Andromeda

by GreyPigeon

Summary:

The whole continent has been ravaged and weakend by the unforseen scourge of dragons. The mighty creatures seem to be attacking out of newhere, leaving destruction in their wake. The ashy, abandoned landscape brings out orc hordes and various monsters, which overrun the land.

The Kingdom of Vere is in tatters, and the Regent's power hangs on a very thin thread. Famished and desperate citizens are on the verge of rebelling. When the young Omega prince discovers the truth about the battle of Marlas and decides to act, dominoes start to topple.

Laurent and six other Omegas are captured and paraded through the streets of Arles as a "voluntary" Sacrifice to the greatest dragon, like in the tales of old; the Regent will do anything to broker out peace and save his country, after all - even sacrifice his own nephew and the only heir...

Notes:

Look, THIS IS DARK, like... Berserk level dark, probably, if you need a gauge. Especially the beginning of this fic, later it's going to focus A LOT on healing, recovery, budding love between Damen and Laurent and fixig all of the character's emotional wounds. The way I see it, there will be a lot of emotional fluffy feelgood scenes, but not gonna lie - I'm not restraining myself either, so this dove is DEAD. It's STINKY. It might carry on some meaning, though, maybe - for me, for you, for someone. Idk. This is all fiction anyway. I'll place warnings before each chapter. Take care of yourselves.

BACKGROUND FIC INFO:
1. Damen and Auguste are only RUMOURED to be dead, here. It's not so, but Vere is cut off from the world and misinformed. So Laurent doesn't know.
2. Auguste survives but cannot return to Vere. He doesn't know about anything that happened to Laurent.
3. Damen/Erasmus tag is for the beginning, when Damen isn't yet in a relationship with Laurent. I should probably tag Damen/other slaves, too. Damianos is a prince of a slave-keeping country. He grew up with it. Laurent is a war captive and needs to come to terms with his loss of freedom, before the situation gets resolved.
4. Omegaverse is combined with D/s verse. I'm taking creative licences and a free take on Omega biology. I hope the worldbuilding will be clear, but it will also reveal itself gradually. Anyway you need to know that Akielos and Vere look at Omegas in a VASTLY different way; there will be a lot of Omega persecution and sexism depicted, and our Veretian cast will have trouble reconciling the way they have been treated with how they are treated and why.

***CW for this chapter***

imprisonment, graphic violence, abuse of Omegas, sexism, extremely abusive language, rape (not shown explicitly), torture (not shown explicitly), threat of mutilation.

Chapter 1: Trapped

Summary:

Laurent and his supporters get captured. Nicaise visits them in the cells.

***

 

Ever since the crated cell door locked behind him with a screeching sound of an ancient, rusty hinge, Laurent couldn’t stop pacing. 

He was exhausting himself, he knew. His head throbbed, he was cold and dizzy, and the iron clamp of nausea in his stomach was bothering him a lot. His body sent him all sorts of signals to stop and sit down, but he knew that should he stop his endless trot - if only for a little while - he’d go mad. 

The last couple of days were a blur of news, broken to him in hush-hush whispers and leaving him in a state of utter shock. He was onto something for months, ever since he discovered his uncle inviting the magicians from Vask, but he would never have expected just how far the rabbit hole went. 

The dragons. Marlas. His father. Auguste.

None of that was a coincidence. None of that was a natural tragedy, occurring far and wide despite one’s birth, age or income. It didn’t “just happen” like he was conditioned to believe. It was all a man-made plot, his uncle’s plot, the plot to usurp the throne and get rid of the heir in one swoop.

Laurent knew he was going to blow his cover if he sent Paschal away. He knew all of his supporters would immediately find themselves in danger, and probably their families, too. But he also knew that the evidence the physician held was priceless and had to be preserved no matter what, because in the light of double regicide, the fate of the whole kingdom was at stake. 

Laurent had to admit - in the cosy darkness of his still evident naivete - he really thought the last traces of a familial bond would pull him through with this one. 

Or if that proved to be a folly, then the history between them - the trump card Laurent believed he held, the threat of telling the truth - would be enough to shield him. After all, the Regent couldn’t really risk such a blatant abuse of the rightful heir to see the light of day; if Laurent spoke up, presented evidence, the Council would have to at least listen to him, and that alone would throw a wrench in his carefully cultivated plan. Laurent lost all sleep for a few days, weighing his options. In the end though, the choice was illusory. He knew he had to act.

So Laurent ordered Paschal to pack, made Jord promise to guard him with his life and sent both of them away to Patras with a single goal - to get there as soon as possible and hide under Torveld’s wing. 

…How badly, how horribly he miscalculated. 

“You’re going to pace a hole through the floor at this rate,” Aimeric snapped at him from the cell on the opposite side of the corridor. “I’m sick of looking at this! Sit the fuck down!”

“Aims, let it go,” Lazar said with composure Laurent did not possess, “you’re not doing any better yourself.” He nodded towards an array of scratches on the wall Aimeric had been etching onto the wall since yesterday, using a small piece of rock he found on the floor. The rock was getting smaller and smaller, and the sound grated on everybody’s nerves.

Lazar was stuck in a cell next to Aimeric. Never disappointing; Lazar was as far from a traditional image of a Veretian Omega as fucking possible, and even now, in this life-threatening situation, he was able to keep his wits about him. Laurent wanted to feel grateful. Wanted to voice it, even. 

He couldn’t.

Finally, an hour or so later - he couldn’t really tell, it could be two. Or ten. There was no timepiece by which he could gauge it, and the only window in here was around the corner of his cell - Laurent’s legs simply gave out. Unable to take one step further, he slumped with his back to the wall and hid his face in hands.

Father. 

Auguste. 

Then what happened to himself. 

…Nevermind that. Auguste. 

All of this had been planned. 

Uncle used the chaos that issued across the land well, and had been strengthening his position ever since the first stray dragon appeared in the border with Vask, destroying a fortified town down to the very last child. While everyone was too busy arguing that the dragons are just a rumor and it couldn’t be true, he started pouring generous amounts of money from his estates into expanding his private troops and investigating the threat. When it happened to be true after all, he started fighting them. 

It was going all too well, now that Laurent thought back on it. We can take them! We can handle the drakes alone, Vere proudly stated with uncle’s mouth, despite more and more beasts propping up seemingly out of nowhere, despite Patrans and Vaskians urging them to settle on a cease-fire with Akielos. 

The war over Delfeur had been dragging on, the Akielons too great and too stubborn of a force to be defeated easily. The animosity Vere had towards them was shared by many, and quietly supported from the main capitals on the continent. But with the fiery, airborne threat, destroying vast swathes of countryside in a heartbeat? All of the nations took up arms against the common enemy, put their differences aside and started calling for a truce. The crowned heads advocated alliances, spoke in favour of collaboration. Advised compromises and forgiveness. 

But this is exactly what we shouldn’t do, uncle had said. We have to strike now, get back Delfeur, now when the Akielons are withdrawing their armies inward and looking the other way, on a bigger, scarier enemy. How do you think we’ll rebuild, without the fertile farming borderlands? He kept asking. 

And he slithered, and dripped venom into Aleron’s ear, and he maneuvered everyone into this last, reckless attack - the final stand over the land long destined to belong to Vere. To protect the people living there, speaking our language, sharing our faith, he said. The dirty barbarians aren’t going to bother - they’ll abandon them or worse, use them as cannon fodder. Vere needs to step up. And the Gods will favour us for it, as they always favour the brave.

Laurent had been little. He hadn’t even presented yet. 

He remembered his brother, from head to toe clad in armor, stroking his fair hair with a metal gauntlet which caught up in his hair on its complicated structure of multiple hinged joints. Laurent didn’t pay attention to his hair snapping. Pain was a welcome distraction as his brother explained calmly that he needs to stay behind the walls of a fortress, where it’s safe. He cannot sneak out nor go anywhere close to the battlefield. Just wait for his return. 

Auguste kissed his forehead, scented him on his wrists and promised he’d return as soon as possible. He was nervous, but he tried to keep it hidden. Laurent still detected it in his scent.

I’ll be good, brother, Laurent had said, trying to put him at ease. I’ll wait for you here. Just come back - promise me you’ll come back, Laurent pleaded, watching father’s silhouette appear in the open door of the chamber. The figure was cutting off clearly, almost black on the fair background of the sandstone walls shining in the sun. The sun was shining so bright that day. Peak of summer, heatwave. Different climate, too.

Aleron called on his first son once again. His starburst heir, his brightest general. His pride and heart. They mounted their horses. 

Promise me you’ll be back, Laurent was sobbing quietly even as they were gone already. Promise me you’ll be back.

They didn’t.

Laurent curled in on himself. He wanted to bite someone, break something. He wanted to kick or scream, throw himself at the bars until he had no air left in his lungs. Stray arrow. A stray arrow, which ended the King’s life, a messenger of death carried swiftly on yellow-dyed quills, piercing his throat clean, faster than a thought. 

He knew now that this arrow wasn’t stray.

And neither was the dragon, which descended onto the battlefield like a rain of fire, killing hundreds. The dragon which was purposefully woken, railed up and baited with magic to fly towards Marlas - by the same Vaskian wizards that were visiting the castle now.

Laurent had heard tales, later. How Auguste was in the middle of a duel with the young prince of Akielos, unaware of the King’s death just yet. He was tired, he’d been fighting all this time - and fighting so bravely, too. He disarmed the barbarian prince, made him pick up his sword; he would have won, he had a fair chance. They were matched in skill, and he outweighed him with experience, so despite the Akielon’s superior strength, this duel would have ended in his favour, everybody said.

But then the dragon burnt them both to a crisp. 

Laurent remembered the dented, charred cuirass they’d brought from the battlefield; the only thing that was left of his brother, the biggest bit of him they’d found in the ash afterwards. The starburst, etched in gold on the front of the breastplate, lost its shape and dissolved under the heat of dragon’s breath. The whole side was shredded open with claws - four symmetrical ruptures, carving the steel into ribbons.

Laurent, despite being the next in line, didn’t even matter. He was just a child. It was no hardship at all to seize the power from a thirteen-year-old, move him aside with unanimous laudation from the terrified Council and confine him to his chambers for the long months of mourning. Then - long weeks of recovery, after he unfortunately presented as an Omega. Then - long, long years of hearsay lunacy. 

…Fucking uncle.

Laurent tried to calm his rattling breath, slow his heartbeat beating a hole through his chest. He lifted his head and saw Aimeric staring at him through the bars; he looked almost glad that there was a crate separating them, his eyes were so full of hatred. 

While Laurent held no love for the insufferable brat, he couldn’t necessarily blame him. He was stuck here because of him. 

