In which everyone gets slightly more Victorian and Alfonse has a Big Gay Crush on Kiran.
(Thank you so much for all the support for chapter 1! It seriously, unironically warms my heart to know that so many people enjoy my horribly indulgent fetish smut!)
Alfonse wakes to a strong pressure bearing down on the back of his neck.
"Wake up," someone says curtly, and the pressure-a hand, he realizes-disappears. A moment later, his blankets are whipped off of him, exposing him to the chill of the predawn air. His knees curl instinctively up toward his chest to try and conserve heat, and that's when he remembers that his ankles are bound and his arms are tied against his back. He opens his eyes.
"Bruno," he mutters, staring at that man's muscled back as he dresses himself, and the events of the previous day unfold over him like a cresting wave dragging him beneath the surf.
"What," Bruno says, without turning to look at him.
Alfonse shifts on his cot, trying to push himself into a sitting position, but the ropes catch around his throat, forcing him to lie still again. The effort alerts him to a pressing tightness in his bladder, and he grimaces.
"I... I need to relieve myself," he says, shamefaced. The thought of having to announce himself like this every time he has to make water-or worse-is an unexpectedly distressing one.
"In a minute," Bruno responds, apparently unperturbed by the request. It's then that Alfonse realizes he isn't wearing his mask, though he supposes it doesn't really matter anymore who this man truly is, if it ever even did. It does to Bruno, though, for once he finishes dressing, he reaffixes the mask to his face before he turns to make his way toward the cot.
Using the knife from last night, he cuts the bonds holding Alfonse's legs before lifting him under the arms and setting him unsteadily on his feet. Alfonse tries to stretch as best he can, but his body is stiff with cold and sore all over from yesterday's march and abuse. His arms and shoulders ache from the strain of the rope against them, holding them immobile. He takes a step forward only at Bruno's urging, then falters.
"There's no way I can march today," he says miserably, because he's certain things will go as they did last night and he'll be made to walk anyway.
But to his surprise, Bruno responds with, "Then you will ride instead. Now hurry up. I won't put Her Majesty behind schedule because you cannot keep up."
Alfonse chooses to ignore the jab, mainly because he's relieved that Bruno seems to have realized as well that he's in no fit state to travel on foot. Still, there's the princess to contend with, who he's certain will be much more difficult to convince, for she has already revealed her sadistic streak to him. He dreads his first encounter with her this morning, hoping feebly that she will not wish to see him before setting off.
Bruno helps him outside the tent where they find the fog even denser than it was the night before. It stretches out far in all directions, thick and opaque, the tents rising as silhouettes from within it. Alfonse can only barely make out the shapes of soldiers going about their morning duties, a scene so painfully nostalgic that after a few moments, he has to look away. Those that catch sight of him pause to watch, and he can feel their eyes upon him, curious, or maybe disdainful, but with Bruno escorting him, none dare to approach. He's overcome with embarrassment anew on recalling the state of his dress and how his body must be on almost full display to them. He hopes, if nothing else, the fog obscures at least his lower half.
Thankfully, Bruno has the mercy, or maybe just the good sense, to guide him into a small grove, away from prying eyes, before he tugs his gown up over his hips and orders him to do his business. Perhaps unreasonably, Alfonse is ashamed of his body's exposure, even knowing that Bruno has already seen all of him, and it takes him more than a few minutes to settle down enough to do what he was brought here to do. Once he finishes, a rather annoyed Bruno pushes his gown around him again but miraculously remains silent on the issue as he leads him back to camp.
"Her Majesty wishes to see you before we depart," he says, confirming Alfonse's fears. He only murmurs his assent, however, hoping to mask them.
Princess Veronica is up and dressed when they receive permission to enter her tent. She's sitting on her knees on a cushion in front of the green fire, contemplating the breakfast laid out on a low table before her. It's a vast and hearty affair consisting in part of canned jams, honeyed fruits, oatmeal, nuts, pickled eggs, jerky, smoked fish, and bright red wine. The mere sight of the food is enough to cause Alfonse's stomach to groan with need.
"Did you sleep well, Prince Alfonse?" she asks, surprisingly good-naturedly, as Alfonse is lowered onto his knees across from her.
"Yes," he says after a beat, deciding then that he might be best served by seeming grateful and accommodating so that she will have no occasion to punish him. "Thank you, Princess Veronica."
"I'm glad to hear it," she says with a contented little hum. "Leave us, Bruno," she adds to that man. "And inform me when we are nearly set to depart."
"Yes, my lady," he says, bowing out of the tent. Somehow, his absence puts Alfonse on edge.
"He's a useful man," Veronica says conversationally, "but far too kind for one of his station. Don't you agree, Alfonse?"
He flinches internally at her sudden familiarity with him. "I can't say, Your Majesty," he responds cautiously. "You know him far better than I."
"Hmm," she says, knitting her brows together. "Has he been kind to you?"
"He's treated me as a gaoler ought to treat his prisoner," Alfonse says uncomfortably, starting to dread this line of questioning; something about it feels very much like a trap. "No better, no worse."
