Queendom 10: A Night Too Long

Archminister Grinwald continued on to the library hall, with quick short strides. It's been three days since the final frame-work discussions of the Border-tribes Peace Treaty, since he last saw Her Highness. She had played the cards spectacularly in the private court the prior week, persuading the Duke of Dermowth with minimal words. There were reports about an Order of Swords meeting, and possible attempts at sabotage, just to undermine the Queendom. But those fears never materialized, confirming Grinwald's original assumption. That the Order of Swords had turned toothless.

Protests were frequent in the market square, mainly from the Herdsmen tribe, but nothing the guards couldn't quell with little effort. However, what bothered Grinwald presently was the sudden shift in protocol. Recently Her Highness had been refraining from core meetings, communicating only through short notes and trusted aids. A very uncharacteristic move, considering how strenuously she had worked on the Treaty, for months. Grinwald himself was asked to cancel all personal plans of travel, and to work alongside the ministerial staff. There was also that specially assigned security team, following his every move closely. His wife would joke that it almost seemed like being held a prisoner, which didn't amuse him at all.

But wait.. Am I looking it wrong? What if this isn't about me. The overall security has been intensified, from the past two days. Maybe the Queen knows more. But why not simply share then? Highness had always valued my opinion, even in trivial matters.

Unlike the impression given by the constant policy debates with the Queen, Grinwald had a soft spot for Elanor, way before she got crowned as the ruling monarch. He had always wanted a daughter, and being childless, he saw her more like one. A sentiment shared by his wife as well, since she is originally from Vankenbraum. So the sudden distancing was bothering him more.

Has she fallen ill or something?

Why else would she deny an audience?

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Author's note: Be sure to check the story tags before proceeding, for the themes explored could be unlike your usual cup. Turn ons are turn offs are mercurially subjective, and this chapter may prove an unusual blend. When in doubt, just skip ahead.

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The Royal Unmaking

Maxim Rachetty walked past the pillars excitedly, leading the couple behind.

"This way, His Lordship."

"I hope you haven't tired her out, Maxim. I want her conscious, enough to play along. Else the deal is off."

"Oh no Lordship, she'll play along. Haven't met a maiden so insatiable, truth be told. Please convey our gratitude to the General. She's a real treat.!"

Maxim said sheepishly, taking quick glances at the scantily clad stout woman behind the nobleman. A stark contrast to the fit, firm and flexible Proxy-Queen from earlier, her odd looking mask adding to the mystery. Lord Klavin, the young Viscount, cleared his throat.

"Eyes up here, Maxim.! Show my prize, and you may have yours.."

He slapped the maiden's large behind, resounding enough for her breast-mounds to jiggle. As Maxim replied, his eyes couldn't help but bulge. Such shamelessly proud globes she got. Stout is fine. Stout is handful and more.

"Apologies, His Lordship. She's right round.. I mean, around the corner.. Her Highness is, ahem.. The decoy, I meant. Umm.. Have you met her in person.? The original.??"

It seemed like the maiden just muffled a chuckle. As if she was laughing at the Viscount. Or rather at the mention of the Queen. Something didn't add up. Even the Viscount wasn't too pleased, as he answered.

"The original?! Why, you haven't??"

"Once Sir! If you count the giant portrait by the Capitol Hall, that is.. Never in the flesh. The girl tonight have a decent likeness, I'd say. Though I swear, King Bard himself haven't seen her slut-out like this.."

Klavin said, sounding like a soliloquy, deeming the low-born unworthy of his attention.

"Well, well.. I admire the General's guts, pulling this off, this close to the capitol. Now about that likeness, I'd be the judge."

"So you have met then, in person."

Maxim turned again, clearly to take another peak at the heavy harlot behind.

"Indeed. We even exchanged words.."

Voice trailed off as the Viscount remembered the embarrassment. Of a woman, a mere Queen consort by all qualifications, his true ruling monarch in effect, humiliating him to an audience of peers. Men who'll never look up to him again. That mockful grin of the Archminister as she hinted at the rumors around his pregnant wife. The truth of which made it all the more hurtful.

"Here we are!"

Maxim said, stopping by the small storage barn. He continued, sliding open the door.

