourself.

Not an apology. Not any reassurance. Just a warning. The prince had nothing else to give.

There was nothing Darius could possibly do about it. So he nodded, praying that his determination would shine through.

He trusted Mianu with his life. A trust that Mianu had proven himself worthy of time and time again.      

Darius just hoped that Mianu believed that.

Mianu tore his eyes away from the captured knight. He stepped up to the magical artifact. His eyes blazed in the dark, glowing, shining like emeralds. His magic surged, billowing around his arm. Shadows slid up towards his shoulder. Mianu grimaced, his body tensing in the pain it caused.

Darius instinctively struggled against his bonds again. But there was nothing more he could do.

Mianu raised his hand, palm facing outward. Magic pooled in his palm, forming a near perfect sphere. He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Let all that air out in a slow, quiet sigh.

Then all hell broke loose.

The worst part of it was the sound. The noise alone seemed to pierce right into Darius’ skull. Or maybe into his heart. For at the center of it all—of the howls like beasts, the roar like gale-force winds, the shattering and snapping sounds, the cries of the mercenaries—was one single, haunting scream. Mianu’s scream. It was a broken roar. A feral cry that was more animal than human. The sound of all of his rage and fear and pain bursting out of him.

And his magic exploded out with it. Shadows leaped forward, taking on beastly forms. They attacked the mercenaries without mercy. Despite all their weapons and magic, the mercenaries were clearly unprepared for the onslaught. Some of the magically manifested monsters were struck down. But more appeared to take their place.

Darius lurched forward. His chains bit into his skin. He didn’t care. He shouted out, calling Mianu’s name. Begging for him to stop. He had to stop, no one was meant to wield power like this, it had already cost him, he was just going to hurt himself more…

But Mianu was too far gone. He didn’t hear any of his knight’s cries.

As quickly as it had started, everything ended. The wind died down. The shadows faded, drawn back towards Mianu. The room grew warmer again as the darkness slowly drained away. And everything was silent.

Darius instinctively glanced around, taking in everything that he could. All the mercenaries were on the ground, unmoving. The door that Mianu had burst through was wide open, but no other assailants came through. And now that he could actually turn his head, Darius could see the artifact that had started all this trouble.

It was just a chest. A relatively small one at that. The only two things that stood out about it at all were the familiar insignia etched into the lock and the small, circular mirror built into the lid. Other than that, it could have been any old trunk.  

All this… for something so simple.

Mianu dropped down to his hands and knees. Magic still snared around his bad arm, the shadows pulsing with his heartbeat. He was breathing heavily. He looked far too pale.

Darius tried to fight against his chains again. He didn’t notice how badly he was trembling.

“Mianu!” he called. “Mianu, talk to me, you have to be alright…”

Mianu didn’t respond. He took several more shaky breaths. Then he forced himself to is feet. He swayed, barely able to keep his balance, his opposite hand instinctively clutching at his cursed arm.

“Mianu…”

Darius’ call seemed to bring Mianu back to reality. If only for a moment. He stumbled over to Darius, almost falling to his knees.

“Gods… I’m sorry I took so long,” Mianu gasped out. He immediately grabbed at the chains around Darius’ wrist. Another burst of magic, and the chains turned to dust. “How long have you been bleeding like that?”

“I’m fine,” said Darius. He didn’t know the answer to Mianu’s question anyway, and that would just worry the prince more. “But Mianu, you—”

“Don’t worry about me right now,” Mianu snapped. He grabbed the chains at Darius’ ankles. Those, too, were reduced to dust. “We need to get you some help. Maybe I can…”

Before Darius could say another word, Mianu stumbled to his feet again. He was gone for only a moment before he returned with some torn fabric. Probably from the clothing of one of the mercenaries.

Darius glanced at a fallen form. “Are they… did you…?”

“I don’t know,” said Mianu, already roughly bandaging the wound on Darius’ side. “But I don’t want to stick around to find out.”

As soon as the fabric was tied around Darius’ waist, Mianu stood up again. He hauled Darius up with him. They both stumbled. Darius managed to catch himself first. He grabbed Mianu. The two of them practically fell into each other’s arms. Darius held Mianu tight. His heart was pounding so quickly and violently that he was sure Mianu could feel it. But neither of them seemed to care.

They stayed like that for a moment. Just long enough for a few breaths. Then Mianu pushed Darius away… though he kept a firm grip on his knight’s hand.

“Come on,” said Mianu. “We need to get out of here.”

Darius didn’t argue.

Neither of them were up for much running. Mianu stumbled again and again. Darius pressed his free hand to the wound at his side. But they managed to escape the mercenary stronghold. And they kept moving. They had no idea where they were going. Half the time, they didn’t have it in them to look for any kind of shelter.

But Darius was sure they would find something. They were together. Despite all the odds. Despite all of his own failures.

They would get through anything. They’d done it before.

He just had to hope that Mianu would recover… in more ways than one.

_________

@whumperofworlds I believe you wanted to be tagged in this? And @tildeathiwillwrite you might be interested in this as well (I will absolutely take your tag off if you want me to)

[sillygoose1777]

Chapter 1: Disobedience sparks pity

word count: 4114

Tags: Servant whumpee, caretaker, humiliation whump, royal whump, royal caretaker, whump, tw whipping, tw slavery, whipped whumpee, non con stripping, whumpee taken in by royalty, crossdressing whumpee, og ocs, og world, og story, whumpee, whumper, noble whumper, whumpee perceived as female, possessive whumper, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past torture, tw stoning, past injuries mentioned, non con nudity, stern caretaker, multple care takers, multiple whumpers, forceful caretaking, fear of eye contact, defiant whumpee, whumpee that doesn’t talk a lot, curious caretaker, stranger whumpee and caretaker, mentions of non con activity, mentions of forced non con, manhandling, healing arc

Sonnet flinched as his master’s whip flew past his head, barely missing his ear. The next time his master didn’t miss, connecting with his shoulder and splitting his skin open. He cried out, having already lost count at what number lashing that was. Two more followed after before his master finally started wrapping the whip around his arm. 

Sweat dripped into Sonnets eyes despite the wind being cool this morning. The sun had only begun to rise a couple of minutes ago, shining light onto the small crowd that had gathered. Humiliation burned in Sonnet’s cheeks, and he leaned against the wooden pole he was tied too. He was sitting on his knees with his wrists tied behind him, making his shoulders strain. His torn up servant dress was in taters before him, though his skirt safely covered everything below the waist. Despite everything, he somehow had enough dignity, or stupidity depending on who you asked, to glare at his master. Mr.Winslow caught his eye and fumed. He advanced on Sonnet, grabbing his jaw and forcing him upwards. His shoulders screamed, if not for his voice. 

“You stupid boy, show some shame for your crime!” His master screamed in his face.

“Make me,” Sonnet spat.

That comment made Mr.Winslow livid, and he kicked Sonnet in the ribs. Sonnet struggled to heave in a breath through the pressure in his chest, and he leaned forward like a wilted flower. Clearly not done with his anger, Mr.Winslow took a swing at Sonnet. His fist connected with Sonnet’s cheekbone, cutting skin open. Sonnet saw stars as an insistent ringing began in his ears. He could hear Mr.Winslow speaking but couldn’t make sense of it. 

Once Sonnet was able to blink away the stars, he saw that his master was speaking to the slightly larger crowd. Sonnet could just make out Mr Winslow barking out an order for ‘no one to touch his stupid slave’. Then Mr.Winslow walked away to drag his pitiful wife home. Mrs.Winslow looked over her shoulder at Sonnet and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’. She had always liked Sonnet, and was usually very kind to him. But no matter how much she tried, she could never get Sonnet out of Mr.Winslow’s punishments. 

The ringing in his ears slowly dimmed to nothing but the voices of the crowd. Some were still watching, others had grown bored and walked away. Sonnet avoided eye contact with all of them. The last thing he needed was to realize just how much he had humiliated himself. He was likely going to sit there till sunset where Mr.Winslow would hand him right over to a merchant to resell him. 

Sonnect closed his eyes and started collecting his thoughts. If Mr.Winslow really was going to sell him, there was no way he would be seeing any of his stuff again. Even if they did let him keep his stuff, it would likely be taken from him by the next family he was bought by. And on the off chance Mrs.Winslow could convince her husband not to get rid of him, he would be dumped in the furnace room to work till exhaustion. He didn’t know which one he wanted less. 

…

Sonnet looked up at the sky and deduced it was a little past noon. The sun burned into his skin, making it turn bright red and soaked with sweat. He was still shirtless from this morning's whipping, and would likely be for a while unless a townsperson decided to cover him with something. That's how it worked in the kingdom of Montrose. If servants were disobedient to their masters, their master had the choice of how they would like to deal with it. Public humiliation was a popular pick, beating lessons into most servants the first time. If the public felt bad enough, they could give the punished water and feed them, could even give them clothes in Sonnet’s case. But most would not, either convinced the victim deserved it or too scared of the public eye would shame them for helping the weak. 

So Sonnet let the sun roast his skin and parch his tongue. The blood that once poured from his wounds dried on his skin. The market had long been set up and became a bustling place for passersbys. Everyone would give him a wide berth, not daring to get their polished shoes near what they considered filth. Sonnet liked it that way, it meant no one would further harm him. 

That was until a group of boys started making a beeline for him. Sonnet noticed the stones in their hands and felt a sense of dread. Before they had even made it within the circle everyone else avoided, they were throwing the stones and shouting obscenities at him. Bruises would definitely bloom later, joining the list of injuries Sonnet would have to tend to. In the distance, Sonnet thought he could hear a trumpet being played over the boys shouting. 

