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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

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In League — Dead Ringer, part I

Masterlist

Summary: August's first day with the new holder of his indenture —his new master— is not a resounding success. (Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt.) Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, dehumanization/degradation, intimate/creepy whumper, burn.

A beam of sunlight slanted through the break in the curtains to fall squarely across his eyes. He tried not to squint to see his new employer or, rather, the new holder of his indenture. Why the drapes were drawn in the middle of the day was beyond him. Unless the intention was to make the study feel suffocating and shadowed.

“Say that one more time.”

August recognised the dare within the order. He swallowed, heart hammering in his chest in spite of himself. “I’m sorry, master. I don’t have it.”

Master Keats hummed in mock sympathy. “And after all that rigamarole about your capabilities.” His silhouette plucked a cigar from the shadow of a desktop and took a few puffs until smoke further enshrouded his face. “How utterly useless literacy is when unaccompanied by intelligence. As is typical for servants.”

“Please, sir,” he struggled to keep his voice level, frustration crashing through him in waves. “I only—

“I trust they disciplined mistakes at Elmwood?”

He clenched his teeth. “Yessir.” August couldn’t be certain if his master was watching him or simply sitting there smoking. His first day was getting worse by the second. From the ill-fitting uniform to his ill-fated first errand, he wasn’t sure if he’d have an ass left to land on by the time he was thrown out on it.

By the time Master Keats rose out of his chair, August’s palms had really begun to sweat. He didn’t risk even a flutter of his fingers at his sides as he stood at attention. Keats sauntered around the desk, low-hanging smoke cloud trailing with him. When he reached the other side, a few paces in front of August, he leaned back against it, crossing his ankles and straightening his waistcoat. “What was it then?”

“Bed without supper, sir.”

“And for something such as this? For losing a priceless family heirloom worth more than your life twice over?” August wondered what was on the other end of the pocket watch chain crossing his master’s waist if it wasn’t the item in question.

He cleared his throat. “Probably the cane, sir.”

Master Keats twisted around to ash his cigar. “Probably? Are you implying that your service record was so clean? Or were you shown favour by that knotty old butler?”

“The former, sir.” The latter was also true though he did not wish to give Keats any further ammunition.

“Well, unfortunately, it seems your luck hasn’t followed you here.” August could hear the amusement in the statement though he still couldn’t read the accompanying expression. The light shone in from just above Keats’ head, casting his face entirely in shadow behind the looming cloud of smoke.

He swallowed his defense. His shame and frustration were rising to a steady boil. It wasn’t exactly his fault that the watchmaker had apparently surrendered the watch to someone else claiming to represent Keats. August had only been a quarter an hour late anyway, despite following the written directions to the letter. It wasn’t like he’d lost the watch personally. In fact, August’s questioning had been surprisingly short-lived. Though perhaps someone was already going to corroborate his story with the jeweler to make sure he hadn’t indeed picked up the watch and simply stashed it for later.

“I won’t pretend this isn’t a disappointment,” Keats said, finally stepping forward enough so that he blocked the light.

Not much of a relief for August’s clarity of sight. He couldn’t see jack all in the shade after staring into the sun. He blinked quickly, trying to get his eyes to adjust faster.

Keats took another step forward, close enough that August had to keep himself from taking a step back to maintain civilized personal space. His master reeked of the cigar, earthy and sweet, and his spicy cologne, all overlaying the smell of sweat. August took advantage of the closeness for the chance to curl his fingers into fists. This was all a game, meant to shame and intimidate him, and he’d be damned if he’d rise to the bait.

His master reached out to straighten August’s bowtie, thumbing the fabric. “You seemed so promising…”

“Sir, please. I do beg your pardon. It won’t happen again.”

“Well, now—” Keats hooked his forefinger over August’s bowtie, not pulling him anywhere but letting August feel the weight of his hand on the fabric circling his neck. “How do you suggest we make certain of it.”

It went against his every instinct not to twist away. “Sir?”

“I could have them give you the cane.”

August swallowed, his Adam’s apple running into Keats’ knuckle. “You’ll know best, sir.”

“I should fucking think so.” Keats eyes raked over his face. They were beady and dark and August already despised having them on him. He hadn’t been naive enough to hold out hope that his new master might be some shade of kind but he had tried to be optimistic. Clearly, even that had been a folly. “Growing up in the workhouse, I’m sure you know how to take it well.”

His fists trembled at his sides. More from anger than fear, he told himself. “Yessir.”

Keats held him a moment longer before releasing him with a little push so he had to catch himself on his back foot. “Something more novel might suit you better.”

“I—”

“Perhaps some time to think.” August didn’t like the look of the glint in his eyes one bit. He was practically twirling his mustache, though August would have wagered it didn’t move much with so much wax in it. “I’ll think on it, you can think on it. A week in the attic ought to be sufficient, even for you.”

August’s heart stuttered in his chest. He hadn’t been shown the whole house yet, had no idea what ‘a week in the attic’ would entail. “Sir—”

“Now, show me your gratitude for sparing you the cane by saving me having to cross the room to the ashtray.” Keats took a final pull from the cigar, enshrouding them both with its heavy smoke before holding it between them.

“Yessir.” August reached to take it.

He pulled the cigar back, tutting his tongue. August met his eyes and knew instantly what Keats meant to do. He hesitated, just long enough to regret giving Keats the satisfaction of asking, “Something the matter?”

“No, sir,” he said through clenched teeth, holding out his right hand. He didn’t dare try to abscond by putting forth his left.

Keats took another drag from the cigar so the end bloomed orange before he planted it in the centre of August’s palm. August lifted his chin a fraction, keeping his hand steady. He raised his hand in equal force to Keats bearing down on it. He wanted Keats to feel his efforts, though they didn’t stand for much. Not with tears pooling in his eyes until they spilled over, ruining the effect and bringing a smirk to his master’s face.

His palm kept burning even after he was sure the cigar was out. Keats gave it one final twist before releasing his grasp and letting it fall into August’s hand. “Give me your thanks then.” August wanted to give him something all right but he knew he would never get that far. Keats was above him on all accounts. “Thank you ever so much, sir.”

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts

#whump #classic whump #captivity whump #whumpee x whumper #defiant whumpee #power dynamics #indentured servitude #intimate whumper #manipulative whumper #emotional whump #historical whump #historical fiction whump #institutionalized slavery tw #dehumanization tw #burn tw #hurt/no comfort #whumpee knows new master is whumper #a novel trope in these parts

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yet-another-heathen · 3 months

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Cold, Cold, Cold - VIII

1,744 words. Original work, The Jackal of An-Nadr

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Content Warnings | UNREALITY, fever whump, very vivid hallucinations, nightmares, fear of drowning, hypothermia, anchored to the bottom of a river, used as bait, crying into your captor's arms, gorgeous & incoherent begging

Taglist | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpsical @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-writing-spook @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen @scoundrelwithboba

The thready, unraveling world had stopped making any sense to Nadeem so very long ago. He didn't know how long he'd been drifting. Only that night had now come, and the cold had, too.

Silt pressed between his toes as he strained toward shore, just barely brushing the tops of the muckweed with every kick. His hair drifted out in a raising and dipping halo around his shoulders, frost crusting the strands everywhere it touched the water.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had ever gone swimming at night, especially alone. No matter how much he had always trusted the river during the day, it was a game with death to be out here after the sun had set. The rivercats that lazed at the glinting heat of the shore would have returned to the river by now. The ones that couldn't even be bothered to roll an eye in a human's direction during the day would be out hunting for cattle that wandered too close to the blackness of the shore—and they were much more difficult targets than him. And even if the alligators didn't kill him, The Purratu's cold northbound waters were enough to.

The motion of the current had already wicked away any of the heat his body had to offer. Shivering against the steady onslaught of water was useless. He knew with a creeping sense of dread that worsened with every minute; I'm dying.

Still he tread water, trying to keep his chin above the surface. His wrists had been bound behind his back, the anchor tied from them to the depths far too heavy for him to lift. He had spent all of his strength and energy trying to drag it closer to shore, but now his violent shivering was beginning to slow. His body was failing. He didn't know when the stranger was coming back to him, only that he was running out of time.

