Iselvheim, 12th of Góa, 795 A.C.
Scholars once said that violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.
Just as empty threats are the final sanctuary of the terminally inept.
Raiden wondered — as he had many times before — if this was, indeed, true. It seemed to be so, in his eyes, at the very least. People who resorted to violence were those who were incapable of communicating in any other way besides their actions, whether they were a slap on the face or a dagger through the heart. Society called them 'abusers' and they were mostly looked down upon by everyone else because the world's order taught all small children that any man who needs to abuse the people around him in order to materialize his own volition was a man who deserved not a family to enforce his whims.
But not when such a person was a king.
No.
When a king was an abuser, the people called him a 'firm ruler'. They called those who defied him 'traitors' and taught all the young ones that his wishes could not be contradicted, otherwise great punishment would follow swiftly. The armies are ordered to carry out whatever said king demands without fail and whenever one of them disobeys his rules, the people say that he deserved to be hanged for the audacity of defying his own king. Such a man could torture, kill, slaughter, sacrifice, deflower, murder, and bed whoever he wanted at the will of his wishes with no consequence to himself.
Raiden disagreed.
The man he was thinking of was most certainly not a king, but he ruled over an entire kingdom that dared not defy him or point a finger at him. He did as he pleased, no matter the consequences or the common good. No one stood up to him, not even his own wife, who he had managed to torture into silence in their winters of marriage the same way he'd beaten her into blunt blindness. He commanded armies and brought down kingdoms, forcing their kings to their knees in front of him as if their lives were not worth any more than a mere ant under his shoe.
Was he not an abuser for such a thing?
He was.
Did anyone care? Point fingers? Demand exile?
No.
Instead, parades were made for him. Festivities were held in his name. 'His Grace', they called him whenever he felt like walking among those who offered him the power he held with an iron fist. They worshiped at his feet and hoped that he spared them if, one day, came the time when he'd see them standing in his way and think of forcefully taking them off it.
"Your Grace."
There was only one person in the entire Kingdom who was allowed to be wherever the royal King Demir Thorden was.
He'd never been given more than a first name, but he followed the King wherever he went and he alone was allowed to speak to the King before the royal scoundrel addressed him. The King had named him Rhun as a boy, the first day he'd gone to the city market outside the castle's walls after having lost his sight, and the name had remained. Having arrived at the capital as a stowaway on a ship chartering from the Southlands with bought goods shipped to the royal family, the boy had grown up as an orphan on the streets of Iselvheim, knowing very little about the royals and the capital. When he saw the King in the market, that day, so long ago, he'd asked the market vendor who used to have him run errands — a peasant old man with graying hair and a kind heart who'd taken pity on the estranged, orphan child — who was the ugly man with blind, scarred eyes that stood in the market with an entourage of guards, upon his white mount.
Such a frail, innocent question.
But like many moments in life's designs, it carried long and far-reaching consequences.
The guards took hold of the boy, against the humble vendor's pleads that he was merely a child who knew not what he was saying. Fearing for the child's fate, despite not his own, the old man tried to protect the child, trying to hush his cries and his confusion in his affliction.
Rhun's life had been marked on such a day.
But not for death, as the vendor feared.
Instead, it'd been marked for something far greater.
Brought to his knees in front of the King, the boy looked up into his scarred — mutilated — eyes, and in fearful innocence, asked the King why he carried those scars upon his eyes when the world was such a lovely place to be seen and such a loss most likely had to be a curse. The King came down from his horse, knelt in front of the boy, and with a hand on his shoulder, answered that the scars had been his punishment for angering the Gods and such deed had cost him his sight. To which the boy replied that he would gladly be his eyes, if it meant he could speak of all he could see — the colors, shapes, sizes, sights, expressions, features, and contours of the world around him.
And that is what he became.
The King's eyes.
Raiden rose his eyes to the boy he'd grown up around, though he'd never grown to know him or enjoy his company the same way the King seemed to do.
If things had been different, they could've grown up as brothers.
Instead, they were nothing.
Rhun was a good head taller than Raiden, but more slender. Where Raiden had been trained to be a warrior, Rhun had been taught to move not one muscle but his eyes. His perspicacity was silent like the flight of a bird but flagrant as their crowing. He carried himself with a rigid posture, resembling an owl in the way he moved his head but not his body. He was sharply observant and whatever comment he made outside of his words to the King in compensation for his blindness were hardly ever dismissed for their extreme astuteness and intelligence. His shoulders were stiff and his hands were intertwined behind his back, a posture Raiden had noticed he wore quite often as a way to show his servitude. He wore no armor and owned no weapon, unlike the guards stationed all over the castle. Instead, he wore merely a leather vest atop a white dress shirt that looked as satiny as the King's sheets. His face was permanently molded into a stern expression and it was clear by the arch of his brows he had grown used to not letting any emotion betray him.
He carried himself exactly as someone whose entire purpose was to see the world around him, not take part in it.
A burden, Raiden guessed, that was hard to carry.
But aside from his peculiar behavior, it was his appearance that stood out like a sore thumb in the cold lands. His skin was oddly tanned for someone of the Northlands — a trait Raiden had long ago determined to be of bloodline inheritance —, and he remembered quite clearly that when both had been younger, whenever Rhun spent a few sunnier days outside the castle walls his skin would grow from the light caramel tone to a light cocoa shade. It was an ability that not many people possessed in these parts of the lands, a trait he'd most certainly inherited from the lands of salted breeze, white-sand beaches, and lush, green forests. A fine dust of freckles covered the top of his cheeks, occasionally darkening with the tone of the skin and his hair was a dark brown, which Raiden remembered to be odd when he was out in the sun because it glowed in a myriad of golds, browns, and reds he'd never seen on people's hairs. Despite this, it was his eyes that were the most striking feature he owned, so very brown they could almost resemble a piece of charcoal stone molded into a round shape and no pupil could be told apart.