Sonnet continued to shrink away from the boys until he heard the sound of horse hooves clattering on the sidewalk. The king was back from his trip from a nearby country, and he was coming down this very street. The boys who were once throwing stones realized this as well and froze. The horses were thundering down the street fast with the crowd already parted away. One of the boys tried to dart away, either from fear of being caught or the fear of being trampled. It clearly couldn't be the second as the boy ran straight in front of the horse's path. 

Everyone including Sonnet gasped in horror as the knights reared the horses, towering over the boy. A few members of the crowd screamed as the horses came down, knocking the boy to the ground. As soon as the hooves touched the ground, the knights were climbing off their horses and dragging the boy up. Yelling and threatening him, the crowd divided into chaos. In the corner of his eye, Sonnet saw the door of the carriage fling open. He held his breath as he watched the king himself leave the safety of the carriage. 

“SILENCE!” The king's voice boomed over the crowd. 

Sonnet watched in awe as everyone within the next few miles stilled. The king glared around, clearly already in an awful mood only to be dealing with unruly people. The king walked over to the boy, his friends having abandoned him. One of the knights neared the king with hesitancy. 

“Your highness, it's not safe out here–” The king raised his hand to silence the knight. 

“What happened here?” he asked calmly. 

“I-I didn’t hear the trumpets and tried getting out of the way,” the boy said, cowering under the gaze of the king. The king huffed, then noticed something. 

“What are you holding?”

The knight holding the boy let go assuming the king was talking to him. The boy also raised his hands for the king to see. There were two small stones in his hands, waiting to be thrown at Sonnet. 

“Why do you have stones?”

“I uh um, I like collecting s-stones?” The kid stammered. The king eyed him as the boy's friends sniggered in the crowd. 

Feeling someone staring at him, the king turned around. Sonnet immediately averted his gaze and looked at the king's shoes. He instantly became aware of his shame and his cheeks started to go red like his sunburns. He looked down at his bloodied, sun burned, and sweat stained skin and wished he could have been swallowed up by the earth at that moment. Having been deep in his thoughts of humiliation, Sonnet hadn’t noticed that the king was standing in front of him. Sonnet looked up at the king before realizing his mistake and averting his gaze again. 

The king took in the sight before him. A bloodied and beaten servant was stripped nearly bare and tied down on display. He noticed the rocks surrounding the servant and connected the dots together. The king turned to his knights to address them. 

“Bring me some water for this servant to drink. And arrest that boy for stoning a citizen of Montrose.” 

Two knights grabbed the boy and dragged him off in anger as his friends watched in shock. A third knight presented a water bottle to the king which he took. The king then knelt down and cupped Sonnet’s cheek.

“Untie him,” the king ordered his knight. He then turned to Sonnet and began helping him drink water. The cold water rushed down his parched throat, cooling his flaming insides. The king paused the water stream when Sonnet sagged forward once he was released from the ropes tying him down. The king offered the water bottle to Sonnet and he took it, finishing it in a few messy gulps. He wiped away the few drops that escaped his mouth and flinched when the king draped him in something. He realized it was the king's cloak and he stared in astonishment. 

The king was too busy speaking to his knights. Sonnet closed the king's cloak further in to cover up as much of his bloodied chest as possible. In the next moment, arms pulled him up from his armpits and he yelped. He held the skirts at his waist, making sure they wouldn’t fall down as he wobbled on unsteady legs. He was dragged by the knight up and into the king's carriage, before being sat across from the king. The door shut behind the knight, leaving only the king and Sonnet staring at each other. 

He avoided making eye contact with the king, it was what he was taught since he was a kid. They sat in awkward silence as the carriage lurched forward and began to move. Sonnet grabbed onto the railing, startled by the movement. The king chuckled quietly and Sonnet blushed. This was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and he almost wished he was left at the whipping post. 

“Why were you tied there?” the king asked. Sonnet pulled the cloak further in on himself to hide the marks. Sonnet tried formulating the words, to try and sum up all the variables that played into today’s punishment. 

“Because I wasn’t a woman,” Sonnet finally said. He could tell that the king was confused but didn’t know if continuing to explain would be over stepping. So he stayed silent, like he always did. 

In actuality it was more than him not being a woman. Mr.Winslow always resented Sonnet, and often looked for any reason to punish him. But it came to a head this morning when Sonnet wore his servants dress like he always did. He helped Mrs. Winslow with her morning bath like he always did. Mrs. Winslow and a few other staff were the only ones who knew Sonnet was really a man. Though they didn’t seem to mind, if anything they seemed to find it attractive which only increased Sonnet’s discomfort as their servant. Apparently, Mr.Winslow was never informed of Sonnet’s identity and had always assumed that Sonnet was a woman. He was also known for having romantic flings with women other than his wife. So when Mr.Winslow made his advancement and Sonnet turned him down, he tried to force himself onto Sonnet, thus learning that he was in fact not a woman. He never actually told the king that, because he never asked. But it was sad for him to think about. 

The king never filled that silence. He stared at Sonnet for the majority of the ride to the castle, no longer amused whenever Sonnet would startle from a bump in the road. Sonnet gripped the railing of the carriage tight, to stop him from falling onto the king's feet. There was no need to further prove his humiliation. 

Sonnet could tell when they had reached the castle gates when the carriage became enveloped in voices. Soon they were rolling through the gates and stopped before one of the side entries into the castle. The doors of the carriage opened and the knight waiting there helped the king down. Sonnet hesitated and before he could make the decision to leave or stay, the same knight that helped the king before now yanked him out of the carriage. He stumbled and was barely able to catch his balance before he hit the floor. An iron glove gripped Sonnet’s arm and held him close, making sure he wouldn’t escape. The king was too busy talking to some of his royal staff to notice the mistreatment of his new possession. But the man who was currently talking to the king did. 

“--I'm sorry to hear about the failed- who is that?” the man across from the king asked. The king turned around and seemed to remember that Sonnet existed. 

“Oh, him.” The king snapped and a servant scurried over. “Go tell Sister Florence to run a bath for this servant. I want him properly dressed and seen by a physician afterwards.” As the servant walked away, the king motioned to the knight holding Sonnet to follow. 

The grip on Sonnet’s arm tightened where he swore it would leave bruises, and he was dragged off into the castle. The servant they were following split off in a different direction than the knight was taking him, presumably to grab whoever Sister Florence was. There were several times where Sonnet nearly fell from the pace at which they were walking. And everytime the guard would scoff and yank him onward. By the time they had reached a spacious and lavishly designed bathroom, the knight was more than happy to let go of them. 

Sonnet stood alone in the entrance of the bathroom, too scared to step further in or to leave. So instead he looked upwards as he pulled the cloak closer together. There was an intricate chandelier above him, twinkling glass charms dangling from lit candles. It was a luxury Sonnet never personally experienced, never allowed to be in fancy bathrooms unless he was with Mrs Winslow. 

There was a knock on the door and Sonnet startled. He stared as a woman dressed in all black entered, followed by a handmaiden. The woman in black gave him a sweet smile and extended her hand to him. 

“My name’s Sister Florence, I was sent to make sure you were properly taken care of.” 

Sonnet neither spoke nor took her hand to shake it, leaving the room to rest in awkward silence. Sister Florence let her hand fall to her side after a few moments of no movement. 

“Well, I’ll go draw that bath for you,” she said, walking past Sonnet and further into the bathroom. The handmaiden scurried after her, barely giving him a second glance. He started to wonder if it was too late to leave now. 

Sonnet could hear water running from where he was left standing. In a few minutes he watched the mirrors in the distance start to fog up from steam. The air became filled with scented oils, rich with lavender and lemongrass. Scents he only knew the names of because of the amount of times he had run them for Ms. Winslow. 

“Come on dear,” Sister Florence called. 

Reluctantly, Sonnet stepped further into the bathroom. Sister Florence had her hand in the water to test the temperature while the handmaiden was bringing soap bottles to the edge of the bathtub. Noticing him, Sister Florence flicked the water droplets from her hand and came closer. 

“Put your hands on my shoulder.”

Sonnet didn’t listen and watched as she knelt onto the floor. She pulled his foot out from under him and he stumbled, inevitably grabbing her shoulders. She carefully took off his shoes and chucked them to the side. Sonnet took his hands off of her as she stood up. She grabbed the cloak and pulled it off of him. The handmaiden behind him gasped and covered her mouth. Sonnet flushed, feeling exposed, both literally and metaphorically. 

“Ameila! Watch yourself,” Sister Florence scolded.

“Sorry sister,” Amelia replied. 

Sister Florence turned back to Sonnet and took his hand in hers. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Now, let's get the rest of these clothes off of you.” 

He was thankful when Sister Florence let go of his hand. He was not so thankful when they began to take off the rest of his clothes till he had nothing left to wear. All of his clothes were tossed haphazardly onto a pile. Sonnet unclipped his dagger sheath he had attached to his thigh for Sister Florence and handed it to him carefully. She took it and looked at it curiously before setting it carefully on the bathroom counter. He was then guided into the bath, more or less against his will. Despite his reluctance, the water was quite warm and soothing. The soapy water stung against his open wounds, making them alight with fire. 

He audibly winced when Sister Florence dumped water over his back. She and the handmaiden Ameila took great care in washing him. He hated the hands that were on him, invading his skin. They lathered soap into his skin then rinsed it off before repeating it over again. By the fourth time he was rinsed, his skin felt as if it was rubbed raw. 

