Guilt by Inheritance (part 3)
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 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.
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.
“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 and rob them of justice.
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!”
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.”
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.
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