A sharp, shuddering breath rattled his shoulders, sweat seeping into the pillows as he tried to curl deeper around himself, chasing the warmth that was quickly seeping out through the bottom of the canvas bed. No matter how much he shivered, the draft from below took away all heat faster than he could make it.

Was this his punishment? Were they not coming back?

I can't do this.

He gave a frustrated sob as he tried, one last time, to saw his hands free of the rope. The fibers cut deeper and deeper into his skin, succeeding in doing nothing more than spreading more blood into the water.

He twisted his hands weakly in the leather strips tying them to the head of the bed. His fingertips had long since turned a worrying shade of frigid grey, and it took all his focus to get them to gradually flex to try to keep life in them.

The ladder creaked as one of the creatures came down the steps. He caught the flash of eyes, metallic silver pools of light that glinted in the blackness like those of a hyena. The predator shifted through the small space, the sound of lanterns tinkling against its shoulders. Then a second set of glinting eyes joined it soon after.

"Come back!" he cried in a fog of breath into the empty night. His voice was hoarse from clattering teeth, weak with the only shallow gasps he could still reach from the surface of the water. The lights of windows flickered orange against the dark landscape, glittering like embers in the wind.

He knew this man could outwait him. He could remember nothing of the stranger's face, but a deep well of rot in his chest told him he was facing something worse than freezing to death and drowning. He was bait. Even as the shouts grew closer and he saw the distant silhouettes of his townspeople pass, he bit back his sobs and kept himself silent.

If they come for you, I’ll kill them before you have even a chance to scream.

But now he heard his sister's voices in the distance. He had been a constant for their whole lives. They knew him. They knew him well enough that he knew the river was one of the first places they would look. He could do nothing but cry as he ran out of time.

"Come back and take me," he wept breathlessly, "Pl—please." His leg spasmed with a cramp of pain, and with a gasp of shock his mouth dipped below the surface. It took him a few long, terrifying moments to kick again strongly enough to break the surface. The redoubled cold of the night air washed over his face. He sputtered and coughed from the shock of it, feet sweeping back and forth over and over to try to buy enough air.

He let out a breathless sob as claws brushed slowly, carefully back through his hair. He shuddered, shying away from the touch, and held his breath as he felt it pause. Then a warm hand slid down the curve of his jaw and cradled his face. Please, please. "...please."

Please, warmth. "I'll...do...." anything. I'll do anything. Don't let me spend another night like this.

I'll never make it to the oasis if I don't find warmth.

I have to make it. I don't want to die alone like this.

I don't want to die in this forsaken place.

The hand traced his face, soothing over the sweat-drenched mess of his forehead. His eyes lidded as their warmth slowly seeped into his skin, exhausted sobs slipping through clattering teeth.

"I'll do it," he sobbed into the hum of the locusts.

Please don't let them find me like this. Please, don't let my family be the ones to find me.

Baba, Maaman, his sisters—

"I'll do it!" He yelled, and immediately sank back under the surface. In the moments after he surfaced again he was left coughing so hard he almost couldn't catch his breath.

More lanterns had been lit, glimmering out beyond the high grass like guttering candles. They were still so far away. The wildlife that sang in the banks of the river gave way to the sound of distant cries for a moment before their orchestra breathed over them again.

The creature pulled the blankets away, unwinding him from the tangle of furs. He whined aloud as the cold night air washed over his skin, barely aware of the "Please...no....no," that streamed from his lips.

Talons pulled him out of the blankets, lifting him like he weighed no more than a doll. Then they moved warm over his sweat-drenched clothes, pulled him close against the creature's chest, and continued combing through his hair as arms wrapped around his back. He almost began weeping with relief when warm, bare skin pressed into the numbness of his cheek.

Something writhed beneath his toes in the muck. He jerked his foot away and instinctively kicked at it to keep it at bay, but it wasn’t something he could sustain if he still wanted to breathe. Moments after he was forced to return to his treading, slimy sandpaper scales brushed along the arch of his foot as it persistently returned.

He braced himself for the needle-pain of teeth, drawn to the smell of the wound in his foot. He let out a near-hysterical whine as he felt those mucousy scales twist up between his toes and wrap around his ankle. Then its body once again pressed cold against the bottom of his foot, slicking over the burn, and kept him from dislodging it even as he returned to his desperate treading.

Lengths of bandage turned slowly round and round his foot, gentle hands working around the wound.

His fingers curled against its chest, heat radiating against his cheek as he sunk further into the crook of its arms. The air he breathed was tinged with the incense-burn of smoke, huge hands warming the back of his neck. A wordless murmur echoed by his ear, warm breath ghosting over his skin.

Maybe the creature wouldn't... Maybe...

Wait...

No, he couldn't...it couldn't....

Something rustled in the reeds. Something brushed over his hair.

Which was reality?

"Make it stop," he pleaded breathlessly.

"Nadi!" his sister's voices cried from downriver. "Where are you?"

He coughed on more water, breath blooming in silver clouds around his head. Droplets flicked out around him as he turned his head and desperately searched the dark for any sign of the dark figure from before.

A warm cloth wiped across his forehead, washing over feverish skin. A rumbling voice soothed him as he twisted his face away from the contact.

A man's silhouette shifted, so faintly visible against the reeds that he couldn't even be sure he was there. He kicked desperately to try to raise his head from the water enough to call out, but suddenly found, for the first time, that he couldn't reach the surface.

"Õ̵͜d̸̰̆r̷͈̒ä̸̦i̸̻͋!̷̩̌ ̴̯̌G̷̨̊e̴̙͗t̵͚͂ ̴̼̃m̷̖̆e̶̬͊ ̶̑ͅs̷̠̾ȁ̸̝n̵̪͠d̷̠̽b̷͓̆a̷̳̒g̷̩̽s̸̢̊,̵̤͒ ̶̗̽n̴͓̒o̴̗̚w̴̥̉!”

He cast pleading eyes toward the figure, gasping on a breath that was as much water as air. Please. Please.

That...that was no language he knew. And some resigned sort of dread told him that his mind couldn't have come up with it on his own, not even in the fever of dreams like these.

"Nadi! Where are you?"

He struggled to crack open his eyes, but he could see nothing more than incoherent colors swimming beyond his lashes. They lidded as an ember-warm hand brushed back the small hairs at the edges of his face, relief coursing down his spine with a shudder.

He was either drowning or falling asleep. He could no longer distinguish one from the other any more than he could make sense of either of the realities from dreams.

The man on the shore was going to get what he wanted after all.

The creature at the bottom of the river curled its body slowly up his calf, fins fluttering against his skin. Its body tightened around him. Then it pulled him slowly deeper, and Nadi's vision wavered as the water closed over his head one final time. The muffled roar of the insects went silent. He turned his eyes once again up toward the night sky, empty breath clawing at his lungs.

He had no more strength to fight. His trembling, exhausted muscles finally went lax with one last, burning exhale that blossomed to the surface. Then he was no more.

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#The Jackal of An-Nadr #(this chapter has an easter egg 👀)#whump #whumpblr #writeblr #whump series #historical whump #historical fiction #fantasy whump #drugged whumpee #defiant whumpee #whump fic #monsterfucker #monsterfucking #sick fic #fever whump #slow-burn monsterfucker series

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actress4him · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 10 - In Irons

Look! Proof that I haven't forgotten about this series, either!

This is a prequel piece, taking place before Adelaide runs away in the first chapter.

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @ladydani101 , @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight , @annablogsposts

Masterlist

No. 10: ��Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Contains: abusive relationship, historical sexism, insulting a woman’s appearance/body, vaguely referenced marital activities, talk of cleavage, talk of pregnancy

Charles comes up behind her as her maid is helping her dress. She always wishes he wouldn’t. He’s seen her in much more of a state of undress than her shift and stays - he’s her husband, after all - but that doesn’t keep Adelaide from feeling exposed.

He doesn’t touch, and doesn’t get in the way as her petticoat is slipped over her head. He just watches, looking her up and down with a critical eye.