Sister Florence then had Sonnet sit as close to the edge of the tub as possible and tilted his head back. As he looked up at the ceiling she scrubbed shampoo into his hair. He almost relaxed into her touch, the feeling somewhat soothing. She titled his head up again and blocked his eyes while dumping water over his head. She repeated this process again before doing it one more time with conditioner. With his head thoroughly washed and the bath water having turned murky gray, they finally let him out of the bath. 

He was wrapped in one of the softest bath towels he’d ever known. Sister Florence sent the handmaiden Amila to grab his clothes while she gently rubbed him dry. Amila came back with clothes in hand. Sister Florence went to take off his towel when he stepped back.

“I can dress myself,” the first words he said to her. Sister Florence seems surprised that he spoke but respected his wish. She and the handmaiden Amila turned around while he carefully dressed. Sonnet quietly grabbed his dagger off the counter and strapped it back to his thigh. He adorned undergarments, a silk button up shirt, and wide length shorts. He was slightly disappointed he wasn’t allowed to wear a dress, but he made no fuss about it. Sister Florence and Amila turned around while he was pulling up the socks they had given him. Sister Florence had him sit down while she began to work on his hair and Amila helped him put on shoes. 

After about twenty minutes, his hair was brushed out and trimmed slightly to shoulder length. Sonnet protested against any length shorter than that. Sister Florence helped Sonnet stand up and they led him out of the bathroom. Stepping into fresh air that wasn’t filled with scented oils felt intoxicating. He followed quietly as they brought him to a bedroom. It looked like a noble’s personal suite, much too big for a servant to stay. 

“A physician will be with you shortly,” Sister Florence told him before leaving him alone in the room. 

Sonnet didn’t know what to do with his new found aloneness. He looked around the room without moving, letting himself admire the room. He could tell this was a guest bedroom with how unlived in it looked. He wondered when the last time someone had touched this room besides servants cleaning it. Would he be the first to grace this room with a living breath? A very exhausted, yet living breath. 

The door opened and Sonnet snapped his head to look at the person who entered. It was a man in a doctor's coat, holding a briefcase in one hand and the doors handle in the other. He smiled at Sonnet and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. 

“I’m Dr. Clarke, and you are?” the physician asked. 

“Sonnet.” 

“That’s a lovely name.” Sonnet didn’t respond. “If I could have you sit on the bed, we can get started,” Dr. Clarke said as he gestured to the bed. 

Sonnet followed his gaze and sat on the very edge of the bed. Dr. Clarke followed, setting his briefcase near Sonnet. He opened it up and pulled out a few tools. He started by checking Sonnets eyes, ears, and mouth. Once the normal routines were done, Dr. Clarke put away his tools and put on a set of gloves. 

“If I could have you take off your shirt for me.”

Sonnet did as he was told, and held the folded shirt in his lap. Dr. Clarke began his work with each wound. Pouring antiseptics into the open ones, burning out any possible infection. Gently covering them in ointment before wrapping them in cloth. He would gently press against any bruises Sonnet had to test whether they needed attention or not. He had Sonnet turn around so that he could do the same thing over again for all the wounds on his back. Those ones hurt the most and Sonnet had to bite his tongue multiple times to stop himself from crying. Sonnet was allowed to turn back around when the physician was done. He buttoned his shirt back up while Dr. Clarke changed his gloves.

“Now I’ll have you take off your pants,” Dr. Clarke stated. 

Sonnet hesitated under the physician's gaze, but eventually took them off. There were fewer wounds for Dr. Clarke to focus his attention on, making it a lot quicker then when he worked on his torso. As soon as Dr. Clarke was done, Sonnet pulled his shorts back on, wanting to be left alone. Dr. Clarke packed up his briefcase, then handed a bottle to Sonnet. 

“Drink a cap-full of this tonic with every meal till your bruises are gone.” 

Sonnet held the bottle in his hands as the physician left. He leaned against the bed and exhaustion finally settled onto his shoulders. He looked out the window of the guest room and saw that the sun had well past setting. Stars were already creeping up the skyline. Just when Sonnet thought he had actually been left alone for the night, there was a knock on his door. A servant walked in with a tray of food. They set it down on a side table next to some bookshelves before addressing Sonnet. 

“I was told to inform you that you will be spending the night here. Silas will be coming to get you in the morning for your audience with the king.” 

They then gave a small head bow before leaving the room. Sonnet looked at the bottle in his hand before sighing and walking over to the tray of food. A small voice in his head warned him of the food being poisoned, but at this point he really didn’t care. So what if the king had him treated this nicely just to poison him in the end, it was better than the Winslows ever had. Sonnet sat at the small table and ate slowly, watching the castle's life dwindle by the night. By the end of the meal, he felt even more exhausted and in pain. He poured out a cap-full of the tonic before shooting it like whiskey. 

It tasted bitter in his mouth and he washed it down with a glass of water. With a full stomach and a tired mind, Sonnet blew out the candles in the room and crawled into bed. The mattress was softer than any cot he had been allowed to sleep on. Despite his history with insomnia, the soft blankets and the comfort of safety in sitting in his stomach lulled him down enough to actually fall into soundless sleep. 

[roblingoblin285]

Day 116: "You're making a mess" (Out of Their Element)

kitty burger, i know you're reading. just know you are the only reason i managed to finish this piece. (no, i did not proofread it, good luck)

“Rob? You look freezing, kiddo. What happened?”

“I hope you fucking freeze out there. Jesus, if I’d known how much trouble you’d be I would’ve left you out there in the first place.”

“Come inside, okay? You’re making a mess of your clothes with all that mud.”

“You’re making a fucking mess. Look at this floor, does this look clean to you? Does it?”

“Is that blood? Please look at me, Rob. Where are you hurt?”

“There’s blood all over the place. Hey, look at me, brat-”

Rob gasped, stumbling backward and tripping over the edge of the carpet. He went down hard and couldn’t help but cry out as the fall tore at his already-aggravated wounds, eyes watering. He could just make out Sage standing in front of him and talking, face full of concern, but he couldn’t hear the words over the sound of blood roaring in his ears.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched violently, banging his head on the wall behind him. Pain rippled through the back of his skull and he whined, falling back to the floor in a heap.

“It’s alright! I’m sorry, kid, I really am. It’s just me.”

Rob blinked the tears from his eyes, realizing the hand was Sage’s. They were kneeling in front of him now, arms outstretched in a show of peace.

“Everything’s okay, sunshine,” they said quietly, “Just-”

Sage was nearly knocked into the opposite wall as Rob launched himself at them, curling his hands into their robe and sobbing into their chest. Sage recovered themselves quickly, wrapping their arms around the boy.

“There you go, kiddo. Easy now.” Sage scratched the nape of Rob’s neck, twirling his curly hair around their fingers soothingly. “Breathe for me, okay? Just one deep breath.”

Rob’s chest stuttered as he fought to obey, barely managing it before dissolving into tears once more. “I-I’m sorry,” he cried out, unsure what he was even apologizing for. “Please, s-sir-”

“None of that,” Sage said quickly, running their nails across his scalp. “Nothing to apologize for, sunshine. Just take it easy.”

Thank you for reading! Asks are always welcome about anything, and I appreciate your support! If you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist, please submit an ask or leave a reply. 365 writing challenge taglist: @stabby-nunchucks @whumpdreamz Fall From Grace + adjacent taglist: @thekittyburger

[whumpwillow]

A royal's bodyguard (who is also their best friend/lover/crush) gets hurt while protecting them and the royal feels really guilty...

Had a dream just like this once. Was very tender 🥰

[onlyinmyshadow]

portraits

@whumpwillow​​​​ @inkkswhumpandstuff​​​​, @befuddled-calico-whump​​​​ @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump​, @nicolepascaline​​​​, @kurochan​​​​ @and-then-there-was-whump​​​​, @wolfeyedwitch​​​​, @whump-and-other-things​​​​ @whumpd-up-kicks​​​​, @equestrianwritingsstuff​​​​, @professional-idiocy​, @sacredwrath​​​​ @kixngiggles​​​​, @cyberneticwhump​ 

So, as it turns out, I am not dead :D just been really busy.

Here, Have Cassandra and Kyem (Made in artbreeder)

[atangledfate]

Truthfully she'd keep Poppy away from as much royal affairs as she could. But as her consort there were many things she would be responsible for as well. Especially the Balls and Banquets were unavoidable, and there was much she would have to learn. But she was confident she'd handle it with dignity and grace. Her smile only brightened at Poppys affirmation to protect her. She could handle that herself but it was that willingness to do so that made her smile all the same.

" Yes well, i am sure we can discuss such affairs in the future. None of that will be prudent anytime soon. It will be some time before we are ready to make the announcement. I'd like to give you and Lilly time to adjust... Sol is a very different world i am sure "

She gave Poppys hands another gentle squeeze before releasing them finally.

" As for protecting me... Thank you... but let us hope trouble of that nature never comes to our doors. "

She sighed her ears folding to the side as she wished to tell Poppy more of her mother. There strained relationship, and explain why she had to leave so quickly. It was not however a story for now, not with Lilliana listening over her shoulder not to far away. She'd talk to her about it soon though.

" Do not worry about mother... I know she means well. As I said there is much we must talk about later. For now though, i think it is best if you and Lilly return to the Palace with Gardon. "

She smiled at Poppy looking to the silver dust and back again.

" The effect is unimportant, but it served its purpose and was more cautionary then anything else. "

Blaze pulled her robe close about her and looked more tired then ever as she was feeling the effects of the Ceremony now. It was clear to her she needed to sleep, recharge herself and address Lilliana more directly as she was sure the Sheep was fuming right now. She wasn't a bad woman far from it but this was clearly not the way it was meant to go at all. Poppy staying was one thing, but becoming her bride? Lilliana would have some choice words she was sure.