So was Lazar, the current captain of his Guard; and Estienne, the great-great granddaughter of Herode, a tiny brunette hiding away from them in the furthest corner of her cell. She didn’t stop crying ever since they brought her this morning.

Laurent of course understood what was happening. Since Laurent made his intentions known, uncle decided to root out any resistance in the form of the prince’s faction. He’d clean up the collateral while he was at it - meaning Aimeric. 

Lazar held too much respect in the army ranks, and there were many who could have followed him into an uprising, if it came to that; he commanded respect just like Jord did. Oh, uncle would have loved to get his paws on Jord. But Jord wasn’t here, and Orlant and Huet were Betas; small chance of convincing the good people of Arles that The Sacrifice could be anything else than Omegas. Perfect, beautiful, virginal Omegas, just like Herode’s favourite grandchild. 

Laurent felt his skin tightening unpleasantly on his bones just thinking of the old councillor; maybe the last of the rotten bunch who had a soul. He used to be one of the most trusted advisors of his father, and he always held a firm belief that Laurent was more than his uncle made him out to be, more than a hysterical, unstable child he was painted as.

Laurent sighed. Several more cells in this wing stood empty.

He didn’t want to know who else would be dragged down here. He didn’t want to have any more blood on his hands.

 

~~*~~

 

The sound of tiny footsteps stopped in front of his cell door.

“Laurent!” 

“Nicaise?!” Laurent jumped to his feet, and without thinking, he reached through the bars to hold the child to himself, all pretense abandoned. Likewise, Nicaise glued himself into the metal cage, accepting the embrace and fighting to be as close as possible. “...Nicaise, you cannot be here! It’s too dangerous! How did you get here?”

“I had to see you,” Nicaise sobbed into his ear. “I had to see you. It can’t be happening. He can’t be doing this to you, this is fucked up! How can he do this?!”

“Nicaise, listen to me,” Laurent tried to pry the surprisingly strong arms away from his shoulders to look at him, but Nicaise held fast.

“...No! No, it’s unfair, it can’t be, he can’t do this-”

“-But he can,” Laurent said urgently, “And he will, if you’re not smart about this. Nicaise, look at me. We don’t have much time! Look at me, please, please.”

Nicaise pulled back. Laurent rubbed his arms up and down, took in the big blue eyes, wet and still full of unshed tears, the snotty nose, blotchy red face and neck. Nicaise had never looked more like a child than now, wearing this disarmingly honest expression of hurt. 

“...Do you believe me now, Nicaise?” Laurent asked quietly. The boy nodded, and the tears fell freely, in all the raw, unconditional sincerity. No more aloofness, no more play-pretend that he’s older and more capable than he really was. Just a frightened child, helpless to stop what was happening around him, and to those he loved.  

“...I do,” Nicaise sobbed. “I do. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Laurent, you have to run.”

“Don’t worry about me, Nicaise. I’ll take care of myself. And it’s you who must run. Just not immediately; you have to be smart about this, do you understand? You can’t give him a reason to suspect you.”

“No!” Nicaise sobbed again, his voice rising in pitch. “I don’t want you to leave!”

“Shhhh,” Laurent glanced towards the corridor leading to the entrance. “Quiet, Nicaise. You can’t have any guard see you here with me. This is about your safety, do you understand?”

“No, I-”

“Nicaise, I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to you, do you understand me?” Laurent hugged him again, and the boy gripped him tight. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Nicaise. You have to grow up, and you have to grow up now. It shouldn’t be like this. It’s not fair. But if you don’t, you’ll be in grave danger, and he’ll do the same to you that he did to us.”

Aimeric whipped his head towards them, infuriated.

“Keep me out of this, you fucking mongrel,” he hissed. “...I’m not like you.”

“Fuck you,” Nicaise spat, turning towards him. “You traitorous scum! I hope you die, I hope your bowels rot out and trickle through your ass, you-”

“Nicaise!” Laurent put a hand over his mouth and turned him to himself, bodily. “Enough of this. Don’t listen to him, focus,” he shook him. “Alright? Are you listening?”

“...Yes.”

“You’ll go to my room. Under the bed there’s a loose floorboard, and I’ve been putting money aside for you, in gold-”

Aimeric started laughing. He threw his head back and cackled like a maniac, and it echoed around the cells like an evil ghost. Laurent cursed; he was going to bring every fucking guard in the vicinity to their prison wing. Aimeric paid no attention, he just kept laughing, shedding actual, real tears at the thought of Laurent doing such a thing.

“Ignore him. Ignore him, listen to me! Take what’s in there. Hide it. And never go around my chambers again, because they’ll surely check,” Laurent shook Nicaise again to make sure he’s listening. “He’ll be observing you. You cannot make him suspicious, so… you can’t cry after me, Nicaise.”

To observe the blue eyes getting even wider and then swim with tears again was physically painful. Laurent wiped both of his cheeks with his thumbs. 

“...You’ll have to wait until he leaves for Chastillion. Or Varenne. Wherever. But he will, eventually, have to go somewhere. Fake illness, if you have to; make him leave you behind, even if it’s for a day. And then take that opportunity, don’t look back. There is a fisherman in the lower castle, he’s got a cottage just by the pier, his name is Bartholemew. You can trust him; he’ll smuggle you out of the city and on the river road. That’s the safest way to Varenne. From there, you’ll go on through Vask to Patras. Find Paschal.”

“I’ll never manage that, are you insane…!?”

“You will. You must. You’ll have help on the way, I made sure of that.”

“...Laurent, no,” Nicaise sobbed. “I don’t want to…! You have to run too, I can open this door, I can… Look, I brought you a knife, I-”

“No, Nicaise,” Laurent shook his head. “You have to go back to your room before anybody sees you. Remember what I told you? Do you know what you need to do?”

“Don’t just give up like this?!” Nicaise squealed, clearly outraged and frustrated at what Laurent was saying. “You can’t stay here, you’re the prince, he’s gonna crown himself King without you! They’re going to kill you, Laurent!”

“They’re not going to kill me.”

“But I heard them! I heard HIM!”

“They can’t kill me, or any one of us, because they mean to sacrifice us to the dragon. It won’t happen in Arles, right? We’ll be travelling somewhere,” Lauret reasoned. “It will be easier to escape on the road than from here. I have to go with the plan for now, and so do you,” the boy’s eyes zeroed in on Laurent. “Alright? Will you help me? Will you go with the plan?”

Nicaise hesitated, but the logic of that statement, however fake it was, seemed to get through. He sniffed, wiped the tears away awkwardly. Laurent looked with his heart swelling in his chest as the realization settled above the small, shaking shoulders, as his resolve solidified and hardened into something tangible he’d be able to hold on to for the days to come. How his eyes shuttered, darkening his face, and Laurent could see him fortifying himself in real time.

For him.

“You have to keep going, Nicaise,” he said. “You have a brighter future ahead of you than I could ever dream of. Keep fighting for it.”

“...So do you,” the boy looked him straight in the eye. “If you don’t escape, I’ll never forgive you. You must return and kick his ass.” 

Laurent smiled, he couldn’t help it. The conviction in Nicaise’s eyes was just too strong to ignore. “...Promise me you’ll be back,” the boy said.

For a small second, the world shifted on its axis. For a small second, Laurent couldn’t cough up a word.

“...I promise,” he said dumbly. 

He watched, dazed and dizzy, as Nicaise wiped his tears off the final time and straightened his clothes. He pulled a small knife in a decorative scabbard from the bag he carried over his shoulder, as well as dry rations, some rope, flint and steel and a tiny bundle of paper.

“This is the rest of the medicine Paschal left for us,” he said. “I divided it in two. You should take it with you.”

Laurent looked at him in awe. This kid was stronger than him, that much was certain.

“Give one each to Lazar, Aimeric and the girl over there,” he said, taking the remaining tablets. These were made especially for covert travel, with a protective layer that did not dissolve unless you bit on it. Paschal made sure that his clever inventions always came in handy. 

“Why,” Nicaise wrinkled his nose, looking towards the cell behind him. Aimeric scowled.

Because this is what Auguste would have done. “...Because we all should have a fair chance. Hurry, Nicaise.”

Nicaise didn’t even stir, leveling his look with Laurent. “...He betrayed you. You wouldn't be here if not for this pig.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be here if not for me, so. We’re even.” Laurent grimaced. Nicaise reluctantly distributed the medicine as told, seething something awful to Aimeric, who answered with a quiet ‘fuck you, kid’, but he took the tablet all the same. He put it in his mouth instantly. 

That proved Laurent’s suspicions correct. He did have some injuries, after all, and was carefully hiding them. The guess as to what those injuries were was not even a guess; more like grim certainty.

Nicaise promptly returned to Laurent’s embrace and clung to him, even harder than before. Laurent allowed himself a selfish minute of this, before he’d inevitably have to tear himself away from his friend forever. Just a minute. Just a moment more. Just a second.

“...I don’t have much time, do I,” Nicaise asked suddenly, and his voice got just a tiny bit more croaky, now that he spent time crying. Laurent realized he’s not talking about how long he could spare holding onto him in this cell; he was talking in broader strokes. He didn’t have much time to realize the plan and escape, before uncle lost his interest in him and the only thing protecting him - his youth - would be gone. 

No. He didn’t have much time at all. Laurent presented at fourteen, and Nicaise was already past his fourteenth birthday. Every sign on heaven and earth told them he’s going to present as an Omega. His slight build, thick, lush hair, affinity for animals. His scent, a little bit on the sweeter side.  

“...Well, go ahead, Laurent,” Aimeric’s hateful voice cut through the silence like a razor. “Tell him everything’s gonna be alright.”

A bucket of cold fear poured over Laurent’s back. He opened his eyes and stared at Aimeric, languidly leaning on the cell door, watching them with disdain. It took all of his self control to move away from Nicaise and unlatch his murderous gaze from Aimeric’s green, venomous eyes.

“...Go now, Nicaise,” Laurent whispered. “You have to go. Thank you for everything. I wanted to see you, so, so much.”

“Be careful.”

“You too. I know you can do this. So do it, Nicaise.”

He sniffed, averted his eyes and tried to say something, but cut himself off. It was so uncharacteristic of him to hesitate; he clearly didn’t know how to say what he actually wanted to say. Laurent held his hand. 

“You… don’t forget me, you hear me,” the boy mumbled eventually.

“Never,” Laurent smiled. “I would never.”

“Laurent, I… I…”

“I know,” he squeezed his tiny hand once, relieving him of the unfamiliar weight of the words on his tongue. The only words that made any sense now, yet all the same, the dangerous words that used to only mean deceit. 

But there was no falsehood between them.

