Intro post I guess? This is my first time making a side blog so hopefully I’m doing it right
This is basically where I’m going to be putting my whump-y content so it’s not on my main blog
What to expect:
Sketches
Writing (mostly OCs)
My longer stories:
For His Kingdom (Tumblr Masterlist) (main whump story AO3) (recovery/romance continuation AO3)
The Prisoner Prince (Masterlist; semi-abandoned)
My writing can also be found on AO3 though I don’t update it there quite as frequently because I try to do larger chapters while the parts posted here are often smaller scenes
Art series:
Hot Rangers in Chains aka Plinko Pinup (Masterlist)
Favorite whump things to write/draw:
Chain/bound whump
Whipping whump
Stress position whump
Forced to kneel
Royal whump
Slave whump
Medieval whump (pretty much everything I write will technically be medieval or medieval-adjacent in setting)
What I will not post:
Sexual violence
Explicit nudity/nsfw (with the exception of occasional artistic non-explicit nudity)*
Body horror
Extreme mutilation or disfigurement (at least of the main characters)
Eye stuff or teeth stuff
Domestic violence
Abuse of minors
*I will be writing some consensual caretaker x whumpee romance in my stories, but the scenes posted as part of the main story will stay on the safe side of explicit. More explicit scenes/art will be on AO3 as “bonus content”
I will not be doing any commissions for any of this content; this is just for my enjoyment as I feel like it (feel free to send suggestions though!)
A whump one-shot focusing on my OC, Anselm. A prince whose father was recently overthrown in the course of a plot that Anselm himself was a part of, before the prince was betrayed by the conspirators.
Includes: collars and chains, humiliation, drugs/ poison. Prince/royal whumpee and kind of creepy/intimate usurper whumper who is his maternal aunt.
~~~
“But what kind of aunt would I be if I didn’t care for all that I have left of my sister?” Crooned the usurper with a syrupy smile as she caressed his face, and then her touch became sharp. She dug her talons into his jaw. “Even if he has his loathsome father’s face.”
Care? How he wanted to snap at her fingers, but he knew what cruelty she could offer as retribution, so he only shut his eyes. Care. Is that what you called it when you left me in a cell, rotting from the inside like all the court you inflicted with your poison? Even if she had forced the antidote into him just in time to save his life from anything truly irreversible, he didn’t call that care. It would have been more merciful to let him die.
The doors opened, and several attendants streamed into the room. She let go of him and stepped back as many attendants moved to the windows, taking the drapes and pulling them back, letting bright, cold white sunlight stream into the room.
It was the first light he’d experienced in so long, and for a moment, it blinded him. He flinched and raised his hands over his eyes, trying to block it out. Two attendants flanked him, and grabbed onto his arms to pull them back.
But the prince still had a little fight left in him, and he elbowed them hard. “Don’t touch me!” One of them only staggered, but the other lost her footing and fell to the carpet.
The usurper clicked her tongue in disappointment. “You’re not in command anymore, little boy.” She stepped forward, pulling a tiny bottle from a pocket of her gown. “If you won’t obey, I can make you.”
The bottle gleamed in the light from the windows, like a black jewel. The sight of it stilled him for only a moment, but the moment another servant laid a hand on him, he shoved them away once more.
She sighed, dramatic and falsely regretful. Her eyes sparkled with cruel amusement. “You do love to make things complicated, don’t you?”
With a single shove, she pushed him back onto a plush couch in the middle of the parlor. The prince, too weak from months of being kept barely alive in the dungeons, couldn’t fight her – though he still tried, thrashing feebly as he tried to regain his composure. Servants seized his arms and kept him still. The usurper sank down before him, straddling his lap and using her weight to pin him down.
He glared at her, defiant.
The look in her eyes didn’t change. She gripped his jaw and shoved his head back. She had never been particularly strong, but he was so weak he couldn’t fight the motion. Her talons curled against his lips, drawing beads of scarlet blood, as she pried his jaws apart.
She tipped the little jewel-like bottle between his lips. The sweet-tasting stuff poured into his mouth, and while he sputtered and gasped, there was no way to evade it. It trickled down his throat, burning as if it were molten metal. To get it over with, he swallowed.
