Just a chapter on Caspian today, so hope you enjoy (or not because… you'll see. haha).

When the time came, Caspian walked to the designated clearing proudly, not letting his guard down. It was the day of his 'punishment,' which was to be eleven whip-lashes on his back. His hair kept falling annoyingly in his eyes, and he pushed it back out of the way, his palms sweaty. Punishments, he could normally handle just fine, just like he had many times before at the Unseelie Court, but one to do with his back scared him. His back was always unpredictable - it seemed to have a mind of its own sometimes - and he didn't doubt it would hurt like hell. But even worse than that perhaps, was that anyone there would see the scars on his back. The scars which were both his failure and his biggest weakness. He didn't want to be known in the Hunt as 'the faerie who'd lost his wings.' As if losing your wings was as easy as misplacing something. He'd come to the Hunt to escape all that, and to start afresh. Well to try to, anyway. Or, he reconsidered, maybe he'd just had nowhere else to go.

Reaching the clearing, he felt his mood darken further when he saw a couple of small groups of faeries waiting around. Sure, it wasn't the whole Hunt, but he knew better than most how quickly rumours spread around small communities like this. Sol, the supervisor he hated with a passion, waited in the middle, watching him. Gritting his teeth, Caspian continued until he was in front of him, trying to keep an unfazed demeanour. He wouldn't let himself appear weak about it. There was no way he'd give Sol the satisfaction of any kind of reaction.

His gaze flickered to Sol's bright red translucent wings snaking with black veins for a moment, swallowing when he felt a sour feeling in his throat. Stupid Seelie Court faeries, he thought to himself, shifting his gaze back to his face and staring at him impassively. As if he could read his thoughts, Sol's hazel and black eyes narrowed for a moment, before he turned away, throwing a handful of blood red stones on the ground. Caspian took a sharp breath, knowing what was coming. He'd seen enough whippings in the Unseelie Court, and it was no different there. He watched as a twisted tree the colour of blood started to grow in the seed's place.

As it grew, Sol turned to address the spectators. "Today Caspian is punished with eleven lashings across the back to teach him, and everyone here, a lesson. He has not listened to his superiors, he's gotten into numerous fights, he's tried to cross to the part of the Downworld Towns where you've been told you're not allowed to go and-"

Blocking out Sol's arrogant voice and venomous words, he allowed himself to close his eyes for just a moment to collect himself. Sol could say all he wanted to, but it wasn't going to change him. He wouldn't be beaten in this game and it would take more than this to break him.

Opening his eyes again, Sol then turned to look at him expectantly, telling him to prepare himself, and Caspian knew exactly what he wanted. He raised his hands to undo the clasp of his cloak, watching it fall to the ground. As his hands lowered to the hem of his shirt, he hesitated, his nervousness slowly stealing both his breath and his thoughts. Annoyed, he growled low in his throat, before ripping his shirt up over his head, and tossing it to the ground beside his cloak. As he turned away towards the tree, he heard a collective intake of breath from the faeries, and he saw the hint of surprise in Sol's eyes, before his expression turned to disgust as he stared at his back, in a sort of horrified fascination. He could just hear their whispers of 'wings' and 'gone' and 'scars,' and it sickened him. Ignoring everything and everyone, he shut off his thoughts, walking to the tree, and kneeling slightly to position himself, and place his hands on the trunk of the tree.

"Just hurry up and get it over with," he muttered loud enough for Sol to hear, his impatience palpable.

Someone leaned down to push a hard leather strip in between his teeth for him to bite down on, and he was grateful for that, at least. Tensing to ready himself, his heart hammered as he waited for it to start at any moment, not wanting to be caught out, but also not wanting to turn his head to see.

A swift whistle through the air was his only warning, before the whip came down on his back. He arched back in pain for a moment, his thoughts screaming out any swear or curse words he could think of, although outwardly he kept mostly silent, biting down on the leather, hard. It came down again and again, and he could feel it bite into his back, blood trickling down it, and onto the grass, staining it red. But he couldn't lose count - he had to keep count because he didn't want to pass out. He had to get through every single one and show the bastards he could. He was glad his grunts were muffled by the leather, and he didn't move, trying to take breaths in between each one. There was a steady rhythm of pain, and he closed his eyes, thinking of his wings being cut off all those years ago. This hurt like hell just like that, and it was perhaps worse as the two combined themselves in his mind, the pain multiplying and mutating.

It was finally up to nine lashes then, and he'd managed so far, but his mind became cloudy, the pain overwhelming his senses. His hands gripped the wood tight and sweat beaded on his forehead. He tried to push down the chocked sound in his throat. Just two more, just two more, just two more... he repeated like a mantra in his head, wanting - no needing - to get through it. He had to walk away from it himself in the end, and pretend he was perfectly fine, like he'd always planned to. But as the tenth one cut into his back savagely, his mind went black…

And

His

Thoughts

Just

Disappe-...

Waking up with a gasp, the pain split his head for a moment, before something felt wrong, his thoughts jumbling up. His… his wings…. gone... What had…? Everything came rushing back to him, and he groaned, feeling sick. Of course that had been years ago.

Moving only his head, he glanced around, to try and get his bearings, finding he was on his stomach on some kind of stretcher in the medical supplies tent. Moving just an inch made his back flare up, and he had to take a few deep breaths and grit his teeth, before slowly, ever so slowly, pushing up on the ground with his hands, to sit up. Once he'd achieved that, he grabbed the closest thing nearby, using that to pull himself up.

After taking a few quick breaths, he lifted up his shirt just as slowly, his hand tentatively pulling at the bandages running around his back and his middle. In a moment of rage, he grasped at them, ripping them off, and probably ripping some skin off with them. He put his fist in his mouth for a moment to muffle his scream at the sharp pain, and his frustration too. The bandages were stained with blood, and he tossed them to the ground. Then he pulled his shirt back down, feeling it stick messily to the blood remaining on his back, before picking up his cloak, not yet daring to put its heavy weight back on.

Pushing open the flap of the tent, he went out, trying to ignore the pain. He couldn't stay in there, or around base when he felt trapped and claustrophobic, and he found himself instinctively moving towards the direction of the lake, one of his favourite places to go. The hike up to it was pure agony, but he pushed through it, the image of the lake calming his thoughts sightly. Plus he knew he wouldn't encounter many other faeries there who'd ask questions about it. Well none besides the only one who actually mattered. But as he stared at the place in the distance, he noted with an equal sense of relief and disappointment, that he was there alone.

Once he finally reached the lake, he paused at the edge, turning his back to it slightly. Carefully starting to pull up his shirt, he tilted his head to the side to try and see the reflection on the water. The fabric had stuck to parts of his back and the healing salve, and he had to pull it off, moaning loudly. Then he could just see it in the reflection - the still angry, bright red lines crisscrossing over his older scars. The dried blood coating them. He thought to himself, in a kind of dark and twisted amusement, that he'd managed to mess his back up even more. He doubted it could get much uglier.

Then, his expression twisted in disgust at it, and his inability to keep from passing out, and he turned away, letting his shirt drop back down. Pathetic, really. More than pathetic.

But then he paused and let out a bitter laugh.

Perhaps the ugly 'masterpiece' of his back suited him.