#Royalty Whump

[whumpwillow]

a royal who’s trained for assassination attempts, specifically poisoning. building up a resistance by taking small doses, getting sick, writhing in pain, and healing only to do it again and again and again until their body no longer reacts to it anymore.

then they switch to a different poison.

#whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whumpee #whump tropes #whump scenario #royal whump #royal whumpee #royalty whump

[annablogsposts]

Whump idea: hundreds of years ago, peasants revolt against the upper class. A knight / noble / lord / prince was abducted, and was pretty much just an absolute punching bag for all of them. To the point where he’s just broken.

A farmer, or laborer or something, sees him and is just like “this is too far” and discreetly cares for him; giving him lots of water, giving him extra porridge, letting him sleep inside when no one is looking etc.

and the noble is initially distrustful after all he’s been through, but soon he becomes insanely grateful and feels indebted to him for this.

If anyone would like to write this, please do!! I’d love to read it :)

#whump #historical whump #medieval whump #history whump #writing #writers #angst #enemies to friends #knight whump #noble whump #royal whump #unexpected caretaker #caretaking #caretaker #whumper to whumpee #royalty whump #someone write this #im begging #peasant revolt #whumper turned caretaker #whumpertaker #carewhumper #carewhump #prompt #whump prompt

[whump-kia]

god I really love the noble ones. there is no better dynamic than the knights swearing to themselves never to speak of the wounds they're slowly gathering beneath the armor; the royals forced to choose between two of their closest friends; the head of the King's child pressed against the guillotine; the softness of a peasant's hands brushing the hair of the princess out of her face while she cries. there is such a facade to the ones in the public eye and every crack in that mask is delectable.

#whump #whumpblr #whump prompt #whump community #noble whumpee #royal whump #royal whumpee #royalty whump

[emmettland]

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)

[montammil]

dark fantasy whump ideas

dark fantasy whump is like my absolute favorite, but i love when it’s like... super dark fantasy. heres some ideas i’m throwing out there because i’m bored. also these aren’t all specifically dark fantasy, some just work really well in the dark fantasy genre. feel free to use any of these, please tag me if you do because i’d love to read it, but it’s not required! 

1. Whumpee is actually a demon summoned by Whumper, but Whumper finds out Whumpee isn’t as strong and notorious as the books all say. So, they decide they’ll make some other use out of their new little demon.

2. Whumpee ends up in a new dimension, and they see Caretaker and are so relieved, because Caretaker died in their dimension. Only to find out Caretaker is actually their whumper in this dimension, and now they can’t get out...

3. Caretaker and Whumper have always been rivals, different leaders of different nations who never got along. When Caretaker invades Whumper’s castle and they find a horrified Whumpee in chains, right at the foot of Whumper’s throne, they start to hate Whumper for a new reason.

4. Whumpee has never had full control over their magic/powers, and eventually hurt Caretaker by accident. Horrified, they run away, convinced they’re a monster. They start to realize maybe Whumper kept them isolated for a good reason, contemplating if they should return to them.

5. Caretaker gets thrown into a dungeon cell for rebelling against king/queen/monarch Whumper. When Caretaker finds a horribly shaken and bruised Whumpee by their cell, they begin to grow close to each other. All Caretaker knows, is there’s no way they’ll let Whumper hurt Whumpee anymore.

6. Whumper finds Whumpee chained outside a house in the woods, cold, starving, and possibly abandoned. They would typically ignore them, but they notice Whumpee isn’t human. They decide it’d be fun to have a little pet.

7. Whumpee is a thief, and one night they get caught by Whumper, sneaking into their mansion. Needless to say, things don’t turn out well, especially when they realize Whumper is a bigger threat than any ordinary human.

8. Caretaker is a hunter and shoots what looks like a deer in the distance. When they run up to it, they find that it’s no deer, but a frail monster-like whumpee who is begging them for mercy. Caretaker feels guilty and picks them up, only to notice they have more bruises and cuts on them than a single gunshot would do, not to even mention their worryingly light weight.

9. Caretaker is a monster who everyone has feared over the past years, kept in a dungeon cell in tight chains. When they wake up to find a shivering Whumpee who was also thrown inside the cell, they immediately grow protective over them.

10. Whumper possesses Caretaker to hurt Whumpee, not letting on that Caretaker’s been possessed. When Whumpee feels so betrayed that Caretaker could do something so horrible, they run away, back to Whumper, who they think had nothing to do with this.

#dark fantasy whump #dark fantasy prompts #inhuman whumpee #inhuman whumper #royalty whump #whump prompts #whump ideas #whump scenarios #whump #demon whumpee #inhuman caretaker #writing prompts

[befuddled-calico-whump]

the aesthetic of a whumpee in fine clothes

a nice suit, or waistcoat, or full-blown ballroom regalia that gets more torn and bloodied with every passing day

#please the only reason i dont draw this more is because i hate drawing clothes #but sknfkktjjt i love this #it just looks good #and a good 'before and after' works WONDERS #whump #whump prompt #royalty whump #its got that vibe

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Undoing

cw: illness, whump aftermath, death/war mentions

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

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They were locked in the blacksmith's woodshed; a cold, cramped room made smaller by the logs stacked along the walls. Once securely inside, one of the men loosened the bindings on Tansy's wrists; enough to grant a scrap of comfort, if not freedom of movement. Another fastened what looked like a bridle around Cerus's head, forcing the metal bit into his mouth and pulling the leather tight.

For the hundredth time, Tansy tried to pull at the party's sympathies.

"Sirs, please. I only wanted to—"

And for the hundredth time, they were ignored, this time rewarded not with a blow, but with the slamming of the woodshed door. As the footsteps outside retreated, Tansy tested the door, ignoring the throbbing of their bruised abdomen as they threw their weight against it.

It didn't give, not even a little, and they fell away from it with a wince. Their various injuries were scattered in such a way that while moving wasn't agonizing, anything they did caused some kind of pain. In their face, in their torso, in their knuckles, a flicker or a flare.