" I must retire for a time, the Ceremony has drained my energy ... its quite taxing. However, would you and Lilly care to join me for dinner tonight? Is much i am sure you wish to speak with me on. Much i must speak with you about as well. "

She turned to Lilliana who was waiting most patiently, though it was hard to read her emotions at the moment.

" Lilliana, i will speak with you as well before i depart. Gardon will you please escort Poppy and Lilly back to the Palace grounds. "

She did kneel down to Lilly and placed her hand on the small ones cheek with a bright smile.

" I promise, no scary soldiers... but would it be ok if i hire you a Nanny? I'll even get your mom to help me pick one, so i'm extra sure you'll get along with them. How about that? "

Gardon had many duties and as much as the old Koala would likely love to spend his days with Lilly. Blaze knew that he had a palace to run so, they would need to hire a proper nanny. For now at least, Gardon was the only choice she had---or perhaps she could ask Amy to do it. She did love children.

The Koala Offered a warm smile to blaze and Poppy he motioned for the to follow him.

" If you would ladies... let us leave the Princess to her duties, and i will see you back to the Palace. I suppose i should refer to you as highness now Ma'dam Poppy, though i suspect that would not sit well with you "

he laughed as he pat Lilly on her head like a loving grandpa

" and perhaps princess Lilly--- it does have a distinct ring doesn't it "

He jested with the two ladies as he lead them back down the long path to the palace. Blaze's eyes never left poppys as she left either. Her smile was so warm and full of life, she almost looked sad to see Poppy go. Yet she turned to face Lilliana--- her duties yet awaited.

Poppy was a bit thrown back when Blaze took her hand, making her blush rather deeply hearing her words. "Aw, geez, ya really know how to make a gal feel special." The opossum was certainly easy to fluster at times despite how calm she is most of the time, even with heavier subjects.

"If ya mean all the royal business then I'm sure I can handle it. I mean, I know I ain't too smart, though I should be good following your lead on things." Poppy may have never been this close to a royal, though they were extremely common in Flora so had heard plenty of stories about what dating one is like Mainly from her sister who joined the royal guard in the Feline Country.

"And if anyone wants to try and mess with me, I'll just punch their lights out." Poppy was no slouch in the strength department so doubt any wannabe trying to pick a fight with her to get to Blaze wasn't going to work out very well for them. Helps magic doesn't work on her.

"Still didn't like the way she talked to ya, though I guess you know her better than me." Poppy wasn't going to push the subject if Blaze seemed fine, and she knew it was just her short temper getting the better of her a little bit. "Hoped my anti-magic didn't cause any problems. Zero idea what that silver dust stuff did, though if it helps then it helps." The opossum might want to check up on it later.

"Sounds good to me, just as long as we get someone to look after Lily." Poppy was fine going back just to get her stuff, though would rather have Lily stay here where she knew it was safe. The opossum knew just how easy it was to run into someone who could hurt any opossum at the drop of a hat just to be a jerk. She was also just completely ignoring the fact everyone was staring at her now.

"If it's okay with Mr. Gardon I'd be fine with him watching me. The guards are kinda scary looking." Lily was fine with them when she was with her mom, though not so much when she seems them passing by and she's by herself. "Maybe we can play tag again."

[raayllum]

I'm always here for you. I want to help. We're safest together.

[whump-in-the-closet]

CONGRATS ON YOUR FOLLOWERS!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉 for your scene prompt idea: a royal whumpee with a migraine, perhaps? context up to you :>

- @seth-whumps :D

Thanks dude!! It feels so surreal

anyway...

cw: royal whump, forced caretaking, migraine, noncon drugging because its "for their own good"

The young king’s room was cool and dark. A faint puff of wind made the chiffon curtain billow out like a sail, and then fall softly back to its natural position. Faint starlight shone on the white marble sill, and it glowed ever so softly, also glimmering in the pale blue eyes of the king who stood staring dully at the night sky.

The king's ears were still ringing from the heated arguments in the Council room. The fighting was tearing apart his leaders and he wanted nothing more than to put his head down on the cool marble and cry-- he was past caring about keeping himself together. Done.

He ached as if the entire universe was resting on his shoulders.

And in a way, it was.

A few days ago his most pressing concern had been whether or not the pretty lord with the dark eyes was single. Now it was whether or not he could keep his country from falling into his enemies' hands.

I can’t do this.

I can’t.

And he put his head down on his arm and sobbed.

No father to plan with him and advise him. No mother to comfort him and listen to him pour out his worries.

Alone.

Completely alone.

There was an urgent knock on the door, and someone���s voice called out, asking if he was alright. But he had no strength to stem the flow of tears or to even move from the window. Behind him, the door opened, a shaft of warm light falling across his back.

“M'lord!” 

One part of him ordered him to sit up and greet the intruding lord with the facade of calm that he had spent years perfecting, but the other part was stronger, and so the king didn’t even look up when the young man repeated his name in a shocked whisper. 

“Are you alright? Do I need to send for a healer?” 

This shook him. He had no wish to appear weak. “No,” he choked out, pressing his forehead harder against the cool, tear-splashed marble. “I’m fine.”

“You’re very obviously not fine,” the lord replied, rushing across the room to stand beside the young king. “I’m calling them anyway.”

The king didn't look up. His head throbbed, and even the lord's voice felt like a needle probing into the soft, malleable batter of brain tissue.

“No,” he insisted, the ringing in his ears growing louder. “I’m-- I’m fine.” 

“But…”

“Don’t!” he shouted, whipping around to confront his friend. But instantly his anger vanished, replaced with a searing pain through his head, and his vision went fuzzy, then black as he crumpled.

The lord lunged forward, barely catching him in time. He picked up the limp form of the king with a protective concern. “Someone get me a healer!”

Panic shot through the lord as he realized how effortlessly he had lifted the king's body. He was far too thin and deathly pale.

He carefully lay the king, still with boyish features, on the couch and his eyes fluttered open.

The king tried to sit up but the lord shook his head and placed a hand on his chest, forcing him to lie still.

“Don’t try to sit up yet,” he said, his voice laced with worry. 

The king didn't have the strength to argue, pressing his hands to his temples, where the ringing continued to persist. 

“What… what happened?” 

Before the lord could respond, a healer entered the room. 

This woke the young man up. He bolted upright, ignoring the pain in his head and managing to shoot a glare at the lord. “I said I was fine!” he snapped, instantly wincing as his headache punished him for the sharp movement.

The lord looked worriedly at him but did not answer, instead turning to the healer. “He lost consciousness. He’s also burning up and when I picked him up it was like picking up...picking up a child.”

The king wished he could come up with a come-back to the dark-eyed lord's accusations, but the ringing in his ears made it nearly impossible. All he could manage was an incoherent groan.

The healer was immediately by his side. 

“Your majesty, do I have permission to help you?” 

Like with the lord, the worry was evident in their voice. Blond strands of hair floated down their neck and covered their healer's tattoo at their collarbone.

The king shot another glare at his friend, who remained unfazed. He hesitated but finally nodded, swallowing down the bitter taste of failure. 

“No one is to hear of this, am I clear?” he got out through clenched teeth as the healer pressed their hand to his forehead.

For a moment, their touch was freezing against his skin. The look of worry did not fade. “You need to rest. A proper rest, not a few minutes when you fall asleep during meetings.” 

“I don’t fall asleep in meetings," he lied.

"Sure you don't," muttered the lord.

"I don't!" Another round of electric pain sent him into throbbing agony. He doubled up on the couch. 

The healer sighed. They did not have the patience for the king's stubborn pride. They handed him a small vial, filled with a glittering liquid. “Please drink this. It will help.” 

He eyed it doubtfully. “What’s it for?” 

The healer's eyes flickered with hesitation. “Pain reliever” 

The king pushed himself into a sitting position, “It's not a sedative?"

"...No."

The lord and the healer exchanged a glance.

It was a sedative. Both knew the king would refuse to take a sedative, so the healer lied and the lord kept his mouth shut.

The king looked up at the lord with a pleading expression. "You wouldn't lie to me?"

The lord felt a pang of guilt. He crouched down and wrapped a hand around the king's. His hands were trembling. The lord forced himself to hold the king's gaze as he lied. "It's not a sedative, m'lord."

This seemed to assure the young man. He took the small cup, chugging it down as fast as possible.

The king's hand fell out of the lord's as almost instantly, darkness stitched its way along the inside of his eyelids. In between shallow gasps, he panicked. "You--"

"Shh," whispered the lord. "I'm sorry." He stroked a stray strand of hair out of the king's face and noticed how just within a few months, worry lines had formed on his forehead. "Rest, m'lord. You need it."

The king's eyes fluttered closed.

The healer placed a hand on the lord's shoulders. "It's for his own good," they consoled him.

"I'll sit with him until he wakes up," muttered the lord, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was the least he could do.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #17

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: implied domestic abuse

Iris woke up with a throbbing headache. She had been tucked into bed, which she didn’t remember doing.

The morning light filtered through her windows, and it made her head pound.

But in order to close the curtains, she’d have to get up.

Iris groaned and pulled her blanket over her head.

“Oh good,” said a quiet voice. “You’re awake.”

It took her a moment to recognize that it was Kit. “What time is it?” she mumbled. 

“Twelve after ten.”

Alarm ran through her, and she shot up. She winced.

“Take it easy,” said Kit. “It’s your day off.”

