#royal caretaker

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #18

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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

[deluxewhump]

Pride of Princes

A story in the Blackmuir Reign Verse

2: the cell

CW: imprisonment, torture mention, fantasy religious persecution, threat of execution, royal caretaker

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Robb Muirdwele was a prison guard for castle Blackmuir. He was not kingsguard, nor was he a knight as he’d once naively dreamed of. But guarding the cells below the castle was an easier job than others he’d had, and he was grateful for the relative shelter the stone walls provided, and the generous meal they were given once a day, as all staff and servants inside the castle were.

But there were drawbacks. For one, it was dark and damp, and even in high summer he had a cough he could not shake. For another, there was the new prisoner. Robb now had to be on his toes at all times because of unusual visitors to the cells, including clerics and more than a few knights. Not only that, but there were the awful sounds that accompanied these visits to the new prisoner. They were torturing him, that much was clear. Robb wondered what it was he’d done to elicit such ire from men of the Tercet and knights and soldiers of the king. The prisoner never said. He never said anything to Robb, or any other of his ordinary guards. He never begged for an audience with the King, or something to write with, or tried to bribe them with desperate promises of money and favor. He cried out and screamed during the torture, of course, but that was all.

When Prince Aedric came to the cells, Robb thought this prisoner must have really done something extraordinarily offensive to House Blackmuir. He bowed his head hastily to the prince, and let him inside the cell.

“Light,” he requested, and Robb lit the cressets. When he’d provided the prince with all the light the cell was designed to provide, he stood just inside the door and watched with his hands folded in front of him dutifully, his back straight. He’d never been this close to a Blackmuir, and only seen the king once. Aedric was the eldest son and heir, with pale brown hair and sharp, straight features that made his face both unforgettable and striking. He wore a doublet of black lined in silver, Blackmuir colors, and a knife at his belt. He’d brought two soldiers with him, but instructed them to wait at the entrance door ten yards down the corridor. They did so silently.

Robb watched as the prince approached the prisoner, his fine boots making soft chuffs on the stone. The prisoner lifted his head slowly, fearful and bleary. The last visit involved a cleric again, and he’d had him beaten before they’d even exchanged words.

The prisoner stiffened at this new presence and flattened as tight as he could against the cell wall. The prince squatted to sit on his heels before him.

“Lord Barrowfen?”

So that was his name. Not that it mattered to Robb. Sometimes he knew their names, sometimes he did not. It wasn’t his job to know them, only to guard them and keep them alive.

“Are you alright?”

The prisoner lifted his head. One eye was swollen to near shut, and he had caked blood that had dried from his nose to his upper lip. He held his arms protectively over his torso, which Robb knew was likely deeply bruised, if not riddled with breaks. The knights or soldiers did the hurting. The cleric only ever watched, holding his white robes an inch off the floor so they would not be dirtied.

“Will you not answer?”

The prisoner spat in his face. Robb flinched.

Incredibly, the prince did not retaliate, but lifted his sleeve to wipe his cheek. “I would feel the same,” he said wryly. “I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. That was not on my orders, Lord Barrowfen. I want you to know that, because I’m trying to help you.”

“I’m not a lord in here,” said the prisoner. Robb strained to hear. “I belong to the gods. Not to my father’s new pretender gods. Nor yours.” The prisoner coughed and winced, giving an involuntary whimper at the pain it caused him to do so.

The prince turned. “Did you do this?”

“No, your highness,” blurted Robb. He’d forgotten the word royal. It was your royal highness for a prince, and then ‘sire’ thereafter. He licked his lips nervously. Why did the prince not know this was done by the king’s own men? Under supervision of the clerics? It didn’t matter. His job was to answer a Blackmuir’s questions.

“Who then?”

“Soldiers, sire. His Grace’s knights.”

“What about the clerics?”

“Yes, sire. They are present for it.”

The prince turned back to the prisoner. “Roan,” he said gently, almost beseechingly. “May I call you Roan, then?”

