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befuddled-calico-whump · 4 months

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cw: aftermath of whump, implied abuse, fantasy slavery, violence, manhandling.

based on this prompt by @howls-ghost

"Trite details bore me. I'll leave it to you to complete, and complete quickly," said Prince Acacius.

"I've had enough of your dimwitted blathering. See yourself to the door," said Prince Acacius.

"Remember your place," said Prince Acacius.

Laith was sick of it. Sick of the arrogant little brat prancing around the palace like he was already king. They hated Acacius and his cold, dismissive attitude. The spoiled twat didn't know a thing about running a kingdom, and wouldn't know humility if it bit him on the nose.

The only reason the country wasn't already in ruins was due to the competence of Laith and the rest of the high council. Even the regent, as good a man he was, was taken out of commission by Acacius, forced to keep the aloof young man at his side at all hours for supposed education. Not that Laith believed Acacius absorbed any of it. He was a horrid prince, and he'd make a horrid king.

And Laith intended to do something about it.

It started as something small and reasonable; a daydream about teaching the prince a lesson, of having him whipped for insolence, or beaten in the streets, or simply pushed off the balcony.

But none of those were realistic dreams, and none of those were enough. Acacius needed a punishment that would stick, something scarring, something humiliating.

The thoughts danced across Laith's mind through all their waking hours, turning sharper and more creative with every insult from the rotten prince.

But then, they thought, why bother with a mere punishment? Why not be rid of the arrogant heir for good? Death was too quick for his poisoned heart, but there were alternatives. Slavers in the West and enemies in the North, and either faction would jump at the chance to own the pretty prince. Should Laith's goal be realized, it would do more than sate their need for justice; it would spare the kingdom from a heartless ruler.

They'd lock him in a cell with no sunlight for a year. They'd remove his acrid tongue, put out his disdainful eyes, somehow they'd hurt him in a way that mattered.

They took their time making the arrangements; letters delivered in secret, coded messages, quiet plans and plots to cover the prince's upcoming disappearance. At last, the hour was drawing near. At last, Acacius would get all that he deserved.

But of course, Laith would have their fun with him first.

They came upon the royal in the dead of night. Laith had been making note of Acacius's movements, and by now they knew to expect the young man's midnight journey to the library. Too good to be seen there in daylight hours, when servants were dusting and lesser lords were reading. Too good to even peruse the shelves alongside those he deemed as unworthy.

Laith fell upon the prince as soon as he reached the library doors, wrapping their arm tight around a torso clad in a loose silk shirt, their other hand clamped over Acacius's mouth to dampen his startled cry. The prince made fearful noises beneath their hand, but there was no time to savor the sound. Laith knew they must move swiftly or risk alerting the night watch.

They slammed the prince's head into the heavy oak door behind him. Once, twice, and then their royal prisoner's struggling lessened. Laith forced him to the ground, stuffing a wad of cloth into his mouth and tying it in place with a cord. That same cord trailed down from the prince's head to wind around his wrists, then back up again to circle his throat, forming a makeshift collar and leash to better Laith's control of him. He tugged harshly at the rope, and the dazed prince stumbled to his feet, whimpering softly from behind the gag.

There was no haughtiness in his eyes, only something meek and fearful. It was nearly enough to make Laith second-guess their plans, but their memories of the man they knew Acacius to be strengthened their resolve.

They would not fall for this docile ruse. They knew the truth.

Laith delved deeper into the castle, making for one of the secret passages in the stone that would lead them outside the keep. There was a cottage at the edge of the woods, overlooking the river that ran alongside the castle's walls. A peasant girl had sighted it after Laith offered her a penny to find a covert location. It was perfect; well away from anyone who could hear them, and the river would make an easy path for the slavers' skiff.

They hauled Acacius into the cottage, unable to resist giving the prince a sharp kick in the back that sent him tumbling to the ground. The slavers weren't set to arrive until just before sunrise. Laith had nearly an hour to get revenge for every petty insult that had ever been flung their way.

Laith dropped a knee into the prince's chest, holding his head in place while he removed the gag.

Acacius's eyes were teary and pleading, but Laith refused to let the act sway them. If anything, it only fueled their fire. How dare this impudent brat act like this was unearned? Now safe behind a closed door, Laith let their fury burn, raining fists and kicks down on the prince's helpless form, relishing every muffled cry. No, they shouldn't be muffled. They wanted to hear Acacius plead for mercy.

"N-nnh please... Please don't," the shaky words left Acacius's throat with the balled-up cloth. Laith answered him with another blow, and the prince squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, there was a distant look to them, tears trickling from the corners.

No matter. Soon they'd be rid of him for good.

Small whimpers and gasps left Acacius's throat as Laith continued the beating, but aside from a few weak pleas, the prince didn't speak, or even look their way. Like he was only waiting for it to end. Their blows slowed, the enjoyment fading as the royal seemed to detach himself from the moment. Laith huffed. Even bound and beaten, Acacius was still ruining their day.

Ignoring the blank look on the prince's face, Laith drew their knife, cutting away Acacius's clothing. Even if that didn't get a reaction, it served the practical purpose of making things a shade easier on the slavers.

The prince lay very still, his breaths small and shaky as Laith removed the ruined clothing. And underneath the silk... Laith was unprepared for what was underneath the silk.

Old bruises covered Acacius's torso, scars layered beneath, some fresher than others. The wounds didn't stop there; more scars scattered the prince's legs, some framed in a sickly yellow-green.

"What is this?" Laith whispered, the question half-directed at themselves. Acacius didn't answer, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that looked glazed over.