She drew back, setting down the little bottle on a nearby table. The servants released him, and the prince doubled forward, gasping for air. The stuff still burned as if it scalded his insides. He slid from the seat, sinking to his knees on the carpet.
He fought. Of course he did. He felt the effects simmering at the edge of his mind; he shook his head, digging his fingers into his hair, trying to keep himself grounded in the moment. It was a valiant attempt, but so wasted. The potion did its work fast as a daze overtook him, every limb suddenly heavy as stone, every thought muddled, every sense struggling to reach him from so far away.
The usurper didn’t bother to mask her cruel smile as she watched his shuddering grow still. “It wouldn’t be so unpleasant if you’d eaten,” she said in a chiding tone, as if this were his fault; as if it was his choice that he hadn’t had food for three days. Her tone turned poisonous sweet and cajoling as she reached down, brushing her fingers along the side of his face. “Come here, spoiled prince. Let me help.”
Dazed and trembling, he sought whatever comforting touch he could. He leaned into her hand, and in response, she pulled him back up to sit next to her on the plush couch. She wiped away the blood that her claws had drawn from his jaw and his lips, and she undid the buttons of his collar to blot at a few spilt drops of the potion. A tray of sweets and sugary delights had been brought, and she selected one of her favorites – a bitter tart with crackled sugar.
She pressed it to his lips, and didn’t even have to force it this time. He allowed her to feed it to him, not even recoiling from the sour, stinging taste of unripe tsanreel fruit. After it was a cream-filled pastry, and a little pudding with ribbons of vanilla and cinnamon. The prince accepted each without fighting her, but through the haze blanketing every sense, he couldn’t tell one taste from another. It was all a tangled assortment of half-sensations.
“A pity, actually,” she murmured, running a sharp talon along the vein by his throat. “Such delights being wasted on vermin like you.”
And he flinched again. Oh, could it be that the prince was still conscious somewhere, deep beneath the trance?
She considered giving him another dose, but then she decided, no. Let him stay just aware enough to understand. It was too much of a mercy to render him completely senseless. So long as he couldn’t fight, this was perfect.
And he could not fight. When she pulled him to his feet, to dress for the occasion, he was unsteady and could barely stand straight. She’d have to have attendants close by at all times.
The servants pulled the prince to the mirror as they began to change his clothes. He looked at the mirror, but for several moments, he didn’t understand. Everything was blurred, unfocused, and every motion left a smear hanging in the air, like a long-exposure of a photograph. It took him several moments to realize that the emaciated, pale figure in the reflection before him was himself.
One of the servants was brushing his hair, which had grown longer in his imprisonment. Another began to shave his face. Two others unfolded a long embroidered coat, not unlike the one his father would have worn.
And behind him, the usurper still watched as he was stripped bare, then dressed again. The embroidered coat was joined by a fur-lined cape, the weight of which nearly pulled him down. Above it is thick golden jewelry that he’s never seen before on either of his parents.
A small phalanx of guards and attendants walks with him when he leaves the room. More than once the attendants on either side of him have to push him back upright.
Everything is bright. Every window’s drapes were pulled back to let in a flood of light, and after so long in the dark dungeons far below, even without the magic that was keeping him subdued, he was nearly blinded.
They came to a set of massive carved doors that lead to the grandest hall in the castle. Even through the drugged haze, he has a moment of clarity.
This is a show. It’s all a show.
The doors open. The hall beyond is filled with guests. All of them are wearing white like the usurper. All of them are on her side. All of them stare at him as he walks the central aisle, escorted by guards and servants alike.
The usurper stands by the thrones at the front of the hall. Somehow, between her watching him being prepared and now, she’s changed clothes, and now she wears a pristine snow-white mourning gown decorated with tiny jewels.
How long ago was that – the preparations? He couldn’t tell. Every moment slid together, from one to the next with little awareness.
“Anselm,” said the usurper, “Prince of our great kingdom…”
Prince Anselm. He’d almost forgotten that was his name and his title. For so long, the only name that anyone had called him was vermin.