Veronica plucks a jar of blueberry preserve from the table and twists the lid off with a small pop. "Last night, did he tie your feet?" she asks him casually, slipping her finger into the jar and then sucking the jam clean off of it.
Alfonse tries not to watch hungrily; he must keep his head clear, stay on-guard. "Yes, Princess, he did."
"And did he speak to you at all?" She dips her finger in for another scoop, this time letting it linger at her lips before her tongue slides out to lick it off.
"He did not, Princess," Alfonse says, lowering his eyes to his knees. She's looking for him, and even Bruno, to mess up, he realizes, so that she can invent an excuse to punish him.
Veronica sets the jar back on the table and folds her hands neatly into her lap. "I see," she says, almost thoughtfully. "That is good to hear."
Alfonse almost breathes a sigh of relief when she adds, "Good, but unfortunate."
"Your Majesty?" he inquires, anxiously.
"Oh, it's good that Bruno is doing his job according to expectation," she continues, "but unfortunate in that I now have no occasion to teach you another lesson. I feel that you got off light last night considering you were in possession of quite the saucy tongue."
Alfonse swallows thickly, his mouth dry as dust. "I wish you would understand that I only want to cooperate with you, Princess Veronica," he begins meekly. "If we could perhaps work something out to our mutual benefit, I-"
"Shut up," she sneers, and her hand whips across his face, cutting him off and leaving a bright pink mark upon his cheek. "Do not act complaisant, for I know your pride still lingers beneath the surface. Let it out, foolish prince-I want to crush it beyond repair with my own two hands!"
Alfonse bows his head, refusing to look at her. "You will never break me," he tells her in a low voice. "Never."
But Veronica only laughs. "Lift your head," she orders, and, reluctantly, he does. "Look at you," she croons, taking his chin into her hand, tilting his head to gaze into his eyes. "You have so much fire in you yet! How I adore that!"
She releases him, gestures to the low table. "Are you hungry?" she asks, and he can't keep his eyes from flicking down to the food.
"Yes," he admits.
She smiles, pushes a bowl of porridge toward him. "Then eat."
He raises his eyes to hers. "Are you going to make me beg to have my hands untied?" he asks tonelessly. Veronica feigns a look of dismay at the suggestion.
"Certainly not!" she exclaims. Her smile widens just a touch. "You don't need your hands-you can eat perfectly well with your face."
Alfonse feels his cheeks start to burn. "You can't be serious. You would have me eat like an animal? For what purpose?" He's sure even as he says it that he already knows.
"Because I want you to," she says simply, as if that's all the reason in the world that she needs. And for her, it is. "I would hurry if I were you," she adds, glancing past him at the entrance. "We depart shortly, and I can't say when we'll break again for lunch. If you don't eat now, you'll surely be hungry later."
Alfonse stares at the porridge, his stomach tightening with hunger; he hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. "Will you show me no compassion at all?" he quietly asks.
"I'm feeding you," she says. "That's more compassion than I give most prisoners, you know. Most don't even get to keep their heads."
Somehow, he does not doubt her claim.
Princess Veronica will never relent-he knows that better than anybody now. She wants to break him down, and the more distressed she can get him, the better for her. His only hope, then, is to attempt to subvert her designs by taking it all in stride. He needs to eat, in any case; he won't leave his kingdom without its principle ruler, or Sharena without her older brother. He'll stay alive-no matter what it takes.
Slowly, he lowers his face to the bowl. He can feel her eyes on the back of his neck, and he does his best to ignore it. At this distance, the warm smell of cinnamon overtakes him, making it easier to open his mouth, use his tongue to lap up the porridge. It's delicious; he sticks out his tongue again, licks up some more.
Veronica giggles, and Alfonse freezes. In spite of his newfound resolution, he feels his throat constrict. He struggles to swallow the porridge.
"Look at you, you mangy little mutt!" she laughs, as if sensing his faltering resolve. "Scrounging for human scraps! Bad boy!"
She swats his head. His hands are shaking from where they're tied behind his back; he hopes she can't see them. He's still hungry, and he focuses on that as he takes his next few bites. For Askr, he tells himself. For Sharena and Anna and Kiran-
Kiran. What would he think if he could see him now? Would he be disappointed? Disgusted? That's not very prince-like, Alfonse, he can almost hear him saying. Eating like a dog, what were you thinking?
He swallows another mouthful. No-Kiran isn't like that. Kiran knows why he did this, knows what's at stake. Kiran would be disgusted with Veronica, not him, for making him do these degrading things, for-
Alfonse feels the boot to the back of his head before he feels the heat of the porridge against his skin. He jerks his head up but meets with resistance immediately in the form of Princess Veronica's booted foot, pressing down hard on his head and neck. He didn't even hear her stand.
"Didn't I tell you to hurry up?" she growls, bearing down on him with all her weight. "We're leaving."