As a boy, Raiden had often found himself jealous of the foreign boy.
Not for the appearance.
Not for his job.
But for the connection that Rhun seemed to have with the King. One that Raiden himself had never managed with his father. Throughout all his winters of life, he'd never managed to get through to the King's heart the way this foreign boy had done that day on the market, winters ago. The King had never made known what feat of solidarity or kindness had struck him to take in the orphan boy from the streets, but Raiden didn't really much care about the reason, to be honest. He simply cared that there was something inside a boy not of the King's blood that the man identified with he'd never found inside his own son.
And Raiden couldn't understand.
He never had.
All his life, he never understood why his father despised him so. He'd asked enough times and had only received violence from his father, so he'd stopped asking, at one point. It seemed more intelligent on his part that he did so than to keep asking the question that seemed to make the King lose all control of himself. Besides, over the winters, he'd grown accustomed to hearing his father say he wasn't his son and, to his mother's spite, had started to actually believe it, to a point. winters of hearing those words had somewhat carved them in his heart and, more importantly, in his soul, because he could hardly see how he could be the son of such a monstrous being.
Despite all the different occasions in which his mother told him the King's words weren't true.
As for his mother, whenever he'd ask for an explanation, she always looked away into the horizon, with a sad smile on her lips, and told him he'd grow old enough one day to understand why some human minds saw so little beyond themselves when the truth was right in front of their eyes. She never explained and, after a few winters of this, he'd grown tired of asking. Now, he asked no more of the truth, because he knew she wouldn't answer him with the truth. Instead, he watched and as he did so, he learned much more than he could ever be told.
And what he saw was that, no matter how alike he was to the King, he was not his son.
Maybe the King was his biological parent.
But in his heart, Demir Thorden was not his father.
And that was the truth.
"I'll see if the King is able to receive you, my Prince," Rhun courtly announced, gingerly turning and crossing the door to the King's bed chambers.
Raiden could guess quite well what the King's present activities were to have Rhun remain in the foyer of the bed chambers with the door closed. He couldn't hear any sounds, but his knock at the door had most certainly stopped whatever entertainment had been unfurling.
"Yes, Rhun?" Raiden heard the King growl from the bed chambers since the door had been left slightly ajar at Rhun's passage.
"Your son is here to speak to you, your Grace."
"My son?"
"Prince Raiden, my Lord."
"Fine." Was the disgruntled answer. "Hand me my robe and send him in."
There were silent footsteps and not half a minute later, Rhun appeared at the door, opening it to exhibit the King's chambers.
Raiden had seen it all before.
He'd already known what was happening on the other side of those doors, but having seen it didn't make any of it less disgusting or grueling to watch.
In all his winters of life, his father — the King — had never pretended to be faithful to his wife. Instead, he occupied his free time with his mistresses — most of which he'd impregnated more than once, to inflate his male ego, giving himself a list of bastard sons and daughters he kept around the castle, much like he kept their mothers, but had never legitimized — and then carried out his royal duties three nights in a row at the start of every month, which, to Raiden's knowledge, had never come to any fruition.
Much to the King's chagrin.
Rhun quickly closed the door behind Raiden and trotted back to the King's dressing room, both voices whispering as the servant helped the King dress, most likely.
"What brings you to me, boy?"
Raiden lifted his lashes enough to look his father in the eyes as he emerged from his dressing room in a red, satin robe, his hand on Rhun's shoulder for balance and guidance. His skin was pale under the candlelights strewn all around the room and the sun had begun to set outside, granting little light to the room and even less blush to his skin, since he'd started to spend less and less tie on the sun in the recent winters since becoming blind. His legs were bare underneath the robe, peeking at the bottom and even though it hid the rest of his body up to his chest and wrists, Raiden could smell the ecstasy in the room, hot and pungent like the smell of burning flesh.
How his father was capable of this level of degradation was beyond him.
Though he'd stopped questioning it.
He noticed once more the scarred tissue around the King's eyes, with clawing scars crisscrossing them as if something sharp had tried to gauge his eyes out. The scars had grown lighter with the winters, now a soft pink, but his right eye had been completely torn out from its socket, while the other had a nasty scar running along the length of the lid that'd stolen the King's sight from the damage it'd created in the inner eye. His blue pupil looked larger than usual, unresponsive to light, surely, but also shaped strangely, oval-like, with what looked like a scar running from the lower end of the pupil to the end of his iris.
Whatever had attacked the King had gone not only for cruelty but brutality as well, rendering him blind, disfigured, and crippled for life.
He couldn't help at feeling like it was very much deserved.
Raiden looked away, feeling his gut twist with revulsion at the man standing in front of him, disgusted by the sight he'd seen a hundred times before and even more at the meaning of it all.
A kingdom on the brink of drowning and this was what he chose to do with his time?
Raiden sighed deeply.
His eyes landed on the woman twisted in the bed sheets, instead, hidden beyond the canopy curtains of the bed frame. The sheet she clung to barely covered her breasts and body, and as she moved underneath it, it became quite clear that the redness of her skin wasn't just from the heat in the room. Nevertheless, the redness of the satin sheets embraced the blushed color of her skin quite nicely — Raiden had to admit —, making all her small limbs look even more feminine and fragile. However, as she turned on her side, what shocked him most was the fact that an overgrown womb peeked from beneath the sheets.
She was pregnant.
And he had been —
Raiden closed his eyes.
She didn't look displeased. Instead, she looked aroused, moving her legs incessantly in the bed as repeated sighs left her lips in between the rushing breaths her lungs expelled.
Disgusting.
Raiden felt his stomach turn and taking a deep breath was all he could do to keep from throwing up right in the middle of the King's chambers.