Seeing another wound on their prisoner's shoulder, this one oddly shaped, Laith grabbed Acacius's upper arm and rolled him onto his stomach. The prince answered the action with a startled cry.

"N-no, please, please don't---"

"Shut up," Laith hissed, taking in the prince's back. It seemed the brat had been whipped before, and on more than one occasion by the looks of it. They couldn't say whether the dark feeling welling up in them was more akin to pity, or bitterness that they hadn't been able to witness the lashings themselves.

Starker than the whip scars was the image burned into Acacius's back. An intricate pattern, asymmetrical and varied in color, like its artist had begun months or even years ago and was still perfecting it. The newest mark was still a bright, skinless red, as if it had been smouldering mere hours ago.

Laith let out a disgusted sigh, turning their back on the sniveling prince. It seemed Acacius had been getting what he'd deserved for some time now, but it had done little to improve his attitude. Who had done this to him? Could it have been the regent? Why was pity seeping into them, like poison from a soured wound?

Acacius didn't deserve their pity. Wounded or not, he still paraded the palace ground like a bejeweled goose, hissing and biting at anyone he seemed lesser.

But why? came a small voice inside them. Why put on such an arrogant mask?

It didn't matter. Wounded or not, the prince should have better respected Laith and their peers.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Laith pushed it open an inch to peer out into the darkness. A pale woman with a shaved head stood on the other side, wearing clothing that was clearly foreign, despite its simplicity.

"Here to collect your gift?" they said, and the woman smiled.

"Aye. The North'll pay a pretty penny for your little heir."

"Wonderful," Laith said, but the word felt insincere. They couldn't let themselves doubt their plans now, the deed was nearly done. They opened the door further. "Take him then. Let's have this over with."

Acacius lay still on the ground, though his hands were trembling. He'd ceased his begging and was now crying softly and hells, Laith couldn't stand to hear it.

They bent over the prince, grabbing a fistful of his hair and roughly stuffing the gag back into his mouth to muffle that damned pathetic noise.

"Take him," they said again, more insistently. "Take him and be gone."

"S'wrong with his back?"

"I don't know." Laith shook their head. "Take him."

"Not a word of me," they said. "You'll make a fortune off him, all I ask is my name and face remain unknown."

"Alright, alright." The woman seized the rope, the leash Laith had formed, and tugged on it, forcing the prince to his feet. Acacius's eyes were teary and pleading, but Laith turned their back on him.

"Your wish is my command," the woman chuckled, leading the prince towards the rocky shore, where her boat lay waiting. A sob escaped Acacius as he passed the threshold.

"Wait." Hells, what were they saying? They wanted nothing more to do with the royal. They needed him gone, but when the prince turned back to look at them, the flash of hope in his eyes wrenched in their gut.

Those damned eyes. Those haughty, arrogant, judging eyes.

"Remember your place," said Prince Acacius.

"Nevermind," Laith said quickly. "Go. Get him out of here."

The woman tugged on the leash, nearly causing the bound royal to stumble. Fresh tears wet Acacius's cheeks, but Laith looked away, pretended not to see.

They could pretend a lot of things. Surprise at the prince's sudden disappearance, sorrow and outrage at his captivity in the enemy North. For themselves, they'd pretend they were satisfied, that they'd never seen Acacius's scars.

And as they watched the skiff disappear on the dark waters of the river, they pretended they had no regrets.

#:) we love some arrogant royal suffering #royal whump #anyways i can no way afford to make this a series lol so it'll probably sit at a one-off for a very long time (if i even write more at all)#ooh honestly if we wanna play a game of 'whump telephone' or pass the page or whatever someone else can write the next part #and then another person can write the next part #and so on #those are fun i do them with my sister sometimes #anyways GREAT prompt thank you howls-ghost #royal whumpee #captivity #past torture #whump fic #fantasy whump #beating #begging

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emmettland · 23 days

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Grievances

Summary: Prince Logan wants to be a good son and a good person. His father shows him that he cannot be both.

CW: royal whump, minor whumpee, adult whumper, prince whumpee, king whumper, family whump, child abuse, manipulation, public punishment, public humiliation, restraints, begging, crying, tearing whumpee’s clothes open (not full nudity), cutting whumpee’s skin, spanking (through clothing), mouth whump, forcing whumpee to be temporarily mute, inaccurate views on mutism

This story is minor whump. Logan is fourteen in this. Do not read if that makes you uncomfortable.

Also, this does take place in APOP, but I didn't include any of the main lore to keep things simple. That's why Logan doesn't have his Corrupted arm, Blessings are not mentioned or used, etc.

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good son. He endured his lessons with an impersonal air, careful not to stray too close to either apathy or indulgence. He spoke down to those beneath him and bowed for those above – because, to Logan’s surprise, his crown did not make him worthy of respect in the eyes of his father’s court. Nor did being a snot-nosed prince earn him the respect of his people.

He wanted to be a good prince who would grow up to be a good king. For that, he needed to be a good son.

David tried to reshape him. Logan was to be diplomatic, charming. Yet he was to approach every conversation as if it were a secret battle. Every little thing that Logan paid no mind to suddenly mattered. A well-timed smile could secure victory. A slip of the tongue could admit defeat.

He struggled. The boy’s instinct was to be honest about what he thought and how he felt, not wrap up the truth in lies and niceties. But after countless beatings and humiliating public displays, Logan learned to hold his tongue. He learned the power of words and their hidden meanings, though he still could not quite grasp them. He watched as his father brought enemies to his side and turned allies against each other, weighed down with the dreadful knowledge that he would one day be doing the same.