“Oh thank god.” Iris fell back against her pillows, vaguely nauseous. Kit stood next to her bed, amused. 

“Did you even go to bed?” she asked. 

“I slept.”

“In your room?”

“You were drunk. I wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” she said, closing her eyes. “Could you go get me some breakfast? With orange juice?”

Iris was aware she was whining, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. She could have asked Kit to magic away her hangover, but she deserved it for drinking so much. Served her right.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Kit left, and Iris lay in her bed, trying to will herself to shower. 

The need to use the bathroom eventually forced her out of bed.

Showering did make her feel better, and the floral soap lifted her mood.

By the time she had finished and gotten dressed, Kit had breakfast waiting for her.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, uncovering the french toast and pouring herself coffee.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good.”

Kit sat on the floor as she ate, and Iris could see a strong dark green coming in at his scalp.

“Your hair isn’t black, is it?”

He seemed startled by the question. “No,” he said simply.

“It’s changing color,” she continued, “You’ve got some green coming in. I take it that’s good?”

A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Mhm.”

Slight disappointment coursed through her.

It seemed that for every day Kit had a conversation with her, he’d be nearly silent the next.

“Let’s get some sun after breakfast,” she suggested. “I’ve been inside all week, and you need to pick out where your garden will be.”

“I get to choose?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Kit shrugged halfheartedly. Getting words out of him would be difficult today; she could tell.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he had said that first evening. Maybe he just needed a topic.

“Have you thought about what you want to do with it?” she asked.

“A little.” Iris waited, taking a sip of her orange juice.

“I… I’d like it to look like home,” he explained, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. “Just a bit.”

“Are you going to plant some wild roses?”

Kit nodded. “If I’m allowed.”

Iris stood from her chair. “You can plant whatever you want, Kit.”

“Even a tree? Ivy? Berry bushes?” he asked, following her out the door.

“I did say whatever you want.” Brennan greeted them with a nod, and they headed down the hall. “I’m not particularly interested in gardening, Kit. I don’t care what you plant; go wild.”

Kit brightened beside her, and Iris hid a smile. He was sweet, and he deserved a place that was his; that he could choose himself.

The late morning air was warm, slightly humid, and she assumed that was good for a plant fae like Kit.

He seemed to soak in the sun, and he truly looked much better than before.

Jeff was weeding a flower bed, wheelbarrow beside him and trowel in hand.

“Good morning, Jeff.”

Jeff looked up, and squinted in the bright sun.

“Morning, your majesty.” His eyes slid over to Kit, who winced. “Morning… you.”

“Hello,” said Kit. 

“I’ve offered Kit a spot on the grounds. Something just for him to look over.”

Jeff didn’t look pleased, but he knew better than to argue with her. “Fine with me,” he said tightly. 

“Great,” Iris gave him a sunny smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

Jeff softened a little before turning back to his work.

They wandered the gardens; Kit looking around for the perfect spot.

“Anything catch your eye yet?”

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s fine,” she reassured him. “I don’t mind. I could use the exercise.”

They rounded a corner, and Kit stopped.

“What is it?”

“I, uh, I like that corner over there.”

Iris followed his gaze. The high garden wall met the castle, and the castle wall curved inwards, creating a small nook. It was empty, save for a tree that created a patch of shade against the sun.

“What do you like about it?” she asked lightly, curious.

Pink tinged Kit’s cheeks. “It’s quiet,” he said. “And out of the way. And, um, it looks nice for a nap,” he added quickly. “And the walls… I don’t have to worry about someone sneaking up on me.”

Iris recalled how James Harbor had boasted about catching Kit with an iron-laced net while he slept.

“Then it’s yours.”

___________________

Three days later, and Kit dozed under the oak. It was the perfect temperature; warm but not hot, and he curled into the protective roots of the tree.

A robin sang sweetly in the branches, and Kit hummed along.

Iris was busy in a meeting, and he had wanted a nap to pass the time.

He was right about how peaceful it was.

It seemed like this spot had been forgotten about, and he liked it that way. The perfect little oasis; where he could be left alone.

“Mr. Kit?”

Or not.

Kit yawned, stretching out. “Hm?”

“I- I need some help.”

Kit’s eyes flew open, and in front of him stood the red-haired maid from before. David.

He had a black eye, and he was holding a rucksack.

Kit sat up. “What happened?”

David sniffed, lip trembling, and Kit noticed his slight sway.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “Come here.”

David sank into the grass, and Kit scooted over to sit next to him.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” said David. “I- I should b-be at home. But I don’t want to go home anymore.”

His breath smelled like alcohol.

“Have you been drinking?”

David nodded, resting his chin on his legs. “I thought it would help,” he said. “It always helps Dad.”

“It doesn’t really work that way.”

David burst into tears.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he sobbed. “My face hurts and he takes all my money and now we don’t have anything for food because he spent it all and he gets mad at me for it and-”

David gasped for air, and Kit pulled him close. David wept into his shirt.

“I-” Kit worked his jaw, trying to sort out what he could and couldn’t say. “Are you hungry?” he settled on. Food never hurt anyone.

David nodded. “Y-yeah. We- we ran out of… I really tried. I really did.” His voice was so small, and anger bubbled in Kit’s chest.

“Let’s go get some lunch, and we’ll figure something out.”

David sniffled. “Okay.”

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @virtualbreadtale @bitchaknso @starfields08000 @honeycollectswhump @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question

[secretwhumplair]

On the road

1,115 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Departure)

Content | Power imbalance, mention of/implied: past captivity, noncon, starvation

Notes | Elgar has time to think many thoughts

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations @neverthelass

Elgar still didn’t know how to ride a horse.

He managed to lead Sparrow outside, following the prince, who had picked a fresh horse. But he had to say something, as terrifying as it was. »Your Highness,« he whispered.

The prince heard him, over all the noise of the soldiers assembled to see their crown off and the talk between the crown and their attendants and the general, and turned around. His face was so open and friendly.

»I don’t… I don’t know how to ride, really.«

The prince nodded and, to Elgar’s quiet and irrational—what had he expected to happen?—horror, immediately turned to the crown, tapping their shoulder.

In the end, the crown made one of their attendants lead Sparrow from her horse, an arrangement the mare (so the crown had said) seemed more than happy to accept. It had been quick and simple, barely holding up the proceedings. They just did it, as if it were a matter of course to accomodate a common, uneducated peasant’s needs.

Elgar was still trying to catch his breath from speaking to an actual royal without being spoken to when they were riding out, the little horse under him walking along with the others contentedly.

His horse, now. He had never in his life owned anything nearly as valuable as an entire horse.

He tried to focus on that thought, as quietly disccomforting as it was, to better avoid the louder discomfort of his body. The night they had fled had been bad, in fact it must have been worse, but he had been too preoccupied with the fear of getting caught or getting lost in the wilderness or being killed for an enemy, or losing the poor wretch after risking everything—however little that was—for them, to pay much attention to his aching body.

Now, everything was different. He was, at least for the moment, safe, he was taken care of and guided and no one would chase him across the border.

And the wretch, on his horse in front of him, had turned into a prince riding beside the Crown of Ochuria.

It hit him how absurd this was, like a fairytale come true—and didn’t the most gruesome things happen in fairytales, too?

But that shouldn’t be his worry. Fairytales weren’t real. The prince didn’t represent eternal safety and happiness. There would be no such thing, certainly not for a common thief like him.

The best he could hope for was a servant’s position. He didn’t know why the thought stung—a secure post under a wealthy master, no less one who liked him, at least for now before he would forget him, should have been a dream.

It wasn’t much of a sting, anyway. Not half as bad as the needling pain lancing through him at every step the horse took.

He didn’t know how far they would have to travel to where they were headed. The crown had taken two days to arrive from wherever they’d come from, but they had been travelling at speed—that much Elgar now believed, having seen the royals interact—and at any rate, that was only the start of their own journey.

Days and days of travel ahead, then.

He swallowed and pinned his eyes to the prince’s back and tried to hold on to his former companion’s palpable gladness. The prince couldn’t speak, of course, but his eyes were darting around with joy, catching onto the birds flitting between the trees of the forest they were traversing, or on the leaves shining bright in the sunlight. He often turned to his sibling, sometimes with a nervous look for reassurance, but more often to point at something or other. He had rarely been outside during their captivity. Even when Master was travelling, he had usually boxed the wretch up with the rest of his copious luggage.

But now, the prince was smiling.

They travelled all day, only taking two brief breaks for them—no, he had to face it, mostly for the prince to recover. He was glad for each of them, but he still breathed a sigh of relief when they made camp for the night.

They ate their rations. Elgar got fed the same as the others, and that, too, was a relief. Two days had not been enough to get used to regular meals—or have faith that they would be.

There were only two tents, though. Small, travelling tents, not a place for a crown to stay, really.

»His Highness would like you to share our tent, but it’s up to you,« the crown told him, always smiling. He didn’t know what to make of their smiles. »My attendants will be keeping watch, so there’ll be more room in theirs.«

Neither was he sure why the prince’s suggestion terrified him so much. He had been sleeping next to the prince—last night, he had slept next to both of them. Maybe it was the fact that the tent was so small—there would be no room to get away from them, even in theory. Maybe it was that they were out in the wilderness, far from any witnesses who might have awoken moral quandaries, aside from the loyal attendants.

Maybe it was the way his body hurt after a whole day of riding, reminding him just how bad it could get. Reminding him he hadn’t even had a chance to heal yet.

It’s up to you. Was it really, though? In truth, the last thing he wanted was to push the prince, his only source of security and food in this country, away. He had seen the way the soldiers looked at him, especially before it became clear what had happened.