"Well?" The King prompted as he came to a stop at the foot of the bed and, with Rhun's help, sat on a wooden banquette. His brows were furrowed and the frustration was so clear in his face that Raiden barely had to hear it in his voice. "I cannot fathom what could possibly bring you here, but go ahead, since you've already spoiled my night."
"I'm sure I did, Sire." The boy looked down at the polished marble floor, balancing on the balls on his feet, struggling to look as unaffected as Rhun's perpetual stone features, but feeling his breathing increase at the scorn in the King's voice. "And I'm sorry."
The King nodded, frustration crossing his face as his brows slammed down at the sound of another heaved sigh from his mistress on the bed. "Rhun, be kind enough to take Antheia to the bath chamber so she can clean up." He signaled with his hand to the bed and Rhun was quick to reach the side of the bed, pull the curtains aside and gently murmur to the lying woman. Satisfied, the King returned his attention to Raiden, laying his hands on his lap. "So, what is it you wish of me?"
"I didn't come here to discuss banalities with you," Raiden's voice was clipped as he forced the words through clenched teeth, leaving out the 'sire' part in purposeful disrespect.
"But you came here to discuss something with me?"
"Yes."
"That's unlike you."
Raiden rolled his eyes. "I don't like to bother you unless I have a reason to."
I don't like to even look at you unless I have to.
The man nodded once. "I'm assuming this is about your mother, then," the King guessed, and a scowl formed in his mouth, signaling the mere topic made him want to stop the conversation before it even started. "It's the only matter you discuss with me."
Raiden remained silent.
"I'm not wrong, am I?"
"And if it was?"
The King bared his teeth but it wasn't, by any means, a smile. "Please, go right ahead, then. What is it you wish to discuss with me about her?"
"She hasn't been feeling well in the past few weeks," Raiden began, voice steady, wondering why he was bothering to request this of his father when he knew the answer would most likely be no. "I wanted to ask if I could take a few days with her away from the castle."
The King's frame was very still as he blinked his unseeing eyes. "Where do you wish to take her?"
Hope fluttered in Raiden's chest, noisy and sudden. "I think going south to the warmer lands would probably be good for her."
His mother spent much of her time in the Shrine on castle grounds, which was small and, for the most part, remained deserted except for his mother's presence almost every day. No one came to worship there except the Queen, given the King's generic despise of all Gods after he'd been cursed with blindness by one, so many winters ago. Raiden believed she'd be more than willing to make the trip to the south, where she'd once told him there was a great shrine built in the name of the Great Odin. There, he expected that her faith would, hopefully, hear the sound of others' loyalty to the Elder Ones, so she'd realize she wasn't alone in putting her trust into the Ancient Ones' hands and wishing for their help and protection. A place where her own faith wouldn't be looked down upon by everyone around her. He understood it wouldn't be anything of great importance because the reasons she prayed would remain nonetheless, but it would at least grant her a few days outside the castle's walls — which she hadn't been granted for as long as Raiden had been alive — and maybe the smile he missed so much seeing on her face would somehow return.
If she found happiness in one single second she stood in the Shrine, he'd feel like he'd fulfilled his purpose.
It'd be worth it.
"You know such a request comes with a price."
"I do," Raiden answered, his voice unwavering as he spoke with absolute certainty and he felt quite proud of how unyielding his voice sounded, making his spine stand a bit straighter. "And I know you care not for me, nor her, to allow this by the goodness of your heart, but I am asking you, now, to grant her this small blessing, just for a few days."
A sneer came to rest on the King's lips. "Your mother has not left the castle since the day you were born."
Raiden was surprised at the lack of a blunt denial. Was the King truly considering allowing them to leave the castle? To make his journey?
His heart hammered in his chest and he feared, for one foolish second, that his father could hear it as well as he did. "I know."
Raiden followed the movement of the concubine woman as she scooted to the side of the bed and, aided by Rhun's support, came to stand. Her lips were still parted and despite his obvious attempts to not notice, Raiden still saw the translucent moisture slipping down her legs as she stood, which was proof of both her and the King's pleasure. To his dismay, he could even smell it, thanks to his oddly accurate senses.
He looked away, jaw flexing.
"Rhun?"
The servant boy lifted his head. "Yes, Sire?" He questioned, though he seemed to know quite well what the King meant to ask of him. "He is uncomfortable with the sight of Antheia's skin, Sire."
A spark of shame and raw hurt fired in Raiden's chest.
He would never grow used to the way his father discussed him and the matters that surrounded him like he wasn't present in the room. But he deeply detested the way he commanded Rhun to answer as truthfully and earnestly as possible to all questions the King made, as if all matters were to be discussed in public — or ever said out loud, for that matter.
"Is he?" The King chuckled. "I wasn't aware women made you this uncomfortable, boy," the King commented and it was hard to ignore the fact that despite being blind, he could sense Raiden's discomfort at the scene before him, maybe from the silence he prolonged. "But no matter. We can solve that. I'm sure Antheia won't oppose to some time alone with you in order to properly acquaint you with the lovely art of pleasure."
At the sound of her name, the woman's head snapped up and the look she offered Raiden with her heated mahogany eyes made him both want to throw up and run away at the same time.
Raiden wasn't stupid.
Aside from the fact that he was the Crown Prince, he was what could be considered a strong, young man in the flower of his age. He carried blond hair identical to that of the King's, except his was wavier instead of the King's flat-straight strands. They shared the same tall stature as well, their wide shoulders and study posture, which made sense considering the winters of training that had solidified his muscles and the work with weapons that had widened his stance.
To his own disappointment, he shared more of the King's flesh than he ever would share of his blood.
Raiden cleared his throat. "I don't believe that's necessary."
The King laughed, making his large belly dance with it, though the emotion never reached his unseeing eyes pinned to the space straight ahead of him. "Really?" His brow furrowed. "Come to me, boy." He snapped his fingers at Rhun. "Bring me Antheia, Rhun."