“I highly doubt any other man ever took a second glance at you, you know.”

She makes eye contact with him in the mirror for an instant, surprised by the statement, then quickly looks away again. He’s in another of his moods, clearly, and as usual, she’s the one he’ll take it out on. She just needs to remain quiet until he’s done.

“Other than the unusual color of your hair, you’ve hardly anything to offer. Your features are too boyish, your breasts are embarrassingly small -” Adelaide’s face heats rapidly, shocked that he’d bring up such a thing -“and the freckles…” He sighs heavily, as if the marks on her skin have personally offended him.

“Be sure she’s wearing plenty of powder tonight, down to her neckline, as well,” he instructs the maid, who nods silently, focused on preparing the next petticoat and pretending she’s not listening to the rest of the conversation. “Just try to make sure she’s as presentable as possible. Everyone is already talking about why you’re not with child yet, I don’t need them talking about your looks, as well.”

Why would they? I’m already taken. By you. Clearly my looks weren’t that horrible when you asked my father to court me.

“You come from an admirable family, and your dowry was acceptable, but I hope you know that if I hadn’t taken you, you’d have ended up a spinster. You owe me for the pampered life of a married woman you’re now living.”

Ah, there ‘tis. This is about me owing him an heir, as usual.

He continues to stare at her for a long moment, displeasure creasing his features. Adelaide stands with her hands folded in front of her and prays he’ll leave.

“Well, hurry up and finish getting ready, then.” Turning on his heel, he marches toward the door. Just before he exits, she hears him mutter, “If our son ends up with freckles…”

I hope you never have a son. I’d have rather ended up a spinster than to share a bed with you.

“Madame? Forgive me if this is too forward, but I’ve heard that some of the ladies will add, um…padding to their bodices. Would you like me to…?”

“No, thank you,” Adelaide answers coolly, then gives the maid a slight, forced smile in the mirror. “Powder me enough to appease him, but let’s not go too far in catering to his whims.”

The maid smiles back, ducking her head, though not before Adelaide sees the approval in her eyes. “Yes, madame.”

#whumptober2023 #no.10 #lyric #can't you see that you're lost without me?#original content #fic #sexism tw #pregnancy tw #abusive relationship tw #emotional abuse tw #in irons #adelaide the pirate #lady whumpee #arranged marriage #historical fiction #colonial era #whump series

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evelynmlewis · 7 months

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Story: The Boy in the Castle

I've decided to serialize it over a series of 9 posts. Do you like spies? Pathetic wet cat male protagonists? Original fairy tales? Christian allegories? Yes, everybody these days is doing them I know. My very best attempt at evoking the 18th century? (I try.) This story has not yet appeared in print, but it will (now that I am my own publisher) at some point in the future, but likely as part of an anthology... for now... it is my gift to you.

The Boy in the Castle

Part 1.

It was a perfectly ordinary day for Ilya Severin.

His attacker, a bulky brute with tattoos and tanned skin, brandished half of a broken beer bottle threateningly. Ilya picked up a chair and held it in front of himself, legs out, for defense.

“Watch who you mess with next time, bilge scum!” the man bellowed, before grabbing the legs of the chair and using it to swing him bodily into the wall.

Ilya crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach. He didn’t bother to get up, but waited for the man to leave.

After the pub had settled down, Dimitri came over and found him. The younger man crouched down. “What happened this time?” he asked in a low voice, looking over his shoulder to make sure everybody was back to minding their own business.

“He called me a coward and a weakling.”

“So you decided to prove him wrong, did you?”

“Gave him a good sock in the jaw.” Ilya accepted Dimitri’s offer of a white napkin, and wiped the blood dribbling from his nose.

“I can’t leave you alone for half a day, can I? You’re already drunk.”

“I come here to find work,” said Ilya.

“You’re not even sober.”

“So what?” Ilya coughed, and pulled himself into a sitting position.

“You’re supposed to be the best smuggler in Rostek.”

“I am the best smuggler in Rostek.” He gave a crooked grin.

“Oh? How will I present you to your client in a state like this?”

Ilya rubbed his nose gingerly. “My client?”

“Yes, your client. I decide to pay back that favor and get you a job, and this is what you give me to work with? Come on, let’s get you back to the inn.”

Ilya splashed his face with water and then rinsed out his greasy, shoulder-length hair in a wooden bucket. Finally he dried off his face with a towel, and with it came the last traces of the blood and grime.

“I need a drink…”

“No,” said Dimitri, standing behind him.

“Of water. Relax.”

“Behind you.” Dimitri pointed to a copper cup on the vanity.

He turned around in the inn’s washroom, found the cup, and sipped it slowly. Then he sat on a wooden stool and started to comb through his hair. “So, you say that you no longer owe me a favor. What have you come up with?”

“Last night a noblewoman, one of those landed gentry it would seem, sent her servant to the pub. He said his mistress would hire only the best smuggler in Rostek. It had a well-paying sound to it, so I mentioned your name.”

“I see. Well then, fine. Count it even. When is my appointment?”

“Half past eleven tomorrow. She’ll meet you at Saint Beska’s Abbey.”

“Did she happen to give a name?”

“No.” Dimitri shook his head.

***

The next morning, Ilya dressed in his best waist-coat and tie. He had brushed his hair and washed it with nothing more classy than a bar of soap. He had bathed well enough to hopefully not stink, although it was hard to fully get rid of the smell of alcohol.

Dimitri met him downstairs in the front of the inn, and wrinkled his nose. “Try some mint.”

“No time.” He waved off the young man, who had been hanging around him like some kind of gnat since they ran the last commission together. (He hated to admit it, but Dimitri’s imagined debt to him was probably actually just pity for his sorry state.) “I’m running late.” It was an hour’s ride to the abbey. For the good smuggler, nothing was more important than punctuality.

“Good morrow, then.” Dimitri gave a wave and retreated to the upstairs rooms.

Ilya went out back to the stable, saddled up, and started off to the Abbey.

Saint Beska’s was outside the city of Rostek proper, to the north, but still within the bounds of the principality of Rostek, which was a small kingdom of the East.

The Abbey sat on a rolling green. There were hedgerows for two miles, finally giving way to trimmed topiary and then the walls of the spreading complex. This was a place for nuns; men did not usually come here, and he wondered if this woman, whoever she was (not a nun, certainly?) was planning to admit him.

When he rode up to the iron-studded gates, he dismounted and approached, wondering if a knock on such a large door would even be noticed.

But as it turned out, no knock was necessary, for there was a shout from above and the gates began to open. He stood back.

The woman came out alone. He understood as soon as he saw her why she had not come to the pub in person. She was in her fifties, and had on a black half-mourning dress, with a purple train. He could not see any jewelry, but mourning clothes could be deceptively simple, and the silk of her dress seemed to exude hidden wealth. She was not wearing a veil.

So then, a dowager whose husband was recently deceased. But not too recently—within the past year or so.

“Madame,” he said, and politely made a small bow.

“Sir.” She did not smile. Nor did she seem terribly impressed. “I sent for a smuggler.”

“Now ma’am,” he said carefully, “All my trade business is of course perfectly lawful.” These naive nobles lacked any sense of the rules of the game. He wasn’t of a mind to incriminate himself before establishing a rapport.

“Then I have no use for you.” She turned around and started to walk back toward the doors.

Ah – he was losing her. “Now, hang on just a moment.”

The woman stopped walking.

“I am… very good at what I do.”

“I sent for the best smuggler in Rostek,” she said, looking back at him. “Are you he?”

“I stay humble.” He scratched at his collar.

Her eyes sharpened. “We may have business, then.”

He nodded. Now they were on. “What do you need?”

He could hazard a guess. He had a burgeoning suspicion about who she was. A noble, yes, but not a noble of Rostek – she was from the kingdom of Belova, toward the south, just like he was. An ongoing civil war there had dethroned the King, and as revolutionaries, called the Vroek Coalition, hunted down and killed the Belovan nobles, they had fled to surrounding countries. This woman had doubtless fled recently, and most likely had left behind some valuable or sentimental personal property that she wished for him to retrieve.

