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defire · 4 months ago

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Chapter 34: The Worst Day of my Life

Content: execution? Manhandling, shackles, slavery, fantasy racism, beating, public humiliation, whipping, rebels

The whole morning felt like it was going to kill Nife before she even got to the execution.

Nife was dragged out of her cell and at every hobbled step the guard's club came down on her shoulder. She held her mouth shut and took the blows silently. No doubt it was all part of Striker's plan to publicly humiliate her.

After they'd gotten three levels down in the tower, she looked back into the guard's eyes. He appeared to be irritated at the whole thing, and when he saw her looking at him, he raised his stick, then paused, as if her expression was a painful reminder that she was just another human.

He grimaced and lowered the stick, choosing to jab her forward with it instead, which was much less painful.

Now that he had desisted, Nife managed to find a rhythm in the trip down the stairs to the outside, but as soon as they were in the public view, the shoving started, which made her feet yank at the short chain between her ankles until she fell, over and over on the way to the square.

A cold wind blew down from the tops of the buildings and sent curling twists of leaves and garbage flying off the patios, sweeping the square harshly and lifting Nife's sweaty curls off her forehead for a moment.

The heat from how hard she was trying to keep up with the guards soon whisked off in the cool fall breeze.

Nife soaked it in one more time, trying not to think about whether she'd ever see another fall.

No matter how much she tried to believe in Kit, all Nife could feel was a rising sense of hopelessness, now giving way to panic as she reached the cobbled square which had been built on a set of sunken condos.

The square was full of hundreds of people packed into corners, patios and filling the street so much that the guards had to create a tunnel through the people.

The crowd was unusually quiet, and unusually docile. And except for a few Banes close by, the majority of them were Druids, low-class ones at that.

A shove with the butt of a spear hit her in the spine and she tripped on her shackles and fell to her knees on the stones, cursing.

"Get a move on, blue-face." The guard growled.

Nife's ankles throbbed around the shackles. It felt like the bone was bruising horribly.

"Get up!" Another guard kicked her in the rear.

"If you want me up, don't push me fucking down!" She snarled, getting to her feet.

The guard's response to that was to take her by the hair and shove her forward the next couple steps, forcing her to bruise her ankles several more times, nearly losing her balance before he yanked her back upright.

"Horizons..." She hissed, swallowing as he let go of her.

If she was going to die anyway, she'd die using whatever the hell curses she liked.

"What kind of person parades around in something like that?" Some noble Bane whispered.

"And then she dares to look you in the eye–" The person responding shut their mouth as Nife sent them a sarcastic glare.

"What are you looking at?" The first Bane shouted.

Nife's glaring was interrupted by a cuff to the back of her head.

"Eyes down, slave."

"Fuck you." Nife whispered, casting her eyes down.

They must have heard her, because another blow to her back sent her to the ground again, and several more strikes landed on her back.

When she finally staggered back to her feet, grimacing in pain, she looked out into the crowd.

She did a double-take when she realized that one of the nearest faces was Caboodle's, under a mask. She recognized his gentle eyes.

Her chest tightened and she flushed. Then she realized that he wasn't making a judgment, just looking at her with... compassion.

It was surprising to find that compassion was a thing. If she were to take her parents’ treatment as a rule, people should tell her to stop complaining and try not to look injured. But apparently not everyone was like that.

Glancing around, she saw someone that matched Kit's build wearing armor and a helmet with a visor. He was close enough that she was pretty sure she recognized him.

Biting her lip, she looked away.

She didn't want them seeing her like this. It could ruin everything. But maybe everything was already ruined.

[here's Kit's theme song! :D ]

Kit watched as the prisoner stumbled before the last step and leaned over her bruised right ankle, muttering that they'd forced her to break it.

"That's close enough," Striker made a disgusted sneer at Nife on her knees before him. He beckoned for a man with a whip to approach. He drew up behind Nife.

Kit looked around furtively for the DJ that was supposed to signal them to fight. The Souls were going to take advantage of the confusion to rescue Nife, thanks to Warren's work. He could make out the man, who was leaning out over a roof parapet with his hair in a bun right up between his horns; that was how he was to be identified, Warren had said.

"Now, Nife Raizden," Striker said, referring to a kind of crumpled piece of paper as he spoke. "You can confess to these charges and get off with a lighter sentence,–"

"Don't pretend you're not gonna kill me." Nife's voice scraped out.

The whip snapped across her back, forcing out a choked cry, followed by a small groan. Kit's vision flashed white-hot with rage. He stuffed the anger back down into his chest, telling himself Nife had it handled, grateful for the helm he was wearing because it covered his outraged face.

Of course she didn’t have it handled! Who had this shit handled?

He knew how it cut in like a knife when one was struck with a piece of leather that was much shorter, and this one was long and braided.

It wasn't fair. She couldn't fight back.

"You're just degrading yourself further at this point," Striker said loudly. "Now you can make more pain for yourself, or you can confess to these citizens what you've done."

Striker looked over the crowd as he spoke, and when his eyes landed on Caboodle he hesitated, eyes opening a little wider.