“...Me too,” he croaked.

Laurent wanted to add something, but the sound of metal-clad feet approaching and curses flying towards them put all of his hair on end. Someone was coming.

“Hide,” he whispered, and Nicaise immediately disappeared into the faraway corner of the prison, zig-zagging through the corridor into safe caches of darkness. Laurent hid the rope and the knife in the scarce stack of hay that sat on the floor of his cell, and moved away from the door, knowing better than to give the guards any excuse for interaction.

The person they were dragging down to the cells was cursing and screaming, clearly fighting them all the way. The first thing they saw was a helmet, clanging and clamoring as it fell down the spiral staircase and rolled into the corridor. Then, as many as five guards entered, desperately holding someone who clearly didn’t intend to be held, kicking wildly and struggling as fiercely as he could. One of the guards recoiled as a slender foot clad in a spurred high-heeled boot hit him in between his legs. The other earned a headbutt straight on the nose and stumbled away, blood pouring from his face and onto the ground.

Ancel. Obviously. Nobody else would put up a dirty fight like this. Nobody else would even conceive that he could dance his way through battle, really. Two of the guards were on the floor, and the third one, holding Ancel’s hands behind his back, was soon nursing a spur in his foot. The fourth one meant to grab the redhead Omega by his kicking, swinging legs, but miscalculated and was soon looking for his teeth on the filthy floor. Ancel laughed, spewing lighthearted obscenities like it was nothing more than a bar fight. 

Yet seeing him, Latent’s heart sank. Ancel’s capture meant only one thing - Berenger was taken out. He would never allow anyone to lay a finger on his mate, but if he didn’t protect him, then that meant Berenger was either dead, or imprisoned as well. 

“Five to one, for fuck’s sake! Hold that whore, what the fuck are you even doing,” Govart bellowed from the stairs, entering the cells. Ancel grimaced, knowing full well that this was where his performance was coming to an abrupt stop; there was no chance he could stand up to someone of Govart's size. 

Seeing their supervisor angry, the guards picked themselves up from the floor and threw themselves at Ancel, this time overpowering him for good. Soon he was hanging in their grip like a ragdoll, and they were packing punches into his stomach. One of them slapped him square on the cheek, so hard that his head flew back.

“Just avoid the face, idiots,” Govart dictated, towering over them. “We need them pretty for tomorrow.” 

“Sorry, Captain,” the guard grunted, massaging his hand. “But that whore bit me!”

“...you’ll live, Andre,” Govart tutted, lifting Ancel’s head up by the flaming hair. “Out of all the diseases this piece of shit must have encountered, rabies wasn’t one, or else facypants Berenger would be foaming at the mouth. …Oh wait,” Govart made an intentional pause, “but he was! He was panting like a dog in heat for this fucked-out cocksleeve. Can you imagine? Does it even hold a cock, still?” 

Govart shook Ancel by his hair, and the dancer screamed in pain, trying to swivel out of their grasp. Involuntary tears started streaming down his face.

“I find it hard to believe that your guts ain’t gaping and falling out yet, with the amount of cock you take. I thought Berenger had better taste. Or more money.”

“...Fucking dipshit,” the other guard - the one with the spur in the foot - limped forward, leaving droplets of red on the floor. “Give me his boots, he ruined mine!” He said. “These will sell for a penny or two!”

The men moved immediately to pull the clothing off of Ancel, not needing any more incentive. Govart only chuckled, not in a rush to stop them.

“Easy, boys, easy. Patience,” he ordered, throwing the keys to the one standing closest. “We have some perfect ways to defang that kitty. Put him in the cell.”

He showed something to Ancel, something Laurent didn’t see, as Govart was standing with his back to him. But from Lazar’s face, going suddenly pale, Laurent knew it was bound to be bad.

Ancel tossed his hair over his shoulder and looked at Govart brazenly.

“You think you’re scaring me, big man? I know exactly what you’re gonna do to me, and trust me - whatever it is, I’ve had worse.” 

His tone was not just unimpressed, it was clearly mocking. Laurent felt a shiver down his spine; Ancel seemed on the very edge of sanity, uncaring of what’s going to happen to him now that he was bereft of his mate. Laurent recognized it intimately.

“...Oh boo hoo, but you can’t really go all out, no? The Regent will get to your ass, should you damage me too bad,” Ancel continued. “Though I bet you’d secretly loooove that, yaknow. To just bend over and let someone plough you like there’s no tomorrow. Guys like you? Oof, you have… issues.”

Govart stood, shocked, and laughed for a while alongside Ancel, with this terrifying, deep-bellied laughter of his, amicably admiring the joke. Then his gloved hand shot out in a wide swing, so fast it was almost imperceptible. The power of the backhand threw Ancel’s whole body to the side so hard that the guards dropped him and he hit his head on the stones.

“How about,” Govart leaned in and rumbled towards Ancel’s ear. “...we cut off your whip-smart tongue? The dragon’s not gonna miss it, believe me.” 

Ancel spat out the blood, shook his head in a futile attempt to focus his eyes. “...Oh yeah? How am I gonna blow you lot, then?” he asked.

The guards roared with wicked laughter and pushed Ancel into the prison cell. The shouts, spats and mockery continued for a while, but it all gave way soon. It gave way to plain, high-pitched screams of a defenseless Omega being brutalized.

Laurent felt bile rise in his throat. The only thing he could do was press his forehead to the wall and fight off wave after wave of nausea as he was forced to listen.

 

Chapter 2: Stay true to Vere

Summary:

The Regent announces his plan to the Court and Council.

Notes:

Hello! Still alive and writing this, not quite my tempo but what's a girl gonna do.

CW:
canon-typical csa, physical and mental abuse of Omegas, stripping and de-collaring by force, bodily harm and mutilation (it's not severe given what they could do, but still alters someone's looks and is distressing, check lower noted if you need to know beforehand), angst, despair, verbal humiliation, blackmail. Regent is his uber lovely self amped up to max.

***

 

“...Of course, your Majesty, of course,” Laurent heard, ushered into the smaller council room adjacent to the great Audience Hall. The floors and chairs were scattered with samples of fabrics, there were open caskets with jewellery and garlands of freshly sheared flowers. “We’ll make them look splendid, we’ll make absolute certainty that the people of Arles can see them at the peak of their beauty and grace…”

“What is the meaning of this?” Laurent spat at the direction of his uncle, who was sifting idly through strings of pearls laid out on one of the tables.

Uncle tutted.

“Running your mouth like this won’t do, Laurent,” he said, rolling a blue pearl in between his fingers. “The Sacrifice must be an act of willingful and beautiful surrender. Haven’t you read the stories?”

“Do you truly expect me to play with this nonsense?” Laurent hissed. The guards left him at the center of the room, his hands shackled in heavy irons behind his back. He could feel them pulling at his shoulders, straining his muscles.

“Of course I do,” uncle smiled and faced him. “And you better put in the effort. You, my brave Veretian Prince, and your handpicked virginal entourage too. You decided to plead the mighty dragons for mercy, and secure the five-year period of peace for your country by sacrificing yourself, like in the tales of old. They did that in Vask once, I heard it worked,” uncle said matter-of-factly and lifted the blue pearls to Laurent’s face to judge the fit. “We’re going to address the people of Arles and tell them just that. And this good merchant here is going to make you look the part.”

Laurent couldn’t believe his ears. It was preposterous, so blunt - such an obvious grab for power, he didn’t believe uncle would ever try something like this, so unsophisticated and plain to see.

“If you let me address the people, I’ll tell them the truth,” he said, fortifying himself. “And it is enough to say it once to fan the flame of distrust towards you. The council had suspected you, once; if I tell them what proof I have, you’ll have a revolt on your hands.” Laurent pulled himself upright as much as he could. He knew it was a long shot, but at this point he had nothing else left. “This won’t legitimize your power.”

“Won’t it?” Uncle smiled. “Peace lasting five years? A fair chance to rebuild, restock, sew the fields, arm ourselves?” He looked at Laurent like on a misbehaving child. “I’m afraid the Council, as well as the good people of Arles, will welcome the thought, even if it comes at a price.”

“A price?! You can’t negotiate with the dragons,” Laurent shook his head, still too shocked to believe this. “Nor with the orcs! Did the deal include their cooperation, or are they going to keep raiding the villages freely? Is this plan concocted by the Vask magicians you had invited to Arles last month, uncle? Are you going to entrust whatever remains of Vere to a foreign power that we don’t know anything about?” He said, staring at his uncle incredulously. 

The man just let him finish. A servant trotted to his side, bringing in a goblet of watery wine; even Regents had to save up out of necessity, it seemed. Uncle had a calm, unhurried sip, looking at him with… amusement.

Laurent felt cold. 

“...And what happens after this period of five years is over?” He asked.

“Well, that’s still to be determined,” uncle shrugged. “Five years is an awfully long time, you see. I should be ready to push back, by then. And if not… well, we can always make another sacrifice. Luckily, Vere isn’t short on noblemen’s daughters.”

Abruptly, uncle took Laurent’s chin in two fingers and made him look up. 

“The drake asked specifically for you, though… he needs royal Omega blood for something. Very particular royal blood, not only of an appropriate age and sex, not only untouched… but also spiked with Kemptian flavour. With your mother’s roots? You are the perfect specimen. It’s like you were born for this.”

“...Don’t touch me,” Laurent whispered, petrified.

“…You see, Vere is not the only one backed into a corner, here. You lack vital information, nephew, one I made sure to obtain from those Vaskian magicians you despise so.” Uncle stared at him, his face unsettlingly close. Laurent couldn’t think. 

This was too unexpected, this whole bizarre situation, too… ludicrous. And yet, here he was, bereft of any faction to support him, bereft of his brother, his family, all alone. In shackles, and about to be used as a stepping stone once again, both for this duplicitous usurper and some rabid beast.

“...There’s only one hiccup in this whole plan of yours, uncle,” he said in a small voice, feeling bleak darkness creeping in. “You made this deal with a dark power, from the very start planning to cheat it. Aren’t you afraid of retaliation?”

Uncle’s breath teased his face.

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

Laurent willed his voice not to shake, but couldn’t quite succeed. He was… he was afraid, goddammit, he was afraid. 

“...We both know I am no virgin,” he said.

Uncle’s eyes were cold as iron.

“...And when this ungodly ritual - whatever it is that the dragon is planning to do - backfires because of that, you can still be sung as the hero.”

Laurent couldn’t answer. His head suddenly felt too light, and his knees too wobbly.