With an immediate exit out of the question, Tansy turned their attention to Cerus. They felt a twinge of relief as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage, and found themselves wondering once again why they'd done it. 

Treating his wounds was one thing, but fighting for him? Hurting fellow villagers in the name of helping the damned Shadow King?

They pushed the prickly thought aside, scanning the cramped room until their eyes landed on a small woodaxe. In their hurry to lock the pair away, the search party hadn't bothered to clear the shed.

Tansy trudged over to where the axe lay, freeing their wrists, then carrying the blade over to where Cerus lay and cutting his bonds.

The man still seemed unconscious, though he was shivering uncontrollably, and after a brief moment's hesitation, Tansy sat against the wall and gently pulled Cerus into their arms, wrapping their cloak around his shuddering form and cradling him against their chest. It was likely they'd be in here for a while, and after all they'd already done, they weren't about to let him freeze to death.

Despite his fever-hot skin, Cerus leaned into them as if seeking warmth. His head lolled back onto their shoulder, eyelids fluttering as he uttered a soft groan. Shadow King or not, warmth was warmth, and Tansy made no effort to create a distance between them, instead setting half-numbed fingers to work on removing Cerus's makeshift muzzle.

They could break out of here. It would be fairly easy with the woodaxe handy, but what then? Would they spend the rest of their lives running? Would they even make it out of the village if they were dragging Cerus along? Abandoning him was no longer an option. They'd made their choice, however stupid, and they'd stick with it.

Still, there were better paths than further ruining their own life. They could wait for the Council to arrive, and explain the situation. They could claim it was a misunderstanding, and distance themselves from the Shadow King. Or maybe they could plead for mercy. For reason. Find a better fate for them both.

They'd managed to undo the first clasp on the bridle when there was a voice at the door, muffled and reedy and familiar.

"Tansy?"

They frowned. "Uncle?" Normally, Aldon would be out on the sea at this hour. Had the news already spread to him?

"So it's true."

They felt their heart sink at his tone, shock ringed with stark disbelief. Tansy wasn't particularly close with the old man, but he was the only family they had left.

"Why?" Aldon said, his voice quieting. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Tansy grimaced, fingers moving to the second clasp. All these whys. "If you'd seen him on the dock… if you could see him now, you wouldn't ask me that," they answered.

"Child—"

"He's suffered enough abuse, Uncle. I don't care who he is. I won't stand for it."

There was silence on the other side of the door, and for a moment they wondered if he'd left. Then,

"The men are saying you've allied yourself with him, Tansy," Aldon said, his tone sharpening. "Allied with the Shadow King. I'd thought them mistaken, but now—"

"Would you have me scorn a wounded man?" they cut him off, unable to keep the anger from their voice. "Leave him to die in the cold? I thought we were better than that. I thought we all were better than that."

Aldon sighed, and the door creaked, as if he were leaning on it. "Is there nothing I can say to sway you from this madness?"

Madness. There it was. Spoken insistence that Tansy really had lost all sense when they'd chosen to hold out their hand. "Nothing," they replied. For a moment, they were resolved to speak no more, to end the conversation there if it would only amount to more accusations, but thought better of it, remembering the healing herbs still tucked into their cloak.

"If you have any love for me… if blood means anything, will you bring me some hot water? And…" they swallowed, their head throbbing. "And some willow bark. For the pain."

"For him?"

"For us. Please, Uncle."

Another long silence, filled in with the slight creak of the woodshed walls and the short breaths of the Shadow King.

"I… I will. For your sake, not his."

And then the silence lingered. Tansy let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, and at last opened the final clasp, gently removing the leather from Cerus's tangled dark hair, and pulling the bit from his mouth. As they did, his body gave a little shudder. A reaction to the touch, they thought at first, but then it came again. And again, accompanied by a small gasp. Cerus was… was he crying?

Of all the things he'd done, from his insults to his wary questioning, this was the thing they'd expected the least. This was the thing they knew how to respond to the least. Even with friends in the battalion, most preferred to hide their tears. What were they to do with an enemy?

They opted for silence, shifting slightly beneath the man, hoping he couldn't sense their discomfort.

"I lost," Cerus said after what felt like forever.

"What?" they replied, wondering if the man was in the grip of a fevered dream.

"I l-lost the war," Cerus continued, his voice laced with a tremor. "The victor chooses the fate of the defeated, and the defeated accepts." The end of his sentence was choked out by a cough, but he pushed on. "I failed, and I'll reap the rewards of that failure. It's what is right."

"Is that what you think?" Tansy said.

"It's—" Another cough, punctuated by a whimper. "It's what I know."

Reaping the rewards. Was that why he seemed so numbed to the world? Had he accepted the Council's drawn-out death sentence, and consequently given up on life? They remembered how confused he'd been when they'd started cleaning his wounds, as if it was the last thing he'd expected to happen. Yet he'd gone with them without a fight, willing to bear whatever horrors a stranger decided to drown him in.

 They didn't expect him to continue, but somehow were still unsurprised when he did.

"Th-thought it was a dream," Cerus said. "When I heard the shout to stop. I thought the fever had my mind, I thought, who would say that? Who would do that? Yet here you are. And I still don't know why."

Tansy opened their mouth, the same explanation they'd given a hundred times—to their uncle, to Cerus, and more than anyone else, to themselves—on their tongue, but the Shadow King spoke again before they had a chance.

"I know, I know, you don't want to see more suffering. Then look away. Or close your damned eyes." He let out a bitter laugh. "I lost. A-and I–gnh—I earned my fate."

"You think you deserve it then? All of…" they gestured aimlessly, "...this?"

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was even, devoid of the tearful quiver that had gripped it before, replaced with something hollow. 

"Such a funny word," Cerus murmured. "Deserve. Who is to say what anyone deserves? I suppose the decision falls to whoever is in power. Yet seeing as it was these new powers who chose my fate… perhaps I do deserve this."

Before they'd won the war, before they'd watched the guards drag the Shadow King's broken body into the city square, Tansy might've agreed. A man who ruled with fear should be made to feel that fear himself, shouldn't he? Terror, pain, loss. All the things they'd wished on Cerus when their home burned, when they counted their battalion's casualties, when they raised their sword against an undead soldier.