He smiled confidently.

“I wish you to escort me and my son into Belova,” she said.

Ilya took half a step back, stunned. It took him a moment to reply. “To a country fraught with war?”

She raised an eyebrow. “To the capital. Stosla.”

“Surely you must have gone to great pains to escape from there,” he ventured.

She looked at him drily, and he thought her eye twinkled a bit, but he couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t going to say anything.

“You would be heading into great danger.”

“I am aware of the risks.”

“What are you going to do when you get there?”

“I have made arrangements.”

Ilya thought about this. Perhaps she had a cover – and a safe house. She was a spy, perhaps. A spy for the royalist side of the conflict. If she knew what she was doing, this could work. But—

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“He is nine years old.”

“Nine?!” Ilya stepped back, setting his teeth into a grimace. He folded his arms, looking at the ground, and kicked a pebble. “What shall I call you, madame?”

“You may call me… Madame Olga,” she said, as if deciding on the name.

“All right, listen, Madame Olga. I’ll take you anywhere you wish to go, but this isn’t any kind of journey for a child.”

“He must come.”

“With all due respect, Madame, it’s madness to bring a child on a trip like this.” His deferential mask was slipping, and he tried to put it back on, but it was a bit of a lost cause. “Children are… unpredictable. He will be a liability. Such a journey calls for… discretion… and… fortitude. You should leave him here, where he’s safe.” A child of only nine years would certainly get them all killed.

Olga’s lips tightened, but she remained unmoved. “He is non-negotiable.”

He sighed, trying to imagine the journey and the accommodations. Ilya wiped a hand across his face. “Is he quiet?”

“My son is very well-mannered. Will you do it or not?”

“I’d like half up-front.”

She smiled for the first time. “Done. It shall be paid on our next meeting. Come again this time tomorrow.”

Ilya shook her hand, feeling sweaty.

He started turning around back to his horse, then paused. “Expenses also upfront.”

“Expenses?”

“I’ll need coin to rent a stagecoach.”

She reached into her purse. Ah, finally.

Next Part

#read the tags for mild spoilers #writing #my writing #fairy tale #kind of #original fairy tale #uhhhhh #historical fiction #salt and light #blahblahblah #plaaaaaaceeeholderrr #more just to put this under the cut #one more #etc blah blh blah #blahblah #captivity whump

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blackmuirreigncontinuation · 7 months

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The Blackmuir Reign: Chapter 24

CW: Interrogation, bad caretaking, injuries made in interrogation, execution mention, extortion

Due to the tireless work of the knights and indentured servants of the lords, Therrin, and a few carefully-select nobles were safely able to move back into their castle rooms, and out of the grassy tents.

Despite this, Therrin had found no sleep that night, nor had Saxon, who had been sitting in a guest room with a guard stationed outside. It was funny, in a humorless sort of way, that the countless nights Therrin had slept in Saxon’s bed, the nights he put all of his love and trust into the man, had now transitioned to Therrin not even being able to reciprocate the favor.

He had the power now, more power, than even the Osier family had over him. He held the crown, not some royal title and shipyard, but everything. He felt the flames of power once more rise up, but the water of his own irresponsibility dulled them.

He had lost Matteo.

He had the key of peace between his captors, and his crown. And he lost it.

More than that, he had Matteo. The boy whom he once hated, and yet now would do anything to protect. And he lost him.

The feeling in his belly shifted, twisting to an undistinguishable rage.

He would find whoever took Matteo, and he would make them suffer. The noose would be too good for them. His nails had bent, nearly ripping the fluffing of his bedsheets. Fuck, he needed to talk to the girl.

He looked to his window passingly, only to notice the pink and orange image. It was dawn Had he really been up all night? He shut his eyes and rubbed hard at his face. He could not sleep now.

Therein hastily got up, walking through his bed chambers, and down the hall to where he saw his guard stationed outside the guest door. He bowed to him, and Therrin nodded back, tersely. A small smile coiled into his lip. He would never get used to the power of it all.

He raised his fist to knock upon the door, attempting to soothe his nerves as he did so. He knocked.

Apparently Saxon had also gotten no sleep. From all of their friendship, their closeness, their intimacy, Therrin had found himself knowing the many faces of Saxon Osier. Including when he had been up all night, worrying. That happened some, back at Castle Osier, when they’d drink their fill of strongwine, and a rather loose-lipped, Saxon would whisper his concerns of taking over after his father passes. His concerns about being a good lord, and good spokesman for his lands.

Therrin often thought of those talks years thereafter, as he lay in his royal bed, next to his crown, and his hostage-guest Matteo Osier. His brother.

Saxon bowed to him, and Therrin, briefly, frowned in distaste. “Come, Lord Osier, we have matters to discuss.” Therein sighed as he led the man down several corridors, into an area they could have some privacy.

A strange quiet followed, for a moment, as they entered the room. It was not uncomfortable, despite Therrin imagining that it would be so whenever his thoughts grazed on Saxon the previous weeks.

After a pause, Saxon managed to break the silence. “We must talk to the girl again. She is our only lead, our only hope of finding Matteo.” Therrin could only nod in response, licking his lips as unease settled in his belly. “But…” Saxon continued, with careful control, and Therrin was once again reminded of their past, and the pain of the present. Despite how close they were, there was no mistaking that he was king, and Saxon was a mere lord.

The way Saxon was dictating his words with such grace was reminiscent of when Therrien had just taken the crown, and lords from all corners of his lands had come to show their respects, showering him with shaky good graces, and submissive bows. Nevertheless, Saxon continued.

“I believe it would be a wise endeavor to approach her differently. You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all. What do you suppose I come in initially, bargain with her? Whilst you wait out of sight? I know, as do many others, that you are a good man, but when people see strangers, especially strangers in power, they don’t hope for the best. They prepare for the worst. Perhaps if it’s me, alone, who speaks to her, she will be more forthcoming?” Saxon proposed, once again, trying to keep the imploring notes out of his tone. Therrin had all the power.

Despite his anxieties, Therrin nodded, letting out a shaky breath as he did so. “Yes, yes I think that may be a wise decision.” With that, he let out a small side-smile. Warmth spread into Saxon’s heart, at that. Despite all that happened, despite all they had been through, something about Therrin’s demeanor told him that he was still the boy he loved. The same ward from the north, always smiling. The feeling sunk once he remembered their situation, and his heart, once so warm, had panged at the loss of his brother. Despite him hearing the news a year ago, the pain of his alleged death was still fresh.

With that settled, Therrin led him down several sets of stairs, and across the courtyard- where workers were still trying to repair the damage of the siege- until they had finally reached the dungeon. The prisoner had been moved here, once it was confirmed secure, to ensure she had no chance of escape. As they descended the final steps, they heard a soft wailing.

Therrin decided to place her, temporarily, in the rotting cell in which he found Matteo.

It was a long walk to the end of the dungeon, but with the urgency in their quickened paces, they were there in record time. Therein held back, so as not to be seen.

The girl sat, huddled, and crying as she held her hands outfront. From this angle, Saxon could see that her fingers were misshapen, curling out like the twisted reigns of a spooked horse. Therrin had broken three of them, on their last visit. He cleared his throat and kneeled so that he was at eye level with the girl.

“I can wrap those for you, if you’d like.” The girl didn’t respond besides continuing her sobs. Saxon breathed out sharply. He wanted to throttle her, to shake her back and forth until she relinquished where Matteo was to be found. But he could not do that. He had to keep a clear head. He had to show the girl that they could help each other, and remaining tight-lipped would only cause her more pain.

Saxon thought the girl would continue to sob nonsensically, until she slowly looked up, a sharp reproach in her eyes. “Truly?”

Saxon felt his eye twitch. Even if his offer was disingenuous, he would still be well within his rights. This woman knew where his brother was. True, the girl sat here cradling broken digits, but who knows what hell Matteo could be facing this very minute? He swallowed down his contempt and anger. “As long as you help me, that is.”