Or had the crown, pointing out the advantage of sharing their attendants’ tent instead, meant to nudge him in that direction?

But then, sharing with strangers frightened him more.

All the options were bad.

As he stood amid their little camp, undecided, the prince came up to him and took his hand, like they had taken each other’s hand a thousand times, and gave it a gentle squeeze, once more.

He had to look down on him a little, he realized, and he didn’t know why that made it worse. What if the prince eventually remembered to take offence to being looked down upon by a commoner?

The prince raised his hands and cupped them together. I will protect you.

Or perhaps, You’re safe.

He truly wished he could believe it.

Lying down in the dark, snuggled into plenty of blankets, the tent warming up with the heat of three bodies, might have been cosy in another life.

[will-o-the-wips]

okay inspired by another prompt but-

A prince that acts all high and mighty and well to do and overly confident. Someone - maybe a noble, or maybe a commoner, could be anyone that doesn't live in the palace with him - decides they hate his attitude and wants to take him down a notch or ten, so they kidnap him with full intent to torture him.

They get him somewhere alone, toss him around a bit. The prince's behavior has changed like the flip of a switch. His confidence and regal bearing is gone, replaced with cowering and feeble, half-formed pleas and teary eyes. The kidnapper thinks it's just an act to get them to let him go, and they get even angrier about it, so of course they take their anger out on him.

At some point they do strip him down...only to find the evidence of past abuse. Not anything simple either, nothing that could be caused by accidents. His clothes covered whip marks and scars, old and new. And an intricate pattern of brands spanning his shoulders, which looked to be a piece still be in progress.

The prince's change in behavior makes a bit more sense, but does the kidnapper actually care? Or maybe they feel vindicated, believing they're not the only one who thinks the prince needs a behavior adjustment.

[fatedroses]

Solus’ Hound

[roblingoblin285]

Day 112: Denial (Out of Their Element)

im not sure if the prompt comes through as much as it does in my head. robs in denial due to conditioning

“You don’t have to answer this if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”

No.

“The scars, on your back and arms.”

No, no, no.

“Can you tell me who did that to you?”

Please, no.

Sage grimaced a little as the boy began to shake, pulling his arms closer to himself. “It’s okay if you can’t,” they said, reaching out to rest a hand on Rob’s knee. “I’m sorry if that was too much, kiddo. I only want to help you.”

“I deserved it.”

The words were whispered so quietly that Sage nearly missed them. “Hm?”

“It was my fault,” Rob said, louder. “I deserved it, sir. I disobeyed him.”

Sage winced. “No, sunshine, you didn’t. You couldn’t do anything to deserve that, no matter what he told you.”

Rob shook his head slowly, eyes glazed over with tears. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t follow the rules, and I was punished for it.”

The king’s eyes stung before they could help it. “He was wrong to do that to you, Rob. Nothing you ever could have done would have ever made that right.”

“But I- he didn’t-” The boy shook his head harder, panic swelling in his chest. “It was always my fault, he couldn’t-”

“You’re a child,” Sage said, rubbing Rob’s leg with a careful hand. “He was the adult and should have known better. You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Can you say it back to me?”

Rob’s breath hitched in his chest. “I-I have nothing to be sorry for.”

Thank you for reading! Asks are always welcome about anything, and I appreciate your support! If you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist, please submit an ask or leave a reply. 365 writing challenge taglist: @stabby-nunchucks Fall From Grace + adjacent taglist: @thekittyburger

[paingoes]