David had kept him away from the people’s grievances for a reason. Logan had heard it many times, before and after each punishment; he was too soft. His heart beckoned him to ease the suffering of others before his own. It lay waste to his judgment, leading to selfish choices that benefited his conscience more than they did his people.

The people who mattered, of course.

Prisoners did not matter, but the king was generous enough to listen to their woes once a month, and grant the requests of a select few. This time, Logan was in attendance. He had recently turned fourteen, standing a bit taller now that he was leaving adolescence behind. Their audience consisted of the king’s court, here to oversee the proceedings and judge the young prince’s performance. Logan tried not to be intimidated by them.

David waved his hand to allow the first prisoner inside of the throne room, where they would kneel at the bottom of the steps and lay out their burdens to the king.

They will do anything to garner sympathy, David had told him earlier. It is very rare that I find one who was either falsely arrested or worthy of being freed. Remember, son, they would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

As the first prisoner was escorted through the doorway, flanked by two of the royal guard, Logan took in their appearance. The man appeared to be near his father’s age, though that could be due to his gaunt features. Dark, matted hair fell over his face as he approached with his head down, wrists bound in front of him. The chains connecting his manacles rattled, a grating noise that Logan wanted to lean away from.

The prisoner nearly lost balance when he knelt down. Logan could tell he was starving. A flicker of unease threatened his composure. What crime did this man commit?

David gestured for the prisoner to speak.

“I do not expect mercy for myself,” the prisoner rasped. His voice was just as unpleasant as the chains, chafing Logan’s ears. “I know that my crime is unforgivable. All I ask is that my daughter be spared. She–” He burst into a coughing fit.

Logan glanced at his father. David nodded slightly, giving permission.

“And why,” Logan said, as royally as he could muster, “is your daughter here?”

The prisoner’s expression was mostly concealed by hair. But his voice tightened as he gathered his breath and said, “She is mute and cannot speak for herself. The guards who arrested us–they saw the blood on her hands and thought s-she–”

Another coughing fit seized him, this time producing blood. Logan realized it was not only starvation causing his body to decline. He waited until the man finished.

“--thought she was an accomplice. I swear to you, she had no part.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, in the way that a prince should when conveying his rightful skepticism. “And we should simply take the word of a criminal?”

“Not just a criminal. Her father,” the man said, more strained.

Logan scoffed. “All the more reason to lie for her then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, David looked pleased. It meant he was saying the right things, even though it felt wrong. But that was just one of the many flaws that his father had pointed out; his heart tried to mislead him.

The prisoner slowly shook his head. “She cannot speak, but–but she can write. If she was allowed to write what happened–”

“Can she write Helson?”

This was David’s question. It gave Logan pause, wondering why that would even be a question. If she was a Helsoner, and if she could write, why would it not be in the language of their country?

The prisoner seemed to flinch from the question.

“No. Only Born.”

“Because she is part Borna,” David said, answering the next question Logan had. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You brought her to Helsoner because it was safer, and then murdered your own son when he tried to show his love for her.”

“That was not love,” the prisoner spat. “She did not want it. She kept refusing–”

“Because she was raised by snakes,” David cut in. “How could you expect her to embrace him when she has been manipulated? You should have been patient with them both, and yet you chose Borna blood over your own.”

The prisoner’s hands curled into fists. “I loved my son.”

David’s smile was cold. “Not as much as you loved your mistake.”

Logan was shaken. He understood now why the prisoner was being starved. He had sinned by having a child with a Borna and then committed one of the most egregious sins of all; killing your own flesh and blood.

But the half-Borna girl did not ask to be born. She did not, Logan presumes, choose to be mute out of stubbornness or secrecy. He had read once, when he still snuck out books from the library unrelated to his studies, that losing your voice was a result of something truly horrific. You no longer spoke because the fear was unspeakable, as if your mind wanted to prevent you from uttering a word about what happened. It was a sickness, not a choice.

Logan understood all too well. There were times where his throat refused to work, no matter how much he wanted it to. He could sympathize with the girl, and perhaps it was making him soft. But it was his father’s own words that led to his decision:

They would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

Here was the father, in chains for his crime. Yet his daughter was in chains as well, and they never asked her why there was blood on her hands. Simply having Borna blood, while an unfortunate fate to have, was not a crime.

“Please,” the father begged. “She is innocent.”

“She speaks–writes in a language none of us care to know,” David said, dismissive of the man’s pain and his daughter’s plight. He kept it hidden, but Logan knew he took pleasure in it. Just as he took pleasure in bringing his own son to tears.

The injustice of it all swelled in Logan’s chest. He fought to keep his voice steady as he stepped forward and said, “I read Born. We will let her write, and I will translate.”

This was the wrong thing to say.

The king’s court remained silent, but visibly expressed their displeasure. Some of them were bold enough to shake their heads in disappointment.

Logan turned towards his father. Apprehensive, but firm in his stance. It would earn him a severe punishment later, but he could handle the pain. He could sleep with aching bruises and stinging lashes, so long as the image of an innocent girl wasting away in chains did not haunt his nightmares.

He expected David to oppose him. After all, only the king could grant the prisoner’s request. But he was prepared for an argument, and the longer that it went on, the more embarrassing it would be for his father. He was supposed to have Logan under control; this display of defiance proved otherwise.

It all came down to appearances, as David often told him. The boy could not help feeling a bit smug for using his father’s own tactics against him.