Uncle took him by the shoulders and smiled, proudly, lovingly; he planted a kiss on his cheek, like he used to do when Laurent was a kid, and goosebumps broke on Laurent’s neck as he did so.  “...I’m going to make sure people remember and revere you, just like your brother. You’re going to be a hero of the common man, written down in history with golden letters for all generations to come... And that, my boy, is exactly what we’re going to announce today. Look - I think the whole town gathered.”

He turned Laurent in place and forced him a few steps forward, so he could see the commotion through the stained-glass window. Indeed, the inner courtyard and the streets up to the borough were packed with townsfolk and villagers from the surrounding areas, probably rushed here by the King’s Guard since two days ago.

“...But watch yourself, Laurent,” uncle’s voice in his ear was suddenly like an icepick.  “Say one wrong word, start screaming or run, and Nicaise will take your place.”

Laurent thought he was going to throw up. 

Satisfied with himself, uncle patted Laurent’s shoulder proudly and gesticulated at the man who spoke earlier to proceed. The Veretian merchant, clearly confused and terrified, stepped closer. 

“Your Majesty… but you said that the Prince… You said he’s doing it out of his own free will, to… to save Vere,” he wrung his hands. 

Uncle looked up from where he started to sift through the jewellery once again. “Yes, I did, Charls. Did anything give you a different idea?”

The man called Charls didn’t answer. 

“I’d hate to be misunderstood,” uncle said conversationally. “I called you here because of your renown, and because you’re one of the… very few remaining cloth merchants. It’s not exactly a viable line of employ, at this point, when people need food or lumber rather than luxurious fabrics, but. Even so. I’m sure you’d like to remain one, and carry on in good faith doing good business with the Royal Family for many years to come? Prosperity is on its way, thanks to Laurent, and I’m a very reasonable customer,” he shrugged, switching from jewellery to the spread-out fabrics. 

“...But then again, anybody who’d dare to tarnish my nephew’s good name, saying that, I don’t know… he was unwilling, or cowardly, or that he pleaded with me or spewed lies to spare his life… such a man would do active harm to the kingdom and his loving memory. That would be, of course, inexcusable. And such a man would have to be silenced.”

The Regent took one look at Charls, and the man cowered.

“Do we understand each other?”  

“Abundantly clear, your Majesty,” Charls said in a quiet voice.

“Perfect.” The Regent lifted a sample of the thinnest voile, threaded with silvery shimmer, up to the light. “...Then begin. We don’t have all day, and you have six more poor buggers to dress. This one will do, I think,” he said, giving the sample to Charls.

“...Excellent choice, your Majesty,” Charls hesitated, “It shall be done. Though the chains prevent me from taking the correct measurement and…”

Uncle gestured towards the guards. They approached Laurent, who was still standing shell-shocked next to the window, but instead of taking the irons off, the men got their daggers out. 

Laurent backed away, fell into a defensive stance, but his hands were - quite literally - tied. The only way of escaping would be to shatter the glass and jump from a great height, only to land on the pavement of the courtyard in a bloody splat. 

One of the soldiers grabbed him by the upper arms, twisted to the back. As he held him still, two others started to methodically cut every lace, every piece of string and every button off of his austere clothing. 

The navy embroidered vest fell open at the neck, then at his chest; a long silk sash he wore around his hips fell to the floor. The garment was tugged from his shoulders to stop and hang pitifully at his chained wrists.  The billowing shirt Laurent had underneath the vest ripped with a nasty sound, all the delicate stitching and whitework ruined. The fabric gathered at Laurent’s arms again, held up by the bracer cuffs, made of the softest cotton velvet. Laurent liked them so much, they covered the tops of his hands in neat little triangles and reached up to his elbows when laced tightly. The dagger slid inside of the lacings quick like a serpent, and the bracers dropped. The back of his shirt and the sleeves were slashed open. The precious threads of the whitest silk camisole, the very first layer against the skin, gave a woeful moan as they cut through the shoulder straps and ripped it, revealing Laurent’s pale chest.

He almost screamed when they reached for his shoes, tugged them off roughly and tossed them aside. The black moleskin pants, so comfortable and well taken care of, wouldn’t rip; they knew the drill, though, clearly skilled in undressing prisoners or informants they were about to torture. Laurent was lifted from behind, two hands hooked under his armpits, and the trousers got tugged down along with the white stockings. He tried to kick when they reached for his smallclothes, but he was outnumbered. 

And yet, that wasn’t even the worst. It came when they made a grab at his collar. 

He started struggling with a desperation matching Ancel’s, hissing and biting with complete lack of dignity. His collar was his protection, his dignity, his deterrent against unwanted affections and lingering looks, against violation. Specially made with soft suede sewn over slim steel plates, it sat snugly on his neck and collarbones. Its comforting weight grounded him through every day in court and kept his scent in check. It was his shield, for the love of gods - and now it was being prised open with a dagger. The lock shattered and splintered, fell to the floor with a high-pitched, metallic ping.

He was pushed to the ground on his knees, completely naked. 

“...Eyeball it,” the Regent said to Charls.

Laurent felt black spots dance at the edges of his vision as he curled on the floor. His head was spinning, and his breath came unnaturally fast. There wasn’t a thread of clothing to protect him; not a speck of fabric. He almost couldn’t understand it. It happened so fast, and so suddenly, and was such a shock -  such a drastic intrusion, such a dramatic change, from always, always being safely covered to -

- Laurent could feel the hungry eyes of guards, who stepped away from him obediently, but still kept looking. Half of the soldier’s barracks was forever lusting after him, ever since he manifested as an Omega. He could feel the wide, terrified eyes of Charls, who was clearly losing his mind from fear. He knew the two helping boys he had with him, keeping to themselves at the back of the room, were staring too. He knew that if he could, uncle would have invited the whole court here, to ridicule him even more. Laurent felt nauseous again, on the verge of throwing up. 

He was looking, too. 

With something akin to boredom.

“...Get up, Laurent,” he said after a while. “Or do you require further assistance?”

No. That would not happen. No more touches, no more alien hands on him. Laurent got up, shivering.

“...P-please forgive me,” the merchant whispered under his breath, wrapping a few yards of the shimmering voile around his hips, and securing it artistically in an asymmetrical knot. Laurent didn’t answer, for fear of throwing up. But at least he was covered from view, now.

As the textile merchant fiddled with the fabric, placing strategic stitches to hold the folds of the cloth or pleat it here and there, the guards brought in the rest of the prisoners. 

Aimeric and Lazar were walking on their own. The three female Omegas - Estienne, from Berenger’s entourage, Herode’s grandchild Amelie and one more girl Laurent did not recognize - had to be ushered in. They tried, unsuccessfully, to hide their tears and acrid scent of distress. 

Finally, at the very end, there was Ancel, who couldn’t walk on his own. 
Govart hauled him forward. He was covered in bruises, and his chest was splattered with brown, congealed blood from two wounds on his chest - the bastards had pierced his nipples. 

Laurent stared in mute shock; his hair, his lovely auburn locks usually cascading down his back were shorn unevenly, bouncing around his face in wild disarray. His neck was splattered with blood where they’d pricked him with the knife, cutting off his hair especially short to reveal his gland for all to see.  It was carrying a pearly white scar of Berenger’s bite. Somehow, it looked obscene.

“You couldn’t have stopped yourself, could you?” The Regent muttered towards Govart. The soldier showed his teeth with a nasty smile.

“...It’s nothing the whore hasn’t known before.”

Charls wrapped a hand-woven, blue and gold cord around Laurent’s hips. In the commotion that issued, he tried to steal Laurent’s attention.

“Can I… How can I help?” He asked in a hushed tone. His eyes were still wide and he was pale, almost sickly so, but he showed tremendous quality of character even just asking this. 

Laurent ran three different scenarios in his head, all of which ended with this man’s head on the chopping block; he could not have him on his conscience as well, not after six other prisoners going to meet their deaths with him. 

No. There was no way the merchant could help Laurent, or any of them at this point.

“You can’t,” Laurent whispered, pretending to point towards an imagined fault of the garment. “...Do what you have to.”

The merchant didn’t dare to nod; he just leaned in and fixed an inexistent mistake. 

 

~~*~~

 

They were all cleaned up, primped and painted with gold paints. One of Charls’s assistants drew a starburst on Laurent’s chest, and they put a precious, starry circlet on his head. In the brightly lit Throne Room, the rosette-cut diamonds were reflecting tiny rainbows everywhere, almost giving him a halo; he was as bright and as painful to look at as the sun itself. 

They were led out of the council chamber in a beeline, to be presented in front of the Council and the rest of the noblemen first. The ornate procession of bejewelled Omegas in chains caused gasps and shouts of confusion; apparently not everybody was in on the plot. 

“Your Highness Prince Laurent!”

“Is that true, after all…?!”

“How can this be!! Prince Laurent is the only heir…!”

“...The saviour of the people!”

Laurent noticed with unease that Herode wasn’t present. Maybe it was a blessing, for he didn’t have to see his beloved grandchild led in chains for slaughter, but Laurent felt even more alienated and abandoned than before. Uncle made sure that he stood in front of the Council without any backing.

“Prince Laurent!” Guion called, stepping forward. “Please address the Council. Explain your decision first, before we go in front of the crowd… Please help us understand,” he said with a voice shaking with emotions. He was laying it on a bit thick, but everybody seemed to buy it anyway.

“Laurent had made his decision,” uncle said, stepping closer. “And even though my heart is breaking, for I am about to lose my beloved nephew as well as my future King, I know deep down that this is the only solution we have left. With his Sacrifice, his brave deed that will never be forgotten, we win five years of guaranteed peace.”

“...Five years…!”

“Imagine what we could do with that time,” someone said at the back.

“But how can the kingdom be left without an heir?!” 

“...The Regency is strong!” an argument came. Laurent noticed a claqueur at once. “It has been a solid period of time now where it solidified, and His Majesty can still marry…?” Performative hums of approval met this statement, and it further swung the mood of the room.

“No!” Someone yelled, stepping forward. Laurent whipped his head towards the person.

“How can we bend to such an atrocious demand?!” That was a nobleman, and definitely not from Arles; his name was Charron, and if memory served, he’d arrived two years ago with his family from Bretau. “If we bend to this, soon enough we’ll be sacrificing our own children every year, every fortnight! Can’t you see? This is insanity!”

“My good man, how can you…” Guion started, but Charron would not be silenced.

“My Prince!” He called, falling on one knee in front of Laurent. “Let Prince Laurent talk! What I want to hear now is his own voice,” he said. 

Silence fell across the room. Uncle tossed Laurent an urgent, sideways glance.

“...I do what I have to,” Laurent said, looking in the brown, sincere eyes staring at him from below. “When faced with this, I asked myself only one question: what it is that my brother would have done. And Auguste would have protected the weakest,” he said quietly. Charron was still looking at him intently, but Laurent swept a look through everyone present. 

