For His Kingdom
A bit of a drabble from my imagination for whump-y enjoyment (Masterlist)
Content: forcefully stripped (not full nudity) , manhandling, whipping, gagged, royal whumpee
The enemy had a reputation for absolute devastation. The land would be left intact but the people… women and children dragged off as slaves, to the mines or worse, and men forced into the army or to the navy as galley slaves. The young king’s land was their next conquest.
They were a small nation, with a powerful port and good relations with their neighbors. Until the empire decided they must control all this region, there was not a threat of war, and now one by one allies began to fall in brutal onslaughts. But the empire had not counted on the small country’s spirit. The shores they dwelt upon were not friendly. Nearly every other year new houses must be built after hurricanes ripped through.
When the enemy came, the response, then, was unexpected. Whole villages on the outskirts poisoned their own wells, fighting until all were slain and still decimating the attackers when they thought they’d won. Fields were salted, livestock slaughtered in a last feast as the enemy army approached.
The young king sent an emissary under flag of truce to the general.
For the first time in the empire’s onslaught, a peace treaty was negotiated. The small nation would maintain its sovereignty but pay a reasonable tithe to the emperor, and the taxes of their port would be diminished for the empire’s vessels. It galled the general to agree to such, but a country empty of people and unable to grow anything had far less value. The one stipulation: the country would have a new ruler placed on the throne, and the king would surrender himself, understanding that any rescue or escape would void the treaty.
The day of the proclamation dawned. The young king had selected his successor: not a noble, but a man who had long run the palace with wisdom and care. He dressed himself simply for his abdication, a white tunic and plain trousers beneath his royal robe. At the appointed hour, he climbed the dais in the square of the capital, flanked by his chosen successor and the enemy general.
To one side stood two wooden posts, erected in the night. He swallowed hard as he passed them, but forced his gaze forwards as he addressed the gathered crowd.
“My people, you know it brings me much grief to leave you, yet I trust that this man will serve you well as he has served my household. You have all shown great bravery. The empire has great might and we will pay the emperor his dues, but we will not be slaves. You will not. I bid you farewell and pray that you continue as you have always done, in the quiet strength of our land, no matter what winds blow.”
He stepped back, turned to his successor. He removed his own crown and placed it on the man’s head, followed by the royal robes around the new king’s shoulders. He dropped to one knee before him. The new king swallowed and stepped to address the people.
“I swear to serve you well, with all that I am, and to honor our beloved former king, whose sacrifice honors us all and has saved our land. I do not know what all may come, but we will stand.”
With that, the new king stepped aside for the general to speak. The general’s face was dark with anger and his words clipped.
“Honeyed words have been spoken, but I will warn you: if you do not honor the terms of this truce, your defiance will reap worse than you may have faced without this truce.” He made a gesture to his guards. “My men and I shall return to the emperor in two days’ time, but let us leave you with an example of what will happen to any who defy us or attempt to rebel against this truce.”
The guards roughly grabbed the young king’s arms. He swallowed but allowed them to force him to his knees. A sharp point of cold iron scraped over his ribs, only barely scratching them, then his tunic was torn from him. His trousers and boots, too, were roughly removed, leaving him shivering in only his braies. Before he could do anything, a torn piece of the tunic was shoved in his mouth and tied behind his head, and he was dragged to the posts.
Cold iron was clapped around his wrists and large nails hammered through the iron rings of the short chains, spreading his arms wide between the posts as he knelt between them.
He clenched his jaw. His people were watching, he had to stay strong. Could not show fear. He waited for a blow to end his life, praying it would be swift at least.
Crack!
A line of searing pain burned across his back.
Oh. It was to be a beating first, then.
Crack! Crack!
Another, and another. Each preceded by a crack at which he could not but involuntarily flinch.
Crack!
His hands wrapped around the short chains, the cold digging into his palms as a brief and insufficient distraction from the bite of the whip.
Crack!
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw against the gag.
Crack!
The whip’s tip carved across the previous lashes.
Crack!
His back was on fire.
Crack!
Blood trickled down his side.
Crack!
His body bucked in pain, arching away from the whip.
Crack!
All pretense of calm was gone.
Crack!
He screamed against the gag. All was blinding pain, his vision white with agony.
The beating continued until his throat was raw from muffled screams. Blood trickled from his wrists now where they had pulled against the chains. By the end, he hung limp.
They left him alive.
At some point during the night, someone from the city snuck onto the platform and applied a salve to his wounds. The cool balm helped, yet he could not help wondering if this would only prolong his agony, if he was meant to die of festering wounds or loss of blood.
The next day dragged on, and on, and on.
People went about their business. Many tried not to look at him. Others looked at him with pity, but with bowed heads of respect.
His arms ached. He tried to stand, but the movement of the attempt pulled at the gashes lacing his back and he nearly fainted. His knees hurt. His mouth was dry from the gag.
The second day ended.
The day of the general’s departure dawned.
He looked up as soldiers’ boots thudded on the platform, approaching him. Weary, aching, he bowed his head and waited for death once again.
Once again it did not come.
Keys clinked in the locks of the manacles and his arms dropped painfully to his sides. Roughly, he was hauled to his feet and dragged off the dais. His hands were lashed together with a rope in front of him and its other end was tied to the general’s pommel. The general sneered at his confusion.
“You didn’t think you’d have it that easy, did you, boy? You’re to be a trophy for the emperor, after all.”
As the army caravan left the city, he was forced to stumble along on bare feet after them.
Why couldn’t they have let him die?