Crash Out - CTRL

(Content: (ex) royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, guns, minor character death, rescue, reluctant caretaking, blood, past torture, wound care, panic attack, crying, guilt, comfort)

~~~~~

Antony looked again to the girl stood in front of him, one of her arms propped up against the ancient computer tower. Her other hand hooked two fingers on the collar of her broken heels. She’d come dressed like it was a new job interview. He supposed in some ways it was.

He carded through the folder she’d brought him, recognized Vi’s monogram at the corner of the page. The two of them spoke in a language no one else could. Even without the aid of the cipher-breaker, he could make out some of the fine script off memory alone. Amendments to the passion project. Top secret. Vi wouldn’t even send it over the wire, but she’d sent it with her.

“I’m an excellent shot,” Lorelai had said. And a smooth talker, apparently, if she had wormed her way out of the imperial arms. She’d been proud of that, he could tell as she recounted the story. She described the soldier who’d released her, asked for him to be spared if CTRL so happened across him. The infantry all looked the same to him, but he said he’d do his best.

She wasn’t bad, he thought. He could see why Vi had wanted her. But something about the gesture felt too showy for his tastes.

Look what I bagged, he could hear Vi’s voice in trills down his mind. She was beautiful, there was no question. But more than that, she was cute. Incorruptible and delivered right to their doorstep.

She could be such a roué when she wanted to be.

They were not onboarding, exactly, and she had picked a hell of a time to show up. The timing was no good for him — and it seemed it was no good for her either. 

“I can’t stay all night,” Lorelai had said, as if he’d invited her to.

He liked her, though. He didn’t mind walking the dark tunnels of the base with her, didn’t mind showing her around. 

“Long way from home, then,” Antony said casually. “All on a whim?”

She laughed lightly, the same trill in her voice.

“It might as well have been, the way it happened.” She brushed a hand through her hair. It caught on her broken nail. She unhooked it. 

In the range, he watched the target light up where it was shot. He watched the way she reached to reload — in the wrong place, on the wrong rifle. Muscle memory.

“Military school?” He asked. And she blushed, as if she had caught the same tell but was too late to stop it.

Then - “Are you always this giddy in a warzone?”

“No.” She put the gun down. “I don’t mean to be. You think I’m a tourist, don’t you?”

“No,” Antony answered. “Just that you’re strange.”

She couldn’t argue with that. As they started back towards the center, he held the door open for her. She did something like a curtsy as she passed through. And for the fifth time in twenty minutes, she glanced at her phone. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she saw the display.

“Something wrong?” he asked her.

Lorelai scrolled back up the message log. She bit at her nails, then stopped as her gaze returned to him.

“I told you, I didn’t know they were planetside when I first got here.” She refreshed the messages again. From the colors alone, Antony saw no change on her screen. “I left my friend — and my ship — out by the edge. Now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Oh,” he paused, “You think something might’ve happened.”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip again. “I left the keys with him, I don’t know.”

Antony paused a minute. He was not in the business of charity. For a long while, their footsteps on the concrete floor were the only sound.

“What are the ship coordinates?” He offered, finally. It wouldn’t hurt just to send a scout. She’d done Vi a favor, so he could spare one for her. The fighting hadn’t even started yet.

Lorelai looked up in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t such a smooth talker, the way he’d taken her for. Maybe all those encounters had gone just like this. He felt a kind of chivalry for her, some deeply buried instinct. Maybe she brought that out of everyone.

She listed out the long string of numbers that revealed the ship’s location. She must have memorized it, even before she left.

~

The sky held the first gloom of twilight and so CTRL’s units felt no need to persevere. Even when they could see in the dark, it wasn’t a fun game to play. 

But Milo had liked it once, the way the woods turned evil at night. He’d lived in the center all his life — all his best memories had been in this stretch of land. Maybe that’s why he took it so personally when the soldiers arrived. Even when they were all flushed out, the woods still would not be safe to play in for the kids who lived there now. It wouldn’t be safe for years afterwards, when all the mines were finally dug out and the bodies all excavated.

They’d taken out two imperial units in one day and sustained minimal injuries in return — all stealth. The off-roader ran wild through the undergrowth. They didn’t need to take their chances.

But then another unit was right there — and their coxswain could not help herself.

“Floor it,” she said.

It was so easy when they were all congregated like that. Nobody was even standing watch. All close together, all it took was a single-

Milo covered his ears, covered his eyes. He didn’t enjoy it, not for anything. But he enjoyed it more than the alternative, easily.

Body parts were strewn out into the dirt. Those who survived the first explosion were shot dead right after, too dazed to even crawl away.  Cleo plucked them all off with her revolver in swift and unpretentious shots. Milo scanned around for any signs of life, anyone lying in wait to avenge themselves upon them. There was no movement.

The coxswain stood up through the sunroof, taking in the scenery just the same. The camp was shoddily arranged, probably only pitched a few days before. Maybe even a few hours.

She elbowed him. It was only then that his attention was drawn to the large hole right by the edge of the camp’s clearing. It cut a rough shape into the earth, but it was — unmistakably — a grave that had yet to be filled.

His heart sank. There was no one unaccounted for on their side. It wasn’t one of their own. If it was full, then…

She elbowed him again.

“What?” He threw his hands up. “It falls to me?”

But the others had already unloaded from the vehicle, taking what they could of the discarded imperial weaponry and food stuffs. Milo grumbled, taking unenthusiastic steps towards the grave.

His eyes widened as he caught movement inside.

He gasped in shock, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. They were all there then, none of them eager to see a corpse but all too eager to see what else could possibly be there.

It was not a comforting sight. The figure there was bound and bleeding. Both their hands were tied behind their back. A thick rope was wrapped around their ankles — and another length connected the two restraints. Even with the limited movement, the figure had rearranged themselves into a half-upright position against the wall of earth. A blindfold — once white, now colored with dirt and blood — covered their eyes. Blood dripped in a thin line from their mouth.

“Holy shit,” Milo said.

The figure tensed at the sound, seemed to back further into the wall. Milo was pretty sure they were a boy the longer he looked, but couldn’t really tell. He looked to the coxswain for advice. Cleo stared at him like he was crazy. The others did, too. Why did this fall to him?

“Okay,” Milo said louder, “Hold on a sec. Stay right there.”

As if they had any choice. 

Milo carefully lowered himself down into the grave. It was a tight fit. He was glad the other had tried to rearrange himself. He wouldn’t have had the space to maneuver otherwise. Milo landed on the soft earth, crouching down beside the figure. He took them in.

That couldn’t be right.

When he looked back up at Cleo, he could tell she saw it too.

He untied the blindfold. The prince stared back at him with eyes so full of fear and hatred that he actually startled. 

“Holy shit,” he said again, “Your Highness?”

He visibly cringed at the title. Milo supposed he shouldn’t have used it. He wasn’t prince anymore, and CTRL wasn’t supposed to recognize that authority even if he had been. But it’s not like they were on a first name basis with each other. He didn’t know what else to say.

The prince said nothing. He seemed too occupied with trying to breathe properly inside of the tomb, though his eyes followed each of Milo’s movements with a laser precision. The air did feel thinner in here, stale. The earth was cold and seemed to wick away any life inside of it.

“Hey,” Milo’s hand moved to his knife. “If I untie you, you’ll behave? No hitting?”

He stared at him for so long that Milo began to wonder if he’d been deafened too. Or maybe just dazed, hit in the head too many times. He looked confused. 

Finally, he gave a small, slow nod. Milo removed the knife from his belt and cut away at the binds around his ankles. Without the pressure holding them there, his legs fell into a more natural position, but did not move any further. No kicking. A good sign. He placed one hand on the prince’s shoulder, gently tilting him forward to cut his wrists free from behind his back.

The prince pulled them forward slowly, just as cognizant of the threat as Milo was. Milo saw the absolute state that his hands were in. There were rope burns around the wrists, but that was far from the worst of it. The palms had been worked raw. One had a hole right through the center of it. The wound bled openly onto the soil.

Milo put the knife back into his belt, scooting backwards a bit.

“Can you stand?” He would’ve usually offered a hand, but he was very careful not to touch those right now. He stood up and took his forearms for support instead. The prince stood unsteadily. His limbs were all locked up, like he’d been tied there for a while. Milo caught him before he could stumble all the way. He leaned against the dirt wall to keep upright.

Cleo and one of the gunners helpfully extended their hands down.

“Boost,” Milo said, forming a cage with his fingers. The prince stared at him, untrusting, still unable to speak around his own gasps.

“Boost,” Milo insisted.

They nearly had to carry him out of that pit.

They pulled Milo up next, after joking for a few seconds about just leaving him there, which was not very funny. He clambered up along the dirt. He hadn’t liked those clothes anyway — and the soil was easier to wash away than gore.

He saw that the prince had collapsed onto the ground. He seemed unable to even sit up, leaning back on one elbow for support. It had to be the blood loss.

“He needs bandages,” Milo said, though Cleo had beat him to it. Her hands were cleaner anyway, better for the job.

She knelt down onto the grass beside him, taking the punctured hand in her own. The prince yanked it back abruptly, protectively. He got more blood on his shirt in the process.

“You’re bleeding,” she said impatiently, like it wasn’t obvious. She held up the water bottle. “I’m just gonna patch it up. I’ll be quick.”

She gestured to the torn up, makeshift bandage that now hung in tatters on the prince’s wrist. He did not offer his hand back, but when she reached for it again he did not resist. The torn strip of fabric fell away.

She poured the water over his injured hand, washing away the dirt and blood that had coated every inch of it. Milo watched carefully — it was a nasty cut. He thought he was seeing it wrong, but no. It went all the way through his hand. It had to hurt.

The prince made a small, choked noise as she pressed the gauze to it, confirming his suspicions. His hand was shaking slightly, barely steadied by her grasp. She wound the bandages tightly, stopping the bleeding for the first time in what was surely hours. Was he always that pale? Milo couldn’t remember, couldn’t tell from the pictures he’d seen.

Cleo handed the water bottle to Milo, which he took thankfully. He moved over a bit. Before he could pour it out, the gunner stopped him. She grinned mischievously.

“You’ve got royal blood on your hands.” She pressed her hand to his own, smearing some of it onto her fingertips. “That was one of my bucket list items.”

It’d been one of his, too. This was not how he had pictured it.

They loaded back into the off-roader. Cleo took the prince’s arm again, helping him to stand even though he fought against it. She shrugged, letting him walk the remaining few steps to the vehicle without help. Even though he was clearly about to keel over.

By then, the sky was fading from twilight and into the true dark. Milo was glad to get out of there. Something about that camp felt haunted. Probably something to do with all the dead bodies.

He slid into the backseat beside the prince, who immediately backed up into the furthest side of the vehicle, one leg drawn up protectively in front of his chest.

Milo said, “You’re quiet.”

He’d been told the opposite was true. But the prince just stared at him wide-eyed, his expression heavy with doubt and accusation. Milo noticed he hadn’t really closed his mouth once since he’d found him. His chest was heaving rapidly beneath the bloodied shirt. Panic attack, maybe. 

“Drink,” Milo said, removing his canteen from his bag and offering it to him. Dehydration was a consequence of blood loss — and even if it hadn’t been, who knew how long he was in that grave?

Somehow, the look grew even more accusatory.

Good instinct, honestly. Milo almost admired it. He took a swig from the bottle, just to prove it wasn’t poison, before offering it up again. 

This time, the prince took it. He held it carefully in his less-injured hand, fingertips only, shaking just a little.

“Better?” Milo asked once the bottle was empty. 

The prince handed it back, nodding with an expression that Milo could really only describe as abashed.

~

“My family was very protective, so no.” Lorelai shook her hands out a little bit. “No prior experience.”

“Bit of a big jump,” Antony had to point out. 

“To armed militias? Yes, I’ve been told.” She smiled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t have to be armed, necessarily. I’m good at data input. I’m good with field work. All I’m saying is, if you wanted me to, I could.”

“And do you want to?” He had to ask. The secret question hung in the air. Do you enjoy it?

She seemed to sense the trap as soon as it was laid. Her smile grew crooked.

“Do you want me to?” She asked slyly. Her tone was almost playful.

He rolled his eyes. She was only a handful of years younger than him, but she seemed so much more like a kid. He guessed that was what money did. The scars along his arms ached right on cue.

She glanced at her phone again.

“Nothing?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“Nothing.”

She’d kept it under tight cover this entire time, but the worry slipped through whenever she saw the unchanging screen. It was more than worry now.

At that same instant, the doors to the compound opened.