His Councilmen and nobles: traitors, opportunists, cowards. Those who knew the plan well. Those who chose to stay oblivious to it. Several bought swords, serving as bodyguards. A few Alpha women, heads of their families in the absence of the male heir. Palace servants hiding in the corners. 

“...I want you to do the same,” Laurent said, looking back at Charron. “Protect those you can. Stay true to Vere.”

“My Prince,” Charron asked, foregoing any decorum. His inquisitive eyes flitted from Ancel, shrouded in white to cover the bruises to the chains, dragged from the lowest cells and far too heavy for Omegas. He lingered a moment on the starburst symbol. “...What are your orders?”

What are your orders. Charron was probably too smart to ask straightforwardly if they’re doing it out of their own will. He already knew the answer. For a bright, insane second Laurent thought of spilling the truth, rising men to arms, rallying the few loyal me from the Prince’s Guard who would have gone with him and fought to the death. But realistically speaking, he knew that this battle was lost before it began.

“...Stay true to Vere,” he repeated. “Save those you can.”

With a small incline of his head, he thanked the man. His eyes showed he’d understood. Then Laurent turned towards the huge wooden doors, and the blinding light filled his eyes as it creaked open, allowing him to see the crowd gathered on the palace courtyard. 

His legs didn’t want to listen to him for a moment. But the long, red carpet marked the only path for him to follow, and the soldiers flanking them from both sides prevented any route of escape. The nobles were pushed aside, and the mournful procession - with the Regent upfront - started moving.

So those were their last moments on Earth.

 

 

Notes:

Ancel got his hair shorn and it's shown they'd pierced his nipples when he'd been tortured in the cell the night before.

Chapter 3: The road to hell

Summary:

The Sacrificial Omega is paraded through the streets of Arles for all people to see.

Notes:

Hiiiii. Work is killing me. I do have the next chapter ready, though, because I skipped this and wrote a few chapters ahead, and now I've been filling the gaps. It goes slow XD

CW for this chapter:
Laurent endures a lot of physical manhandling, humiliation, and is exposed in those sheer robes for the whole town to see - so not like, naked, but still it's pretty awful. There's a lot of emotional reactions, but also it gets quite dangerous as the crowd starts rioting. Apart from that, Regent being a dick, dissociation, panicking, unprocessed grief and shame, catcalling, threats, sleazy jokes/innuendo/pure hate speech directed towards fictional royalty within this story. The scene that happens gets violent, and Laurent is helpless to stop it. If you need to now exactly, see notes below.

***

As the huge doors slowly slid apart, the sun temporarily blinded him.

Shining through the clouds of early spring, normally shy and elusive, today it came out full force as if to say goodbye. It reflected brightly from the pale sandstone, making it look more warm than it really was. Bounced off of the faraway buildings of the borough, freshly whitened with lime and newly cut wood, giving it all a cosy, almost homely look; a sad joke, for all Laurent could tell.

The square was one mass of people. All heads snapped up or turned towards them like a well-oiled mechanism, all eyes rose towards the castle stairs - our Prince, voices cried, the Sacrificial Omega! Our saviour, the Saviour of the People!

Laurent's knees threatened to give with every step, and yet he moved, propelled forward by sheer force of habit. He barely heard the pompous speech his Uncle started to bleat towards the citizens of Arles; he just concluded from the various reactions that people were listening to him, shocked and aghast.

He could scarcely follow the movements of everyone important in his periphery. There were guards, Govart, the Council. Ancel and Lazar. Standing a bit apart from them, singled out on the edge of the vast slope of polished steps, he was clearly visible to everybody gathered. Suddenly the weight of their looks, the prickling attention, shrill and uncomfortable like a wasp's flight right next to your ear, made Laurent shiver. He felt the cold as the wind picked up and sneaked under his clothes, messing up the artsy folds of the sheer robes he was wearing. It caused goosebumps to break all over his skin.

People stared. Uncle kept talking. The bite of the wind was distracting. Laurent’s ears started ringing, like he was underwater, or somewhere far, far away, maybe.

The guards instructed the crowd to give some space, and two wooden carts rolled onto the courtyard, only to stop at the very bottom of the stairs. The carts were clad in burlap, which had been hastily whitened overnight; the garlands of wildflowers and boxwood hung from the sides, while the front and the back of the carts were left open. There was no head cover or roof on either of them.

Silent and gruff, two guards appeared on Laurent’s sides, and took hold of his arms. He was led down the stairs and guided to climb onto the first cart. Laurent looked only at his feet; he felt unsteady, like a thick wall of glass separated him from his surroundings. He couldn’t tell if the guards touched him or not, he was weirdly numb, and the irons on his wrists suddenly held no weight.

He realized he was pushed towards a sturdy, thick pole, about a meter high, embedded in the floor of the first cart. There was a small beam attached to it, transverse to the pole, creating a short, sturdy cross. His elbows were pulled back and he found himself tied to the construction, only able to look ahead, standing still in the middle of the cart, exposed for everybody to see.

And then he understood. He was meant to be paraded through the streets of Arles, so that every citizen could see their Prince one last time - and remember this sight forever. 

Uncle no doubt wanted to humiliate him. Have him scream to the crowd for help, beg for his life, turn to his people with panicked words and pleading glances. Throw accusations, make a fool of himself or disgrace everything that was left of Aleron's line, behaving like a madman, fool or worse - a coward. Or, kill two birds with one stone - and throw Nicaise in with the rest of them lot, like he threatened to do. Laurent couldn't risk any of those things, even if in truth he realized painfully how little his bravery meant. 

His vision tunneled, sharpened, and the ringing in his ears went away. He felt awake, all of a sudden - the blood picked up in his body and his heart started to thump in his chest, as he realized acutely that he can’t wrestle his arms free. 

No. There would be no begging. There would be no undignified tears, even if the finish line was painted in blood. He owed his father that; and he owed Auguste the same - his brother must have felt somewhat like this, before Marlas, knowing that any blade or arrow flying his way can be a potential end. 

When he saw the Red Dragon himself, he was surely scared; he must have felt overwhelmed, overpowered, helpless. Alone on his own battlefield taking place in his mind, forsaken by the all-knowing gods and weak-bodied men falling left and right around him. As the field swam in carnage and fire, he must have known the endless despair and nonsense of it all, just like Laurent felt it now. And yet he didn't back down, he didn't cover himself or his name in shame. Laurent knew - he just knew - that his brother looked death in the eye just like he would look at an old acquaintance, or a lover with a complicated history. He would look at death with respect, and let it welcome him to the afterlife.

Surely, the least Laurent could do was the same…?

Behind him, Lazar, Ancel, Aimeric and the three girls were led to the other cart and tied down similarly. The difference was, their cart was bigger and not as heavily decorated, and they were all kneeling at the six smaller poles. Laurent craned his neck to see better; the girls were weeping, openly crying for their family. Aimeric was white on the face, grinding his teeth so hard it was audible. 

Lazar was stoic, looking at nothing in particular. He could be scanning the crowd for familiar faces; Laurent didn’t have enough guts to do that. If he saw a friendly face now, someone he liked or cherished or grew up with, he could probably lose it.

Ancel seemed to be more awake now, though. He looked up through the shroud of white, and caught Laurent's eyes. There was no despair in his look, nor anger; he flashed Laurent a brazen smile and started to laugh.

…The woeful speech finally ended. 

The Regent swept his cloak aside with a trembling hand, reaching for a handkerchief. He asked the crowd to give their Prince a final goodbye - “Let’s commune together in grief and tears and thankfulness, the whole city as one…!” - and as he was asking this, his voice broke, theatrically and perfectly, like the picture of a heartbroken guardian. People started talking among each other, some were gasping, cursing, shaking their heads. Some started to weep. Laurent felt sick to his very bones. 

There was absolutely nothing of merit in those poisonous words his Uncle performed for the crowd, except for a few snippets of information Laurent fished out from the drivel ever since his hearing returned.

Delpha, he’d said, The Red Dragon's choice, the temple of Andromeda. Were they going there? Was this where the Sacrifice would take place...?

It was an old Artesian ruin. Once breathtakingly beautiful, overlooking the sharp cliffs of the deep cerulean waters of the Ellosean Sea. It used to be one of the most active trading points, even after the Artesian Empire split into pieces and the old gods fell into obscurity. 

Laurent desperately tried to recall more. Due to the dispute about Delfeur, which lasted quite a few decades, the trading point wilted down; then, as it was ravaged by wars and fell into disuse, it lost its importance completely. There were safer ports than the traitorous waters around it, and the land routes moved further south-east, towards the closest fortress on the Akielon side. Karthas, if memory served. Laurent didn't understand; were they really going that far? Why? How? It didn't make sense.

The carts started to roll through the cobbled streets, a pair of horses on the front of each one, a soldier leading them by the reins and a loose cordon circling them on all sides. It was a snail's pace. 

The people stirred, finally, as if awoken from a stupor. A man reached out, calling to Laurent; in a small voice, he thanked him for saving them all. After that, the multi-headed, many-limbed entity of the crowd caught on to it, and guards started to let some people close. 

They would whisper their thanks or a blessing and put flowers on the cart floor, next to his feet. Women would wave their handkerchiefs at him in a mute goodbye gesture. Children, riding on their father's backs, slipped folded pieces of paper with prayers in between the flowers. 

Laurent was now drawn to each and every passing face. His people were feverish, shocked, stunned. They called out his name and bowed their heads. One girl looked like she was about to start crying, but her mother admonished her.

“...We need to be brave for our Omega Prince,” she said. “We need to honor him.”

There were faces, sad faces, crying faces, terrified faces. Quiet understanding in some eyes, bitter regret and hurt in others. 

A boy with a wooden sword behind his belt tried to show a brave facade, but was obviously failing. Laurent tried to send him a smile, but it turned out to be more of a grimace and the kid flinched away. Laurent looked at the sky fast; the blue was mercifully silent, and forgiving.

A man from the crowd intoned the national anthem. 

Some more voices picked up on it, and soon the whole square was singing in one voice, booming from all corners as the sad procession moved forward. Flowers - single-stemmed, or simple bouquets, white leaves or colorful petals - flew towards them; the second cart filled with them, too, as well as the tiny scraps of ripped paper, folded traditionally into square-cornered stars. Those contained good wishes, thanks, prayers. 

Laurent forced himself to look. Look at his people; the citizens of Arles, giving him their last regard, their last homage and thanks. An older woman, bent with age. A carpenter with two fingers cut off, probably an accident. A hunter, rough man, bearded, dark, gripping the leather of his belt sitting across his chest in a helpless nervous tick. A pretty Omega girl, long curly hair, with a young Alpha at her side - maybe her brother. Both looked at him with awe and regret. Laurent felt heat engulf him; suddenly, he could no longer look, no longer hear those mumbled words of grief and thanks. He looked up, to find solace in the sky.