But now that he'd tasted them all, Tansy felt no closure. They only felt tired. Putting Cerus through misery didn't make anything better. Fighting fire with fire only made more fire.

"What if you hadn't lost?" they asked. "What do you think those of us who rose against you are deserving of?"

"Death," Cerus said plainly. Despite the implications, Tansy felt no fear, nor anger, nor even indignation.

"And what would you have done?" they said.

"I would have the rebel leaders and generals executed," Cerus answered with little hesitation. "Leave their corpses hanging as a warning. Foot soldiers and lower ranks would choose to swear an oath of fealty, or follow their leaders into death." Something almost joyful had crept into his voice, and a sick sense of unease crawled into Tansy's gut in response. Cerus had reason to hate his former subjects, especially after the treatment he'd received from them, but that didn't make it any easier to hear him gleefully speak of murdering them. For a moment, they could remember their determination to see Cerus fall.

"I would double the patrols," Cerus continued. "Enforce a curfew. Set up wards to alert me of any future plots. But that would be all." His voice had grown quiet, the hint of joy swiftly fading. "The deaths of the traitors would be swift. I wouldn't—" his voice broke. "I-I wouldn't have…"

The moment passed. Not knowing what else to do, Tansy wrapped their arms around him, letting him clutch feebly at their shirtsleeves as his body shuddered with suppressed sobs. Another surprise. Even now, after all he'd endured, Cerus seemed opposed to torturing his enemies.

A soft knock came at the door, and Tansy looked up to see an earthenware flagon being passed through a gap in the boards that made up the wall. They gingerly removed themselves from behind Cerus to retrieve it. The water within was not hot, but it was warmer than the surrounding air, and they fished out the pouch of herbs, pinching some between their fingers and dropping it into the water to steep.

A finger's length of willow bark followed the flagon, and they took it with a murmured thanks.

"How long are they to keep us locked in here?" Tansy asked, once they'd repositioned themselves.

"The Council will be notified, but you will not walk free before their arrival," their uncle answered.

Would they be kept here in that time? Freezing in this tiny shed? "And when will they arrive?" they asked.

"With luck, they'll garner transport with a mage's circle and be here within a few days," Aldon replied. "But child, the village will not wait."

Dread curled in their stomach at his words. "Will not wait for what?"

The old man took an audible breath before continuing. "You are both to be punished," he said. "Flogged in the square. I tried to reason with them, but people are afraid. They want to show that the Shadow King, and… and any collaborators, are subdued."

Flogged? Tansy forced themself to take a deep breath, a futile effort to ease the curdling in their gut. 

"Tansy?"

"I heard you, Uncle." They closed their eyes, resting the back of their head on the wall. "It's… it'll be alright."

"I will see if I can bring you a meal," Aldon said. "Please… I ask that you think on this in the meantime. How much are you willing to sacrifice for him?"

As the sound of their uncle's footsteps faded, Tansy placed the willow bark between their teeth, chewing anxiously. A public whipping would be both painful and humiliating for them, but for Cerus it may well be a death sentence. The bandages they'd wrapped around his torso the night before had already darkened with blood from the wounds that covered his back. The thought of layering more on top of those…

They couldn't let it happen. There was one thing they could do, one way to shield Cerus, but it wouldn't be pleasant for them.

A rueful smile crept across Tansy's face.

But what's one more sacrifice?

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them

#longish #hope it flows well? some parts seem rambly to me but no beta we write like romans #penumbra: shadow king #whump #fantasy whump #villain whump #caretaker turned whumpee #reluctant caretaker #royal whumpee #villain whumpee #royalty whump #tw death mention #i was doing really good with the ocean/fishing themed descriptions for tansy in their first appearance and it's kind of fallen off 🥲

[tendertenebrosity]

Confession

Getting a little burned out on the novel, so here is something fun, whumpy and minimally edited, featuring Julien, my old OC.

“All right,” the guard who’d driven the cart said. “I think it’s time. Say your piece.”

The crowd hushed, then stirred and hushed again, like ripples of condemnation spreading across the sea of faces looking up at Julien, where he stood on the dais.

He had already been trying to hold his head up as well he could in the face of the crowd; he made more of an effort. The chains on his wrists clinked - they made it impossible to stand as straight as he would have liked.

“I,” he began, and had to stop to wet his lips. “I am… Julien Monthaith, formerly Julien Caithir. Until recently, self-styled Prince Regent and First of the Council of Chiefs. Known to many of you as the Usurper.”

A murmur ran across the crowd. Well, it’s true, he thought. Did you think I didn’t know you called me that? It stopped hurting me a long time ago. Didn’t it?

He tried not to pick faces out of the crowd. Elene had wanted this to be done at the time when there’d be peak traffic in the square, but he’d probably have drawn people here no matter what hour. Is there not one of you whose life was better under my rule? Not one of you who I helped? Nobody with me to thank for their job, their education, their son or daughter still being alive?

They’d be unlikely to say so, if there was. Not in this crowd.

“I confess. To conspiring with Laithann’s enemies, subverting her laws and her sovereignty, and oppressing her people.” He took a deep breath. “I confess to treason. To betrayal of my family and the rightful heir. My seizure of the throne was unlawful, and the titles I claimed illegitimate. I now pledge my loyalty - completely and unreservedly - to the true and rightful monarch of Laithann, Queen Elene.”

That last part was true. He suspected nobody would really believe it, but it was. Actually all of it was true - he had just left out any lines in which he said he regretted any of it. Perhaps unwise of him, when he’d been given the leeway to write his own words rather than just rattling off whatever confession he’d been given to memorise in his cell.

Faolan had fought hard to save his life, Julien knew. Elene could change her mind just as easily.

Maybe one day you’ll understand, Elene. Of all of us, you surely know more than even me of what they were capable of.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Julien wasn’t sure he could blame her.

The crowd started up again once it was obvious Julien had finished talking. A babble of voices, some of them jeering and angry, some of them almost jubilant.