There was a ring of gold on a silk pillow brought before the usurper, but through the daze, the prince realized that it wasn’t a crown.
Nor were the heavy golden chains any mere jewelry.
A single shove, and his knees gave out. He sank down into the throne as exhaustion burned in every nerve of his body. A gilded collar was fitted around his throat with a shockingly clear snap of a lock. The chains were pulled tight, dragging him back against the seat, his wrists to the arms of it, a mocking display of royal composure.
Laughter and jeers rose from the white-clad audience, the usurper’s court and supporters. The noise cut through the haze of whatever drug she had fed him, a cacophony of sound that made him shut his eyes, unable to block it out.
Her touch against his hair, again, stroking and gentle. “Sulking already? Come now,” said her soft voice. “Even a piece of vermin like you can still be a dutiful prince for his people, can’t you?”
How he wished he had any strength left to fight her.
»Apologies for the potentially dire grammar, I tried my best. I am dyslexic.«
❗️Warning semigraphic description of hung drawn and quartered ❗️ between the red exclamation marks❗️
Despite the decree that he would not be mutilated, there had been an accident. At least that was what it was called, most would not call putting someone in a situation where getting trampled by a horse was almost guaranteed to happen an accident. However, the fact of the matter was, it would be months and a miracle before he'd walk again. He was to be executed instead. It was fair, he could no longer carry out his sentence. Now, it's just a waste of precious food and time to keep him alive.
He was be executed, many were rightfully not happy, with the fact, that he was going to be getting out of his sentence easy. He had watched from the cage (unable to feel his legs despite the fact that the cage all but forced him to sit on them, and they were still black and blue from the bruising), as Maerick had calmed the crowd at this announcement by informing them, he was to be hung, drawn and quartered, the next morning.
That had been yesterday, he had spent his last night in the dungeon under heavy guard, presumably, so no one tried anything. And now he was being prepared, with Maerick supervising from just outside the cell. A small part of his mind wondered where they'd place his body after, neither he or Roulant had any know allies left to threaten. The rest of it was panicing they were trying to take his muzzle, how was he supposed to keep his silence? Resist the urge to beg and spill the ransid truth without its help? With out it reinforcing his weak will, he would surely break. ❗️When he was dragged behind the horse. When he was hung until he was all but dead. When he was disembowered, still alive to watch the of burning his entrils.❗️ He would break and beg, and steal their justice. He needed to stay safety silenced.
He was too weak, he had always been to weak. The muzzle was wrenched from his mouth, despite him biting the bit as hard as he could. "Please!" The first word he had spoken since he had accepted his punishment was a hoarse whisper of a shout, that started him like a spooked horse, and broke a dam. Please, don't do this. Please don't-"
"SILENCE" Maerick roared. "YOU THINK, you think, that you of all people get to beg for mercy! How much hundreds of pleads for mercy did you ignore!? How many innocents did you torment for your own pleasure!? Did you ever show them mercy!? DID YOU!? You will die like you sentence many others to."
"I know that I deserve to die, to die like this." Raulyn wisped. "But please, please don't take it."
"Take it?" Echoed Maerick. "Take what?"
"My muzzle, my silence. I need it I won't be able to keep silent otherwise, I will beg and pled." Raulyn confessed, even at the end he was still shamefully weak.
"So this is about dignity," scoffed Maerick, "you lost that a long time ago."
"No my secret." Raulyn's voice trembled, but he had no other option the handful of guards present, could be sworn to secrecy, only way Maerick would allow him a gag. "I am Raulyn brother of Roulant the tyrenttyrent"
"And if you are Raulyn where is Roulant? Did you conceal his location, to protect him?" Demanded Maerick half sceptical and half preparing from another bloody battle.
"Dead," was the monitone response, "killed on the first day of your uprising...The people deserved their justice for what he had done to them and I deserved to be punished, for failing to realise the monster, he was until it was too late. And been too weak to stop him, when I finally saw." The rest of the reply was practically dripping in self-loathing.