High on the blanks of the curtain wall, there was a small figure of a teenage boy with curly hair. Laurent caught it with a corner of his eye, too far and too much to his left to really react before the procession moved forward. It stung; he did not want him to see it. He didn’t want him to live with this. Live with his death, and remembering it like this, carrying it like a goddamn millstone each and every day he still had left in this hellhole - 

- tears threatened to engulf him, so he took a forcibly too big breath, blinked fast just to keep the treacherous reaction at bay.

“...Auguste,” Laurent mumbled to himself through clenched teeth, letting his head hit the back of the pole. “Fuckin’ deliver me, you hear me? You better be there. Or else.” 

 

~~*~~

 

The carts were hastened after they left the borough. There were less people strictly from Arles here, and more of various travellers, newcomers, farmers, soldiers - a mismatched group put together by the King’s Guard, quite clearly forced to be there and bear witness while they would be rather doing something else. They had heard nothing from the speech, nor seen the crocodile tears the Regent had cried at the top of the stairs. Their faces were hard, set in unforgiving lines, more than one of them malnourished and sun-burnt. 

In a way, this was better. It was more honest. Vere’s elite and middle class might have shrunk to the size of Arles, but Vere wasn’t just Arles. Vere was this - the living, angry tissue of a society deprived of everything, a gaping wound. People living in the terror of reality shaped by the failing crops, dragon fumes and orc raids. 

“Your Highness!” Someone called. “Congratulations on your first useful decision in ages! Humble inhabitants of Vere thank you!”

…It was like a blow. Indeed, to more than one displaced village, more than one burnt homestead, the idea of a Prince was only loathsome. The guards moved a little bit closer to the cart, but didn’t stop the taunts coming; Laurent suspected there might be inside agents among the crowd, stirring things up and giving people ideas.

“...He came down from his tower only to get to the dragon himself, a story with a twist,” a man dressed in a long, dark clergyman robe said. The farmers snickered, nodding; Laurent could smell trouble brewing. 

The worst part was, he could kind of understand their point of view. In the light of the failing Regency and his own complete lack of power or influence, Vere didn’t stand a chance. The people felt… abandoned.

“...Looking pretty, your Highness!” A sneer came, shouted in a rough voice of a mercenary. “That precious white ass of yours should keep the dragon off our backs for a while, no? Make sure to give him our regards!”

“...And tell him to fuck right off to whatever hole he crawled out from!”

“Oi, but you hold out for a while, all right? Your Highness Prince Laurent? Be a good Omega!”

A farmer on the right leaned on his walking stick. “...If the beast doesn’t eat him first thing, moron,” he said.

“Why would he eat him? Dragon can eat anyone,” a dirty kid with a horrible lisp jumped up. “He only gets one Prince though! What’s he gonna do with him? Grandpa? What’s he gonna do?”

“Shut up, brat,” someone cursed and chased the kid away, while someone else started laughing, a terrible, ugly, oily laughter of a man turned vicious by circumstance and poverty. 

“...Well, five years is a lot, ain’t it? He needs to keep the fucking dragon entertained!” a shrill catcall. “Hey your Highness! Put your back into it, yeah? You gotta learn fast, you and your virgins, give’em a good shag!” Obscene gestures followed, and the soldiers had to push someone away as he stepped too close. A glass bottle rolled under the horses’ hooves, but any sound was muffled by shouts and laughter. 

“Yeah! If you can’t fit it in, there’s always the art of butthole licking!”

“...Must be a huge butthole.”

“That’s all that Omega is good for anyway!” An angry voice rose up from behind. “What has the Regency or the Prince ever did for us?!”

“That war is all but lost, the fucking orcs are killing our crops and poisoning our wells while they’re just sitting there comfortably! Behind high walls! Eating their fill, fucking and farting sleepily, while WE are  STARVING!”

“See all those fucking jewels?” The voices that rose became more and more angry, agreeing with each other excitedly. “And we’re giving it all to them fucking orcs?!”

“WE have been working for it! WE have been paying tithers, even after the war started! Unlawful! Aleron would never allow it!”

“Aleron would never allow it!!”

…Ah, so that’s how he designed it, Laurent thought, just before a half-rotten carrot hit him in the face, splattering muck into his hair. This is what he really had in store for me. 

The guards tightened the security and cordoned off the carts, which started to go much faster now. A few especially rowdy farmers had to be pushed back, which did nothing to ease the crowd’s rage. Laurent could practically see how this would turn into a skirmish, the mob and the King’s Guard meeting seamlessly after the carts passed, like water of the parted sea. Maybe this had also been the plan all along, to flush out the dissidents, see who would rise up to the position of authority. Govart was good for this kind of job, brutal pacification being somewhat of a hobby of his.

More rotten vegetables started to fly Laurent’s way, and he had no space to duck. More curses, shouts of “cast iron bitch!” and “the faulty son!” could be heard more and more often, only to melt into a rising chanting, deep from the throat of many angry men and their families, Alphas and Omegas alike: 

“Fuck the royalty! Fuck-the-royalty! FUCK-THE-ROYALTY!”

Soon, the street was no longer passable. The soldier from the front, leading the horses by the reins, jumped aside and tossed them to another one, who hopped onto the cart in front of Laurent. The horses were forced into a fast trot, and people started darting from under the hooves like grasshoppers. 

“...Get him out of here!” Govart called to the driver, unsheathing his sword and turning on his horse to ride straight into the crowd. “If something happens to any of them, I’ll cut your fucking balls off! Go! You too! NOW!”

The cart skidded on something, and the force of it tossed Laurent to the sides, pulling at his tied elbows and jolting his shoulders. It hurt as fuck. He heard Ancel’s scream from behind and as he regained his footing, Laurent tried to angle his body to see better. Ancel’s veil had been caught and pulled clean off of his head, and the angry mob started to close in on the second cart. Govart was brutally efficient, though, and the driver  broke into a gallop soon enough -Laurent saw two or three people fall on the dirt road, seeping red into the mud.

There were less people ahead, and while still angry and shouting, they kept their distance now. Laurent was only able to see them shouting, faces contorted in grimaces of hate, throwing their fists up in the air and tossing more rotten things his way. By a complete chance, he caught sight of a few familiar figures, hiding in between the onlookers. They were three bulky men, with a typical soldier’s undercut, wearing ripped cloaks and peasant clothing to disguise themselves. 

Orlant, Hendric and Huet.

“...Forgive me,” Orlant called to Laurent as the cart thundered by. His big, simple, honest face was wet from tears, Laurent couldn’t fucking look. “My Prince! Forgive me!” 

Laurent didn’t have a chance to answer.

 

~~*~~

 

There was a makeshift collecting point established in a tiny village of Rochefort-en-Terre, just outside of Arles. A contingent of soldiers was already waiting, loading tents, luggage and provisions for the road. 

Laurent saw a boxy, fortified wagon, covered with a wooden roof and fitted with waxed leather curtains; this was truly going to be a long road, then. There were even spare horses tied on the nearby field.

They were untied from their posts and made to climb down. The original carts were covered in mud, filth and rotten vegetables by now, and so were their clothes; no one bothered with a towel or at least a rag, though, and no one stopped to inform them about anything. It started to drizzle; the sun hid behind the gray and awful clouds again, and Laurent quietly mourned the lack of it. 

Behind the wagon, people busied themselves with cargo and weaponry, checking everything twice - the typical last activities of a squad preparing to march. Once things were in order, it was time to load the most precious shipment.

“...Move,” the leader barked, manhandling Laurent with fast, jerky movements. He re-tied Laurent’s hands behind his back quickly, as if expecting more trouble or an ambush. The others got the same treatment, and then they tied their ankles, too. The group of seven Omegas was finally reunited at the entrance of the wagon.

Ancel, fiery Ancel who’d never disappoint, managed to bite one of them as they were pushing them in, tied like piglets. The body of a dancer was far more flexible than they gave him credit for and even with his hands tied at the back and ankles together he swiveled and bit Jerome hard enough to draw blood. The soldier squeaked - very undignified - growled and sent Ancel flying with a brutal backhand. Ancel landed mostly on Laurent, partially on the wooden floor; he spit out the blood and laughed.

“...Shriveled dickhead,” he muttered, rising from his knees and trying to settle on a bench. “Greetings, my Prince.”

“Greetings, my spy.” Laurent swallowed back nausea, looking at the two wounds on his chest and unevenly sheared hair. The bejewelled chain of rubies was swinging from his pierced nipples. “...I’m sorry.”

“About?” Ancel flung a longer, fiery curl over his shoulder with a sharp move of his head. “About my girls, maybe? They’re very fine, you’re not gonna say otherwise,” he challenged.

“...I’m sorry,” Laurent said calmly, “about Berenger.”

Laurent got a strange face in response. Cold and serious fury, so uncharacteristic for the redheaded pet. “What about Berenger. If he’s any smart, he’s far away from here and on his way to Varenne as we speak. We settled on a distraction.”

Ancel turned his eyes away and fixed them on a wall of the cart. It told Laurent all he needed to know. 

“...Mhm. What kind of distraction.”

“The best kind there is,” Ancel’s eyebrow twitched, even despite the shitty circumstances. “Me, of course. So don’t you worry, you’ll still have supporters in Vere, he’s gonna make sure the right people hear about what happened. He’s bound for Patras after that.”

“And was that on your expense or-”
 
“-say, did you underestimate me because I’m a whore, or because I’m prettier than you?” Ancel flashed him a brazen smile, cocking his head. 

Laurent saw the facade for what it was, and after a small, private second of internal death, decided to play along.

“...You’re not prettier than me,” he said evenly. “You are an acquired taste, at most.” 

Ancel blew air out of his lungs in an outraged puff. “And you are a frigid asshole and a horror to be around!”

“The disposition doesn’t really matter, while mine is the classical, elegant  beauty, one that poems are sung about. Deal with it,” Laurent said with a shrug.

“Oh believe me, it does matter. Nobody wants to tumble a porcupine, no matter how blond it is,” Ancel hissed. Laurent gave him a long once-over.

“...Do you think a lot about people tumbling porcupines?”

“Eat shit and die,” Ancel groaned.

“Yeah, we’re about to,” Laurent nodded matter-of-factly. “We’re on death row.” 

Ancel scoffed. “Nobody has any delusions about that, dear, you don’t have to announce it so dramatically.”