Raiden didn't want to move a single muscle, but he knew that his father's words weren't a request. If he didn't do what the King wanted, he'd be forced within seconds. Compliance had always been something he'd struggled with, but he wasn't stupid. He knew not abiding by the King's rules would only grant him despair in the end.
Raiden took the five steps that separated him from his father.
"Kneel."
Moving like he had springs in his joints, Raiden got down to his knees just as his father ordered.
He knew what was to come.
King had talked of this many times. He'd even threatened a few times to do much worse. For some reason, Raiden had always dreaded such promises. Not because he feared intimacy, but because he knew his father would never give him intimacy the way any young man should find it. He'd force it in the most vicious way he knew how, most likely to be witnessed by everyone so he'd be humiliated before the entire Court.
It was one of the cruelest forms of possession he'd ever felt.
"Rhun tells me you often have a pool of Court dames swooning to share their pleasure with you."
If only any of them looked at me and saw anything other than a throne underneath me and a crown upon my head.
His eyes flew to the servant, whose gaze dropped to the floor as soon as it connected with his. "I'm assuming he gossips such things at your request?"
His father gave a coy smile. "You must surely have learned by now that a king's life is surrounded by gossip."
Raiden's lip curled in a snarl. "I'm not king yet."
"But against all my wishes and prayers, you will be, one day, as it seems." Came the King's quick-as-fire response, clipped and molded exactly like a stone sailing through the air to crash right through his chest. "So, you best get accustomed to having all your movements be tracked and watched. If you fear your indiscretions with women may reach the wrong ears, you may rest assured no word of what goes on in my Court leaves this castle's walls without my say-so." His features then turned lighter as he pointed back to the bed once more, a smile taking over his lips. "You can take whoever you wish. You can even impregnate a few if that suits you. As long at the end of the day, the one in your bed on your wedding night is Syenna, no one shall blame you for taking your pleasure."
I expected no less of you, Father.
Raiden didn't want to get into the topic of Syenna, lest he said something he'd later regret. It was bad enough that he'd spent his entire life enclosed within walls owned by a man who hated his guts, but the fact that it'd been decided who he'd marry from his birth only made everything worse. Not because he didn't like Syenna. She was quite effortlessly beautiful and as endearing as any other woman. What made it all worse was the fact that he hadn't chosen her. He didn't love her. He didn't want to live the rest of his life shackled to her and to a mile-long list of commitments to her. He wanted to marry a woman of his choosing, someone he truly cared for and with whom he wished to rule.
Syenna Larrsen wasn't that woman.
"Have you bedded a woman, boy?"
Raiden's mouth dried up.
"Well?" The King's brows lifted.
"I'm sixteen," Raiden's voice shook.
Over the King's shoulder, Raiden saw that Rhun had pulled the sheet off the bed and strewn it across the woman's shoulders to hide her nudity, slowly moving with her toward the banquette where the King still sat with Raiden on his knees before him.
"Nonsense. Sixteen is old enough. You've been far too sheltered…" His lips curled. Then, leaning a slightly hesitant hand on Raiden's shoulder, the King leaned forward until his lips were at the prince's ear. "I think it's about time you learn to take your pleasure. It won't be long before your wedding night and I don't want the kingdom to think my heir is barren because he's inexperienced."
Barren?
Raiden was at a loss for words. He'd always known what his father thought he would do on his wedding night, but from his words, the only thing he dreaded was the fact that the whole kingdom would somehow be aware of what happened — or didn't happen — that night.
How would they know?
Raiden's frame shook.
"Look at her," the King ordered.
Raiden forced himself to look at the concubine as she trailed the feet separating them, her hip moving hypnotically, still shiny from her own moisture —
A hand forcibly closed around his member through the fabric of his garment, the grip making it erect almost immediately. A tight coil ran through his muscles, making his entire body stiffen. Raiden's first reaction was to push away, but the slightest tilt of his body backward made the King's grip tighten until it was almost painful.
Warning bells went off in Raiden's brain.
"Stay still, boy," the King's voice grew raspier, lowering to a whisper. "You carry my name and as long as that's so, you are my property to do as I please. You have no rights under my reign and for the defiance of coming to ask anything of me, I will take my punishment. But —" The King lifted one finger in the air, smirking. "I can be persuaded to still give you what you want if you accept to pay the appropriate price for it."
He wasn't even surprised at how low his father could truly go to control his own son.
And he was sure this wasn't even the man's lowest.
Clinically, without deviating his eyes from a spot right in front of him over the King's shoulder, Raiden moved his arms until they fell slack at his sides. His instinct said to fist them, but he refrained from doing that, fearing that Rhun would tell the King of his reaction and make this even worse.
Raiden held his breath.
"Be at my mercy. Stop fighting me and confronting me. Follow my rules and don't try to rebel against me. You won't ever escape from me or this place. As long as I live, you will abide by my law, doing whatever I request of you," the King negotiated, though there was no bargain in his words since he would have his way no matter what Raiden chose. "Refuse and I will never let your mother see the sunlight again until she dies of old age. However, if you accept and uphold this, I will promise to not harm her in any way until the day either of us dies."
Raiden knew he shouldn't cave in.
But he had no other choice, did he?
Raiden's lashes fell closed, his heart beating so fast in his chest it was a wonder the King couldn't hear it from where he sat. When he reopened them, seconds later, it was to look at the ceiling above his head, shadowed with the rolling clouds in the night sky cast by the shy moon glow. The fine tapestries covering the wall and skin furs came into focus seconds later, gaining shape and focus as his thoughts permeated through the images as water did through a colander. He felt a cool breeze blow past him, shaking strands of his hair against his chilled cheeks.
He couldn't believe he was going to agree to this — giving his life away to this man he couldn't call a father of any sort —, but he really had no choice. His father had dealt the perfect hand and his only move was to subject himself to it.