The girl frowned, glancing from side to side; as if she was scared the very walls would grow teeth and eat her where she sat. “I can’t.” She whispered, and Saxon was shocked by the anguish in her soft voice.

“Why?” Saxon pressed. “You must tell me. What good does it do to sit here in a prison cell, wasting away? Tell me what you are afraid of, and perhaps the King will have mercy on you. Do you truly want to continue to face His Majesty’s ire?” Saxon continued on, darting his chin down to ensure he looked into her eyes.

She cried harder.

“Please understand… They will kill them. The usurper king can not help me, the only ones who can help me now are God and those who have my siblings. I can not gamble their lives, I refuse to do so. If that means that the hangman’s rope is my fate for my disrespect, then so be it.” She grit her teeth, practically snarling at the Osier lord.

So this woman knew what it was like, after all. Saxon’s heart panged at their shared misery for their family. Saxon waited a moment, pondering.

“And what if I brought you their heads? These beasts who have your siblings? I understand what it is like to lose a sibling, it is not an easy feat.” Saxon said, trying to not make it sound as if his voice was pleading.

The woman only scoffed. “You, one man? Lord or not, those men will eat you alive. You haven’t the men or recourses to seek these wretched men, though I appreciate the confidence.” She smiled sourly. Saxon opened his mouth to respond.

“He might not, but the King has plenty of resources and more.” A deep voice said. Therein stepped out from the empty cell nearby, and into clear view of the prisoner.

The woman drew in a harsh breath, and skittered back as far as the chained restraints would let her. Therrin internally smirked, feeling once again the mixing of his own power, like a warm meal on a cold, snowy night. His crown’s ruby reflection glinted off the metal bars. He squatted down.

“Do I have your word, if I find these men, and ensure that your siblings are safe, you will tell me what you know of the whereabouts of Matteo Osier?” He asked, huskily.

“Yes.” She managed to stammer out. “Yes, I swear it.”

“Good, otherwise, your fate will be the executioner’s blade. I do not tolerate liars, especially not to my face.” He let the threat settle for a moment before continuing. “Now, who is it that I am supposed to seek?”

“Vicor and Tam Farry. They are brothers, and the wickedest of the sort. You will find them at the edge of Brentwood, fifty yards before Farrow Lake. they have a small settlement there. They are well armed, with ten men armed with dead soldier’s weapons.” She rushed, spittle flying from her mouth at the speed that she talked.

“Good.” Therein looked deep into her eyes. “If I find out you have been lying to me, your fingers will be the least of your worries.” With that, the childhood friends left the dungeons. By the first set of doors, he grabbed the attention of one of his guards. “Find a healer, make sure the furthest prisoner is looked over. Instruct them to wrap her fingers, but don’t unleash her manacles.” The guard nodded, running to follow his order.

Saxon didn’t know how to feel, seeing Therrin’s power. He was used to being the powerful one, the one who wasn’t a prisoner ward. Nausea rose in his stomach, despite his best efforts to avoid the feeling.

Therein stopped another guard, one that had followed him from a week before his siege. “Ratfort, I need you to rally Rosen, Lark, Brently, Yen, Agosti, Phillips, Clarkson, Drewe, Grigiry, and Vat, quickly now.” He repeated the instructions on how to find Vicor and Tam Farry, and instructed him to bring him back in bondage so that the king himself may question them. These were some of his most trusted nights, behind Rudy. He knew he could put his faith in them, for their unwavering trust was nearly unparalleled.

Therein found his thoughts once again drifting towards Matteo. If he was still alive, he had hoped that he was, at the very least, not being injured too badly. A southerly brat who was percieved to have been dead for the past 2 years was sure to grab all the wrong kinds of attention.

He felt anger rise within himself. He unconsciously bit his lip in an exposed snarl. He felt a tentative hand wrap around his forearm, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned, knowing already who it was before his eyes laid upon him.

Therrin knew everything about Saxon. He knew what his skin felt like, and that he had a mole on his right wrist. He used to tease him about it in the fields, when they would spar, hidden away from the Osier guards. He looked at it now, before glancing to meet his dark eyes.

Saxon seemed to not know what to say for a moment, before his expression steeled and he breathed out a quiet “We’ll find him”.

It was odd. In the short time that they had been reunited with each other, their moments would shift between a hesitant noble speaking to his king, and two lifelong confidants, who had once shared their deepest secrets- and their sheets.

They were approached by none other than Drewe and Grigiry, running towards them. They had bowed slightly to their king, but it was a bit hard to decipher based on the speed of their lungs, their army bobbing.

“Your Grace, urgent news!” They genuflected hurriedly, waving around a letter frantically.

Therrin took the paper, sharing a look with Saxon, disheartened when he could no longer impeccably read it, as he could in the days of their youth, under the juniper trees.

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weirdstrangeandawful · 2 months

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Contemporary brain trying to write a sentence: "adrenaline"

After realising that this is 1763: "battle-borne effervescence"

#writing problems #historical whump #historical fiction

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catsconflictscopicsandchamomile · 7 months

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mythical/immortal character with an anglo-saxon or norse background (we'll call them A) is forced to make a choice that puts their team at risk. soon after, A gives their teammates large sums of money- weregild for the price of a king's life, for each person. its A's way of saying "whatever happens to you after this, its my fault. I put you in danger, I take responsibility"

...this has been "angstposting that requires a bachelor's in medieval studies to understand"

#this post brought to you by the Sutton Hoo Belt Buckle and my current crappy mental health day #historyblr #angst #historical fantasy #historical fiction #modern fantasy #fantasy whump #fantasy angst #immortal character #monster character #history #anglo saxon #sutton hoo #vikings

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spookyboywhump · 1 year

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Please give me a microphone please please please I promise to be so normal about my interests (<- lying)

#not whump #I want to talk about analog horror and internet horror in general #old creepypastas urban legends internet mysteries stuff like that #but also dark or disturbing fiction #I generally want to stay away from real life events unless they’re historical in nature

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darkchocolatepot · 2 years

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I am SO PLEASED to be able to share this fic with you! It's Original Work, written for the Hurt/Comfort Exchange and only revealed last week.

He That Plays The King

Relationship: Original Male Character/Original Male Character

Tags: Rightful Monarch/Usurper, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Loyalty, Royalty, Kingship, Size Difference, Collars, Whipping, First Time, Humiliation, Middle Ages, Pseudohistory, Anglo-Saxon

10 chapters, 30.7k words

Edward's throne is usurped by Athelstan, whose uncle puts him into ever-stricter imprisonment before bringing him, bound and beaten, to court. How could any good come of this?

“He must be consenting,” said Baron Hardwich sharply. “That is what a marriage is , the consent. Forgive me, but as he is bound, one cannot help but question his … his agreement.”

“He consents,” said Radwulf, strolling back to Edward and tweaking the rope that still connected his bound wrists to his guard. “We’ve had many a chat on the way back here, and he understands what he’s doing. All that’s needed for this is your own consent, now, nephew.”

Suddenly Athelstan found his voice again. It would not be right, he thought, to have them be wedded in the old way, with just a handfasting in front of witnesses – Edward Peace-Bringer was a devout man who paid almost as much attention to religion as the monks Athelstan had thought he’d be willing and eager to join. “We must have a priest bless the union,” he said firmly. “And his hands must be untied to show his willingness.”

Radwulf shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said, and gestured to the guard holding the rope, who immediately began to untie the knots. He looked at another guard still near the door. “Fetch the archbishop, then.”

The skin under the ropes was fairer than Edward’s hands, and rubbed raw in many places. Athelstan found himself wondering whether the binding had been in place since Wylasten.

#original fiction #m/m #hurt/comfort exchange #hurt/comfort #historical fantasy #whump

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enbylestat · 16 days

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They Build Coffins: The Whumps of March 2024

They Build Cofiins

the beginning.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55059787/chapters/139591027

Relationships: Benjamin Tallmadge/an original character of mine, Lestat de Lioncourt/an original character of mine (implied), Nathan Hale & Benjamin Tallmadge (mentioned), The Culper Ring and Benjamin Tallmadge & George Washington.