The prisoner looked at him guardedly. He blinked, something like a wince. Perhaps it hurt to shrug.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m going to send a healer down to you.”

The prisoner was caught off guard, if only for a moment. His look of naked hope turned to one of distrust. “One of the king’s healers?”

Robb could only see the back of the prince’s head, but he tilted it slightly at that. “I’ll come with him. I’ll watch him.”

“It won’t matter. They’re not going to stop,” said the prisoner. “They want me to recant.”

“Will you?”

The prisoner’s eyes grew bright as if wet, and he looked away toward the dark corner of his cell. “No.”

The prince moved from a squatting to sitting, letting his fine clothes contact the cell floor.

“Get us water,” he said over his shoulder. Robb turned to fetch it, wondering if it was for the prince or the prisoner. When he returned, the prince held out his arm to receive the cup without turning around. He dipped a kerchief into the water, and motioned toward the blood on the prisoner's face. Robb watched as the prisoner allowed the prince to blot the kerchief against his upper lip until the blood came off. When he was done, he offered the prisoner the rest of the water. He lifted one hand gingerly from his ribs to take it.

“But would it not be surrendering to go through with the arrangement?” the prisoner asked. Robb understood he had missed a piece of their conversation when he’d gone for the water. “Would I not still be capitulating?”

“Not to me,” said the prince, with his knees drawn up and his forearms draped over them casually, as if he were picnicking on a green hill and not sitting on the floor of the dungeons. “You can keep your gods, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll build you a shrine.”

“My gods have no need of a shrine.”

“Whatever it is they need, then. Whatever you need. You’ll have it, but we have to say the vows. I can protect you much more effectively if you are my peaceweaver.”

“Why would you protect me?”

“You’re betrothed to me. Why wouldn’t I? ”

“They won’t let me out without a recantation. They’re going to do worse, and then there will be a trial, and then they’ll kill me.”

The prince nodded. “It seems so, at the moment. Do you know how?”

“How they’ll kill me?”

There was silence before the prince spoke again.

“Treason is usually resolved with burning at the stake.”

The prisoner dropped his eyes.

“I don’t tell you that to be cruel. I’m trying to find an answer, but I think you might need to be that answer for yourself. Will you work with me?”

“I won’t accept the Tercet,” said the prisoner. His voice trembled slightly. “And I’m not afraid.”

The prince hung his head, and then brought it back up again. “Don’t do it out of fear, then. Find something else.”

In the firelight, Robb could see the prisoner’s eyes well up again. He grit his teeth and hugged his arms over his abdomen, looking over the prince’s shoulder at the wall of his cell. He was resolute. At length, the prince climbed to his feet.

“I’m still bringing a healer,” he said as he walked out of the cell. Robb shut the wooden door and fastened its iron bolt with the prisoner inside.

Next

[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. 

[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)

[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

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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

[deluxewhump]

Pride of Princes

A story in the Blackmuir Reign verse

3. Roan and Aedric - then you shall have it

Prev

CW: fantasy whump, imprisonment, burning, torture, fantasy religious persecution, fantasy politics, royal caretaker, arranged marriage, manhandling, trust building

There were only two days remaining until his trial. Roan knew the outcome would not be good, but he did hope it would be swift. His execution, he'd heard, would not be. Cleric Aflonsus had promised him the same thing the prince had warned him of.

He’d prefer a beheading, or hanging even, to the stake. He tried not to think about it. He thought of his home, of the woodsmoke and the morning bird calls, of Thraxanthe and Arvid, and of his cat, Rooka. Yellow fields bent heavy with snowfall, birch trees against a slate sky. Rooka was alright, at least. One of his servants would have collected her by now, or Athelsted. His father’s men had taken him so swiftly that morning, an offering to King Blackmuir’s eldest son, he hadn’t had time to think of poor Rooka. 