She removes her foot, and Alfonse gasps as he pulls his head from the bowl, hot porridge sticking to his eyes and cheeks and hair. Veronica covers her mouth with her hand and laughs gracelessly as he shakes his head from side to side, trying to clear his face. He should have known she would do this-anything but let him retain even the smallest piece of his dignity.
"You've made such a mess, you poor child," she observes now, kneeling down in front of him and taking his chin into her cupped hands. "Let me help you."
He's too stunned to resist as she pulls him close, brings her own tongue to his cheek, and starts to lick him clean.
"No," he says, once he has command of his voice again. "Stop-please, stop this."
She ignores him, moving her tongue down the bridge of his nose, over his cheek, around his jaw, stopping only when she reaches the ropes at his neck. Alfonse shivers and jerks back, but Veronica reaches around him, takes hold of the ropes, and tugs. The bonds close around his throat, sealing off his airway, and he gags. She holds him steady as he thrashes against her, desperate to restore his breath.
"Do not defy me, prince," she murmurs, low and cold. "Submit to me. That is the only way to preserve your life."
He can't speak to beg her to release her hold or even to apologize for his insubordination; he would do either now without shame, just so long as she let him breathe. His head is starting to feel both light and heavy all at once, and his vision blurs at the corners, then all over as his eyes fill with tears. She'll kill him, he realizes; contract be damned, she'll really kill him.
It isn't until he's started to convulse and drool that she finally lets go. He chokes in a breath, and it stings his throat. He doubles over at the waist, gasping in air as his heart shudders in his chest. A haze of nausea filters over him. He leans to the side, away from the table, and retches, but nothing comes out.
"I don't want to hear another word out of that defiant mouth," Veronica says, sounding unreasonably far away, though he can feel her warmth right beside him. "Nod your head if you understand me."
Shakily, mutely, Alfonse nods.
"Now that's a good boy," Veronica says, bending over to pat his head almost fondly. Then she straightens and strolls through entryway without another glance in his direction.
Alfonse tries to recompose himself, though it takes several long minutes before he's able to stop trembling. Had the princess truly intended to kill him simply for his small act of defiance? She informed him just yesterday that she would keep him alive, and yet now she is insisting that even the slightest insubordination is enough to warrant her taking his life. His death would render the contract between their nations null and void, and Askr would surely fight back, but would it survive the full onslaught of the Emblian army? And yet, had she the power to take his kingdom all along, then why would she even bother with taking him as a hostage in the first place?
His head throbs, and he can't think straight, not in this condition. This time, he's scared more than angry, scared of what this woman can do, of what she's fully willing to do. He doesn't want to submit to her, is afraid of what will happen if he does. Will he lose his mind and grow to love her? Will he become like the heroes she captured and mindlessly worship her?
No-he won't let it happen. He has too much to lose. No matter what happens, he won't let her break him.
When Bruno comes to retrieve him some time later, he surprises him by gently feeling around his neck where the ropes dug into flesh. "Are you alright?" he asks, and Alfonse turns his head to the side.
"I'm still breathing," he bites out. "For now."
Bruno gives him a long-suffering look. "I warned you before, did I not? Do not cross the princess. Her Majesty is impulsive and cruel to even her own subjects. Do not presume that as fellow royalty, you are an exception."
"Is that advice?" Alfonse asks coldly. "Or a warning?"
Bruno grips his shoulders and pulls him to his feet. "Both. Now get walking. We ride from here as soon as this tent is disassembled."
Alfonse allows himself to be conveyed from the tent to Bruno's awaiting horse, a black stallion in light barding that must be at least sixteen hands tall. He's left in the hands of a burly axeman as Bruno mounts, but when he reaches down to pull him up in front, Alfonse draws back.
"I-I can't ride in this attire!" he cries, glaring down at his bare legs and at his very unprotected groin.
"We'll be going at a mild trot," Bruno returns, sounding almost exasperated, as if he's speaking with a child. "You'll be fine."
Still, Alfonse resists. "I need riding breeches, at the very least," he counters. "It's cruel and unusual to make me ride in this state."
Bruno glares from behind his mask. "Then, would you prefer to walk all the way to the capital?"
Alfonse is silent, staring at his bare feet, dirtied with mud and slightly swollen from yesterday's march. Bruno takes that as resignation and has the axeman hand him up to be seated in the saddle before him. The leather is tough and sticky against his skin, and Alfonse squirms. His privates are pressed flat against the saddle, an uncomfortable sensation on its own, but he dreads how it will chafe.
"I suppose you won't untie me for this either, then?" he asks dully, adjusting his arms into a slightly more bearable position.
"That is unnecessary," Bruno replies.
Alfonse lets his head drop against his breast. "And suppose I should lose my balance and fall off and break my neck?"
"I will protect you," Bruno assures him, and Alfonse knows he means on the horse, but he can't keep the contented little flutter of hope from batting against his heart.
He wishes now more than ever that Kiran were here to protect him.
This chapter originally went on for quite a bit longer, but I ended up splitting it into two. So chapter 3 should be out next Wednesday.
Please fav and review if you're enjoying it! =)