Not many of those. He was a little surprised - nobody had laughed or cheered at most of the public punishments Julien had been to, but he thought this time would be different.

This time it was Julien.

“All right,” the second guard said. Julien knew her; she’d been a Montaith soldier since she was old enough to hold a sword. “One down, four to go.”

The guards motioned for Julien to come down off the dais, and he came easily, his head held high.

He had a sickening feeling he wasn’t going to be able to keep that up for long, as they fastened the short length of chain between his wrists to a rope behind the cart.

The cart set off, with Julien walking behind it, the Montaith soldier guard a little way behind him.

Oh, they were only going slowly. A walking pace. This was supposed to be humiliating, not lethal. But somehow - when he’d pictured this, in the small hours of the morning - he hadn’t accounted for how tiring this would be after the first street. How heavy and awkward it was with his wrists in chains in front of him.

Even before the gauntlet really started.

How did they decide who got to take part in this bit? He wondered, with a detachment he tried to cling to. Was there a lottery, was it whoever got there first, had they appointed people… surely competition had been fierce.

The first stick that cracked across his shoulders made him stagger, but he kept his feet. Pain in a line across his back, not unbearable, just - striking. Distracting. Enough to make him hiss between his teeth but nothing more. The crowd was weirdly quiet here, too - Julien had always kind of thought there was supposed to be a lot of noise at this sort of thing?

The second - the third -

He fell at the fifth, couldn’t get his feet underneath him fast enough to keep up with the cart. The Montaith guard was quick on her feet though, calling for the cart to stop before he could be dragged far at all, scooping him up off the road.

“Thank you,” he said, dazed, his arms and knees afire, as she steadied him. Like an idiot.

She looked at him like - oh, like he was disgusting. And he was, wasn’t he? That was what all this was about.

He’d done this for them. Hadn’t he? In the beginning. He let his gaze drift, unfocused over the crowd as they started to walk again. Someone stepped forward - he did not look at them - whistle, crack, across his shoulders.

I did it for you. And you hate me.

That’s fine.

-

They didn’t have him walk all of the way around the city. After all, they weren’t trying to kill him. Then again, he thought dizzily on one of the sections when he’d been allowed to climb up into the back of the cart and rest with his head on his folded aching arms, if some overenthusiastic citizen had suspiciously good aim, if the guards were a little too slow in calling a stop to things… what was Faolan going to do about it?

There were five major squares in the city. Julien stood in the centre of each, on a dais or atop steps if there were any. He said the words he’d prepared - project your voice, Julien, what sort of public speaker are you, he thought with vague hysteria at the third stop, with blood seeping through the shoulders of his shirt and the knees of his pants, and his legs trembling. He'd bitten his cheek at the last fall. Not going to command any hearts and minds if you mumble!

The crowd murmured angrily, and swallowed up his speech like an empty cavern with no echoes, and arranged itself behind the lines of people with switches to watch him walk through again.

The Montaith guard - what was her name? He knew it - hauled him up each time he fell, told the other guard to stop the cart and bundled him up into it on the last stretch. He didn’t thank her again. Even if he’d wanted to… he didn’t have the breath or thought to spare for anything but pain.

-

“I… I…” Julien blinked, his vision blurry. His ears roared; was it the crowd? Or just in his head? He couldn’t see them. The crowd he knew was there.

He was supposed to be talking.

Blood was trickling through his hair and down the side of his face; he made a cut-off movement of his hand to try and brush it aside, but the metal around his wrists was so heavy he didn’t get it more than a few inches.

He clung to the arm of the guard shamefully tightly, knowing that if he didn’t he would fall. He had lost count of how many times he had fallen, and it hurt more every time. And the words - he needed to get out the words. What had the words been?

“I am Julien Montaith,” he said, to whoever might be there. “I am… I was… self, self-styled, Prince Regent, and… and… I am the Usurper.” The words he’d repeated to himself in the cell below the palace were gone, and he floundered after them. God, everything hurt. Everything hurt so much.

“And?” she muttered at his side.

“I confess,” he started, and let his head sag. “I’m sorry. I’m trying. I confess - I don’t - I confess to treason, and betrayal, and - and - I seized - I conspired - please, I’m trying….”

Was the crowd roaring still? Had they heard him? It was really important that the crowd heard him.

His knees were jelly. His whole body seemed to throb, in time with the roaring in his ears, except for one long stripe from shoulder to opposite hip that burned no matter what everything else was doing. It felt deep. What had it been? Who had it been?

“Come on,” the guard said, giving him a little shake. It hurt, but he didn’t think she meant it to. She was going in and out of focus. “Nearly done. This is the last time.”

It was? Julien wasn’t certain.

He lifted his head anyway. “I c-confess to the betrayal of Laithann,” he said, the words coming out strained but audible. They were just words, he no longer really understood their meaning; it had seemed really important to him when this had started that he mean it, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. “The titles I… I claimed were not l-lawful or le…legitimate.” This last bit was the most important, wasn’t it? “I pledge… I pledge my loyalty to the true Queen, Elene...”

“There,” the guard at his side said. “Finally. Done.”

“No, it’s not. He hasn’t said it properly,” someone said, distant - the other guard? “That wasn’t what he said at the other stops. It wasn’t what he was supposed to say.”

“Look, I think it’s all we’re going to get,” the guard at his side said. She let go of Julien’s arm - he swayed - slithered down onto his knees on the cobblestones.

Everything was spinning. Everything hurt. He’d said the words wrong. Were they going to make him walk? He could not. He could not walk. He heard the guards arguing quietly over his head, and the dissatisfied muttering of the crowd.

If Julien could have talked, he would have told them just to run him through right here, if they were going to try and make him walk more. Would the crowd finally cheer at that? Or would they just - buzz and roar, like so many bees?

I loved you once, he thought, with difficulty, through the fire raging across his back and his head and his joints. You loved me, once. His mind had shrunk down to just his body, just pain, and something important was behind that thought but he couldn’t think of what it could be.