Kit felt a sudden comprehension through the bracelet as he connected with how Striker felt about Caboodle–he was his third favorite nephew, but still family, and Striker didn't want the kid to be here right before shit went down.

Kit cursed under his breath, raising his visor slightly as he turned to Warren, who was just on his left, masked and hooded.

"He knows something." He whispered.

Striker turned and looked right at Kit, eyes narrowing as the boy dropped the visor and Warren, who was wearing a mask and hood, nonchalantly fixed his gaze somewhere in the group of soldiers behind Striker.

Kit suppressed a huff of annoyance at his own inability to whisper.

Well, if he couldn't tell anyone, he could still plan.

As Striker began his demoralizing speech again, Kit reached into his pocket for the last page of the newspaper, which he usually kept for later reading.

He beckoned at Caboodle with his finger, who came a little closer. He reached into Caboodle's pocket and pulled out the pencil next to the comb he always carried, then wrote on the paper--

"Maybe trap. Striker knows. Check streets for reinforcements. Signal from the roof."

He handed it to Caboodle, who read it with widening eyes, then nodded and gave Kit his precious paper back. Kit gave him his precious pencil back.

Caboodle eased away from the main crowd and toward the streets to the east where the DJ sentry was.

"...Nife Raizden, you are accused of inciting violence against state officials. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Pf–you don't want to know." She said with a slight chuckle.

The whip snapped down again. And again. Kit flinched at every blow.

Striker was watching everyone in the crowd.

The man whipped her until the scream finally escaped her. Then he lowered it and stepped back, and Kit saw with horror that a small chunk of skin had ripped back and was dripping blood. They were going to outright flog her, he realized. He couldn't let them do that. He had to do something. But fuck up the chance they had to save her? Not that.

Nife’s breaths were fast, panicking, and she was closing her eyes tight, like she was trying to shut out the world. She had to hold out until the rebels got the signal.

"You can confess, or he'll whip you till you do." Striker said, reaching under his coat and resting his hand on his hip, where the handle of a weapon stuck out. He stroked it absently with his thumb as he waited for Nife to give a more coherent answer. Her body lurched with sobs, shoulder blades pressing together, muscles forming tight ridges on either side, as if to protect her back.

She sniffled, looking up to the DJ sentry that everyone was waiting on. She had already picked up what his role was, true to her typical cunning.

"Nife Raizden." Striker said impatiently. "Do you confess?"

"Well, I do confess..." She mumbled.

"You'll need to speak loud enough for everyone to hear."

"Sure, I confess." She said a little louder, pointing her face toward the ground so her answer was muffled.

Fearing more lashes for that, Kit glanced up at the sentry again, and his jaw dropped as he realized the sentry wasn't there.

The sentry was gone.

No one in the square knew what to do.

But this was Nife. Kit reminded himself. She wasn't the type to just mumble words for no reason. Nife had to be doing something clever.

Striker grabbed her by the beads on her chest and shoved her up to the top step of the dias for everyone to see.

"Tell them so they can hear it." He said in a gently threatening tone. His voice, even though it was calm, carried far through the square with unnerving power.

Kit was close enough to see her shiver. He was also close enough to see the welts rising on her back and the bruising around the tight shackles on her ankles.

But when she stood, she straightened up, and what had looked like a shuddering bony mass of human flesh extended into a tall, lean girl with a crooked smile. Somehow in that moment, she transformed into the magnetic Nife Raizden everyone knew, with nothing but a smirk and a little dancing motion with her fingers. The bruises and blood didn't matter, neither did her scanty outfit. They only added to the imperfect appeal of a girl who could sway a throng with a few words.

"Alright," She said, this time loud enough for everyone to hear her voice, which was gravelly from the screaming. "I confess. I'm inciting violence. I'm inciting violence right now, actually."

There was a stunned silence, in which she raised her left hand and twirled that knife he'd given her in her fingers, above her head where everyone could see her bony arm expertly flipping the steel. She turned and looked down at Striker, who was a few steps behind her, slightly frozen as if in disbelief.

"Striker, I am your equal." She said.

The words dropped into the hush like a hot sword into the quench and the voices rose like a huge hiss.

She was a female. A Druid. A child. A slave.

Fingers twirling the knife, she turned her smiling face to the populace once more.

"I confess, it appears we'll have to get violent." She shouted so they could all hear. "Let's get violent against our so-called betters!"

The roar when she released her spell and lowered her hand was white-hot.

Kit drew his father's sword and surged forward. There was no going back now.

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Taglist: @tildeathiwillwrite @mimostic @fleur-a-whump @a-n-j-a-maria per Tumblr's content policy, this is the non-nsfw version, but you can find the canon Dance of Death on Amazon and ao3 (which I'm updating shabbily as fast as I can). Also if you want, it would mean so much to me if you leave a review or comment while you're there.

#minor whumpee #lady whump #beating whump #manhandling #slavery #whipping whump #rebellion #political fantasy #shackled prisoner #restraints whump #sarcastic whumpee #defiant whumpee #humiliation whump #whump novel

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