Maerick was starting to believe him he knew Roulant had been a poor actor, apart from around Raulyn apparently who'd barely been in the kingdom, regularly sent away on diplomatic duties as soon as Roulant had claimed the crown, and that the level of disgust in oneself was hard to fake, the thought that there was something off with Raulyn's death had occurred to him at the time, but he'd assumed that it was a covered up case of Roulant's rage and fratricide, just another reason, that rebellion was the only option. All other answers could wait, apart from, "how do you know he is dead?"
"I saw the body that day. I know it was his body for it was his robes that it wore." It felt wrong to have finally confessed to the truth after all this time. Was this what death bed confessions felt like?
Maerick knew enough about Roulant to know that he would never let anyone who he considered lesser wear his robes, even in an emergency, and he considered everyone lesser. And if anyone could recognise Roulant's robes, ehilst being led through a blood bath by angry rebels , it would be the the man's own brother. Raulyn's voice distracted him from further thought on the matter.
"Please sir now you know why can I be gaged I don't mind what with?" The man still thought he was going to be executed in the most horrific way he knew, despite all he'd done, misguided as it was, for the rebellion that had treated him like a punching bag. He didn't miss the implication that Raulyn tried to single handedly Overthrow Roulant either.
There was something deeply wrong with Raulyn's thinking, that was clear, but it could be addressed later. He would be safe enough, in the cell for now. One look at the his guards, showed that they were ready to mutiny if he indicated, he would execute go ahead with the execution. No , he had a very awkward explanation to give, no one would be happy to learn that they had been no better than Roulant, and an execution to cancel. Leaving, he ordered the guards, "keep him safe here, and someone get him some food."
Just as he was turning the corridor, he thought he should also check-in with the young inventor he was trying to make it easier, everyone who'd been injured in fighting and lost mobility, or before by Roulant's hand, to regain at least some of their lost independence, their latest idea was a minneturised personal cart.
»Sorry , if the dialogue is clunky , it is not my strong suit«
Content: post severe injuries including burning, stress positions, whipping, dismemberment, hammer beating, broken bones, ptsd
Mutilated face from having been held with their face over a candle while being interrogated
Constant joint pain for the rest of their life after the countless stress positions they've been forced to hold
And of COURSE, whipping scars that went past the skin and reduce mobility. Whumpee can barely put on their own pants, let alone their shoes.
Missing fingers. Having to re-learn how to use their hands.
A foot that was so crushed under blows of a hammer that it's basically a stiff mash of bone that can't flex and can barely hold weight, and it hurts. Constantly. Whumpee was offered the choice between this or amputation.
And PTSD. This is technically a brain injury, that's why these wounds are genuinely considered "trauma".
Flashbacks when a scar is touched. Flashbacks when a scar is even revealed.
Just wanted to bring to your attention that the term whump was actually coined by the Stargate fandom specifically to describe making this guy suffer. He is the original Mr. Whump (no that's not his actual name). That's how torturable this guy is.
Everyone say mean things about him.
Here is a non exhaustive list of what he goes through in canon btw:
His parents get crushed to death right in front of him when he is a kid
He is forced to relive the memory of his parents death countless times
He dies and gets resurrected
His wife gets possessed
He fails to save her and she dies in his arms
He dies and gets resurrected again
He gets infected by a virus that makes him act crazy and gets put in an insane asylum
He dies and gets resurrected again
His ex gets possessed
He is exposed to a lethal dose of radiation
He dies and ascends to a higher plane, then gets kicked out of the higher plane and his memory is wiped
Daniel's actor is gonna be at a con I'm going to in a couple weeks and I am so tempted to submit a question at a panel like "Mr. Shanks do you know about the fanfic genre of whump that was inspired by everything your character went through? What do you think about it?"
No guarantees it’ll be a question chosen but I’m absolutely gonna submit it (the con does questions through a QR code portal and the moderator picks the questions asked)
Just wanted to bring to your attention that the term whump was actually coined by the Stargate fandom specifically to describe making this guy suffer. He is the original Mr. Whump (no that's not his actual name). That's how torturable this guy is.
Everyone say mean things about him.