Evidently the Montaith guard won. They slung Julien’s arms over their shoulders, and loaded him into the cart, and took him home.

Did I say I was sorry? Am I sorry?

I don’t think I am. Still.

#whump writing #public punishment #running the gauntlet #public confession #royalty whump #blood mention #violence #Julien the Usurper

[whump-cravings]

Tortured Prince - Transaction

Tortured Prince AU Masterlist - TR3 Masterlist

755 words | Original Work: Tortured Prince (AU of TR3). Set a few weeks into Baltar's captivity; the first time he goes to Venja instead of the other way around. Set four days after Be Good Content: whumpee initiates (future, currently offscreen) dub/noncon taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @nicolepascaline @i-can-even-burn-salad​ @melennui @thecyrulik

If there was one thing about Venja that Baltar understood, it was that he treated their relationship as transactional. "Good behavior" was rewarded (what Venja considered a "reward" was always suspect, but that was besides the point), and obstinate, defiant, or otherwise displeasing behavior was punished—though Baltar couldn't always predict what would set Venja off.

As a royal prisoner, Baltar ought to have been afforded some comforts and amenities—if he were imprisoned in any civilized sense. However, his warden clearly didn't care to conceptualize what Baltar's life looked like while he was away, judging from how Baltar had had to ask for basic necessities in the first week, which had come with a price of their own.

With two older siblings to potentially inherit the throne before him, he had been training to be a diplomat all his life. An ambassador, a negotiator. He was good at knowing what people wanted, and good at getting what he needed in exchange.

To get something more out of Venja, Baltar would have to make some kind of effort. A show of goodwill, as one might call it. An overture. A sacrifice.

The thought of it twisted like a sour pit in his stomach. But he was far from home, and days had turned into weeks, which, gods forbid, might eventually turn to months. He wouldn't survive if he kept on like this, fighting Venja as much as not.

So he would bury his pride, his dignity.

That was why, when Venja returned after four days, Baltar met him in the common area without being called. The man looked up in surprise and suspicion, scanning him over quickly, perhaps checking for weapons or nefarious intent.

Baltar held his hands loosely at his side. He hadn't much time to prepare his appearance, as Venja's schedule was unpredictable, but had done his best to artfully offset his tunic and pulled his freshly-washed, gently tousled hair over his over shoulder. The excess length of the chain was draped about him, mimicking a shawl. He put a little sway into his hips as he approached the man, stepping up as close as possible between open legs, despite the way such proximity made his skin crawl.

Venja had to tilt his head back to see Baltar's face. Baltar placed his hands on Venja's chest, feeling the strong beat of the man's heart. He banished a burgeoning thought of his hands traveling a bit upward and squeezing. It would be impossible to gain Venja's trust if he acted violently now.

"What's this, Prince?" Venja wondered with his hands settling on Baltar's hips, wary but obviously intrigued.

"I h-have a proposal," Baltar murmured, attempting to sound sultry. He mostly just felt awkward, his face hot, and voice a bit scratchy. His heart was beating much too fast for him to feel calm and collected, gut too tight. Nervously, he played with some loose threads near the collar of the man's shirt while he cleared his throat. "If y-you're willing to listen."

Eyes narrowing but lips pulling up, Venja said, "Go on."

"There are some items I'd like," he said, self-consciously tucking his hair behind an ear. "A j-journal and writing utensils. Books. Cards. Embroidery hoops, needles, and thread." He watched Venja carefully. "Th-Things to pass the time."

"Sure," Venja said, eyes glittering as he waited for Baltar to continue.

"In return, I-I'll," Baltar said, and had to swallow. "I'll s-suck y-you off." He stared down at Venja's shoulder, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Schooling his expression despite the smile tugging at his mouth, Venja said, "With how big a step this is for you, Prince, I'll let you choose two of those four things."

Baltar felt relief and frustration in almost equal measure. "A journal and something to read would be my foremost requests, then." He licked his lips, glancing up with what he hoped was a doe-eyed look. "But perhaps I could convince you to include the cards, i-if I... p-perform particularly well?"

Venja shifted, mulling over the idea. "Very well. Impress me, and I'll throw in a set of cards on top of a journal and a book."

"Thank you," the prince said. He glanced downward. "M-May I...?" He would lose his nerve if he didn't follow through immediately. Disregarding Venja's previous violent use of his face, he'd taken partners in his mouth plenty of times before. This was no different. He just had to keep telling himself that.

Venja leaned back. "By all means."

Baltar sank gracefully to his knees.

#tortured prince #royalty whump #whump writing #it's not quite nsfwhump but teetering on the edge #if you ask me anyways #I don't know if he got his cards or not

[whumpwillow]

Abused royal Whumpee? Whumpee who is heir to the throne, but his parent passed away and kingdom is under a rule of regent until Whumpee is of age. But regent does not want to give away power and abuse Whumpee so he won't dare to go against them in the future. And fun part would be if Whumpee for example was starved and forced to sleep on the floor and beaten, but then all of the signs of abuse got covered up with pretty clothes and no one knows what Prince is going through. Bonus points if Whumpee is seen as spoiled. Whumpee is exhausted from spending night in cold cell and is taking breaks often and people see him as lazy. Or people see pretty clothes and say "you live in such luxury I bet you eat meat every day" and Whumpee does not even eat every day

op i want you to know that you are SO valid for this, this is delicious. I love it and I want it in everything

#i could say more but i am too sleepy #whump #whump prompt #willow answers #answered asks #whump prompts #whumpee #whump tropes #whump scenario #royal whump #royal whumpee #royalty whump

[mightaswell-whump]

Just thought about the concept of royalty-dehumanization whump. The whumpee is no more than a decoration in the king’s court, a footstool for the prince to rest his boots on. His only reward is licking the mess of a meal off someone’s hand.

#dehumanization whump #royalty whump #pet whump #conditioned whumpee #obedient whumpee

[humanmostlikely]

A king/queen/ruler finds out that one of their courtiers has kept and abused someone in their home, treating them like a prisoner/slave/pet. The king/queen/ruler immediately seizes the whumpee from this courtier and has them brought to their palace, as well as having the courtier arrested.