Raiden sighed resignedly. "Fine."
"Very well!" The King pulled his hand back. "Wise choice, boy."
Raiden inhaled in both relief and dread.
A butterfly took flight in his stomach — and not the good kind. His eyes met the hooded gaze of the concubine before him, still half-wrapped in the bed sheet.
"Will my services still be required, Sire?" She asked quietly and Raiden realized he was hearing the woman's voice for the first time since he'd seen her. It was smooth and delicate, like a porcelain vase, but huskily provocative — proof she was an utmost professional in these matters, used to offering her touch and presence in any way the other person demanded it.
For one split second, Raiden thought she was referring to him, but the second her eyes deviated to his father, he realized she knew extremely well who was in charge of this situation.
The King, of course.
He didn't answer her. "What clothes is he wearing?" He asked, instead.
"Only trousers and a tunic, Sire," Rhun answered.
"Good." The King nodded, lips pursing. "Have him strip the tunic and lay in the bed."
Raiden felt Rhun advancing to do as he was told, but he was moving before he realized it, stopping the servant from intervening. It was almost like his body was working on its own, doing what he was supposed to but without any consent from his brain to do so.
He rose to his feet and took out the belt and pulled the tunic above his head, letting it fall to the ground, feeling the cool air pierce the skin of his chest like a hot cattle poker burning him.
The concubine, Antheia, accompanied his movements with a hungry stare he'd seen many women give any and all men with youth on his muscles and any delicacy in his features.
"Tell me, Antheia, is he a sight to see?"
The answer didn't come with much hesitation. "Yes." The one word came out laced with lust and desire as a glow ignited in her dark eyes.
A grunt followed the reply. "Rhun?"
"Yes, Sire, he is," Rhun's eyes traveled all the way up and down his entire frame — focusing particularly on his groin for a few seconds time —, and Raiden's shoulders tensed as he inadvertently felt like cattle before being dragged to the slaughterhouse. "Quite generously so."
Raiden's hands fisted in anger.
Still, he did as he was told, lying in the center of the bed on his back, completely at his father's mercy.
He took in a deep breath —
Laughter interrupted the silence in the room, filling the hot space with a tension that nearly took the air from Raiden's lungs — his father's laughter. "Well, we ought to change that, then," he mussed, deliciously entertained by the prize Raiden had just offered him, pure glee glinting in his eyes. "Antheia, darling, I won't be needing your services tonight," the King announced. "Please, feel free to use my bathroom to wash up and return to your chambers."
The woman nodded, grabbing the sheet tight across her chest and starting for the bath chambers in the right corner of the room. However, the look of complete and utter disappointment was hard to miss in her eyes as they glided over Raiden's body with a lustful yearning.
Raiden's lashes lowered in relief.
Though a new dread unleashed itself upon him at the fresh thought that if his father wasn't going to force this humiliation on him, something far worse would be coming.
The King lifted a hand that made Rhun almost run to his side and when the servant reached him, the King leaned to talk in his ear, sending the boy running out the door in seconds, closing it behind him.
"What are you going to do?"
"First, you pay my price, Raiden. Then, I will grant your request."
"No. Wait. What do you plan —"
The King clapped his hands. "Guards!"
The doors opened.
Footsteps sounded.
Soldiers rushed into the room, the royal crest on their chests bright, their armor glinting off the candlelight. Swords and smaller daggers glistened off the light from the scabbards on their waists. The chandelier overhead allowed him to count exactly four of them as they rounded the bed, pulling the canopy curtains to the side and before Raiden could move, hands grabbed his wrists and ankles.
He fought, yelling and struggling against the hands holding him, but they were strong and his position lying down in the bed didn't help much. He had no point to anchor himself to so he could lift himself from the bed and properly fight.
"Chain him." The two words were hard and cold.
No.
The order was followed swiftly.
The first shackle closed around Raiden's right wrist —
"No!"
He bucked, screaming himself hoarse as the soldiers held him. Hearing the clink of the shackle and the cold touch of metal on his skin made his heart stutter and his breath quicken. He kicked with his feet, nearly missing a soldier's cheek but gladly catching his shoulder, earning a grunt from the man, who scowled before trapping his ankle even tighter against the mattress.
"No!" He growled in a rasp.
"Raiden!"
His name on his king's lips stopped him.
His limbs went limp in the bed, slack from the ice freezing his veins as he realized that from now on his life wasn't his own and his resistance would only make the King go through with his earlier threat.
He'd agreed.
Hadn't he?
"Did you forget your place already, boy?"
Raiden lifted his head to look at the King, startled when another shackle closed around his left wrist in his distraction. "I already agreed. You don't need this," he said, but his voice lacked conviction because both of them knew he'd never gladly accept this, and, if he was given any chance to fight, Raiden would always take it.
Always.
The King's face remained expressionless, his piercing, blind gaze locked onto Raiden's. "Do I truly need to ensure that you understand the consequences of defying me?" He asked in a steely tone. "And to teach you your place in any one more evident way?"
Raiden's heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to spill over. He felt completely powerless, trapped like a wild animal in a cage. "No. I'm sorry, Sire."
The King chuckled, an ugly sound that made Raiden's skin crawl. "Good," he said. "I'm glad you've remembered your place."
The King approached him slowly, his steps echoing loudly within the stone walls of the room, followed closely by Rhun. He reached down and grabbed Raiden's chin, forcing him to look up. "Rhun, if you please," he waited as the servant touched his shoulder, signaling he was at his post. "Do you know what this is, boy?" The King snapped and Rhun held up a small vial filled with a shimmering colorless liquid.
It looked like water, though Raiden highly doubted it was.
Raiden shook his head, fear and confusion muddling his thoughts. He had no idea what was happening or what the King was planning. "No."