Here is a non exhaustive list of what he goes through in canon btw:
His parents get crushed to death right in front of him when he is a kid
He is forced to relive the memory of his parents death countless times
He dies and gets resurrected
His wife gets possessed
He fails to save her and she dies in his arms
He dies and gets resurrected again
He gets infected by a virus that makes him act crazy and gets put in an insane asylum
He dies and gets resurrected again
His ex gets possessed
He is exposed to a lethal dose of radiation
He dies and ascends to a higher plane, then gets kicked out of the higher plane and his memory is wiped
Daniel's actor is gonna be at a con I'm going to in a couple weeks and I am so tempted to submit a question at a panel like "Mr. Shanks do you know about the fanfic genre of whump that was inspired by everything your character went through? What do you think about it?"
In this world, the Dunedain have all survived the various perils they faced, and someone has had the idea of a rather tongue in cheek series of portraits to sell in a calendar to fund the rebuilding they must now begin.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I am writing a somewhat silly fic to accompany the Dunedain whumpy pinup calendar, featuring some OC appearances (mine and friends who have given the okay) and even some collab writing by the ever-amazing @anarlossethedunadan
"A writer is synonymous with a masochist. When a writer writes, a writer suffers, and when a writer doesn't, a writer suffers too. And in every way, a writer feels good."
Such became the pattern of Raulyn’s days. Most mornings, the guards kicked him awake to send him into service for someone he had wronged. His nearly-naked body ached from the hard stones and harder work, plagued by chills at night and the scorching rays of the sun during the day. On days he was not fed, hunger gnawed at his frame until he felt he would collapse.
It was not lost on him that even a week prior, he had been living in a luxurious palace room — prisoner though he had been — with all the food and clothes he needed. But there he had been unable to do anything, trapped and useless. Now he had purpose, real purpose. No longer was he an errand boy, sent to do meaningless tasks in distant lands at his brother’s whim, blind to the happenings of the kingdom. No longer was he a prisoner, forced to watch as the abuses continued, knowing he had failed to kill the one responsible.
Now his purpose was to repay the people for the harm done to them, to let them see the face of the man who had abused and extorted them ground into dirt and pain. To work, serving them with all he had. It was painful, humiliating, and exhausting. But it was purpose nonetheless.
And all things considered, it was a simple life. On days he had none claiming his service, he sat against the post and watched the bustle of the town, bearing whatever kicks or spitting, rocks or other projectiles that were sent his way. On days he was given orders, he had only to follow and endure whatever they wished him to do or suffer.
The work he was set to varied by the day.
One woman ordered him to pull a handcart for her as she went about her daily chores and errands, crawling behind her on his hands and knees.
Another had him muck stables, punishing him with a whip any time he failed to do the job to perfection — and that was many times, for he had never mucked a stable before.
The tanner set him to the filthiest, smelliest jobs of the trade. It stank, but Raulyn found himself fascinated by the process and wishing to be set to such productive tasks more often, despite the reek of his body by day’s end.
The day after the tanner, his next master ordered him bathed before he began work. The water stung his raw and healing wounds, and the shame of losing even the little clothing that still covered him again made him grateful the muzzle forced him into silence so he could not beg, even for privacy. This shame, too, he owed them. Even so, he was glad to be clean again, even temporarily, and to be given fresh rags to wear. That woman wished him to stand as a form for her sewing, pins scraping his skin as she worked. It was a strange feeling, being used as an object and treated as furniture. When the pins scraped places raw from beatings or sunburn, he winced in pain, and if he moved too much as he flinched, he was punished with a slap. But he was not given more injuries, and for that he was grateful.
Some of the city who leased him had no work for him, rather wishing to punish him more directly.
One, a woman whose husband had been executed by slow hanging for decrying the oppressive taxes, made him stand on a crate, a noose around his neck threatening to strangle him if he could not keep his balance. A guard insisted on keeping watch, to cut him down if it ever reached the point of risking killing him. That was a long day, torturous not only in the discomfort but also in the boredom of it. But he was well accustomed to boredom.