David gave him a long, unreadable look before turning back to the prisoner, speaking with a note of finality. “My son is willing to show mercy towards your daughter. I will grant your request, but not out of mercy. We shall see how innocent she truly is after receiving her word.”

Logan’s smile fell in an instant. Of course. Even if the girl was innocent, her words could be twisted against her. Nobody was going to trust a half-Borna to tell the truth; it made no difference whether she was allowed to tell it or not.

The girl’s father had to have known this. Yet when he finally raised his head, his eyes were soft with gratitude, and they were looking at Logan.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

His face carved itself into Logan’s memory. That was before the guards came forward and turned the man around, leading him out of the throne room. The sound of chains could be heard in the corridor, followed by a hoarse sob.

Logan did not even know his name.

—

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good person. He listened to a total of twenty prisoners beg for mercy, and did his best to be fair. King David ended up granting more requests that day than he had ever granted in a year.

He also broke a few of his son’s ribs, but Logan still considered it a victory.

About a month later, the splitting pain in Logan’s sides had faded into a dull ache, and he could stand straight again. He was surprised when his father invited him to another grievance hearing, but did not refuse. He dared to hope that he had impressed both the king and his court. There might not even be a beating this time.

With that in mind, Logan was in high spirits when he entered the throne room, unable to stop grinning. This was proof that he could be both a good son and a good person. That he did not need to compromise his morals to be a ruler worthy of respect. David was simply lost in the traditional ways, but now that he was starting to value his son’s opinions, Logan could show him the right way.

He made to ascend the stairs leading up to the two thrones, letting his guards stay at the bottom. But before he could reach the first step, his arm was grabbed.

Unhand me, he was about to order. It came out as a startled yelp when his arm was wrenched behind him, and another set of hands circled his waist. Logan failed to squirm out of their hold before something heavy and metal clicked into place, worn like a thick belt. He gasped as a manacle was attached to the wrist of his only hand, the chain looped through a ring in the belt.

The guards stepped away. When he tried to move his arm out from behind him, the chain went taught, and his muscles throbbed in protest.

Frazzled, the young prince’s wide eyes darted around the room. His father’s court had taken their places already, a mixture of satisfied looks and smug whispers. His father, Logan realized, had walked past him while he was being restrained and now sat on his throne, the perfect image of a vindictive king.

Logan snarled at him like a trapped beast. “Father! What is the meaning of this?!”

David’s eyes looked colder than usual. “You wanted to grant mercy to our prisoners, and I allowed it,” he said, smirking. “Now, we will see if that mercy was deserved.”

“What do you mean? I only granted it to those who–”

“Send in the first one,” David said to the guards.

Logan whipped around. There was a young man approaching, keeping his head bowed in the presence of royals. Logan recognized him as one of the prisoners that were freed; the circle of bruises on his wrists had not yet faded. He staggered away from the man when he got close, baring his teeth in warning. The man just smiled back.

“You are a freed man now,” David said, voice filling the room. “You told my son that you were wrongly imprisoned for defending yourself against a thief. What is the truth?”

Logan stared at the man, heart in his throat. He remembered the prisoner’s emotional tale, the guilty tears that stained his cheeks when he spoke of the unintended killing. He did not mean to do it; the thief was armed, and the man simply panicked. Logan could not fault him for wanting to live.

But now, the man’s eyes gleamed with spite. “The truth,” he said, far too proudly, “is that the bastard made me lose my job. I took his wife to lure him into my home, and then I stabbed him until he was more holes than flesh.”

Logan’s stomach twisted.

That–that was far more repulsive than the crime he alleged.

He turned on his father. “You knew all along! Had you just spoken up–”

“You would have accused me of being cruel,” David said. “But no, my son, I did not know until the man later confessed. I could only tell that he was lying, as you should be able to do by now.”

Logan’s pride flared in response, and then quickly deflated. His father was right. How could he have been so naive? He trusted his instincts to warn him of dishonesty, yet this vengeful killer slipped right past him. He only had himself to blame.

“Tell me,” David said, speaking to the killer. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of man you really are?”

The killer unsheathed his dagger.

“I would like to cut off a few of those layers and mark up that perfect skin.”

Logan’s mouth was agape. He could not believe–he did not want to believe this was happening. That his father would let him be tortured by a sadistic murderer just to teach him a lesson. He stepped forward in a hurry, desperate to earn his father’s forgiveness.

“Father, please–”

“Your request has been granted,” David declared.

The boy’s shrill scream echoed off the walls when the killer grabbed him, grinning as he raised the dagger. “Keep moving and this might go in you,” he warned, pressing the blade to the front of Logan’s vest.

Logan was too afraid to listen. He kicked the man’s legs, screaming again when he was shoved down to the marble floor. The man’s weight pressed down on his thighs, keeping his legs flat as the buttons of his vest were snapped off. The fabric split open, exposing the intricately laced tunic underneath. With a single movement, the laces were cut, falling to the sides as the tunic was forced to open.

Logan thrashed against him, uncaring of the sharp blade. It was not the pain he feared. It was the humiliation of it all. A prince being pinned down in his own home, while a filthy criminal rips off his clothing. It was depraved that his father would allow it, but nobody else seemed to agree. David’s courtiers looked viciously pleased.

David looked no different.

His throat and sternum were exposed. The indecency made Logan flush, now panting from his efforts to escape. The killer seemed to enjoy it. This time, the tip of the blade met skin instead of fabric, and left a throbbing trail down Logan’s chest as it dragged across his skin. Blood rose to the surface.

