Facing the queen had never been this hard, but as he stared into her sunken, beady eyes, he felt small and like he was five again. Her nails bit into his pail cheek like butter, drawing small crescent moons of blood, tilting his head backwards to criticize his features further over the top of her sharp nose. Dylan wanted to rip his face from the witches grasp, to bare his teeth and snarl at the woman and to show her what the personification of Wales could really do, but he knew the consequences would be far worse than what he was willing to take right now. He had to respect her, no matter how badly he would like to watch her burn; and his mother and brother raised her right, he respected a woman no matter how bad. He would behave, he would be a god boy, if not for him then for Arthur. This was the younger boys empire, his kingdom, Dylan wasn't so stupid and cruel to act out, have one more of the boys brothers labeled as savage, it would look bad on Arthur. Who would follow the man who comes from the line of crazy and wild boys? The boys who lashed out and ravished for spilt blood. He knew he wouldn't follow a man who came from crazed blood, so why would the English? He was a good captive, he went to his cell without a fight, he didn't scream or try to escape when the guards had their extra fun or when their weapons lashed against his once milky skin. He was the perfect shell. Dylan was forced onto his feet and shoved out from his cold haven. It was in the times where he limped out of his new home that he missed the wet concrete and the soft drip of water the leaked from cracks in the ceiling. This was a routine for the boy now, it was normal for the English sun to blind him as he made his way into the courtyard where hundreds of Englands citizens stood, yelling profanities at him as he made his way to the single wooden pole in the center. Dylan locked eyes with the witch who sat proudly in front of him, her cold sapphire eyes boring into his. Arthur stood rigid behind her, face twisted into a face he hadn't seen in years. The Welshmans' hands were bound none to gently by thick rope around the post, there to keep him from moving. The first crack of the whip hurt the most, always did, but the way the boy acted nobody could have ever been able to tell. His knees sunk deeper into the frozen mud, breaking through the top layer as the whip came across his back again and again. He vaguely saw his brother flinch after each crack, he saw as the blonde moved to step down the stairs and move to his aid, and he also saw the queen place her arm in front of him, halting his movements. Servants of the house had lined the sides, keeping the citizens at bay and to clean his wounds if the queen permitted, but they had ran into their quarters when the first scream tore from his throat. Every night had been the same for the past month, a single question would escape the womans thin lips, and he would give her his answer in mumbled Welsh, and the beating would continue until his world faded. She never asked more than once, never needing to
"Now, I'll ask you again, what do you say you ingrate?" her voice grated against his ear drums, making his head ring and his wishes for peace to continue. His response earned a gasp to emit from the crowd of citizens before a loud applaud to erupt amongst the crowd. He saw his little brothers green eyes widen in shock, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. The corner of the queens lips curled into a snarl, but looked like a average smile to the regular human. Arthur moved from around the womans outstretched arm and made his way towards the struggling boy
"Dylan " the English accent tore through the chilly air and met his ears and damn, he just wanted to hear his own accent for just a second
"say it again, louder" her voice drifted to him, and he swore his head would explode from this accent. Her smirk never left her pale face, and Dylan wanted nothing but to wipe it from her face, but this was his white flag
"all hail the queen of England "