Another ordered him placed again in the stocks, to serve the duration the man ordering had been forced to endure — nine days of cramped kneeling. Nine days of stones and rotten food thrown at him. Nine days, his knees swelling and body aching. Yet also nine days of no active beatings, a small mercy in a way. The guards released him from the pillory and muzzle once a day, giving him food and water to lap like a dog. Each time he nearly wept with the relief, yet was also glad to be muzzled again so that he could not beg for further respite.
Yet another took him only for a few hours, hooking the chain between his wrists to a hitching post and whipping him until he bled. When consciousness waned, cold water was thrown on him, bringing him back to alertness with screaming agony. He was useless for some days after that, the guards having to call in a healer to stitch the wounds of his back and bandage them with salves.
A man whose hands had been broken and remained stiff from healing badly, a punishment for accidentally brushing against Rouland’s robes, had Raulyn kneel with his hands out upon a table. The man brought a hammer down on the last two fingers of each of his hands, one at a time. When Raulyn realized what was about to happen, he tried to take a deep breath. But the feeling of shattering bone, smashing into his smallest finger, tore a muffled howl of anguish from him. It took all he had to keep his hands in place for the next blows. Each was blinding agony, and movement for weeks after sent shocks of pain through his whole arm, even though the guards had his broken fingers splinted so they could heal to some degree of functionality.
All these torments and more he bore as best he could. Many times, he was brought to tears. Many times, he failed to bite back cries of pain. But then again, those inflicting the pain seemed to enjoy such reactions from him.
And through it all, he never allowed himself to speak in the times he was loosed from the muzzle and bit. Not to beg, not to offer thanks for food and water, not to ask forgiveness. He could not ask that of any, and if he tried to speak he knew the truth of his identity would be too tempting to reveal in begging for respite. So he endured in silence.
Content: mention of mutilation, whipping (only a little... shocking, I know), humiliation, torture, stoic whumpee, unbreaking whumpee, royal whumpee
By the time Raulyn returned to his senses, it had grown dark. He lay on the cold cobblestones, his welted and burned back throbbing in excruciating pain. His mouth was dry from screaming and the bit pressed painfully against his tongue.
Still, it would keep him silent. He needed that.
Finding a position with any modicum of comfort proved nigh impossible. He curled in a ball next to the post, preserving what little heat he had, and slept fitfully.
The next day came bright and hot.
A booted foot drove into his ribs and brought him to full consciousness with an explosion of pain. A cry escaped him, muffled by the muzzle. Two guards, seemingly members of the group whose coup had overthrown Roulant, flanked him, and it was the boot of one that had struck him.
Two other men were there, he saw now, standing over him. As the older of the pair glared at him, gesturing harshly with his hands, Raulyn realized — his brother must have had this man’s tongue cut out.
“He’s all yours today. Have him returned by sunset.”
As though he was a piece of equipment to rent. But that was the sentence. That was justice.
The younger of the two men grabbed the chain from its hook, yanking against the collar. Raulyn pushed himself to his feet, every joint aching but none so much as his knees.
“For the loss of my father’s tongue, you will pay in labor on the millstone until you cannot stand.”
Raulyn nodded.
Quietly, he followed them to the mill-house. The younger miller shoved him in place against a wooden beam, made to harness a donkey to turn the mill. First one arm, then the other, was bound to the beam with thick ropes. Hatred was tangible in every tug and knot. The shaft of the beam laid across his shoulders now, his arms bound on either side.
A light whip cracked against his calves and he began to move, heaving against the heavy beam to turn the mill.
Each step scraped unforgiving wood against his raw shoulders. His world narrowed to a point, all his focus bent on putting one foot in front of the other. Over and over, round and round.
Whenever he stumbled, the miller’s son was quick to strike his legs again with the whip, mocking his muffled grunts of pain.
“Does it hurt? Why not beg for me to stop!”
When Raulyn did not answer, could not answer, the man sneered again. “See how you like it? I’d cut your tongue out myself if they let me. Now move!”
He obeyed, keeping his eyes down.
It was hours, though it felt like an eternity, before his body began to give out. The whip struck his calves and he forced his feet under him, but the next step his aching legs gave out once more. This did not stop the miller. Twelve times, Raulyn forced himself to rise. Twelve times, his legs gave out.