"It's an ingestible poison, so to speak, non-lethal in small doses, of course, made from an extract from a tree. Its seeds, more accurately," the King said, and Rhun unscrewed the top, moving the small vial around. "It's a special recipe that I've been saving for just the right occasion."
The soldiers moved quickly, securing the chains to the bedframe and making sure that Raiden was completely immobilized. He felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead as he realized just how trapped he was.
How powerless.
"You're going to pay for ever being born, boy," the King said, moving closer to the bed. The smell of vengeance on his breath was overwhelming. "For robbing my sight from me. I will hear you scream for my clemency before I take my revenge for all you've stolen from me."
Raiden's heart sank as he realized what was about to happen — as he realized he was truly trapped in this nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut against the fear squeezing his heart and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled the room.
Rhun reached forward, vial in hand, placing it against Raiden's lips.
Raiden tried to squirm away, but the shackles held him firmly in place.
The vial was warm against his lips, and Raiden shuddered as rough hands held his head. He felt only a few drops fall onto his lips and the deeply bitter taste of it nauseated him. He let out a soft whimper without realizing it and felt a rush of shame flooding through him from his deplorable position. He didn't move to lick the drops or swallow them, so Rhun reached forward and placed his thumb and index finger on his maxilla, forcing it open. The pain felt like a numbing on the lower half of his face and seconds after, he felt drops of the bitter poison being dropped gently onto his tongue.
Rhun released him and Raiden had no other choice but to swallow, grimacing at the taste.
The King chuckled darkly. "Do you want to know what it does?
"No," Raiden whispered, voice faltering.
"Ten to twenty minutes after exposure, the body's muscles begin to spasm, starting with the head and neck. The spasms then spread to every muscle in the body, with nearly continuous convulsions, and get worse at the slightest stimulus. The dose we gave you is quite small, so it will take longer to begin its effects and you'll have no trouble excreting it. After this first part, we will keep you in the dark after you begin convulsing and give you dosed exposures so you won't die, though I suspect your mutt blood won't let you die even if I tried," the King explained like he was talking about the water system of his own kingdom. "Then, I will take my time exacting my revenge on you and your mother."
Raiden fought against his restraints. "Are you really that depraved? That insane?"
The King smirked. "You have no idea what I am capable of, mutt," the King sneered back menacingly. "Is the hot poker ready?"
"Hot poker?" Raiden repeated brokenly.
Rhun disappeared, only to reappear holding a hot poker, and to his complete and utter dismay, it had an 'M' on its tip, glowing like fiery embers fresh from the flames.
"From this day forth, you will never forget what you are, Raiden Thorden," were the King's parting words as he backed away to the door, not leaving, but staying to hear what would happen next.
Rhun delivered the hot poker to a guard and the man smiled before putting its burning tip to Raiden's skin above his ribcage, just under the line of his right pectoral.
Someone started screaming.
It took Raiden a moment to realize that it was coming from him. The sound was broken, shattered like a flute split right down the middle. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It felt like the poker was still on his skin, branding him with the letter 'M' that denoted his status as a mutt.
He thrashed against his restraints, but they held tight, and soon the spasms started, stimulated by the pain of the branding, wracking his body and making him feel like he was being torn apart from the inside out.
His muscles seized up, first his neck and head, then reaching the entirety of his body. His body jerked uncontrollably against the chains that held him in place, but he didn't move one inch in the bed, only ruffled the sheets.
The convulsions came not soon after and as unforgiving as the branding pain was, the convulsions were even more relentless and he couldn't contain the screams that kept being ripped out of his throat. He could feel his body slamming against the bed frame, the chains clanging together with each spasm. His vision went blurry and he could hear a ringing in his ears. The heat of the poker on his skin was excruciating, but somehow he couldn't stop screaming even as he gritted his teeth so hard that he thought they might shatter.
His eyes opened half-hazard, bouncing around the room as they rolled in their sockets from the pain.
Through the haze, he saw that the King was still in the room, listening with an expression of great satisfaction, his lips curled into a twisted smile on his lips that sent a chill down Raiden's spine. Raiden realized he had never seen such a look of glee before and he knew that he was in for much worse if he survived this first ordeal.
Raiden's vision blurred and his screams faded into a delirious buzzing.
He couldn't remember how long the convulsions lasted or when they finally stopped, leaving him gasping for air and trembling from head to toe, cold sweats drenching his body.
He could feel the burns on his skin — he believed there had been more, but couldn't be sure since he might have deliriously hallucinated the pain of them —, but he felt the searing pain still pulsing through his body.
But more than that, he felt a deep sense of fear and hopelessness settle into his bones.
Suddenly, the King's voice came back into focus and his eyes ripped open in a spurt of energy, catching the sight of Rhun as he moved closer, hooded expression on his eyes, to stare down at Raiden's writhing form.
"How long has it been?" King questioned and the answer was lost to Raiden's screams. "How many doses has he had?" Another moment passed as he failed to hear the answer. "Get him ready for transport. And give him another dose before he's taken," the King ordered, voice carrying easily over Raiden's screams. "No. We want him alive for as long as possible."
Raiden heard the muffled sound of an unknown voice. "Your Highness?" It asked, uncertainly. "What to do with him, now?"
Silence for a few seconds.
The King took a deep breath and turned back to face Raiden. "Take him to solitary confinement. Keep him in the quietest, darkest place you can find," he said at last. "I'll go to him when he's suffered enough."
As Rhun tipped the vial towards Raiden's mouth again, now without any fight from the boy as he was exhausted and depleted of all strength and fight from his body, all he could think about was how powerless he was in this situation. How completely at the mercy of this man who wanted nothing more than to see him suffer.
The bitterness of the poison was a good reprieve from the pain, at least.
And as the effects of the poison continued to wreak havoc on his body, Raiden felt himself slipping away, consumed by pain and fear, and a burning sense of betrayal.