Rating: E - explicit. standard reminder to read tags and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Major character death warning!

Summary: Hurt no comfort/whump, America loses the war for independence, and the debt is paid back in blood.

Excerpt: Benjamin Tallmadge – John Bolton or 721 , if you like knew precisely what he was doing. It was one of the rare instances he possessed a semblance of self-assuredness. The cause, the social and political revolution that had started in 1775 at Lexington and Concord was losing. Tallmadge had gone to New Orleans for help. There’d been trouble on the road, a blonde dandy named Lestat and Benjamin had come to blows – they’d narrowly avoided murdering each other at pistol point. At least de Lioncourt had let him go.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Playlist.

Link of links.

Archive of our own.

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eternallytired17 · 2 months

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Chapters: 29/? Fandom: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Original Female Character, Charles Xavier/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Raven | Mystique, Original Mutant Character(s) (X-Men), Alex Summers, Sean Cassidy, Hank McCoy, Moira MacTaggert, Logan (X-Men), Sebastian Shaw, Bolivar Trask, Angel Salvadore, Pietro Maximoff, Azazel (X-Men) Additional Tags: Historical References, Historical Figures, Hurt/Comfort, X-Men: First Class (2011), Movie: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014), Movie: X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Eventual Romance, Telekinesis, Telepathy, Mutant Powers, Movie: X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), Flashbacks, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Relationships, Angst, Angst and Feels, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, I will never give up on this story Summary:

Telekinetic mutant Laurien Van Tiel is running from memories of her past, in search of a new start. One such opportunity arises when she happens upon Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr at the scene of an accident that was partly her doing. Can she truly escape her past in her new life, or will it come back to haunt her stronger than ever?

#xmen #first class #days of future past #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #whump #xmen apocalypse #xmen days of future past #xmen first class #raven darkholme #historical fiction #alternate history #alternate universe #xmen dark phoenix #original character #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic

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yet-another-heathen · 3 months

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Fire on the Mountain - V

2,611 words. Original Work: The Jackal of An-Nadr.

For new readers, The Jackal is an ongoing whump series set in 1,200 BCE, where pre-Islamic fantasy meets the love of bloody sword fights, worlds that are as vivid and alive as the characters, and the agonizing loss being dragged away from home into a life you never asked for.

<< | previous | next | >>

Chapter Warning | defiant whumpee, cauterization of an already agonizing wound, manhandling, non-con drugging (aphrodisiac, repurposed as a sedative), ancient medical practices, vivid hallucinations, staring up into your captor's eyes and begging with everything you have for them to stop, UNREALITY, xenophobia

The big ifrit had gone up to summon the others. Nadeem was left to try to pull himself back together. His head was a mess of that golden, swirling pleasure, and he couldn’t push it to the background no matter how he tried.

He wanted so badly to get up, to run. But his dizziness left him clinging to the bed, barely able to move.

Something was happening to the room around him. As he lay there trying to breathe through the waves of sensation, the shadows began to move.

Some very far-away part of his mind felt like it was being lit on fire. He watched it from the window above his sisters' beds, barely making out shapes in the night as the blue sky over the hills burned. He wanted to wipe the fog from his eyes, but when he tried all it did was blur the light.

Red light poured into the dark as far-distant embers glittered and shifted, swimming with such incredible radiance that he couldn't tear his eyes away. Everything was still. Everything was so still, and so quiet, and so soft.

"Fahime, Hasti," he gasped. "wait—”

He was slipping. Everything was slipping.

The sound of footsteps returning down the ladder. Dark hands. A careful touch. Someone lifted him from the bed, weightlessness making his head swim. He glanced down, Fahime gathering herself in his kurta as the light played off his face. He pulled her closer, running a soothing hand over her hair.

“Nadi, are we safe?”

He didn't...this wasn't right…

What was happening to him?

"Of course we are," he reassured her, lifting her up so she could see, too. "Look. The wind is taking it away from the valley. See how it goes brighter near the top?”

"But won't it destroy the trees?”

His mouth twitched, blinking slowly toward the distance.

"Yes it will," he murmured, resting his cheek on her head. "But it will be alright, ukhti. Sometimes things have to be destroyed before they can grow again.”

---

He didn't know where they were taking him. Only that there were more hands on him than he could count, and that he was going whether he wanted to or not.

Tendrils of darkness and dreams were still tugging at his mind like water weeds at his feet, pulling him downward as if there were something waiting for him in the cold, black muck below. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

The bright light of day flickered and disappeared as he was taken below deck to a different part of the ship, feet barely touching the steps as he stumbled down the ladder.

Down into the mud, down into the shallows where the sunlight gleamed between wave crests. Blooming gold and green, casting columns of daylight through the silt.

The room they entered was like nothing he expected to see aboard a ship. One of the entire walls was lined with tall mosaic windows, arched at the tops into elegant points. They splintered and reformed in shapes Nadeem could swear were moving, casting white and lavender light throughout the room. The opposite wall towered with shelves, glittering with vials and dried bouquets of herbs. Rows of empty cots stretched onward toward the daylight pouring through the open space at the far side of the gallery. The air was soaked in smoke and the sweet, earthy perfume of decaying plants.

And then there was the table. A great, solid slab that looked as heavy and unmovable as the pillar it was pressed against. Metal instruments, the likes of which he had never before imagined or seen, were swaying gently where they lined in racks along that pillar. Though the discoloration around the hinges betrayed their age, there were so many sharp points gleaming in the light that it made him nearly crumble to his knees in panic.

Blood smeared across the wood as his injured foot caught on uneven deck planks, though the jarring pain was not nearly enough to stop him from skidding along as he was dragged toward the massive table at the center of the room.

One of the ifrit from before, the one with the white turban, was busy directing the others about the space. His voice was sharp and clear, hands gesturing and digging about in narrow wooden cupboards as he spoke.

"G̶͇̔e̵̮͑ẗ̵͍́ ̶̹̎ẖ̶̎i̴̢͋m̴̼͌ ̷͉̽ő̵̧ñ̵͓ ̴̧͝t̶̟̋h̵̼̀e̵̼͒ ̷̖̾t̶̲̃a̶͇͘b̴̲͝l̴̘͝e̷̖̓.̶̳̓ ̸͔̔N̶̪͘e̷̲͠s̴̠͝a̵͛͜r̶̜͠ē̶̢,̶̪͘ ̵̦̃h̴͈͘a̷̻̒ņ̷̃ď̵̖ ̴̗͛m̷̗̈́e̴̺͌ ̵̘̈́t̷͌͜h̸̺͐ë̶̘́ ̶̮̇s̶͉̾i̶̼̓l̶̻͆k̸͖̃ ̵̝̅m̵̛̺ḯ̷͚n̶͔͆t̶̯̕,̸͇̇ ̵͔̋i̸̟͆n̴͉̓ ̵̛̭ẗ̵̝h̸̥͋ȇ̵̮ ̴̈́ͅl̶̗̽ë̴͙́f̶͎̀t̵̟̚ ̵̰̓c̵̥͛u̸͈͐p̶͊ͅb̶̨̈ō̶̮ä̵̺́r̴͇̒d̵̢͂—"

"Let go of me!" Nadeem snarled. He seethed and clawed into the arms of his captors, but could do nothing to stop them as they lifted him onto the table.

The world was still dark and morphing and swaying around him, and there were so many hands with so many unbreakable grips holding him down and moving him. He could barely tell up from down.

Part of him was drifting, untethered, even as his own heartbeat grew deafening in his ears.

The woman from that night around the fire was leaning against one wall with her arms crossed, watching them. Their eyes made brief, but searing eye contact, before his attention was torn away.

"Ṕ̵̱a̴͖͌s̴̤͐s̸̝̀ ̷̼͘m̷̜̕e̸͠ͅ ̷͚̈t̷̛ͅḣ̵͚a̸̹̔t̵͕͑ ̶̺̕s̶̳͌t̸̠̀r̸̭̐a̷̢̚p̸̢͝.̸̼͒ ̴̞͆W̸̬͊a̶͔͋t̵͎̓ċ̷̺h̸͝ͅ ̴̟̇h̵͚͊í̴̝s̶͚͋ ̷̱̑t̵̂ͅę̴̕ë̸͚́ţ̷́ĥ̷̳!̵̠̈".