After the last, the whip did not come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the older man signing to his son. The younger miller gestured back, motions harsh.
“He deserves no respite! Did he give you any mercy when you begged for it? No, he had your tongue cut out and took what he wanted anyway!”
The old man shook his head, signing more.
“I do not care if he is ‘bearing it well’, he is still a monster and deserves to pay!”
Raulyn’s heart clenched at the pain and anger in the young man’s voice.
It was his fault this had happened, he had failed them.
He could not undo it, but he could pay the price.
He tried to drag his feet under him again. One step. Fall, weight tugging painfully at the ropes binding his arms in place. Feet under him again. One more step.
A hand grabbed the beam, holding it still. The older miller shook his head, then signed again to his son. The son sighed. With angry movements, he undid the ropes holding Raulyn to the mill. Raulyn collapsed to the floor, too weary to move.
They left him there for a time, rays of the sun peeking in through high windows to taunt him that it was only midday.
Eventually, footsteps returned, stopping to stand over him. An exchange happened above him that he could not see, and then hands undid the muzzle. A bowl of water was set in front of him, and a bowl of pottage.
The temptation to speak, to beg their forgiveness, was almost overwhelming. But he would risk betraying himself if he did. Thirst and hunger were greater, thankfully. He lowered his head to the bowl, lapping up the water with his tongue. He knew he should find this degrading, but he was so grateful for the cool relief of the water, even as it stung where the bit had cut into his tongue.
He ate, too, using only his mouth and trying to ignore how the heat of it burned his tongue. He was so hungry, so thirsty. It had been a full day and more since he had eaten or drank.
When the bowl of food was licked clean, he lapped more of the water, marveling at how good such a simple thing could feel when all else was agony.
Too soon, it was pulled away. The miller looked down at him in disgust.
“Enough rest.”
The muzzle locked around his head again. Wearily, but grateful for a full belly, he forced himself to stand, to put his arms against the beam to be bound in place once more.
There was no more mercy. He was bound again to the mill, ordered again to trudge in circles as pain exploded across his arms and shoulders with every step.
Time became meaningless, collapsing once more to the haze of pain and the focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
He was determined not to collapse again, to avoid the whip but also to give these men as full recompense as he could for their pain.
When the mill was finally halted, the older man was nowhere to be seen. Without speaking to him, the younger miller unbound him again, leading him back to the stake in the center of town.
He hooked Raulyn’s chain to the stake and then turned to walk away.
For a moment, he hesitated, looking back. The hatred from before seemed to have drained from him, and he looked almost regretful. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but snapped it shut and turned away, leaving Raulyn to exhaustion-driven sleep.
Content: public humiliation, stoic whumpee, unbreaking whumpee, slavery, whipping, collared, muzzled (all the things!), mention of death, threats of death by various methods, mistaken identity, torture, guilt complex, self hatred, mob justice
A murmur of surprise swept the crowd.
Perhaps he should have argued, acted with sneering self-righteousness as his brother would have. But the anger in the faces, the missing eyes and hands, the tears of bereaved mothers and fathers… he could only summon the one word.
Guilty.
Guilty of not stopping it from happening.
Guilty of preferring anywhere but the palace when given the choice.
Guilty of failing when he tried to kill his brother.
Guilty of bearing the same face as the man who had harmed them.
Guilty.
Silence stretched out, broken only by muttering and confusion.
Then Maerick spoke again. “You have heard him! You know it to be true! He is guilty!” He gripped the sides of the podium, leaning forward. “And now we must decide his fate.”
From the crowd came shouted suggestions, many calling for his death.
“Burn him alive!”
“Let him hang!”
“Beat him to death!”
“Let him be torn asunder!”
“String him up to die of exposure!”
Raulyn felt panic clawing up his throat and he clenched his fists, trying to stay silent.
Some of these, he could bear, but others he prayed were not chosen. If they chose to burn him, or to torture him until his body gave out, he feared he might break before the end and beg for mercy, or worse, reveal his true identity.
Then other voices broke through. “Death is too good for him!”
The crowd hesitated at that.
