Content: whipping/flogging, torture, royal whumpee, multiple whumpers, defiant whumpee, suspended by chains, medieval whump
In the haze of aching pain, time was impossible to tell. All he knew for certain was that he had been brought the trays of food near a dozen times, forced to contort as best he could to eat like an animal as he lay bound.
His rib had begun to heal — the shooting pain of movement had begun to lessen as he was forced to lie mostly immobile.
He tried to remember better times. Riding with his father on the hunt, sparring with his men, bright feast days. But the memories were dim, faint as if from another life. His world had been reduced to a dark cell, sore joints, and bland gruel.
But this respite, if such it was, from active torture was short-lived. The dark-haired soldier wrenched the cell door open, approaching him with a drawn knife.
Cinn looked up at him, arching an eyebrow. “Your comrade tried that and was punished for it, you know.”
The man ignored him, slicing the rope that kept him contorted and unlocking the manacles on his feet. “Stand up.”
His knees ached as he straightened his legs, slowly climbing to his feet. His legs were unsteady and he nearly fell, stopped only by the soldier roughly grabbing his arm.
Every step, his muscles protested, but he followed the soldier along the familiar corridor to the torture chamber. The general was there, pacing across the stone flagons. The other soldier was absent.
Cinn’s hands were unchained.
He had not been unbound or unfettered, able to stand, in so long. The humiliation and anger and helplessness boiled over.
He lashed out, striking the soldier in the face.
The man’s eyes flashed with a brief moment of anger and he brought his knee up hard, driving it into Cinn’s crotch. The young king doubled over in pain, a strangled cry escaping his throat.
As he was incapacitated from the sudden blinding pain, the soldier grabbed his arm to force it above his head. By the time the pain of the blow subsided, his wrists were secured in manacles hanging from a ceiling beam, an arm’s width apart and a foot above his head. A piece of wood was forced between his teeth and secured with a length of rope behind his head.
The soldier removed something from his belt and the young king saw it was a whip of braided rope, multiple thongs dangling from the plaited base. He moved out of Cinn’s field of vision.
That explained the wood. He couldn’t beg if he bit through his tongue, after all.
The general’s footsteps continued to pace. “Begin with ten.”
The lash struck, tearing streaks of pain across his back. Cinn gritted his teeth, clamping down on the piece of wood.
Another, and his body jerked as the pain redoubled. The rough rope tore across his back, abrading his skin.
A third blow. He wrapped his hands around the chains holding his arms up, the cold metal biting into his palms.
Four… five. The pause between each blow was almost as unbearable as the pain of the strikes.
Six… seven. Each strike sent shooting agony through his body.
Eight. It was worse than the beating in his capitol. Every nerve in his body was alight.
Nine. Had that only been mere weeks ago?
The blows ceased. The general strode around him, stopping where he could face the suspended prisoner and removed the wood from Cinn’s mouth with a harsh yank.
The damned question again. His nostrils flared and he forced the answer through clenched teeth. “My name. Is Cinn!”
The general sighed. He shoved the wood back in the young man’s mouth and nodded to the soldier.
The whip struck again. Over and over. His screams and whimpers of pain were muffled by the wooden gag.
He counted ten blows. After the tenth, he relaxed, just a little.
Then another lash struck.
His body bucked in unexpected pain and he stumbled a half step forward.
His legs quaked and he lost his balance.
His weight hung from his wrists and he could not regain his footing.
The flogging continued. Blow after blow, abrading his raw and bleeding back, sending agony throughout his body.
Then it stopped. He waited for another blow but the general strode forward again and removed the gag.
Cinn got his feet back under him and met the general’s gaze. Hate and pain blazed in his eyes as he choked out his reply. “Cinn. I am Cinn.”
The general looked disgusted and frustrated.
Wood back in his mouth, he braced himself.
The blows began again. His breathing became labored, his lungs burned. He took in what air he could through his nose between the lashes, yet it did not feel like enough.
His vision danced with spots. It felt like his insides would burst from the pain.
A respite. The question again.
He screamed his answer in pain and rage. “Cinn!”
The general struck him across the face and he tasted blood. “You will beg, boy. Beg!”
Cinn spat the blood at him. “No!”
A stinging slap across his face again. Then the gag.
Tears of pain streamed down his face and a whimper choked from his throat around the wood.
The soldier behind him raised the whip again and brought it down across his shoulderblades.
Across his arms as they held him in place, stretched out and exposed for unrelenting suffering.
Across his back over and over.
His legs gave out and he hung from the chains once more.
There was no past, no future. Only the blazing pain of the whip striking him over and over and over.
A pause. Again: “What is your name?” The general’s voice grew impatient.
Choking, he spat it out. “Cinn.”
Again the gag, like a bit for a horse.
The whip struck again. He felt another span of his skin split open.
Rivulets of blood trickled down his ribs, the sensation a strange contrast to the blinding pain.
Again and again, the whip carving his back to shreds.
Every pause between blows, it felt like he was drifting from his body.
Every blow, he was slammed back into it with bright pain.
The general faced him again, removed the gag. “Your name.”
Sweat and tears mingled on his face as he forced his eyes upwards to the man’s gnarled face. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Cinn.”
“Gah!” The general’s exclamation, frustrated, startled him. The man’s face was flushed dark with rage.
Cinn smiled then, bloody and broken though he was. Another round of beating would be the end, he was sure.
But instead of the gag and the lash, he was released from the manacles that held him suspended.
He collapsed to the floor.
“Take him to his cell.” The general turned on his heel to leave the chamber. “He will wish he had given in here.”
gamechangershow
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