As the King approached again, Raiden could only blink at the darkness before him with numb horror as his father whispered into his ear, "Welcome to your new life, mutt."
Unconsciously, Raiden felt himself being lifted from the bed, the soft mattress of the castle's bed replaced by something cold that bit into his skin. Spasms still raked his body, not convulsing, but making it seem like every muscle in his body was burning. The burns still ached as well, seeming to sometimes rasp against something that made him feel like he was being skinned alive.
He didn't know how long it lasted before everything went black.
But it was long.
And agonizing.
If the King sought reparation for whatever pain he thought Raiden had caused him, then he'd certainly earned it.
***
When he woke up again, he was alone in the dark and the only thing left was the memory of agony burning through every nerve in his body.
He'd felt someone come at some point and force him to pee into some sort of a container. They hadn't been gentler, but he'd been too exhausted to protest. He wasn't sure why it mattered and he hadn't asked, either. He didn't much care, at this point, what was done to him. He only wanted the pain to stop, but since he knew that wouldn't happen without the King's say-so, he preferred to just be in the darkness. At least in the void, he didn't need to feel or think or scream.
Only be.
Days passed in the solitude of his confinement.
Or maybe it was weeks — it was difficult to keep track of time in the pitch-blackness of the cell.
Raiden lost all track of time.
He was fed scraps of bread and water by hand what he supposed was every day, along with daily drops of the poison he'd begun to recognize by the smell alone, but it did little to alleviate the gnawing hunger in his stomach or the weakness in his muscles.
His body had become weak and emaciated from lack of food and water, and the regular cramps and convulsions. He could barely lift his head on most days. Whenever any light was permitted in his isolation — usually when people came in to feed him and give him water —, he was blindfolded in an attempt to have him exposed to as little light as possible, but still, the next few hours granted a sore throat from screaming himself hoarse.
He'd managed to understand he was chained to what he could only imagine was the ceiling by his wrists, though whenever people came to give him food and water, he was let down and lain on the floor on his back, the chains pulled tight so he couldn't move his hands and arms, though he wasn't sure why they bothered since he could hardly keep his eyes open most times. He could barely force himself to brush his eyes open long enough to make out the shapes and forms when someone came into his incarceration, much less keep them open. Or move, for that matter.
But it truthfully didn't matter much to him.
He preferred the darkness and the loneliness by now.
There was no torture in either.
After being fed and watered — like an animal —, he was always then left alone, to sit with to the dry stench of his incarceration, strung up in his perpetual torture.
To be reduced to such a crippled rag doll was dehumanizing.
Like a machine being repaired for coils and parts so it remained working to perfection.
In essence, it was just another exquisite form of torture — one he'd began to endure with the same boredom he'd endured his father's despise.
It had all grown into a painful, dull routine.
People came. Took care of his biological needs. Left. He was in pain until the next day.
The pain from the burns eventually dulled into a constant ache, but the spasms never fully stopped, and his body remained a writhing mess of pain and exhaustion. He had slowly become somewhat numb to the spasms and convulsions, and he was almost grateful for it. It was better than the searing pain he had experienced before, even though he knew it was a sign of the damage done to his body.
And yet, he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.
The pain had become a part of him, just like the chains and shackles that bound him to this dark and lonely cell.
At some point, his mind had started to play tricks on him even when he was awake, as well, creating illusions that he knew weren't real. Sometimes he would see flashes of fire dancing around him, hear screams and pleas for mercy. Other times, he would see his family standing in front of him, their faces full of disappointment and disgust.
But as quickly as these visions came, they would disappear, leaving him alone in the darkness once again.
He had lost track of time, unsure if it had been days or weeks since he was first thrown into this hellish prison. But even in this desolate place, hope lingered within him. Hope that someday he would be able to escape this torture and seek revenge on those who had put him here. He held onto this hope tightly, using it as a lifeline to keep himself from completely losing his sanity.
And through all the pain and suffering, that small spark remained deep within him.
A spark that refused to die out completely.
A reminder that he was still alive.
And so he continued on in his endless cycle of torture and resistance, clinging onto that small flame of hope with all his might.
He tried to sleep in between the most brutal times of pain, but the darkness only seemed to exacerbate the nightmares that haunted him. Whenever the convulsions didn't take him into a state of complete dissociation from the world, in the darkness he dreamed of the King and Rhun, of being branded over and over again, of being beaten and tortured until he couldn't feel anything anymore. He dreamed of his kingdom, his previous life, and of his mother's gentle touch.
He dreamed of freedom.
But every time he woke up, he was still trapped in his dark pit of despair.
He passed the time by counting the seconds that ticked by in his head, trying to keep his mind sharp and focused. It was the only thing he could do to keep from going insane.
But most of all, he thought about revenge.
He knew he couldn't escape, not with the chains that held him down and the guards that surely stood outside the door — he guessed —, and watched his every move. But he could bide his time, wait for the moment when he could strike back. The King may have thought he had broken Raiden, but he was wrong. Raiden was strong.
Stronger than anyone had ever given him credit for.
And he would make the King pay for every second of pain he had inflicted on him.
***
As the days turned into weeks, Raiden waited patiently for his moment.
One day, he heard footsteps outside his door. He tensed, already knowing what was expected of him. The door creaked open, and a sliver of light pierced through the darkness. Raiden flinched away from it, blinking rapidly as dark spots danced in his vision, his eyes unable to adjust to the sudden brightness. A figure stepped through the doorway, their features obscured by the glare of the light, and footsteps sounded approaching him.
Within seconds, he was being lowered to the floor and a blindfold was fastened to his eyes.