Logan’s eyes were burning. “Stop! Father, please stop this!”

“Should have listened to Daddy sooner,” the killer sneered.

Another line was carved over the first one, deeper this time. Pain swelled, twisted in with fear and shame. Logan could not bear to think about how he looked right now. Being cut into, being forced into an immodest state, all while he cried and screamed; this was a punishment fit for a prisoner, not a prince.

Yet nobody came to his defense.

It was David who, after two more cuts, told the killer to stop. Logan rolled over as soon as he did, stifling a sob. He could not bring himself to look when his father told the next freed prisoner to enter.

“You are a freed woman now,” he heard David say. “You told my son that you were remorseful. That you were blinded by rage when you defiled one of the statues of my visage. What is the truth?”

Logan was hefted up by the guards. He fought to swallow back tears, thick in his throat and still rolling down his cheeks. Surely, this one could not be as bad. She was just a petty vandal, not a hardened criminal worth keeping in the dungeons.

Truthfully, though it was not the reason he gave for extending mercy, he found it amusing to think of David’s stone face being pissed on.

Now, however, there was nothing to be amused about. Not when the woman’s lip curled back with apparent malice. “The truth is that all you royals make me sick, and I would have smacked your boy silly for disrespecting his father.”

Logan stared at her in shock. “I gave you mercy!”

The woman scoffed. “You have no idea what mercy is.”

“Tell me,” David said, humored by the woman’s attitude. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of woman you really are?”

She narrowed her eyes at Logan. “A good spanking should suffice.”

“No,” he blurted out, stepping back when she came near. His legs were trembling. “No, you are not my father, that is not for you to–”

“Your request has been granted,” said David.

A guard stepped behind to hold him. His chain rattled during the struggle. The boy shouted and cursed and flailed his legs, much like a child having a tantrum. But he was almost a man now, and the thought of being spanked in front of his father’s court, the guards, any servant who passed by the throne room–it was too much.

It was no use. He was shoved to the floor once again, a gloved hand forcing his head down while another pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. The woman did not pull his leggings down–thank Fotia for that–but she knelt behind him where he could not see. Raising her hand to strike him as he writhed on the floor.

“No,” he cried out. “No–stop–get away–no!”

His voice broke off into a sob when her hand made contact, followed by a sharp sting in his backside. It did not hurt as much as the bleeding lines in his chest did. He tried to concentrate on that. Tried to listen for the small drops of blood hitting the marble instead of the mortifying smack smack smack coming from behind him.

He did not count how many there were, as he would have with his father.

Eventually, she was told to stop. He heard the woman let out a harsh breath before standing up, and the strong hands holding him down were gone. The boy grit his teeth, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs.

His backside was aflame. His cheeks were burning. Part of his torso was exposed and still bleeding. Every inch of his skin felt tainted, sinful. The indignant anger he felt was nothing compared to the shame coiling in his stomach, writhing like a ball of snakes. He thought it would devour him.

He looked up at his father silently, knowing his pleas would be ignored. David looked satisfied, but not placated just yet. “If you stay still and do not need to be held down,” he told his son, “I will make this the last request. Otherwise, there will be more.”

Logan’s lip quivered as he stifled a sob. He nodded to show he understood.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Logan did not turn around. He kept his head down as they stopped near him, dropping in a bow for the king. When the boy finally chose to look, his eyes went wide. He recognized the man’s face; it was the father who killed his Helson son to protect his half-Borna daughter.

No, his heart whispered. Not you as well. Please, not you.

“You are a freed man now,” he heard David say, but that made no sense. Only the daughter was found to be innocent, after she was allowed to share her story. “Tell my son why that is.”

Logan looked up at the man, dreading his answer. He was not nearly as thin as before and his hair had been combed, now tied back in a low ponytail. Logan wanted to be happy for him.

The man hesitated. “Your father promised to free me if I did this,” he said, heavy with remorse. There was a vial of some liquid in his hand.

Logan stepped back without thinking. “Do what? What is that?”

“Tell me,” David said, like a blade descending. “What would you like to do to my son, to repay him for his kindness and live freely with your daughter?”

The vial in the man’s hand shook. He spoke as if reciting by memory.

“I would like his voice to be gone as well.”

Logan looked to his father. Opened his mouth. David glanced at the guards, an unspoken reminder of his offer. Stay still and his punishment would end.

“Your request has been granted,” David told the man.

Logan forced himself not to move. He heard the cork of the vial being popped, and nearly recoiled at the foul odor that escaped. The man stepped in front of him, gently taking the boy’s chin between his fingers to tilt it up. More tears slipped down Logan’s blotchy face as it was lifted, looking up at the man with resignation.

He was not just a man. He was a father. He put his daughter’s freedom before his own, and now he had the chance to be free as well. What was one boy’s suffering compared to his daughter? A part of Logan knew this. Yet his heart still hardened into a cold, tight fist of fury when the rim of the vial touched his lips. He let them part.

The pain was instant.

It was like liquid fire. It scalded the inside of his mouth and raked over his tongue, like hundreds of stingers pricking at once. Logan was torn between choking and screaming, somehow managing both when his mouth was pried open and the rest of the vial emptied inside.

It burned everywhere. Down his throat. In his nostrils. Behind his eyes, where he could no longer see past his tears, squeezing them shut as he swallowed the last of the liquid in agony. The pain made his head throb. He clutched it with his hand once his restraints were taken off; he did not see the man’s expression before he left.