Another person shouted, “Let him suffer as he has made us suffer!”
And another: “Make him bear the yoke of slavery!”
Maerick began to nod.
Raulyn did not know if he should be relieved or more afraid. Death, at least, brought an ending.
Maerick lifted his hands and the crowd quieted.
“I sentence this man, Roulant, once king, to serve the people now as he failed to before. He has glutted himself while we starved — let him now only have what food those he has stolen it from deign to permit. He spoke cruel judgments and mocked our struggles — let him be muzzled like an animal. He lived behind gilded walls in luxury — let him have no shelter. He tortured many at his whims — let him be subject to the whims of those he harmed.” He turned to look at the man in the cage. “You failed to serve these people as a merciless king, now you shall serve as a slave, with only what mercies they offer you.”
Maerick turned back to the people, who murmured in a mix of approval and hatred. “One restriction I shall place: though he deserves it, and has done it to many, he shall not be maimed in any way that will cause his death or inability to serve the people he has failed for the remainder of a long, painful life.”
It was more than fair.
It was just.
Even merciful — he was grateful at least that he would not be maimed, though he knew many would resent this and find other ways to make him pay.
But that too would be just.
Raulyn dipped his head in a nod.
As the crowd watched, a stake was erected in the center of the town square. Raulyn was brought out from his cage and dragged to it, made to kneel at its base.
A hook was hammered into the top of it, and a chain affixed to the iron collar around his neck. The other end of the chain was attached to the hook.
Maerick stood over him, the crowd circled around.
“You will remain here when not in service to those you have harmed. If fed, you will eat like a dog, for you have lost all rights as a man. You will obey any commands given you and take any punishments given.”
Raulyn gave another nod. “I understand.”
A man stepped forward, holding a leather contraption. Another grabbed Raulyn’s hair, forcing his head back. The muzzle was strapped to his face, a bit pressing against his tongue and leather cutting tight across his cheeks and jaw.
His face heated with the humiliation of it, but he did not fight.
At least with the bit in his mouth holding his tongue and jaw restrained, he could not speak. Could not beg for mercy even if he wanted to. Could not reveal the truth and rob the people of justice.
Maerick stepped back, and it seemed he would be left there, but another voice called out from the crowd, “Make him bleed! Let him taste the whip of slavery!”
Voices joined in a roar of agreement.
Someone brought a whip, a large black leather coil that sent a spike of fear through the kneeling man. But this was his fate. His duty.
He turned on aching knees, facing the pole so his back was fully exposed, and wrapping his hands around the wood to hold himself steady. His back already felt hot and raw from the rays of the sun.
The whip cracked loudly and he flinched, but there was no pain. Mocking laughs came from all sides.
But there was barely a whistle of warning before the first true strike hit him.
Blinding pain erupted in a line across his spine and ribs. Tears sprang to his eyes and he clenched his teeth on the bit of the gag.
The next blow struck higher, his body jerking forward as his right shoulder bloomed with agony.
Another lash. His fingernails dug into the wood, straining to stay upright.
It felt as if his whole body was on fire, pain reaching deep inside to tear him apart.
Another. He could barely see, his vision white with pain.
It struck again and his hands gave way, nerveless with shock and agony, and he fell against the pole. Rough wood scraped his chest, but the whip did not stop, striking again. His whole world was pain, burning and screaming from his back and echoing in the scrapes of wood against his chest.
He had to stay upright. Had to endure.
He forced his arms to move, to grip the pole again and push himself back upright.
The bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd had quieted, or perhaps his ears were ringing too much to hear.
The whip fell again, crossing previous strikes and turning them to live fire once more.
There was nothing left but agony and the wood beneath his fingers as he forced his body to remain upright. He had no more energy to fight the strangled screams pushing past the muzzle and gag. Tears streamed down his face, stinging against where the leather had already begun to chafe and dripping to burn the scrapes on his chest.
Again and again he was struck, his body jerking with the force and every nerve screaming in agony.
By the time all sensation ended and he fell unconscious, he had lost count of the lashes.
But it was less than many had endured in slavery — that much, a corner of his mind reminded him.