They came again to hurt him yesterday, but he didn’t worry about breaking, now. He didn’t fear recanting, or denouncing. He’d found another place to put that in his mind, where it would not slip inadvertently out of his mouth in between screams. A few times he’d begged a particular soldier or a stony-eyed knight, pleading with him for mercy, but never a cleric. And he’d never uttered a word of surrender, even then. The white robes visited him in his dreams. Particularly Alfonsus, with eyes like a frozen stream, his pale beard like a wooden puppet-mouth that moved up and down when he spoke. 

Now he was certain when he did die, he’d be reunited with the forests and marshes of his home. Maybe the faces of the gods would, for the first time since he was a small child, be clear again. 

The bolt sliding on his cell door made him jump. He’d been dreaming awake again, eyes open but unseeing. With the jolt of fear came the reminders of his worst physical pain, which was now the burnt soles of his feet. It was not a cleric in the doorway, or a soldier. It was the Blackmuir prince. 

Aedric had been unexpectedly kind to him, despite his refusal to accept the Tercet on the king’s command. He’d brought a healer every day, along with food from the kitchens, fresh water, and clean blankets. Roan couldn’t quite understand why. They had never met, never even corresponded. The first time he’d laid eyes on him was in the Oath Hall of castle Blackmuir, and he was already a traitor and a heretic. And yet Aedric had tried to argue his imprisonment. Still, it was hard to imagine he did not have an ulterior motive. Roan had just been too exhausted, too hurt to figure out what it might be. He was acutely aware of the prince in his cell whenever the healer was, pacing slowly back and forth and stopping to watch whenever he’d whimper or cry out at the healer’s hands cleaning his wounds or treating a particularly deep bruise. 

Now the prince came alone. Roan sat up painfully, using his hands to scoot himself back against the wall of the cell. He didn’t want the red and weeping soles of his feet to touch the stones. The prince did not seem to notice his trepidation, or his hurt feet. He came close, sinking to his knees in front of him. Roan stiffened in heart-pounding fear at the sudden proximity, despite the fact that this man had never hurt him. 

“I’ve gotten it postponed,” said the prince. “Your trial. Another month.”

Roan blinked at him as if he were an apparition. “It’s in two days.”

“Not now. A month. And,” he said, giving Roan something of a cautious smile, “I am in charge of your care until that date. I convinced him. My father.” 

Roan blinked, uncomprehending. 

The prince’s brow furrowed. “That’s a good thing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He could’ve, once. Recently, even. Now his head swam, and his limbs felt heavy all the time. That last session had taken something vital from him. Even this felt like a dream, now that his initial fear had faded from hearing the bolt on the door. 

“You can come out of here,” the prince was saying softly. He had a gentle way about him sometimes, but so did the cleric. “I’m not keeping you down here. Come with me. Let’s go.”

But he couldn’t walk. The prince tried to take his arm and he snatched it away. “No,” he whispered. 

“No? You want to stay here?”

Yes. He could stay in his corner and await his fate. He’d adjusted to that. He could handle that. Moving meant uncertainty, and he didn’t think he could take uncertainty anymore. Not with the bottoms of his feet on fire and his head so heavy. He rested it against the cool wall of his cell, and tears wet his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of the prince. He hated the Blackmuirs, and the Muirlands, though at the moment he couldn’t remember how to articulate why. 

Prince Aedric sat down beside him, on his left, with his back pressed against the same wall. He was quiet for a long time. Roan found the strength to lift his wrist to his face and wipe away the wetness. “My feet,” he said, when it occurred to him that the prince had always helped his wounds, thus far, not given him more. 

“What’s wrong?”

“They burned them. Yesterday.” Though he would regret sharing the detail later, he pressed on now. “A taste of what will come if I don’t give them what they want.”

Again, the Blackmuir prince was silent. Roan fell asleep, or perhaps passed out. When he woke, two guards were lifting him, each grabbing him under one arm. They wore the Blackmuir crest on their chests. He protested weakly. He knew what was next. It had only been a day. He couldn’t do it again, so soon. Fear roused him enough to struggle. “Please,” he sobbed. 

“Roan.” 

It was Prince Aedric. 