Leather straps were cinched tight around his wrists and chest, the wide buckles tightening until he could hardly move. What was this? He wrenched and fought, gasping when someone grabbed his injured foot and strapped it down even harder than the rest of him.

Oh no. No no no no—

Someone shouted from the other side of the room where it stood open to the daylight on the opposite side of the instrument wall. Nadeem tried to turn and look, but two long hands pressed into either side of his head and turned his back up. The big ifrit that had captured him was bowed over his head, keeping his face steady and forcing him to look away from what was happening. Making him meet its eyes.

It spoke quietly to him, low words tumbling from its lips as it watched his face.

"L̷̲̏o̸͕͝o̶͕͠ķ̴̿ ̵̢̈́a̶̰̍t̸̅͜ ̸̬̑m̵̦͊e̶͖̾.̸̲̎"

The world was spinning, this was all so wrong—

"Coenta help me, I'll curse your bloodline to oblivion!" He twisted in his restraints, what very little he could. "Get off!"

In the very corner of his vision he saw another ifrit, a burly older woman with hair like a halo, hand something long and straight to the one with the white turban. He tried to focus on it, to see what he was holding...

And his stomach dropped through his spine.

His entire body arced off the table in absolute panic, thrashing so hard the leather straps and their hardware creaked with strain.

"NO! No, nonono, DON'T!" he yelled, almost dislocating his shoulders in his effort to get away, thrashing so hard that several of the ifrit crowded closer to push him back down. "Keep it, no, keep it away from me—"

A long metal iron sent ripples out into the air around it, the tip glowing orange with heat.

The ifrit circled around toward his foot, nodding once to his captor.

"Ľ̷̺o̵͙͑o̵͇̒k̶̪̈́ ̵͕̂ą̶͠t̴̯͑ ̷̇͜m̷̰̐e̶̝͆,̵͍̈́ ̷͔̇s̸̡̒w̴͍̓ĕ̶̬e̴̲̚t̷̲͝h̸̠͠e̵̟̿ä̴͇́r̴͈̀t̸̮̏," the ifrit above him tilted his face back up, obscuring his view of the iron. "T̵͕̀h̶̃ͅe̶̩͊r̸͈̓è̷̘.̵̨͆ ̸͖̃J̸̞̊u̶̘̒s̷̘͝t̶̰̃ ̷̢̓l̸͉͛o̸̩̍o̸͖͂k̷̦̈ ̶̝̋a̴̘̎t̶̛̳ ̵̻̽m̵̞͐e̴̦̓.̶͔̏"

"NO, no, not this! Oh gods please, I can't—" Nadeem felt the heat getting closer to him, and every attempt at hiding his terror crumbled. He stared up into its eyes as open fear poured across his face, stark and open beneath the ifrit's gaze. "No no no NO NO—"

His vision went white, heat spearing up his entire leg with agony like nothing he had never felt before. Everything was pain, so bright his mind couldn't truly process it. And Nadeem lost every ounce of control over his voice, and screamed.

And immediately the sound of metal clattered violently against wood. Every set of hands jerked away from his body at once.

He was sobbing through the darkness as the world swam back into existence, heat radiating up his foot like he was still being burnt. He was babbling at them to make it stop. The shocked eyes of every ifrit in the room fixed on him. The iron lay discarded on the wood behind his torturer, as though it had been flung violently out of his hand. Smoke was beginning to pour from the wood beneath it, smoldering and threatening to light.

The people around him were burning too. Smoke poured from their shoulders, their chests lit from within like embers surging to life with a change in the breeze. And every single one of them was staring at him.

The ifrit with the white turban was the first to break himself out of his shock. His fanged mouth snapped shut where he'd been gaping at Nadeem. He turned and scooped up the iron just before it could ignite.

"Y̵̖͐e̶̯̊ḙ̴͝z̶̯͂ǘ̴̦m̷̢̏ȏ̷̹n̵͇̅," he called. There was not a sound in all the room but his voice and Nadeem's crying. Then again when he didn't look up, "Y̷͈͒e̷͇̅e̷̯̅z̴̫͛ú̶ͅm̸̼̒ö̷͓n̶̗̂!̷̲́ ̵̫̃H̷̻͐o̵̭̎l̵͎̉d̷̾ͅ ̶̞̑h̷͍̒i̵̫̅m̶̠͝. T̵̲̓͝h̶̻͙̊́ë̴̟̪ ̷̜͇͋͑ȑ̵̗̼͋ȇ̶̲̦̚s̵͉̀t̵̫̫̑̋ ̷͉̘̾ọ̵̿̚f̵̙͒͑ ̶͎̺̈́y̶̰̲̆̀o̷̥͌u̷̒ͅ,̶͚́ ̶͕̯͗g̶̜̞͋̀ȇ̸̳͕́t̴̰͝ ̶̨̑̉ò̵͎̩ũ̶͈͒ṯ̵̤͝!̵̢̤̓̕"

His captor blinked, shook his head as if to clear it, then his hands returned to either side of Nadeem's head. Nadeem was still sobbing, every inch of him trembling with the violent aftershocks of the burn.

“D̸͖̑i̸̡̛d̶̗͝ ̷̻̒y̸̨̚o̵̼͂ú̵͓ ̶̡͝g̵͉͐ȅ̷̯t̴̢̑ ̸̢͂î̸͈ť̴̗?̵͎͗"

"N̷̰̈́ó̵͜,̷̛͜ ̴̙̂I̴̟̋.̴͎̓.̵̙͗.̶̢͐I̶͖͝'̸̧͛m̴̨̈ ̸̢̍g̶͓͐ö̷̩́ǐ̷̙ñ̶͖ǵ̷̜ ̸͙͐t̴̮͘o̴̠͌ ̴̜͛h̶͙͂a̶̙̋v̵͎̾e̸̬͆ ̷̥͊t̸̺̊ŏ̵͕ ̶̳͌d̸͉̑o̴̝̍ ̶͙̀i̶̭͘t̴̲̃ ̸̘̋á̶̫g̸̈́͜a̵͔͝i̷̳̎n̴̤̄,̸̡̈́ ̴̧͒Ĩ̵͇ ̷̜́d̴͚̃i̶̥͛d̵̪͝ṅ̸̡'̶̪̂t̶̩͑ ̸̤͑ĝ̷ͅe̷̖̕ţ̶̇ ̴̭̈́ę̵͐n̵̡͠o̵̜͒ǔ̴̙g̵̪̎h̸̖͠ ̴̳͆o̸̭̿f̶͖͑ ̶̖̃t̴̟͊h̷̞̽ȇ̴̤ ̶͈̐ẘ̸̤o̵͔̾u̸̬͋n̶̳͘d̶̜̒.̸͎͝ ̸̗̄P̸̦͊u̴̖̽t̸͈͗ ̴͈͛t̴̲́h̶͎͝i̸͉͝s̴̮̑ ̶͈̽i̵̝̍n̸̳̋ ̷̧̒h̸͍̏i̴͉͛ṡ̶͓ ̵͑ͅm̸̮̓o̶̭̐u̸̠͘t̶͖̄h̵͓̐.”

He didn't even have words to express his horror when the ifrit pried his mouth open and forced a leather bit between his teeth. A clawed hand clasped firmly over his mouth, muffling the horrified sobs and pleading cries that poured out of him behind it.

The ifrit raised the iron again, and there was nothing Nadeem could do but stare up into his captor's eyes as it was pressed into his wound all over again.

Everything after that was a blur of darkness and rippling, uncontrollable agony. He came to as he was being carried across the deck, clinging to the big ifrit's smoke-drenched chest and weeping as they descended back into the cabin.

Furious shouts were being exchanged by what sounded like a dozen ifrit, their argument being cut off only when the deck hatch closed above them.

His keeper sat on the edge of the cot, cradling him in its arms.