The prince fell to his knees. He was reduced to short, wheezing breaths, feeling his senses go fuzzy from the lack of air. But after a moment, his throat went numb. It started there and worked up to the inside of his mouth. His tongue felt heavy, useless. The fire was snuffed out, and the boy could breathe again. He opened his mouth to speak.

All that came out was a soft, strained gasp.

—

Logan’s voice returned in the morning. Before it did, every member of David’s court took great lengths to let him know how much they enjoyed his silence. The guards who were present for his punishment shared the details with their teammates, laughing at their prince’s expense. Even a few servants were audacious enough to make a snide comment that Logan could not respond to.

He stayed in his chambers for most of it.

When sunlight snuck into the room, Logan turned away from it. He lay flat on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He wondered if it was possible to suffocate himself with it. His body’s self-preservation would most likely prevent that.

The sound of a key turning interrupted his morbid thoughts. Logan assumed it was his personal attendant come to wake him, but the footsteps sounded different. Heavier, like boots, not the soft pad of a servant’s slippers.

It was certainly not a servant who laid a hand on his back.

Logan stiffened. Even through his sleep clothes, his father’s hand was an unwelcome touch. Or so he told himself. The bed dipped with David’s weight as he sat next to his son, and despite all of Logan’s anger towards him, his body relaxed. This was not another punishment; this was the part that came after.

David’s voice was soft. Soothing. “I will grant one more request, only to you.”

Logan wanted to stay upset with him. In his mind, his request was some kind of punishment for his father, one that might make up for what he put his son through. Or it was something personal and gutting, an attack disguised as a request. The type that David might deliver had their positions been reversed.

The hand on his back started rubbing in circles.

Logan’s anger wavered.

David did not offer him kindness out of remorse, but he still offered. No matter how badly he hurt his son, or how horribly he embarrassed him, Logan could expect mercy once he earned it. After every punishment, Logan was treated to a side of his father that cared for him. A part of David that did not utterly loathe his son.

It was the closest thing he had to his father’s love, and Logan could not bear to lose it.

He raised his head to look up at David. Already, there were tears in his eyes. His father was here to help, and he was grateful. He had already forgiven David, and now he needed his father to do the same.

The boy’s voice cracked with emotion. “Can you please forgive me?”

He could never quite tell what his father was feeling. But he wanted to believe it was something close to affection when David smiled at him. Logan’s chest felt lighter, his guilt lifted, as his father leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead.

“Your request has been granted,” David said.

my writing x my whump x a promise of purity au x ko-fi

#whumplr #whump writing #royal whump #royalty whump #minor whump #emmett whumps #whump tag #emmett writes #A Promise of Purity AU #emmett ocs #logan oc #david oc #ty for liking/rbing if you do!#A Promise of Purity AU (writing)

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secretwhumplair · 10 months

Text

Rescue

1,147 words | Heir apparent

Content | Captivity, kidnapping, exhaustion, broken bones, whumper turned caretaker, past parental abuse, implied: beating, whipping, sleep deprivation

Notes | New series! How exciting! Meet an unfortunate kidnapped princeling and their shitty sorcerer parent!

(To be clear, they're shitty at parenting. They are VERY GOOD at sorcery.)

It had been days of a never-ending nightmare.

Sharru had barely hoped for his parent to come save him in any sort of a hurry to begin with, and with every hour, every blow, what hope he had faded further. It was his own fault, they would think, for being so weak and foolish as to be taken. It would do him good to learn a lesson at the hands of his captors.

His kidnappers had told him they had given their demands, but even they knew. »How long do you think their Majesty is going to leave you to us?« they’d laugh, clearly thrilled to have the son of their beloathed ruler at their mercy. »Best not waste our time together, huh?«

And they certainly didn’t.

He had at first tried to hold himself together, be as dignified as the heir apparent was expected to be, but that mask fell all too soon. He was used to pain, but not like this.

He was so exhausted - he could not even tell whether from sleep deprivation or pain - his head wasn’t working right, at any rate, so that he couldn’t figure out what it was that finally drew them away, he could only whimper in minimal relief. If only they hadn’t left him chained up to the walls by his wrists, his back bleeding from the last whipping.

There were screams, but they weren’t his screams, for once.

It didn’t last long. Someone entered the cell, and he knew his reprieve had come to an end. He couldn’t even be bothered to look up, he just attempted one more useless »Please…«, unsure if it was audible at all.

But no - he recognized that step.

He was sure who it was when he felt the pulse of heat of his parent’s magic at his wrists. The manacles fell away as if he hadn’t already tried everything to make them. He had never been able to reproduce the magic that flowed so amply through their veins, just one of the many ways in which he was a disappointment.

He collapsed.

He didn’t expect to be caught; he never had been. If anything, he would be punished for being so weak - so stupid as to be kidnapped, so helpless as not to escape, so weak as to now collapse at their feet.

Yet somehow - somehow - a pair of warm arms closed around him and prevented him from hitting the ground. His body screamed out in pain regardless.

Crying wasn’t allowed either, but he couldn’t help it, and what difference would it make now that they’d seen what had become of him?

* It had been over twenty years since Taba had held their son, before he learned how to walk.

They hadn’t expected to do it now, despite everything. They hadn’t - they shouldn’t go soft on him. But then, and they were still reeling with the violence of the realization, it hadn’t done much to protect him, in the end.

And he certainly couldn’t walk now.

There were many things they hadn’t expected. They hadn’t expected the sheer magnitude of the terror that washed through them when they heard their son was gone. They hadn’t expected the irresistible force of rage when they were sent the demands.