“They’re with me. They’re not here to hurt you. Don’t fight them.”

They picked him up so he wouldn’t have to put any weight on his feet, and carried him out of the cells. 

_

Aedric had Roan Barrowfen taken to the same physician that treated him during his imprisonment. Roan was awake, but largely unresponsive to both words and touch. Only when the healer worked on his burned feet did he grit his teeth tight and moan. 

Aedric went to his side, thinking maybe it would be appropriate to offer a hand to squeeze, or some words of encouragement. Roan Barrowfen did not take his offered hand, and closed his eyes tightly against anything he said. 

He slept a long time in the infirmary in a low straw cot. The following day, when he had bathed himself (he would not consent to be helped, not by Aedric or a healer or even a servant, which Aedric offered), Aedric took him to his own rooms.

Before all of this, he’d imagined spending a night or two alone with him, getting to know one another. He’d assumed they would want to sleep together, or at least try a kiss, a touch. He’d imagined himself as the one who would initiate, if it seemed appropriate, and who would do his best to make his new peaceweaver feel welcome, in every sense of the word. 

He had not imagined it would all go as awry as this. 

Roan looked about his chambers, a suite with a bedroom and an adjacent sitting room. The anteroom alone consisted of two stone hearths. In the second room was a large bed with a canopy for both warmth and privacy, a basin of water, and white pine coffers above which hung an ornate mirror of smooth southerly glass. Nearby was a heavy oak table cluttered with documents and inkwells beneath a tall, narrow window.  

“Are you accustomed to finer?” he teased.

“No,” Roan answered seriously. “Our keep is similar in style. We are northern, too, though you call us easterly here. But our keep is smaller, and our mirror glass is not so fine as that.”

“Your feet must pain you. Please, get off of them. They need to heal.”

Roan didn’t argue, and limped gingerly to the table under the window on a set of crutches given to him by the healer. He was pale, and shaking slightly from the effort of coming here himself, which he’d insisted on. Aedric thought he just couldn’t bear the idea of being handled by Blackmuir guards any more. He seemed much more present than he had the day before, at least. Fully lucid, for better or worse.

“May I ask you something?” he said after Roan had seated himself and laid the crutches aside.

Roan looked up at him as he approached, rings of exhaustion under his eyes. His coal dark hair, which had been filthy from the cells and the mistreatment was now shining and soft from the bath.

“Did you and I exchange a letter?” Aedric asked. 

Roan frowned in puzzlement. “No.”

Aedric sat in the nearest chair facing him across a corner of the table. “I was afraid of that.”

“Someone sent a letter to you? As me?”

Aedric rifled through a stack of documents until he found it, and slid it over the table to him. 

Roan picked it up and skimmed it, his look of confusion turning into annoyance. “This isn’t mine. That’s not even my signature.”

“Whose, then?” Aedric saw a look of alarm, bordering on fear, cross Roan’s face and hurried to add, “I believe you. I’m not challenging you. I just wonder if you know who might have written it.”

“Some scribe,” Roan answered, and slid the letter back to him. “On the instructions of my father.”

“Did you even agree to come here?”

Roan looked at him carefully, no doubt wondering if he should be candid. “No,” he said after a moment's deliberation. “I did not.”

“Your father arranged it without your knowledge, then?”

“I’m sure. You heard the king. He wrote in that letter that if I would not capitulate, you had his blessing to use me as an example. He is displeased with my refusal to convert. As displeased as everyone else, it seems.” He thought for a moment, tilting his pretty head. His voice took the slightest inflection of a question.  “Everyone but you?”

“It’s of very little concern to me.”

Roan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

He shrugged out of his black-and-silver cloak, holding it aloft to offer it to Roan in case he was cold. Roan stiffened and shook his head, so Aedric laid it across the nearest empty chair. “There’s a dozen religions, and subsects of them, from here to Aepoli,” he said. “Perhaps a dozen more to the west.”