The king/queen/ruler feels terrible seeing the physical and mental state of this person and how they had been unaware of what their courtier was doing to them for so long, and so they take it upon themselves to care for Whumpee. Whumpee receives the best medical and psychological care available, is given their own bedroom and connected bathroom in the palace, new clothes ordered in by the king/queen/ruler, and is allowed to venture to and from the palace as they please.

The king/queen/ruler is mostly busy running the kingdom during the day and Whumpee needs some space for a while anyway. Having been whisked away from torture and torment with no end in sight on such short notice, only to be taken into a place that offers not only freedom, but the best of everything…takes some getting used to. The king/queen/ruler checks up on them in the evenings though and as Whumpee adjusts more to them and palace life, they move from eating on their own in their room to joining the king/queen/ruler for meals.

At first Whumpee was surprised that the most powerful person in the land would care about somebody like them, and felt meek in their presence. As they spend more time together and learn about one another though, their relationship evolves into a sort of friendship.

#whump meta #whump community #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker x whumpee #whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #royalty whump #royalty caretaker #royal caretaker #friendship #writing prompt #rags to riches

[whump-a-la-mode]

Uhhh how about something with royalty? Idk just been feeling that lately

Have a nice day!

I’ve never written something like this before, this was completely new to me. To be completely honest, I’ve never really interacted with any fantasy or royalty media before, so I hope it’s alright!

CW//Stress positions, kidnapping, (medieval) war, pet whump, foot torture

Seated at the right hand of the throne.

The words implied a position of power. A second hand in the kingdom, one speaking in the ear of the ruler.

Perhaps things would have been better if Whumpee was sitting.

The small, pale person was decorated much in the same way as the rest of the throne room-- Gaudy, ostentatious. Their form was, firstly, wound in a layer of thin white cloth. It draped over one shoulder, around their hips, running down both of their legs, where it turned to take the form of something more akin to a skirt.

The garment provided no protection against the draft coming through the grand throne room door.

Whumpee adjusted their weight, struggling to gain any sort of comfort. The attempt gained them no relief, but it served to shift the golden baubles dangling from their body. Atop the cloth garment, wound around their limbs and torso, was a horrible arrangement of delicate gold chains, complete with bells and tiny sculpted flowers. Equal amounts of finery hung from their head, their hair, their ears.

The shackles, too, were made of gold. That was a show in and of itself. The cuffs on both their wrists and ankles were thin, delicate, connected by fine little chains.

They served no purpose as shackles. If Whumpee so desired, they could snap them in two, regardless of their half-starved state.

It was a show. After all, Whumper loved a show, and they adored their new centerpiece.

Whumpee shifted again, daring to swipe a glance at their captor. Whumper, always set on formality, except when it came to themself, had one leg over the arm of the raised velvet throne, a grin upon their face. A great laugh erupted throughout the room, drawing Whumpee’s gaze forward once more.

A great deal of Whumper’s colleagues, mostly generals and merchants, stood around, nursing glasses of wine. The chuckling slowly ceded until the last few participants had gone quiet.

Whumper loved their parties.

That was something Whumpee had gathered in their relatively short duration of captivity. When Whumper’s father, the king, had disappeared, ceding the throne to his heir, Whumper had thrown a party. When Whumpee’s kingdom, ruled by their father, had begun losing the war, Whumper had thrown a party.

When the castle was seized, and Whumpee was taken from their hiding place, Whumper had thrown a party. They had thrown a party in the ballroom of Whumpee’s own father, drinking of his wine and deciding who would take which of his horses.

Now, Whumper was throwing another party. A party to celebrate their new pet.

Whumpee was meant to stay stiff, to remain facing forward. Yet, they could not help themself from glancing sideways, from time to time, gazing upon Whumper’s gathered inner circle.

They were looking at them. All of those eyes, affixed on Whumpee’s underclothed, decorated body. The heat built in their cheeks until they could barely contain it any longer.

A painful shiver ran down one of their legs. Their decorations again jostled.

At that moment, Whumpee had a hard time caring about a lot of things. They didn’t care about the humiliation of their position or their dress. They didn’t care about the days they had spent in Whumper’s dungeon, under the delicate touch of a riding whip, slowly losing themself. Losing their dignity. Losing their fight. Losing their will to spit in the trainer’s face and bite at their fingers.

Right now, it didn’t matter.

Right now, Whumpee would not have minded siting at the right hand of the throne, if only they had been sitting.

Another shiver up their leg. How much longer could they do this?

The idea of being put on display for this party, when it had been presented to them that morning, was already sickening enough-- Sickening enough to make them try to bite Whumper’s fingers when they attempted to hand feed them morsels of bread.

Then, Whumper had shown them the shoes, if they could even be called as such. They had been especially crafted by Whumper’s personal farrier, based off of the measurements from Whumpee’s own shoes, which had been long since seized.

The construction was agonizingly simple. A metal sole, leather straps going up the leg. And, of course, the spike.

A single, razor-sharp spike, at the center of where their heel would be. Whumpee had squirmed at the mere sight.

Yet, no matter their fighting, the torture devices had wound up affixed to their feet. At first, it had not been all so bad-- Whumpee had almost dared to have a moment of optimism. The shoes required them to stand the balls of their feet, more or less on tip toe.

It was not uncomfortable. Not at first.

Now, out of the throne room window, they had watched the sun go from the center of the sky, all the way down, until the horizon began to darken.

Whumpee could no longer feel their legs.

Another laugh. Their face was red, as though they had been afflicted by fever. The next bout of laughter began to make them feel dizzy.

“Can we go play with them?” One of the generals questioned with a smirk.

“Oh, go right ahead. Their training is coming along well.” Whumper replied with a wave of their hand.

Whumpee felt their breath catch in their throat. Attempting to project the perfect picture of obedience, they stared forwards, watching but not reacting as General approached, a few of their cohorts around them.

A hand on their face. It was cold. Whumpee tensed, almost forgetting to breathe.