He saw Cleo first, then a blur of motion to his left as Lorelai sprinted across the room. He caught sight of the prince standing upright for only a second before she tackled him. He just barely caught her as they fell onto the floor.

He murmured something to her in his native Latin. Lorelai, who was sobbing into his shoulder, responded in kind. Antony guessed she really had been holding it down. And it looked like she’d been right to be worried. The prince was pinned in place by her — and though half his face was buried in her hair, the bruise was still visible on his cheek. There were matching ones all along his arms, stark against the pallor. Blood stained his skin and clothes.

Antony looked to Cleo. Cleo looked to him. 

What do we do?

He almost didn’t want to interrupt the moment — he was sure if he said anything in that instant, neither of them would even hear him. 

“Watch them,” he gestured to one of the guards on-duty. He knew Lorelai was unarmed, was certain they wouldn’t have brought Paris inside if he had a weapon — though he would’ve appreciated some notice that he was being brought in at all. 

Milo crossed the threshold. He looked worse for wear.

“He’s gonna need a medic,” he explained, unhelpfully. Antony could tell that much. 

~

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” He didn’t keep the irritation out of his voice now, remembering the way she’d said my friend. Well, if that’s all-

“You didn’t ask,” Lorelai said, “I didn’t think it’d come up, honest.”

Antony facepalmed. 

The two of them hung just outside the medbay. Lorelai’s nice blue jacket had been turned purple from the contact. The gems on her face glistened just the same as her eyes.

“It’s a pretty fuckin’ huge conflict of interest,” he explained.

“It’s not like I’m married to him,” she said in that honeyed accent, almost apologetic. 

Antony sighed. She continued.

“And it’s not a conflict, not anymore. You heard what happened. Empire hates him.” 

The hatred was clear, but that didn’t mean there was no conflict. Antony could think of a long, long list of conflicts. They had names and families. 

“I hate this,” he said to no one in particular. Lorelai frowned. “I guess you’re in no rush to go anywhere now though, huh?” 

It was fully dark now. No stars were out tonight. Only the neon glow of the low-flying battleships. She nodded, a small blush rising to her face.

“You can’t stay long,” he told her. The needle was dipping dangerously close. The real conflict could pop off at any second. He needed them both out quickly. He didn’t need to bring that same wrath down on the base. He just got this job.

“But you can stay for tonight, I guess,” he conceded. “Don’t think you’ll make it far otherwise.”

~

CTRL had carved them out some corner downstairs — not a bedroom. Many of their own didn’t even have bedrooms. But it was passable for what it was, a collection of pillows and blankets against a soft mat, guarded by an armed sentinel. 

Antony would not have felt safe enough to sleep there, but then he never would have gotten himself into that situation in the first place.

From what he could tell, the girl had fallen asleep quickly, making herself right at home. The prince had not. Antony looked up over the comms to find him leaning in the doorway. He leaned more heavily against his left than his right. The fracture of his rib showed when he walked. He looked more alive after they’d given him plasma, less ready to pass out at any second. But not by much. 

He’d washed the blood off him. His hair now lacked the pinkish tint it’d taken at the base of his neck. The bruises were all the more visible along his bare arms than when he’d had blood and soil to hide them. He was wearing what Antony distinctly recognized as one of Milo’s shirts.

He’d regained his speech, apparently.

“What do you want?” He asked through gritted teeth. His voice sounded sore, cut up somehow. It was clear that it hurt him to speak.

“Excuse me?” Antony replied, still not appreciating the tone.

“What. do. you. want?” Paris glared back at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Antony said. He was out of patience for this kind of thing. What did he want? He wanted to live until the end of the week. In the long term, he wanted the destruction of Empire. Somewhere in between, he wanted to see the beaches of Sedonia again. He had no desire to share any of these dreams with the lapsed prince and was sure he’d have no interest either way.

“What do you want from me?” Paris clarified. Naturally. Antony didn’t expect for him to be thinking about anything other than himself.

“I want you to get the fuck out of my sight, frankly,” Antony admitted.

And a shadow of a recognition crossed Paris’s face. Contempt was a language he could understand. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“What? It doesn’t mean shit. I told her: you are leaving tomorrow morning and that is the end of it. Goodnight.” Anthony waved him away.

“Don’t fucking giving me that,” he hissed. “You didn’t have to lie to her. What do you want?”

“Are you stupid?” Antony asked. “I want you gone. That’s all.”

“Are you seriously just letting me walk out of here?” He said it like he was angry about it, a heavy note of accusation just beneath his words. 

He reminds Antony of a mouse he’d once saved from his cats. It had been curled up in the corner of the box he’d trapped it in. Nearly every part of its body stayed deathly still, but each rapid heaving of its chest as it tried to catch its breath showed enormously on its small frame. Its eyes had been enormous as it stared out the edge of them. He could tell how fast Paris’s heart was beating just by looking at him.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Antony squinted at him with a disgust he didn’t bother hiding. “We don’t have a court system. We don’t even have a cell. I could kick it off to Galatea, if you want. Do you want that?”

Paris gave a small shake of his head, visibly alarmed at the suggestion. Thank god. It was an empty threat, anyway. Antony would hate to bring Galatea into this, the busybodies that they were.

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here.”

Paris only looked angrier. He looked like he wanted to kill him.

“You’re lying,” Paris spat. His hands curled up his fists at his side. As if he’d get any use of them now.

Something clicked in Antony’s brain. He tilted his head, a soft and astonished smile appearing on his face.

“Oh wow,” he realized, “You can’t stand it, can you?”

The prince’s eyes widened. He knew he’d hit the mark. He dug in.

“You can’t accept that not everyone is like you. You think we have to take advantage of any weakness, because that’s what you would do, isn’t it?”

His voice picked up too quickly, too loudly. He was sure everyone could hear it out in the hallway. Paris recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“That’s all you know how to do. You think the whole world is as cruel as you are. But it’s not. It wasn’t. It’s cruel because you made it this way! It didn’t have to be!”

Decades of rage and frustration bled into Antony’s words. He couldn’t help it. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He watched as the shock eclipsed Paris’s expression, as the fury seeped out of it. He’d got him.

“You spend your whole fucking life abusing and exploiting everyone you come across and you think it’s okay because it’s just the way things are! But it’s not! It’s not fucking okay! It doesn’t have to be like this! It never did!”

His own anger got away from him. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. Now he was the one struggling to catch his breath, the one about to pass out. It took everything to bring himself back.

He looked up at Paris — he’d been looking his direction the whole time, but he’d stopped seeing him somewhere in between. His head was somewhere else. Now he regained his focus. 

Paris looked like he was about to cry. For a minute, with his hair still wet and the oversized shirt, he appeared so young that Antony almost felt bad. Almost.

“You can’t stand it,” he repeated, “Oh god, this must ruin everything for you.”

He was even paler than he’d been when they found him. His eyes were wide, but the pupils were all dilated. He was shaking. Antony didn’t have the patience for it anymore.

“You leave tomorrow morning,” he said. “There’s a back door, you won’t have to deal with the Imperial checkpoints. You should sleep while you have the chance.”

Paris nodded, taking a few unsteady steps backwards to the exit. He didn’t answer. Antony felt his irritation flare up again.

“And would it have fucking killed you to say thank you?!” he snapped. 

To his amazement, Paris’s face reddened several shades, eventually settling on a soft pink.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He couldn’t look at him.

~

Morning came. Cleo sat up on the fortress walls with Lorelai. Dew was settled onto every surface. It was colder that sunrise than it had been in months, but not unpleasantly so. 

“Um, I spy…something orange,” Lorelai said around bites of a red apple.

“It’s the surveyor mark,” Cleo said.

“Shit, how are you getting them all first try?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve played this game here?” Cleo responded.

Lorelai shrugged. “FMK?”

“It’s 4AM,” Cleo said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

The trapdoor flipped open. One of the scouts popped through midway.

“Car’s ready,” he said to Lorelai. 

She nodded and pass the remaining half of the apple to Cleo. She left all clad in the other girl’s clothing, down to the tennis shoes.

“I’ll see you around, then?” she said hopefully, the same way she had to Vi, without quite the same implication.

Lorelai climbed down the ladder until she’d hit the ground level of the base. She found Paris where she’d left him. Conscious now, but just as silent and sullen as he’d been the night before. She did not particularly blame him for that.

His hands were still a bit too bloodied to hold, so she placed her own gently around his wrist, feeling the pulse that still beat there. He rose reluctantly from beneath the blankets. She knew moving hurt him. 

Antony was waiting by the exit. She was relieved to find she had not totally burned that bridge. Antony said none of this had ever happened. He meant it. She’d check in with them later, once she’d gotten Paris across the border. It wouldn’t be long now, anyway.

She watched Paris slip Antony a folded up note. She knew what it said. It was signed from him, but it was in her handwriting. He couldn’t have bend his fingers around the pencil.

Ships are moving in Gamma formation but half of them are unarmed carriers. It’s a feign. Late gen G-12 ships have a point of catastrophic failure at ball turret joint. IRW Palace is in orbit so there’s a 99% chance Lt.Furness is here. He will try to torch the whole forest if he feels like he’s losing. Keep an eye out for that. Invest in flame retardant.

Thank you.

                                                         ~Paris

Antony’s eyes scanned the paper. Paris walked away before he could see a reaction, but Lorelai saw him slip the folded note into his jacket pocket. She waved goodbye before she clambered up into the transport.

The ride back to the ship was fast and quiet. The woods went by so much quicker on wheels and they did not run into any trouble. She couldn’t believe she’d trekked through it, alone and on foot, just one day before. It felt like forever ago.

She was pleased to see her ship was right where she left it, free of crack marks and bullet holes. The driver opened up the door for them. They fell out onto the forest floor.

“Make sure you do those hand exercises. I’m serious,” the driver called after Paris. He nodded in response, not really paying attention. His eyes were all far out.

The transport disappeared back into the forest, leaving thick tread marks in its wake. 

She opened the door for Paris, because she wasn’t sure he could it himself. He climbed in silently. She slid into the driver’s seat. It was all icy inside. She adjusted the ship’s settings to break through orbit again. It gradually warmed as the engine kicked to life. She felt a sense of homecoming that surprised her.

She glanced over to him to find him still staring off into nothingness.

“…Are you okay?”

It wasn’t a very good question. She knew that. She already knew the answer.

He nodded mutely. Lorelai frowned. She waited a while, hoping he’d go on. But the distant look in his eyes remained and his lips did not move. She realized the rest of the drive would probably be in silence. He got like that sometimes, even on better days.

“…Okay. I love you.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. He gripped the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling it up to cover his face. As much as he tried to be quiet, he couldn’t help the way his body gasped for air in-between sobs. 

“Oh, honey,” Lorelai gasped. 

She’d seen him cry before. It happened enough out of frustration, bitter tears forming at the edges of his eyes, wiped away just as quickly as they came. Not like this.

She placed a hand in between his shoulder blades, trying to steady him. She might as well have not been there at all.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” his voice broke up. He curled away from the touch. “I-I-I-“

None of the words were making it out. Lorelai moved mechanically, so used to piloting by now that she could do it without thinking. She put one arm behind the passenger seat, checking behind her before she backed out.

“Okay. Okay, breathe,” she whispered, because he needed reminding sometimes.

He stopped trying to speak through it. The ship entered the open morning sky. The inside of it was filled up with the sound of his half-sobs, barely muffled from within the fabric of his shirt.

“Easy,” The ship was on autopilot now. The sky gradually darkened as it pulled out of the upper atmosphere. She ran her fingers in circles along his arm. “In for four, out for eight. You remember. You’re fine.”

She could feel him struggling to make up the ragged breaths through all the convulsions. Little half-formed words slipped to the surface, none of them coherent. 

“Breathe,” she insisted.

Slowly, it steadied. He was still crying, but it didn’t possess him the same way it had. He reluctantly removed the fabric. His face had turned red and blotchy underneath it. He turned away as if he was embarrassed by it, like it might’ve offended her. 

“…’m sorry,” he mumbled into the glass pane of the window. She looped her fingers into his own, careful of the blisters that had formed there. His skin was warmer than hers now. It was the only time she could remember that happening. 

“It’s okay.” She pressed her lips gingerly to the bruises on his knuckles, the same way he’d done for her when her arm was cut open. “That was a lot. I’d cry too. I’d cry way worse, you know me.”

“…’s not that,” he said. His voice still shook even on small sentences. He wiped desperately at his eyes.

“What is it?” She brought her other hand to hold his now. She traced her fingers gently over the raw skin, as if she might be able to read his fortune that way.

He shook his head and he did not answer.

~~~

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