He wanted to tell him that Miline was southerly, and in their ten years of marriage still observed her traditions of star-reading, and their holidays of solstice. But since the Tercet had gained popularity, this sort of information was suddenly quite sensitive, and could be used against her if someone ever wished. She no longer left evidence of this practice lying around, even where her own handmaids might see. Aedric certainly wasn’t going to tell Roan, even if it might help his argument. “I don’t have any preference on what gods you claim. Which is why I didn’t ask in my letter, which I now realize you never read. I didn’t think it had any bearing on the success of the arrangement.”

“The king clearly does.”

He is bold, Aedrick thought. Bold and direct, even after being shown what that could earn him in the Muirlands. Aedric placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He tried to gentle his voice. “If you had not made such an adamant declaration, it would have gone unnoticed.”

“You would have me lie?”

“I would have you live. I would have advised you to be subtle.”

“The Tercet is the official religion of the kingdom now, is it not? Of your family’s reign?”

“Not quite.”

“But it’s heading in that direction?”

“Yes. For now.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

“It means I am not so sure it’s a good idea. The clerics… they have a concerning amount of power already, and if it becomes officiated, they will ask for even more. Or quietly take it. Cleric Afonsus is a cunning man. I’m sure you’ve become acquainted with him, by now?”

Roan tried not to flinch at the name, but Aedric saw his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“I thought so. My father suffered an illness this spring. He’s not been entirely himself since. Please don’t repeat this, but there is a widening gap of power. I believe the Tercet leaders are after an inordinate amount of that power. My father can’t see it now, but by tying the Tercet to the reign, they will achieve this.”

“Does it not serve your interests? Does it not make you god-kings?”

“God-appointed kings,” Aedric corrected. “As appealing as that sounds, I fear it will turn them into kingmakers.”

“So you would oppose the officiation?”

“I would deny them outright.”

“Then alas that you are not our king.”

He ignored the treasonous tone of that remark. He didn’t want to discourage  Roan’s candidness with him, even for his own safety. And having been tortured, Aedric thought he was allowed an off-color comment or two, as long as it was in the privacy of his chambers. 

“No, I’m not. That’s why I want you and I to say our vows. If that is official, I have more control over what happens to you.”

“Control,” Roan said darkly. “Is that something I should want from you?”

Aedric faltered. Yes, he thought. Since I laid eyes on you, I have only tried to help you. “I can’t tell you that,” he said instead. “You have to arrive at that conclusion yourself.”

“In a month.”

Ideally sooner than that. 

Aedric gathered a stack of papers and straightened them. The sun was setting, and soon a servant would come to build fires in the hearths. “What can I do to put you at ease now?” he asked. “Tonight.”

Roan watched him move papers across the table. He lifted his eyes to Aedric’s. “There is one thing.”

It was an object. Small, carved, wooden. It was in the cells, hidden in the rushes in the northwestern corner, he said, so they wouldn’t find it on him and take it. Aedric went down alone, and told the guard at the door to stay put as he entered the small stone room, only a foot between his head and the low, damp ceiling. After a moment of sifting he found a smooth piece of boxwood the size of an egg, and returned to his chambers with it. 

He held it out to Roan, who took it reverently from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

“What is it?”

Roan found a hidden seam with his thumbnail and opened it on a hinge like an oyster, revealing two halves of an intricately carved, hollowed interior, with a depiction of a fertile woodland inside. In the center was a horned owl, small as a walnut and painstakingly detailed. “Arvid,” he said, which Aedric assumed was the name of a god. “In the Oath Hall, you asked me why my gods did not help me.”

“I know. I meant it in jest.”

“I see that now. But that’s not how it works. We don’t seek favor from the gods. Favor is… more chance than design.”

“Is there a god of chance then?”

Roan gave him a fleeting, indulgent smile. It was the first of its kind he’d been given. 

“What does it do?” he asked, nodding at the carving in Roan’s hand. 

“Nothing.” He closed it with a soft click. “It comforts me.”

“Oh,” said Prince Aedric. “Then you shall have it.”

Next

[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.

[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.

[fatedroses]

Solus’ Hound