"I̴̯̍ṯ̷̄'̸͓͛s̶͔͋ ̵͕͠o̴̝͘ṽ̴̤e̶̙͐r̵̺̐ ̵̦͒n̶̖̎ŏ̵̰w̸̛ͅ,̵̧̈́ ̸͓͐l̸̳̉í̶̭t̵͍͗t̵͇̏l̵͎̋e̷̅͜ ̵̢̎o̴̖͂n̶̛̝e̴͉̅.̶͈͐ ̷̪͌Ȉ̴̞t̶̳̉'̴͇̈́s̵̝̓ o̸̳̿ṿ̸͘ę̴̈r̸̹͋."

Nadeem's fingers were locked so tightly in the ifrit's sash that he couldn't figure out how to let go. He just buried his face against the fabric, trying to muffle the sound of his sobs now that he knew he couldn't stop.

Its chest rumbled with its words as it spoke to him, those strange sounds that could almost been hushing.

A few minutes later the deck hatch opened again, and the white-turbaned ifrit descended into the small space. Nadeem sank further into his captor's arms, trying to get as far away as he could.

"Don't ccome any c-loser—" he choked out, his voice reedy and thin.

But there was none of the expected malice in the ifrit's features. Only indiscernible worry, and a glance toward his captor that Nadeem had no way of reading.

When he reached for Nadeem's injured foot he yanked it away so fast he nearly knocked the breath out of his own lungs, tucking it under himself to keep it away.

His captor wrapped another arm around him, hushing him before looking to the other ifrit. "Ĥ̸͓a̴̺͠b̷͓̀ỉ̶͇b̵̀ͅi̷̥̊,̷̤͌ ̵̦̚ ̸̭̓g̴͈̾ì̵̗v̶͚͑e̵͖̕ ̶̰͒h̷̠̊i̸̡͑m̷̟͑ ̵̣̂a̵͔̓ ̴̜͛m̶͚̽o̸̦͒m̸̻͛ĕ̴̬n̸͉̿ț̵̀."

Nadeem nearly crumbled with relief when the other ifrit hesitated, then backed away.

Hands continued running up and down his back as he tried to get his breathing under control, sobs still tearing out of him with every fresh wave of pain. Had part of the iron poker been left in his foot? It felt like it was still burning him, so much deeper inside his body than it could have possibly gone.

The weight of a blanket settled carefully over his shoulders, tucked close to him. Only then did he realize his jaw was clattering, entire body shivering violently from head to toe.

"Ḥ̵͋ȇ̶̳'̶̟̈́s̸̩͠ g̷̫͒o̵̺̎i̶̤͐n̸̻͌g̷͖̕ ̵̢͂u̵̫̅n̸̥̉d̴͈̑ḛ̷͝r̶̩̀,” the other ifrit murmured, scrubbing a hand down his face. "...ā̵̰ñ̴͔d̵͎̈́ ̶̮͂Ị̶̀ ̵̬͗ṫ̶̲h̵̲̋i̷̲̐n̴̛͎k̴͖̓ ̴͍̂Ȉ̶̲ ̶̗͠m̴̹̏i̶̥͋g̷̩̎h̷̲̍t̴̙̓ ̵̰̕b̴̻͋e̴̢͠,̷͎̆ ̷̳̄t̶̙̔ȯ̷̝ȍ̷͜.̴̱͆ ̷̭͌Ÿ̴̡́è̴̫e̸̻͗ẕ̸̿ŭ̷͎m̵̪̄o̶̳̅n̸̦͆,̸̟̌ ̴̱̚t̶̫͐h̶͕͗į̸̛š̴̡ ̶̩̀ḯ̸̙s̶̹̊n̷̼̏'̴̧̉t̴̳̓ ̴̯͗ș̷́a̸̚͜f̷̖̔e̶͚̓, w̴͖̐͛e̸͕͂̏ ̶̝͠h̸̲̀̐ä̴̮͘v̶̛͍̟̄e̸̯̦̒̆ ̸̖̋t̵͖́̅ó̸͚—"

"Ṅ̶͔o̶̡̾t̴̛̟ ̵̙̉n̴̰̈ó̸ͅw̶̯͘." Then, softer, "N̴̰̎o̵̰͌t̸̡͝ ̴̼̉n̸̗̍o̸͇̚w̶͖͑,̷̞̅ ̶͔͂h̸͕̿ä̴̹́b̷̬͗i̵̳͠b̷̭̀ỉ̶̭.̷͕̒ Ȉ̴̘ ̴͉̆ċ̷̗ã̷͚n̶͚̎'̷̠̀t̶̖̀…I̶͈̾ ̸̖͌c̸̛͈a̸̱͌ṉ̶̈'̴̞̉t̵̳́ ̴̲̌ľ̴̜e̷̮̾a̷̱̎v̷̜͋e̴̝̍ ̶͈͌i̶͔̍t̷̳̓ ̸̫̚ ̴͙̄l̷̈́͜i̸͇̇k̴̩̃e̶̻͊ ̷̖̍ṱ̷̃ẖ̶͝ȋ̸̢ş̸̊.̴͈͝."

It looked down where Nadeem had tucked his face against its chest, too sick with pain to care who or what he was clinging to.

"W̵̕ͅè̴̜'̷̮͝l̷̮̓l̵̦̈́ ̴̘̔f̵͙̋ḁ̷̉c̶̯̅e̴͍̋ ̴͝ͅĀ̵̻d̶͎̃r̸͎̎s̷̳̀i̶̛ͅa̵̡͂e̸͈͛ ̵͈̋ẉ̶̆h̷̩̒e̷̫͘n̶͚̾ ̷̫̉t̵̛̙h̸͇̀e̸̖̍ ̸͇̇t̵͚̚ì̷̜m̸̪̉ë̶͕́ ̸͇̀c̵̨͆ọ̴̉m̴͙̓ẻ̸̜s̷̹̕," he said, his body shifting against Nadeem's as he reached a hand out for the other ifrit's. "B̶̰̒u̵̙͗t̵̢͗ ̷̯͠n̶͖̕o̶̙̒t̷͍̃ ̸̘̔n̶͖̏ỏ̷̢ẁ̴͈."

The edges of reality had once more begun to blur. Dark, waking dreams spun through the shallows of his thoughts, pain spearing up through his foot as he waded out into the reeds.

Gods, he was losing it. But the water had to be safer than this.

He was still trembling a few minutes later when both ifrit coaxed his foot back out from underneath him. He had to bite back the whines of pain that pressed up his throat and against the back of his teeth, tears gathering uselessly in his eyes as he watched the ifrit turn his foot over and inspect it.

A moment before it began probing into the wound, a long hand clasped over his mouth. It was only just in time to suffocate the whine of pain that flooded out of him when the ifrit lifted a shallow bowl full of thick, white paste and began pressing the mixture into the wound. His nails dug into its skin, head going fuzzy and dark as black waves of agony rolled through his whole body. No matter how he struggled he couldn't pry his foot out of its grasp. He just sank down in its hands, while the big ifrit purred against his temple.

He'd never felt so hollow with exhaustion before in his life. He was still only one day past dying. Was this torture all that lay in store for him, now that he'd lost his chance to get away?

He wasn't going to survive. Not if this was what was waiting for him.

The ifrit was quick to bandage his foot, and then released him and let him once more hide his injury out of sight beneath his robes.

An uncaring part of his mind realized he'd sunk into the heat of its skin, eyes barely staying open as the adrenaline in his system crashed and whatever they had drugged him with took back over.

Ripples spread out around him at waist-height, opaque under the cold moonlight. The reeds stirred, wind caressing the nape of his neck.

He couldn't walk. There was no way he was getting away, even if he somehow got off the ship. He was helpless. He was stranded. The realization hit him like a sandstorm, dragging at his clothes and peppering his skin with pain.

They had burned him. He was alone. And he wasn't going to be able to get away.

The crickets sung in the reeds, nothing disturbing the water but him. All around him, for miles and miles, the dark spread silent and cold across the landscape.

He was alone.

He was never going to see his family again.

Nadeem fell to his knees, and plunged beneath the surface of the water.

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