Laurent let the empty laughter fill his lungs for one blissful second. The camaraderie felt good; he wished he’d let the redheaded pet closer, when they still could have been friends, when he still could’ve supported him more, maybe offered him a bit of a better life. It felt too little, too late now, almost like a mockery when the differences in status were wiped away by circumstance, not choice. How would any kindness be received now, when they were all forcibly equal? Maybe like a betrayal. Maybe like a duplicity.

They were prisoners, now. Meant to stay bound in this filthy, muggy wagon for an undetermined amount of time, on their way Gods know where, to meet what was - presumably - their gruesome end. Laurent felt a shiver down his spine. The period of travel was the last time they had on this green Earth, but he was already looking forward to the end of the journey, no matter what it held. 

He knew the soldiers wouldn't leave them alone. As ‘virgin’ sacrifices, they were exempt from rape, maybe - but not from humiliation nor starvation. If they were taking them where Laurent supposed they were, they had two very long weeks ahead of them. Two weeks was enough time to develop, say, an infection. Get a high fever. Die suffering. 

Could they really afford not to be kind to each other, if these were their last deeds in life…? Not that it would wipe out any previously committed wrongdoings, of course… There was no such thing as a fresh start.

…Still.

“...Ancel.”

“...What.”

“Come here.” 

When Ancel looked at him in confusion, Laurent scooted closer, as close as he could, and pointed with his chin to the entry of the wagon, indicating the guards and the need to hurry. “Come closer and open your mouth,” he instructed.

Ancel did, albeit hesitant. Laurent leaned in and kissed him, pushing the last hidden tablet of medicine into his mouth with his tongue.

Ancel’s eyes widened as he felt it, but he accepted; he stared at Laurent for a moment, uncertain. “Bite on it,” Laurent whispered. The awful grimace twisted his face as Ancel felt the bitterness of the dissolving drug, but he didn’t comment beyond a shake of his head and a heavy gulp. 

There was no time for thanks. The soldiers entered the wagon, stuffed their mouths with rags and took off all the jewellery. Laurent winced as a strand of his hair was ripped off along with the starry circlet, and Ancel went white as a sheet when the nipple chain was yanked and unclasped non-too gently. The wounds immediately started bleeding again around the two simple gold piercings, and Ancel almost toppled over in his seat, breathing fast to get the pain under control. Aimeric watched it with unbridled dread, cowering behind Lazar.

Laurent wanted to kill someone.

The safety box with the jewels was promptly locked and secured at the back of the vehicle. The carriage slowly moved forward, jostling them and making them sway awkwardly in their seats. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel, their hands and ankles tied, splintery wood catching on their too thin, gauzy robes. The seats were hard, the carriage was drafty, there was no water in sight. Laurent desperately wanted to know where they were going.

And if the Regent was coming with them.

 

 

Notes:

It doesn't escalate to be a full-blown lynch, because the soldiers intervene, but there is brutality, obscenities shouted and the mob is throwing rotten vegetables at the procession. After Govart pacifies the gathering, there are implied victims.

Chapter 4: Scorched earth

Summary:

The journey to the temple in Delpheur proves to be worse than any of them had expected.

Notes:

I have a lot of potentially exciting stuff ahead of me, but also I'll be probably very busy, so idk when I'll post next. I'll try to do it soon, not to leave you hanging like this after this chapter. Also the stress can work as a writing catalyst for all I know, we'll see XDD

I expect some of you might be turned off from with this fic after this chapter, so I'm placing a fair warning - please be prepared and read at your own discretion. After this bit, the rest of the story will not be as heavy, and the meeting of a certain Akielon Prince looms closer and closer.

I hope your summer goes well. *sends hugs*

CW: gang rape (happening off screen, but there's no doubt that it happens. Not on Laurent.) Violence and mistreatment of Omegas, manhandling, verbal and sexual abuse. Warning for Regent. Severe humiliation. Mention of orcs and the terrifying way they invaded the country - implied slavery of Veretian villagers.

***

 

The first stop was several hours later, when the night already started shrouding the troubled countryside. They were all tired, stiff, achey and thirsty, and the unevenly carved wheels of the wagon made them all jostle in their seats. The cart stopped and they could hear voices of men starting camp, noises of putting up a tent and chopping firewood. They couldn’t have gone far from the capital - not with the speed they were travelling - but the environment changed drastically already; Laurent had been watching it through a hole in the plank. 

Poverty was ubiquitous. The barren fields, hardly ready for sowing, stood dry and empty. Many of the thatched rooftops were left unmended, and the homesteads looked pitiful, with their broken fences and deteriorating facades. Curiously, Laurent couldn’t hear any dogs barking. 

People living in the villages surrounding the high walls of Arles avoided their contingent like the plague. Women hid the children inside the houses, men reached for pitchforks unprompted. Despite protests - despite a brawl breaking out, even - brown bread, smoked fish and beer was taken away by force, and the soldiers divvied out the spoils between themselves, sitting around the fire. 

That night they went to sleep hungry, though a guard did come to untie one of the girls and handed her a waterskin to share between them. She let them drink and cleaned Ancel’s chest with the hem of her skirt. He endured it wordlessly, going slightly green on the face. They were gagged again for the night.

They had little choice on the matter than to cuddle together for warmth.

The day greeted them with wet, encroaching cold, as well as the thick fog, veiling the edge of the forest like a mourning shroud. They were woken up with banging on the side of the cart and dragged out of it one by one, to relieve their aching bladders by the old, rotten tree trunk.

Bowls of cold porridge with a piece of dried meat were thrust into their hands. They could move around a bit, and drink their fill, but were gagged straight away after. 

However, the sodden schmuck who’d been left in charge of organizing their transport had thought about them not dying from the cold. They were told to remove the gauzy garments and change into thicker, long-sleeved tunics, tied at the waist with a piece of rope like a peasant garb. 

Despite how unfitting and scratchy the clothes were, Laurent was thankful. They provided some insulation and they deterred the leering glances at least a little. They were also given some socks - knee length, sheep’s wool, itchy as fuck - and wicker shoes. Laurent wondered if yet another village homestead was robbed of those items at their expense.

They were on their way before any of the guards managed to try anything more than a grope, thankfully. The small, purple tent was rolled and packed, the troops formed a neat column and they marched off. Being tied up again hurt like hell after a whole day spent in the same position, but this time their ankles were free, which allowed for more freedom and movement, every once in a while. 

The pattern repeated itself - again, and again. 

And again.

The inability to talk was driving them crazy. Laurent’s teeth welded shut in a permanent lockjaw, as he kept biting down on the gag, unable to fight the compulsion. His whole neck, from cheeks down to the collarbones, was stiff and painful. There was nothing to do but wait, observe the passing landscape through the hole in the wagon and turn inward, focusing on the spiralling thoughts and the pain. 

They found themselves sleeping, just to pass the time. They cuddled to stave off the cold. They listened to the ripped conversations of soldiers, trying to gauge where they were, they droned away to the steady sound of hooves hitting the ground, the pitter-patter of rain.

…The roof was leaking.

On the fourth day the villages disappeared altogether, and the escapades to steal extra food from the farmers came to an abrupt end. They switched to dry rations exclusively, and the lack of fresher food immediately soured the moods. 

Laurent understood they were too far away from any fortified town and from the safety the armed patrols provided for any settlements to endure. They were encroaching on the orc territory, where people simply did not live anymore. 

The main tract was still relatively safe. The outposts were heavily manned, armed to the teeth and brightly lit. The wooden towers with signalling pyres had been spread every couple miles; the tract was well prepared for their passage. Even so, they could tell the soldiers were on edge. 

Laurent had a bad feeling about it.

~~*~~

 

As it happened, Aimeric was the first to serve as a morale boost. 

That morning instead of their customary porridge they were led towards the stream and told to wash up - which turned out to be just an excuse to force them to strip.

The soldiers gathered close as the Omegas washed themselves quickly in the icy cold river. As Laurent predicted, they started with spewing comments and taunts regarding their usefulness as sacrifices. One or two whistled shrilly, then another brought a bucket and decided to “help” them by throwing more cold water on each of them. 

The girls tried to exit the stream, their teeth chattering and long, braided hair completely drenched. When Estienne tried to reach for her clothes, the closest standing guard caught her by the elbows and held her down for the other to grope.

“Well that surely is a proper high-born Omega,” he said, fondling her breasts. “Such a shame ya purebred beauty’ll go to waste... She must be soft and pink down there, too...”

“Maybe we should check,” The first one added, pressing his face into her neck and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses. “Fate of the whole kingdom lies on her… shoulders, aha.”

“Gotcha. Besides, ya wouldn’t be opposed to just a little bit of fun, no? You don’t need to be a virgin everywhere, yaknow?” 

The girl screamed in fright, catching on their meaning.

“...Don’t be scared, don’t be scared! We just gonna give you some attention,” the soldier taunted, pushing a hand in between her thighs. “Isn’t that what you guys need all the time? Hugs’n kisses and a solid fuck? Pops taught me all about it, ya go all sick and frail if not fucked often…”

“Hey, wait,” the one holding her hissed. “Just check if she’s really a virgin. You know we can’t fuck her!” 

“...Why the hells not?” Govart laughed, stopping his horse at the edge of a clearing. 

He entered the stream, his high riding boots glistening with water he splashed everywhere. If any one of them thought about intervening, the thoughts were smothered in the bud - they didn’t stand a chance against Govart. 

Predictably, he approached Ancel and grabbed him by the unevenly shorn hair. “...I think ya can do more than that, Claubert. Lookie here; everybody knows this one, he got fucked by half of Arles! A seasoned whore posing as a Sacrifice! The dragon must have a pea brain if it can’t tell the difference between that and a tight, neat virgin,” he leered. 

Seeing as Ancel was promptly forced to his knees on the riverbank, Aimeric - poor, stupid Aimeric - made the mistake of trying to run. 

Laurent supposed he did know better than that, after so many years spent at court, growing up around Alphas. Where would he even run to, Laurent didn’t know - there were no safe places here. 

But. The instinct was a powerful thing, and Aimeric just lost to it.

The whole situation escalated quickly. As Aimeric was immediately caught and subdued, he fought back like an alley cat and even landed a hit or two, trying to scratch out someone’s eyeball. 

The soldiers immediately let the girl and Ancel go, focusing on a potentially more interesting conquest. It was four to one, so Aimeric was flat on the ground in no time, his limbs thrown wide. One of the soldiers promptly circled back to the camp, brought four wooden stakes, some rope and a hammer, slammed down the stakes into the ground next to his wrists and ankles and they tied Aimeric down, spread-eagled, pushing his face into the wet ground.  

The shouting and curses soon lured in the King’s Guard. That’s when Laurent learnt that his uncle was, in fact, travelling with them. 