“Oh, they’re adorable, aren’t they?” General crooned. With the hand not occupied by a wine glass, they reached forward, roughly carding through Whumpee’s hair. Their golden jewelry jingled.

Whumpee’s vision blurred. Someone was saying something to them.

A sharp shake on their shoulder.

“I asked you a damn question, brat.”

“Yes, Sir, yes-”

Another shake.

Whumpee’s knees buckled.

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whumpee #whumper #royal whump #royalty whump #royal whumpee #prince whumpee #princess whumpee #whump writing

[thatthingsittinginthecorner]

Hm...

Most mutuals you can look away now or something idk

Red blue and purple are kind of royal colours right?

Kind of, idk much about royalty

They're very royal colours, very fancy and what not.

They're also the colour of blood and bruises and I'm just thinking about royalty whump now-

#Ough #I don't usually original post about this kind of stuff but like #I haven't seen anyone else mention this so that's interesting #IT'S ABOUT SYMBOLISM #IT'S ABOUT ANGST #It's about seeing a formerly powerful person reduced to a shell #who said that #Anyways #whump prompt #royalty whump #?

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: The Truth, Carefully Chosen

Masterpost // previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff

TW for: minor character death/murder, decapitation; referenced beating/caning; abuse of power, basically an interrogation under threat of death/torture; temporary paralysis; noncon touching (nonsexual); possible/threatened brain and heart damage, nosebleed.

gonna ride this unexpected burst of motivation as far as it will take me. thanks for the positive response to last chapter, it was a surprise!! hope you like this one too.

----

The Winter King seems to have burned through most of the incandescent rage that animated him back in Thorne’s quarters, barring the occasional flicker in the depths of his black eyes. Morden has entered the Healer’s parlor carrying a small golden chest under one arm, which he sets gently on the floor. Then he settles into the chair beside the Healer’s operating table; Andry lies there, able to keep his eyes open- but little else. The cane Morden did not quite finish beating Andry to death with is not in evidence.

“Tell me about your sister,” Morden says.

Andry feels his heartbeat, already rabbit-fast, stumble a little faster. A long night of being dragged back and forth across death’s threshold has wrung all the fear out of his mind, but evidently there is still room for it in his body.

“Wait,” Morden says, when Andry has managed to convince his mouth to open. “Before you begin. Insurance.”

He lays his hand on Andry’s shoulder—Andry feels the muscles in his back spasm slightly as try and fail to go tense at the touch—and a faint jolt of energy shoots from Morden’s palm, branching down Andry’s arm and in towards his fluttering heart.

For a second it doesn’t feel like much at all; and then it reaches his ruined arm and explodes back upward like lightning hitting a dead tree. White spots burst across Andry’s vision; he hears the thunk of his own head hitting the table as his back arches on its own. His head doesn’t hurt until a few seconds later; by then his heart is pounding hard enough that his chest and temples feel hot and sore. His head has snapped to the side, so that the new stream of blood from his nose is dripping down the side of his face. There is blood in his mouth, too; he must have bitten his tongue.

He tries to swallow, and winces. The back of his throat feels like broken glass.

Morden is watching him closely, though he seems focused on something other than joy at Andry’s suffering, for once. Andry wishes he could find that comforting. The air between his face and Morden’s has taken on a faint purple shimmer that he realizes a second late must be magic. The pain in Andry’s arm settles slowly into an almost-bearable background hum, though the muscles in his bicep keep jumping, making the metal cuff clatter against the table.

“If you want to live, Highness,” Morden says, “don’t lie.”

Andry tries to nod, and realizes that he can’t; the muscles in his throat and back have stopped responding to his commands. He blinks once, rather slowly, instead.

Morden nods to show he understands. Andry hates him. “Who is your sister?” Morden asks, his tone firmly neutral.

Andry—breathes in. His throat is cracked and dry and tastes like blood; it takes him three tries to make any sound at all.

“…inth,” he manages. Closes his eyes, breathes, tries again. “Hya… cinth. Of… Rose.”

Morden nods again.

“Very good. There’s a start. How about this, then: describe her.”

Andry swallows, and is immediately sorry; the shudder that runs through him afterwards is weakened by exhaustion, but still hurts the wrung-out muscles of his back and stomach. He feels as though he has tried to swallow his Father’s sword. Or one of Karya’s antlers.

“Faster, Little Prince.”

It took all the energy Andry had to move his arm to stop the Healer from killing herself; at least he does not have to fight to keep from making rude gestures at the Winter King.

“…Blonde,” he manages, after he wrestles past the bloody-tasting lump in his throat.

Morden’s black eyes flash, and for a moment Andry thinks that he has finally done it, finally reached the threshold of the Winter King’s limited patience, and without being ready for it this time. Then Morden raises his hand again, and presses two gloved fingers against the side of Andry’s throat.

Andry closes his eyes, since he cannot back away. He can feel his heart fluttering against Morden’s fingers, like a bird in a cat's mouth.

The air shifts as Morden gets to his feet. Something soft brushes Andry’s cheek. When Andry opens his eyes, Morden is leaning over the table, his face very close to Andry’s, the long black curtain of Morden’s hair hanging around them both. His fingers are still pressed just under Andry’s jaw, palm now resting lightly across Andry’s voicebox.

“Your heart is running itself ragged, little Prince,” Morden says. Andry can feel Morden’s breath on his cheek. “I don’t know if it will take another jolt, but I can make the experiment, if you’d like.”

Andry breathes out, thinly, past Morden’s fingers on his throat. There’s little enough else for him to do.

“Describe Lady Hyacinth of House Rose, Prince,” Morden says. His voice is soft, as though speaking to a lover. “Not her hair. Her heart, if you please. What kind of woman is she?”

Andry wants to shake his head. Perhaps it is fortunate that he cannot; he doesn’t know if Morden’s spell will count feigned ignorance as lying. He blinks again, instead. Morden sighs, sounding indulgent, if anything. His hand on Andry’s throat—the implicit threat there, and Andry limp and unmoving under it—seems to have calmed him; he looks almost affectionate, now.