It took eight days to find and reach him, accompanied by their bodyguard.

They had exhausted most of their magic in the fight, but there was enough left to set this place on fire-

But no.

They would need it to heal their son.

Their precious little son now lying in their arms.

They had always found him frail, but they- they had never-

They had told themself they were teaching him to protect himself.

They had, they realized, taught him nothing.

They lifted him up into a bridal carry, getting a pained whimper in return; his back was a bloody mess, and that wasn’t half of it. He was crying. They had often forbidden him to cry, and always he would eventually fail.

They hoped he knew he wouldn’t be punished this time.

»Round up all that are still alive,« they ordered the nearest guard on the way out. »And then burn this whole place down.«

* In the state Sharru was in, he had barely managed to comprehend that it was, in fact, his parent carrying him before he was set down.

Of course he hadn’t expected it to last; he was more bewildered it had happened at all, that he hadn’t been made to crawl out after them - a valuable lesson - or at least carried by some random guard. Maybe they wanted to make sure his shredded back, his cracked ribs ached exactly the way they wanted.

Despite all this, he couldn’t help himself. It was ridiculous, and he would likely be punished for such a blatant display of weakness, and he didn’t want it to be them, he wanted it to be someone who actually cared about him - but he nuzzled into their arm, weeping into the fabric of their shirt.

But of course, he was set down soon enough. He tried to pull himself together, to get his wits about him, like he should.

If only he wasn’t so exhausted. His eyes were burning as he tried to focus on his parent, sitting right next to him, doubtlessly disappointed beyond measure, as usual. They were in one of the army tents. With what strength he had, he tried to push himself up, half because he was supposed to, wasn’t he, half to keep his weight off his back. »I’m sorry-«

Their hand caught his shoulder and easily pushed him down. »Stop. Rest.«

He couldn’t hold back a whine, or more tears rising to his eyes. The salty liquid seeped into the cut one of them had drawn across his cheek, burning worse. There was no point in arguing, so he laid back and tried to ignore the pain, all the pain, and give in to the exhaustion and just finally sleep.

He couldn’t. They took his hand and - most of his fingers had been broken under the cruel heel of a boot - he only didn’t wail because he hadn’t the strength any more - it hurt.

Then he felt the familiar sting of heat again. Not enough to burn him or even really hurt, but only just. It took him a moment before he realized - they were healing him.

He had never gotten more magical healing than what was necessary. His parent believed there was a lesson in suffering from the consequences of one’s mistakes.

So this could only mean - oh, no. Please, no. He would be expected to resume his duties as heir at once.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

But he couldn’t argue. He couldn’t even beg - it hadn’t worked on his captors, and his parent would despise it. He could only lie back, bleeding and hurting, and quietly weep.

#whump #whump writing #captivity #parental abuse #whumper turned caretaker #royal whump #my writing #heir apparent #sharru #taba #taba how is he supposed to know that #as always there will be a happy ending and in this case it *will* involve sharru getting (mostly) away from taba #... eventually

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fulcrumwrites · 2 months

Text

Speaking is a Privilege

Summary: A prince is taken captive by a rival kingdom. The enemy king attempts to make the prisoner of war his slave, but the prince refuses to break. Luckily, he has an arsenal of tools at his disposal. The prince will soon learn his place.

CW: Medieval torture, scold’s bridle, POW, dehumanization, slavery, humiliation, brief sexist idealism from the villain

He’s a pompous brat, seethed Cor as he glared up at his enemy.

He didn’t choose to be on his knees before that ridiculous throne on a raised pedestal and that pathetic excuse of a king draped upon it. The man didn’t even sit upright and regal, deserving of his title and honor. Instead, his knees dangled over the arm, swinging in the air, with his back braced against the other arm. A goblet of wine swirled in one hand while the other picked from a gold plate of treats; the very image of aloof laziness. It was a mockery to monarchy… Ha, mockery monarchy. Okay, his brain had definitely rotted in that cell.

He didn’t choose to be kneeling before the throne, filthy and weak in chains compared to the exaggerated wealth surrounding them. No, he’d much rather be relaxing in the cold, wet dungeon, which was what he was doing before he was so rudely dragged from his cell before the brat and had his knees kicked out beneath him.

And now he had to entertain his captor’s outlandish fantasies. It’s as if he had some delusion that just because Cor was his prisoner of war, he could make him do whatever he wanted. Good thing Cor was here to set him straight.

“No.”

King Darius leaned forward, cupping a hand around his ear. “Please speak up. I can’t hear you all the way down there.”

Cor licked his chapped lips, scowling. “I said no.”

King Darius balked and placed an offended hand on his chest, like they didn’t play this game a thousand times before. “I beg your pardon. Did you just tell your king no?”

“You heard me. And you’re not my king.”

“So long as you reside in my lands I am.”

Cor rolled his eyes. ‘Reside’, he says. As if he wasn’t a prisoner and could leave anytime he wished.

King Darius dropped his legs and sat up properly. Finally. He brushed the crumbs from his lavish clothes made from the finest textiles and with bright colors that clashed so badly it made Cor’s eyes ache.

He stood and marched down the steps, looking exactly like a proud peacock. He stopped so that Cor was at his feet, peering down at him over his squashed nose. Though Cor could not stand without the guards knocking him down again, he refused to be meek and returned his gaze with his own steely glare.