"An hour into it she started acting weird, convulsing like a bucking bull, like being possessed by the Goddess of Lust. Grinding back to the men, near-violently. Like I said, an exceptional slut, but.."

"But.?"

"Well, we would have played along, but Billet stopped it. He said she could use a break, and I jumped on the chance, to make room for His Lordship, as per our arrangement. We have an hour, before the men gather again so.. Mind the time. Billet kept her here. Bound, of course. She was acting erratic, after all."

There she was, on her knees, her head hanging down. Her both hands hung from the ceiling panel, tied at the wrist. Her hair disheveled, the room reeking of damp discomfort.

"Maxim, don't tell me she's done for the night."

Klavin sounded unusually serious. He needed this, especially after that encounter in the royal court, leaving him utterly disgraced. There was no way of quipping back, not at your Queen, not if you valued your life. But the thought of somehow unleashing all my disrespect, my rage... Right back at her, even if its a mere likeness.. Klavin needed this, desperately. Something he must do, not just for his bleeding ego, but the very honor of his wedded wife. It was so foolish of him, to miss her upstairs earlier, but he could hardly blame himself for losing sight, in a room full of wanton wenches. He had heard tales of the royal double Gertha, and her spectacular stag night performance for Prince Axon, with King Bard himself in the audience. He was hoping for her to make it to this party as well.

As he tilted up her face by the chin, the hair falling to sides, a strange mixture of disgust and disbelief engulfed him. That's not Gertha, but moreover..

"What the..?! That's not.."

Chuckling maliciously, the clansman said.

"Far from the likeness, ain't she now??"

Despite all the anger, there was an actual look of concern in his eyes, which surprised even the Queen. Pushing Maxim against the wall by the collar, he roared.

"THE FACE, MAXIM..!! What have you done to her..?!!"

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Eighty minutes earlier.

The role of a King is uniquely symbolic.

Distinct from that of the Clergy, the Ministry and the Military, even the combined power of all subjects. The symbol to which all men bow, as he bows to the Greater Kingdom. The one, whose sake all are prepared to die, as he is for the Greater Kingdom. And it is the King's duty, to uphold the symbolic greatness, even if the kingdom inevitably falls.

Symbolized in his even keel. In his harmonious health. Even his unblemished visage.

But the one behind the ideal, is just as fallible as the rest. Just a man who can be broken, beaten. Who'll need enough of a break to return to form, to re-ignite the driving spirit of the Greater Kingdom. Breaks that are beyond foresight. Breaks that should be managed, in shadows, leaving the symbol undisturbed. Even as a momentary illusion.

It could be a great defeat, a deep trauma, a tragic accident, or even a cursed disease, leaving the King in an unpresentable state of body, if not mind. Wolkenshire is no stranger to such fates, and there are plenty of protocols in place, ranging from propaganda to temporary switch. A King may take absence, absolute seclusion, up to six months for recovery if needs be. During which period, the public appearances would be reduced to bare minimum, with the royal double attending in his stead. The administrative duties shall be distributed amongst the Archminister, the General and a trusted aid to the throne. The aid will remain the sole contact of His Highness through out the break. At the six month point, the King must summon all three, and let them witness his progress or lack thereof. The protocol could be extended for three additional months, if all concur.

This is the Castling Protocol.

At the end of nine months, regardless the progress, the King must convene the royal court, and reveal the entire truth. The sincere shall remain unshackled, as it says in the Holy-Writ. And if the King finds this difficult, for reasons of vanity or lacking mental fortitude, meaning, if he finds it hard to come to terms with the truth itself, he must name the successor and vacate the throne immediately.

The same applies for a ruling Queen. Knowing all this well..

What in the world made you think, Nora.. That a clan-brand to the face could be healed spotless, in six months?

What in the world?!

The thought occurred too late, as she knelt before an angry Frederich, with his bright branding iron inching towards. It's a good thing, that time slowed in such instances, for the enormity of her foolhardiness would have surely been crushing else. It could still be. She had suffered enough practice injuries to know the magic of adrenaline, its effects on time and perception. This vigilant numbness wasn't strange to her at all. She knew, though delayed, the pain will eventually come. And she kept waiting.

Only, it didn't.