“Surely you don’t want me to be cross with you again already,” Morden says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Andry is very aware, this close, of Morden’s beauty; fear is starting to lick at the edges of Andry’s mind again, like fire catching on paper. “Come, Prince. Talk. I’m sure you can think of some simple words that won’t hurt your poor pretty throat too much.”

Andry does not close his eyes; that would mean dropping Morden’s gaze, and he doesn’t have the strength left to do that.

“She's... clever,” he rasps, after a moment. He can’t think of anything else that isn’t a lie.

Morden stays where he is for another long, torturous moment. Then he sighs and sits back the Healer’s chair, crossing his arms; Andry breathes out, feeling limp and wrung out with relief.

“Yes,” Morden says. “I got that impression. And is your sister kind, Prince?”

Andry stares at him. It is—it is unfair of the Winter King, to lay traps like these so soon after trying to kill him. If Morden had given him another hour or two to gather his thoughts, he would not feel so much like he was walking beside a very long drop with no light by which to see the edge. Andry tries to push aside the childlike anger that is threatening to make his eyes well up; it is more difficult than usual.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is still a burnt-dry rasp; now it is also trembling. He feels his face heat up with a nonsensical embarrassed flush.

Morden shakes his head, gives one huff of mirthless laughter. “Fine. Better question.” He leans forward, watching Andry’s face closely. “Does your sister love you, Summer Prince?”

Andry stares at him.

He still cannot see the edge. But he knows what is at the bottom of that long drop: that the wrong answer will hurt him, will hurt Asher, as every wrong step in this House has always threatened to do—might hurt Cinthy, the last safe unthreatened thing he has.

Andry cannot move. But that is nothing new; he is used to this House binding his hands and breaking his back; he has never been able to move freely. Andry closes his eyes, gathers what he has, all the skills he has learned after all these years in his Father’s house, and thinks, instead.

He thinks of Cinth’s face, of the arrogant lift of her chin, of her mouth twisted in disdain at Audoine’s back; of her the speed with which she could slap Andry’s hands away from a coveted book or toy without their mother seeing; of her sharp words and her sharper elbow aimed Andry’s ribs under the table; of the fierce narrowing of her eyes as she corrected his posture, and her own. He thinks of Hyacinth, her cleverness, and ambition, and anger. It has been months, now, with no word from the Rose Trellis; who knows what plans she might have made, if she has decided to give him up?

“I don’t know,” Andry says, and it is true exactly long enough to matter.

Morden watches him, waiting—the same as Andry is—for his spell to tell him that Andry is lying. When nothing happens, Morden hums thoughtfully, and then bends down to retrieve the little golden chest he brought with him into the room. He sets it on the table, where it sits coldly against Andry’s aching ribs.

“Lady Hyacinth has sent me a gift,” Morden says. “It’s a—oh, what would the word for it be, in your tongue? A dowry.”

Andry does not know what expression he makes, but is an honest one; he doesn’t have time to hide it. Surprise is too mild, probably. Maybe horror. It seems to satisfy Morden, either way. His eyes are no longer flashing; they have simmered down to their customary amused twinkle.

“It’s rather extravagant, Highness. Here,” Morden says, “I’ll show you.”

Andry will never forget what his father’s head looked like, when they threw it at him on the balcony, and Thorne held it up for everyone to see. This is—both better, and worse. It has clearly been longer; time and travel have not been kind to Cinthy’s gift. It takes Andry a long moment to recognize the face of Cinth's grandfather, the Rose Count.

“Custom dictates I reciprocate, I believe,” Morden says, though Andry only half hears him. “What do you think your sister has asked for in return, Summer Prince?”

----

“I am begging you, Lady,” General Amara says, while Lady Hyacinth is drafting her letter, two weeks before it arrives, battered parcel attached, on the Winter King’s desk. “Ask for something else.”

Hyacinth does not look up from her desk, where her quill is moving swiftly along the current parchment sheet, half-hidden among a small graveyard of balled-up rejected drafts. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line, and a few strands of hair have come loose from her elaborate braid. If she knew her Lady even slightly less well, Amara would believe her wholly unbothered. Lady Hyacinth’s hands are still pink from over-scrubbing, but she is clean of blood.

“You cannot do this, my Lady,” Amara says, not for the first time.

“I’ve already cut it off, General,” Hyacinth says, tearing this sheet of parchment free from the pallet and throwing it over her shoulder. “It would be a waste not to send it now.”

Amara shakes her head, strides up to stand behind the Lady at the desk, shuddering slightly at the sight of the gold box perched upon it, looking neat and innocent now that it has been shut and locked. “No, my Lady. I have agreed to this—plan; I have not tried to steer you from this course; we have gone too far to turn back now. But I must counsel you, please—ask for something that will be of use.”

The Lady’s expression does not change, but her quill snaps in half mid-stroke. She sets it down on the desk, her movements calm and deliberate.

Amara winces. “Sorry, Lady. I didn’t mean—you know.”

The Lady takes a visible breath, and squares her shoulders. Then she turns in her seat to meet Amara’s eyes. Amara wilts under her gaze. Even now—eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, hands clasped neatly on the table to keep them from shaking—the Lady is very beautiful. Amara feels, not for the first time, that she would be much better at her job if the Lady were plain.

“General,” the Lady says. “Do you trust me?”

It isn’t as simple as that, and they both know it. The Lady is an excellent liar, and Amara is better at seeing her tells than most, and is almost sure that what Cinth has told the officers, that the Count’s death was natural, and to her great sorrow she has no choice but to make use of the opportunity, is a lie. So, in point of fact, she does not trust Lady Hyacinth; it is just that she has—begun following the Lady, and keeps letting the Lady have her way, and doesn’t seem to be able to stop.

“…Yes,” Amara says, reluctantly, and has the unsettling impression that the Lady knows exactly what she means.

“Good,” Lady Hyacinth says. “Then fetch me another quill.” She turns her back on Amara, and Amara sighs, and does as she is told.

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #truth spell #exhaustion #magical torture #minor character death #beheading