He lay on the floor compliantly, at the mercy of whoever held him, not fighting or even protesting despite the free mouth with which to scream or plead or beg. Hands entwined in his hair, softly pulling at it and at the same time trying to get his mouth open. Raiden complied, forcing himself awake and feeling the tearing pain from where his hair had been yanked that spurt tears from his eyes. His throat was dry and parched, but he still craved water whenever he felt his mouth being opened. He'd been hoping for the usual canteen to be held for him to drink from, with the stale water he'd grown used to drinking to the last drop offered, oily and with a nose-pricking, eye-stinging burn to it that was potent without being in any way refreshing, but useful nonetheless.
However, he was met with a small mouth on a glass vial.
He groaned, moving his head away, tempted to put up a fight if he was given the poison without his water and food first. He had learned to recognize certain things in his captivity, and this vial definitely did not contain water.
The figure holding the vial paused, and Raiden could sense their confusion.
He knew it was a risk, refusing the King's orders like this. But he was determined to maintain some control over his life, even if it was just a small amount.
The hands on his hair tightened their grip. "Why is the word 'Mutt' branded on your chest?"
The voice surprised him into choking on the very greedy air he'd been swallowing. After coughing, he swallowed multiple times to make sure he wasn't going to die.
Mutt?
So, he had been branded more times than he remembered.
"What?" He croaked.
"Why is the word 'Mutt' branded on your chest?" A clipped, male voice asked.
Who in the Hel was this person?
And why was he making such an obnoxiously stupid question?
"Answer." It was an order from the man holding his face, his touch firm and backed up with far more strength than Raiden had anticipated. The grip on him turned painful, the digit sinking into his cheekbone.
Raiden sucked in a painful breath through clenched teeth.
The pain made him remember, and he was once again reminded of just who he was dealing with here and why something precisely like this would make sense. The answer rolled in the tip of his tongue, nearly flying out when he opened his mouth to respond, though he shut it with a click at the thought that this just might be what they wanted.
And he would not break.
"Answer!" A fist slammed into the side of his ribcage, using Raiden's torso as a punching bag to give himself more satisfaction.
He hadn't even pulled away and so couldn't even dodge the blow. When it came, he took it right over his ribs and the burns on his skin lit up. It didn't break a rib, but for a few seconds, there was numbness all around where it had hit him. Raiden grimaced at the sharp pain coursing through his body, but refused to show any other signs of weakness. He had endured far worse already, and this was just another obstacle he needed to overcome.
"Why is the word 'Mutt' branded on your chest?"
Another fist slammed into him, punching hard enough to make Raiden trip over his own thoughts.
"Why did the King find it needful to remind you of your offensive status to the Crown of Arszden?"
Another blow landed before Raiden could speak another word. His mouth dripped spit out of the corner. It hurt but nothing he couldn't handle — sort of. Raiden blinked away tears that were involuntarily forming by clenching his eyes closed. His face felt hot and he wasn't sure if he was bleeding or not from any of the blows.
He had trouble breathing, however.
Raiden took a deep breath and winced at the stinging pain in his ribcage. "Because… he had someone do it…" Raiden said, wetly, answering the first question. "The King did it," he spat out blood in the form of the words. "He branded the words on my chest."
The man let out a short laugh. "Why did the King find it needful to remind you of your offensive status to the Crown of Arszden?" He repeated his former question, relentlessly.
Raiden still felt dazed from the blow he'd taken to his ribs and everything took forever for him to process. His mind applied every ounce of energy that reached him through his synapses to focus on what the man was asking him. Raiden's thoughts tumbled over one another as he tried to keep abreast of the situation. His mind moved fast, but not nearly fast enough, and all he could do was hope that his face didn't give away his thoughts and emotions. Although come to think of it, the man hadn't actually asked anything congruous with what he had been thinking he wanted to hear.
He didn't want to tell them why.
And so his mind worked hard at keeping the words from spilling out of his mouth.
Just saying the words — the truth — would be enough to break him, and so Raiden tried as hard as he could to just barely hold the words back by force of will alone.
"Tell me why," the man holding him asked again, pressing forward with his question, then nudged the bruise he'd made along Raiden's ribs and punctured skin that had oozed out blood previously. "It'll just make it worse if you don't respond."
Raiden didn't yield to the pain and kept his mouth tightly shut. Something cold and hard was slammed into the soft tissue of his lip and he could feel blood trickling down his chin, but he didn't open his mouth.
A strangled moan came from his throat, but other than that, he remained silent.
"Tell me!" A punch to his gut hammered Raiden's diaphragm and a bucketful of soothing pain washed over him, too much for him to hold back anymore.
It turned into words before he realized it was happening. They were not words he had wanted them to hear or words that would do any good for himself or anything else, but they were words nonetheless — because Raiden couldn't help but answer when faced with too much torture.
But it was as if he were watching from outside himself as the man kept asking him and beating him when he didn't answer. He knew he ought to have said something, if nothing else to protect himself, but he didn't. He couldn't. He'd never admit the truth. He'd never play this twisted game the King was now trying to force him into participating in.
Raiden wouldn't say anything that implied the twisted truth the King wanted him to embrace.
Never.
He refused.
One blow after another slammed into him again, punctuated with punches and kicks that came with each breath from behind him. After feeling like days had passed, Raiden thought the man had finally stopped beating him only for his torso to begin burning from the chest down, starting underneath where the brand on his chest resided. Only then did it get worse, with white-hot pain going up the sides of his chest through his torso up to his lungs, down to his stomach, and accompanying each individual muscle with tear-worthy motions all over his skin. His very skin felt like tongues of fire sweeping over his bag of bones and muscle, burning deep into him like they wanted to turn into a charred piece of charcoal, stretching taught every nerve he possessed over and over again. Sparks of light went off in front of his eyes and it took Raiden's next breath to realize that this was the new way they'd found to torture him.
The newest.
Because as soon as the beating stopped, he was immediately upright and strung up again, left to the darkness and the convulsions that he'd realized too late had already taken his body.
***