Elanor noticed, that it had become offly quiet all of a sudden. Her eyes squinted up, as her sanity sobered. Before was Fred, then Billet, the other cousin, and the rest of the bunch cowering behind. A mixture of guilt, terror and reverence, in all their eyes. For a moment it felt, as stupid as it sounds, that her natural Queenly aura had driven them petrified. That her officious magnanimity had finally dawned on them.

Officious, as she prostrated, lacking even a modesty patch on her pronounced rear.?!

What a joke!

She didn't know then, that the men around shared a similar dread. Caused surely by an officious presence, only not hers. For someone had stopped the clan-brand from kissing the royal red cheek for good. Gripped on to the iron rod, an inch from the glowing tip, was a hairy burly fist, with a worn-out leather glove. A fist, with not just enough strength to hold off a hot-head like Frederich, but enough might to keep the rest of them in check, with a simple stare. A calm growling voice came from behind, as the men stood petrified, including Billet.

"Care for an explanation, Fred..?"

Frederich stepped back, his trembling fingers letting go of the branding iron. Elanor heard it hit the floor, right between her knees, the hot cast violently fizzing out in the marshy puddle. The warm vapor breathing life into her frozen limbs. What just happened?

Billet was instantly relieved, and terrified. Relieved for the girl, who nearly ended up a defaced whore in a shady clan-brothel. Not that I care an ounce for the bitch.! But His Lordship had entrusted her to him. And he should fear rightly, not just the Lord's ire, but the sullying of his good name by the failure. But none scared him, like the burly man standing before. Somehow, Billet managed to speak.

"Chief, it wasn't Fred's fault. The bitch kept pushing him.."

"Your cousin can speak for himself, Billy. And you should know better. To not turn a mutt yourself, in order to fuck a bitch... WHAT were you thinking?"

Fred spoke, his voice lacking any cockiness from before.

"Brother Ransford, I was just.."

"It's Chieftain to you, boy.! Now speak."

Even the Queen felt threatened by his sudden burst.

Chief.?! Wait, this can't be..

Elanor realized the man who had just saved her from immense pain and misfortune. The leader of the herdsmen tribe, the infamous Rachetty clan-head. The one who had sworn to ruin all attempts at tribal peace, evidenced by multiple reports.

Herdsman Ransford Rachetty. The Chieftain.

Elanor felt deep mixture of gratitude and intimidation, at his undoubtedly alpha presence. Even her locked virgin lips seemed to have relaxed, near-invitingly. Knowing that, had it not been for him, the royal visage would've been irreparably damaged, only added to her newfound respect. Respect for the most vocal troublemaker to her prime project for the past year. Her focus shifted back to the conversation.

"Chieftain, this.. This here is a gift from Lord.." Billet spoke again, supporting the errant hot-head.

"Lord Liam, I know. I just spoke with him upstairs.. Billet, my boy. His Lordship gifts us with entertainment, and you let your cousin ruin her outright?! Defacing for fun now, are we?? What were you thinking? Were you?"

"Chieftain, we weren't actually going to? It was just to scare the bitch, right Fred?"

"Stop covering for me Billet!!"

Finally gathering enough courage, Fred spoke, shooting daggers her way.

"I had every intention of marking the whore. Why are you all acting like this is something new.? If a whore steps out of line, we Rachetties mark her for life. That's what we do. Why are we pretending, like we don't sell branded bitches off to slave markets?"

"Fred! Don''t raise your voice to Chieftain.."

Billet held him by the shoulder, trying to control. But as the Chief stepped up, both of them cowered down shaking.

"Don't mind him, Freddie-boy. You speak up." Signalling his men to help her up. Ransford said. "I'm not questioning the act. None here are moral paragons. We do mark our bitches regularly. The lure of an unblemished skin.. I get it, believe me. But there is a time and a place, and even with all aligned, never on the face. What are you, stupid?!"

Elanor simply listened, as he continued berating Fred.

"And we do sell them off, at the Calthean slave-booths, for those domestication freaks. No, it isn't your act, I'm questioning. It's your place. His Lordship said explicitly, the bitch shall stay unmarked. AND YET!! You over-stepped.. A bit of overstepping, I don't mind. I'd prefer, in fact. But you just.. The face, boy.?! Give me one good reason, boy, to forgive you. What, were you thinking..??"