Laurent rushed towards him, and got caught barely out of the river. 

“...Isn’t it enough for you to leave your own people to die at a monster’s whim, uncle?” Laurent yelled, trashing in the grip of two soldiers. “Do you have to allow your swine to do this to us, too? Fancy a spectacle? Why, color me surprised! We’re all well above your preferred age threshold!” He spat.

Laurent pinned his uncle down with a look full of outrage. One of the soldiers behind him made a move like he wanted to push him forward, maybe bring him to the ground next to Aimeric, but he restrained himself.

The Regent just regarded Laurent coldly, sitting atop of his horse. 

“Tell them to leave us alone,” Laurent tried to get free again. “Your plan falls apart if you can’t get us there alive. You must disallow such blatant abuse, lest you arrive with seven corpses instead of seven Sacrifices. Is that what you want?”

“...A little blowjob never killed nobody,” Govart muttered, moving again to catch Ancel. The redhead didn’t protest, and didn’t struggle as Govart pushed his face into his crotch. “And that one tried to run, anyway; he needs a lesson,” he added, pointing at Aimeric.

“...Then punish me instead,” Laurent seethed. “They’re too frail to withstand this. Any of this! They’re shocked, and cold, and terrified. And Ancel is already hurt, your fucking thugs made sure of that.”

The Regent was still looking at him, not saying a word. 

His silence was ominous. The horse stomped once, uneasy, sensing the rising emotions of his rider. 

And suddenly Laurent knew what the motherfucker wanted. He caught Ancel’s terrified stare for a split second; Govart ground his still clothed dick onto his cheek. Laurent felt nausea rising up, he had to do something.

“...Please,” he gritted out, with some effort. “Uncle. Please. Don’t let them do this.”

He slowly sank down to his knees, disregarding the men behind holding him, a hand in his hair suddenly clenching to a fist. 

“...Please, uncle.”

The Regent smiled. 

“Tie him up behind my horse,” he said, a melody of mirth seeping into his tone. “...If the prince wants to protect his people, then he’s well within his rights to do so. Put the rest on the wagon.”
 
He spurred his horse forward, towards where Aimeric was squirming, tied down between the posts. The guards stood up, heads bowed, stepping away from him. 

“Did you try to run?” The Regent asked.

Aimeric looked up, his face dirty and muddied. There were tears in his eyes - both indignation and pain. “...Please. Your Majesty. Please. I was scared, I wasn’t thinking.”

“...Clearly.”

One of the King’s guards brought more rope and tied Laurent’s hands. He tugged him forward, still naked and barefoot, and attached the long end to the side of the Regent’s saddle.

“...Your Majesty!” Aimeric called, anguished. “Please! Please, don’t… Don’t let them hurt me, I’ve been… I’ve been good, I did everything you asked! Everything! Your Majesty! I served you the best I could - I can still serve you, you know I can be useful! I was just. Stupid to run, please forgive me, I was scared and lost my wits but that won’t happen again, I swear, I swear…! ”

Laurent’s heart sank. From the impassive, bored expression on his uncle’s face, from the way his eyes took in the scene like an afterthought, he already knew what was going to happen. 

Apparently Aimeric realized this, too, for he started struggling again, tugging at the stakes hammered into the ground. Laurent turned his face away, shamefully hiding from Aimeric's terrified scent. It made him sick, it made him sweat, it made him want to flee. Sheer panic spiked the air, acrid like ammonia. The horse stomped heavily, agitated.

“Your Majesty!!! I did everything you required of me, I didn’t defy you once, I told you everything, I helped you identify all the traitors, I...! Your Majesty PLEASE!!! I’m… I’m yours, You know I am, I kept myself clean for you, that’s why I ran - because I’m yours!!! YOUR MAJESTY!!!”

Laurent watched him, speechless with horror, as he cried and yelled and swallowed the mud in between sobs, confessing his betrayals in the useless attempt to save himself. The soldiers already started loosening their gloves and belts.

“Insolent boys, especially escapees, need to be punished,” the Regent said dispassionately, squeezing his horse’s sides with his heels. “We’ve got places to be, Govart. Use both of his holes at once or draw straws, I don’t care, but if you’re not ready in ten minutes, I’m leaving you all behind.”

Aimeric screamed, absolutely frightened, and the soldiers leered. The Regent’s horse sped up into a trot and Laurent was pulled forward, trying to keep up. 

The screams rang in his ears for only a moment before they turned into muffled, gagging sobs. 

 

~~*~~

 

They made Laurent walk for half a day, before they got bored with the slower pace of the caravan. At first, it wasn’t even that bad. 

He could clearly see where they were going, and what kind of damage was done to the world. Dragon fire destroyed the mighty forests like they were mere nurseries. The stone ruins of buildings, smeared with soot and grime, stood crumbling and abandoned. They were probably uninhabitable again, as the temperature made even the most solid structures easily perishable. Weird stench was still wafting in the air, even years after the attacks, and there were hardly any birds whenever Laurent looked at the sky; he longed to hear any animal noises, any normal, natural sounds of the wild forests, previously so full of deer and hares and foxes. But there was only this weird, eerie silence, and gusts of wind he could feel slicing through him as he walked.

The rivers were unsteady in their beds, turning some previously farmable land into bogs. The convoy meandered around them, and Laurent understood that a lot of the stench was coming from those marches.

“...Don’t look too close, princeling,” Govart sneered at him, making his horse step too close for comfort. Laurent had to jump aside; he got startled, and had to let the rope pull at his outstretched hands painfully. “You’re gonna have a hard time sleeping if you see a ghost.”

“...Nonsense,” Laurent muttered.

“No nonsense. Those marshes are full of lost souls. The orcs dispose of their prey in them, no matter if it’s just charred bones, or still alive bugger too weak to work no more. That’s why they stink.”

The world blurred around the edges and started to spin. Laurent shook his head, feeling dread pool in his stomach. 

“Govart, ride ahead,” the Regent said authoritatively. “Scout if the road is clear. We need to get a move on if we want to get to the next outpost before sunset.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Govart said and trotted away.

Silence. The horse did not change the tempo yet, and Laurent had nothing to busy himself with except the gently waving tail, again.

His feet hurt.

“...I hope this only strengthens your fierce resolve, nephew.” There was a nasty smile hidden in this voice, Laurent heard it too many times not to detect it. “You spent so many years shielded from the truth, safe and comfortable behind the walls of our home. Engrossed in your books, your sciences… And your mourning,” the Regent said.

Laurent didn’t answer. It cut a bit too close to be untrue.

“It suited you, of course. And it was a viable tactic in the times of peace. But alas, times change, and only now, actually putting in legwork - if you don’t mind me saying - you’re doing something valuable for your countrymen.”

Laurent couldn’t help it, he rolled his eyes and paid for it immediately when stumbling over a pothole. “...That’s very clever, uncle.”

“While seeing the state of our country might come as a shock to you, it also allows you to realize what you’re protecting the inhabitants of Vere from. Your sacrifice is not going to be in vain.” 

“Oh, I’m quite sure you’ll keep the flames of the legend going.”

“I will. There’s hardly any funds to commission a proper statue, you understand… But I’ll make sure you rest next to your beloved brother and father, and we’ll close the tombstone with your likeness, fashioned in, say, limestone.”

Laurent scoffed, shaking his head. “As far as I reckon, there will be nothing to put into that tomb, uncle.”

“We’ll bury the star circlet, with all the honors.” Uncle looked back, and his calm, happy eyes were absolutely terrifying. “You are our starburst, after all.”

Laurent just stared, trying to understand why wasn’t he hitting a panic threshold or - indeed, feeling much of anything. This whole conversation felt too bizarre for him to react in any way, to acknowledge it in any way. 

He thought he could be going mad, maybe; maybe this whole situation was a figment of his overactive, overgrown thicket of imagination, maybe the pain he was in right now didn’t come from this, maybe he was just… feverish? Hallucinating? Maybe drugged. Maybe he got poisoned with something. Maybe cursed? Enchanted?

Maybe simply sleeping, having a very realistic, very unpleasant dream, one of those that have you chasing the foggy shreds of it deep into the afternoon, wondering if you really saw this or that, or was it just fiction. 

Maybe he would wake and see his brother’s smiling face over breakfast and then sit with his mother as she embroidered in the garden, or go practice with Jord. Maybe it was all a dream. Nobody was that evil to say such a thing to his own nephew. Nobody was that evil to…

Laurent stumbled. The reality of pain came crashing down and clarified that indeed, he wasn’t asleep. 

“...It wouldn’t feel right to commission the figure with a sword for an Omega,” uncle was prattling for show. “We’ll immortalize you as you were on your last day in Arles, dearest nephew. Bright and beautiful golden star, a beacon of hope for the whole nation. Willingly laying down your life on the altar… now that will move the masses to tears.”

Laurent just stared ahead.

“What, you disagree?” Uncle smirked. “I imagine you’d prefer to be depicted with an open book resting on your lap, as if you were merely taking a nap. Oblivious to anything except your little stories.”

If this was a dream, he could respond how he truly wanted, now couldn’t he?

“...Go fuck yourself, you sick bastard,” Laurent said. 

The Regent struck him square on the cheek with the riding crop, bursting his lip open and sending him flying face-first into the mud, just under the horse’s hooves. Uncle didn’t even stop, and Laurent was pulled painfully forward, hands outstretched, through mud and rocks and dirt, before the bastard slowed down enough for him to orient himself. The pain blinded him for a long while, filling his ears with a shrill sound; he scrambled upright on wobbly knees, shaking ankles. 

He really fucking hoped his eye was intact. 

“Govart, take the prince back to the cart,” uncle said calmly. “It’s getting late. We must hurry up.”

He got dumped into the cart unceremoniously. His cheek hurt; his lip pulsated hotly, and so did his eye. His feet hurt, not just from walking, but from cuts and abrasions, too, and he suspected the full damage would only let itself be known tomorrow.

Aimeric was crying quietly in the corner. 

Laurent decided moving was too much of a hassle right now, and talking to anybody could actually kill him. He closed his eyes and hid his face away.

…Ancel approached, after a while. He wrapped a blanket around Laurent and held fast, spooning to his back as best as he could with both of his hands tied up front. He didn’t ask if he was alright; he didn’t fill him in on how badly Aimeric was hurt. He kept quiet, silently transferring warmth, skin to skin.

“...My knight in shining armour,” he said eventually into Laurent’s hair, only a little dry humour detectable under the despair.

Laurent curled into a ball with a breathy, helpless wail. Ancel didn’t let him go.

 

 

Notes:

Concrit is welcome. I respond to comments.