King Darius threw back his head and laughed. Anger boiled in Cor’s gut as he willed himself not to tackle his enemy. They danced to this song too. Many. Times. Darius would make some ridiculous demand, Cor would be defiant and, instead of lashing out in anger, Darius would laugh in his face and force him to do it anyway. It was exhausting to be so stubborn and yet so powerless. A captive prince was nothing more than a slave in the hands of his enemy.

Still chuckling, Darius fisted Cor’s dark hair at the roots and dragged him to his feet. The manacles around his wrists clinked as Cor instinctively clawed at the hand pulling his hair. A guard stepped forward, but was halted by Darius’ dismissive wave.

“You may be weary of this game, Cor, but I’m not.” The king’s breath was hot on his skin. He jerked him by his hair once, twice. Unbidden tears pooled in his eyes. Cor furiously blinked them away. “In fact, I find your obstinance amusing. No slave would dare treat his master this way, and yet you continue to do so even though you know I hold all the cards. It’s truly a marvel you can keep this up for as long as you have.”

Cor gritted his teeth. “I’m not your slave.”

Darius released his hair and gently patted the spot as if he were a child or a dog. “Believe it however long you’d like, Cor. It has no effect on reality.”

Darius walked off to the left. Cor watched him with suspicion. He stayed standing under his own power, the granite tiles cold beneath his bare feet. Darius approached a silent servant carrying a wooden box. His neutral expression betrayed nothing to Cor.

“You know how this ends, Cor,” the king continued as he opened the lid. “You defy me, and I get what I want anyway because I am king and you are my prisoner.”

He carefully lifted the contents out. It was a twisted shape made entirely out of metal, like a birdcage only the bottom was missing. A short chain dangled from it. Darius turned it in his hands, nodding approvingly.

“As we speak, the palace is scrambling to finish preparing for the feast I demanded. We all have a role to play, and yours is to be at my side: a symbol of my coming victory over your kingdom. I originally planned for you to be chained to my throne merely by your cuffs so you could sit or stand as you please. Now I realize I can’t have you ruining the pleasure of my guests.”

Cor swallowed, throat suddenly dry by more than just a lack of water. “What the hell is that?”

Darius tore his eyes away from the contraption, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. “What, your country doesn’t use scold’s bridles? How very primitive. What do you do when women nag?” Darius shook his head. “It’s a device that locks over one’s head. This piece of metal right here slides inside the mouth, effectively silencing the wearer. This little chain is a handy thing to pull the wearer along or attach them to a wall for all to ogle. Makes a woman think twice about running her mouth.”

Darius laughed again. Cor didn’t see the humor in it. In his father’s kingdom, women were always treated with respect and dignity. Such a punishment was unheard of. As if his hatred for Darius and his kingdom couldn’t run deeper…

Cor was trembling with anger as the king approached him. If he could think through the white hot rage, he would’ve realized the danger. As two guards grabbed his arms, Cor realized what was happening.

“Wait. What are you–?” Darius raised the scold’s bridle over his head dramatically as if crowning him. Cor’s eyes followed it and he began to thrash against the guards’ grips. “Get that thing away from me. You’re crazy, Darius. Don’t you dare.”

His words did nothing as the metal cage slotted over his head. Yet it was the only defense Cor had, and he’ll use it till his last breath.

“You sick, pathetic excuse for a king! You’re a pompous, spoiled brat unfit to rule! We’ll win the war, and it’ll be you at our mer–”

“That’s quite enough now.”

The thick stub of metal was shoved between his lips and held down his tongue as Darius pushed together the sides. It tasted of rust. There was a click by his ear, followed by tugging as the king checked the strength of the padlock. A finger tilted his chin up to look Darius straight into his blue murky green eyes.

“Speaking is a privilege. By all means, be defiant. You know deep down your privileges are mine to give and take away.”

Heat crawled up Cor’s cheeks as he was forced to stand there silent, looking through metal bars as Darius examined him like an exotic animal in its enclosure.

The king nodded and smiled. “Yes, I think this will do.” He tugged the chain as if urging a dog to follow. “Come along, Cor. Let’s get you set up.”

The boy had no choice but to let himself be led by a leash up the stairs to the throne. A forceful yank on the chain threw him onto his knees as Darius attached it to the base of his throne.

“A shame you don’t understand the workings of a scold’s bridle,” Darius remarked as he fiddled with the chain. “Men in my kingdom consider this one of the upmost embarrassments should the bridle be used on them.”

Once he was done, Darius gripped the device, twisting it so Cor was forced to look up at him.

“My guests will be arriving in one hour. Your only task of the night is to be my trophy, a symbol of my power and victory. I would tell you to behave, but we both know you don’t have it in you. That’s why this–” he shook the bridle, causing Cor’s mouth and jaw to ache–“does all the work for you.”

With a triumphant smile, he released the bridle and turned his back, leaving Cor tethered to his throne. “Don’t go anywhere!” he couldn’t resist calling over his shoulder as he and his guards and servants swept out of the throne room.

Left unguarded, of course Cor couldn’t let the opportunity pass up. He raised his chained hands to his face and pulled at the metal encasing his head. It refused to budge. He wound his hands in the chain and pulled with what strength he had as if uprooting a stubborn weed. After a few minutes of struggling, Cor sagged against his heels, muscles burning, hands red, face sore.

Instead of despair or fear as others may feel in his situation, hate burned through every emotion like a purifying blaze. He hated Darius. He hated the guest who would come in and ogle. He hated this kingdom.

He hated losing.

Darius was right. No matter how hard Cor fought, his enemy would win. He was the puppet-master holding his strings. The one who held every card in the palm of his hand. The one who could strip a prince of all his honor.

The one who always wins.

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