The Chief turned now to Elanor, and began checking her body, like checking the quality of cattle. With gloves taken off, his fingers plunged past her lips, almost finger-counting the teeth. Then he pinched her cheeks, massaged her neck and breasts, to account for injury or swelling, and proceeded to inspect her back torso and rear. It felt less creepy, and more clinical, the way he assessed her body-fat index. And Elanor stood enduring, without a peek of protest. Like she couldn't afford to offend him, by the slightest. She needed some friends, at least one. The Chieftain was the closest at the moment.

Billet noticed the slight shift in his manner, as Ransford stood behind the girl, caressing her under-breasts. He didn't understand why, but he knew something was off. Frederich on the other hand remained predictably clueless, as he said.

"Sure, Lord Liam did say that. To avoid any permanent damage. But I thought.. Hehe, His Lordship will have no trouble getting new sluts, and she's just a nobody. So what value would she have, with her skin marked for good. I mean, who'd want a bitch with a clan-branded face.?! Hehehe.. It's not like she's been.."

Fred's voice got stuck, as he saw the Chieftain stare, now with absolute rage.

SMACK!

Ransford backhanded the hot-head, humiliatingly in front of the men. If Billet hadn't stepped in and caught, he'd have crumbled on to the puddle below, adding to the disgrace. As his hand raised for another one, Billet pleaded.

"Brother Ransford, please.! Why?"

"WHY.?!"

The way Ransford roared half the men ran off instantly, the rest remained only from being too petrified to move.

"Why, Billet? Care to explain this, then??"

Billet looked at the Chief, and said with concern.

"Chieftain, your wrist.."

"Aaanhh!!"

Elanor bit her lips feeling the sting, of the Chieftain yanking her left breast by the nipple. The Queen didn't understand why the men suddenly looked her way astounded. As soon as the pinch relaxed, a growling command boomed.

"PRESENT.!"

What do you mean 'present'?!

For a second, Elanor couldn't figure where she had heard it before, nor how she was meant to respond. Her rational mind couldn't figure, that is. Her body though, complied in an instant, like a soldier assuming the posture hearing 'at ease'. Like a well-inculcated muscle memory, kneeling back down without a thought. Instead of prostrating, her rear now rested on the heels, thighs forming a perfect-V, showcasing her bare pussy to all, encased in the chastity cage. Her face turned indifferent, her breath slowed, the spine arched, pushing out those meaty bosoms. And her both hands crossed on its own, behind her back. It took her a moment, to realize what made her do so. A part of her felt deeply proud, equaled only with shame. Chieftain Ransford continued.

"See nincompoops! That quick compliance.?! That's no accident. This here is a trained pet. Domesticated by one of the very best, probably. Which explains the obedience.. Haven't we sold enough ones to spot the difference?? This here, is property!"

Of course, Uncle Belkin.! The Leash Maester. It all made sense to Elanor. The sudden shift in tone, as they looked at her pulled breast.. When the chief was caressing her earlier. He must have felt my tattoo. My tattoo.?! As if I owned it. If anything it owned me, evidently so.. Her tattooed under-breast. Her Domestication Identification Number, drawn into the skin by that drunk old Ridgemund.

::XIVLNR0601::

The unerasable scar from that wretched nightmare.!! That's what saves me now.?!

And the commands? PRESENT..!!

I thought I had forgotten it all, but..

Ransford continued berating the kid.

"Branding someone else's property is pure confiscation. Don't you know what we do to thieves, Freddy-boy.??"

Fred looked overwhelmed with guilt, like branding a girl was okay in his books. But becoming a thief wasn't, even by mistake. What's wrong with these people.?! He got down on his knees, like he had made a grave sin.

"I beg your pardon, Brother Ransford. I didn't mean to.. I didn't know.."

Billet said again, with concern.

"Chieftain, your hand.."

Ignoring which, Ransford continued on.

"Had I been late by a second, I'd have no choice, but to cut off that hand myself. The world may have moved past 'an eye for an eye', but the clan have it's own code. You do understand that, don't you Frederich?? These are turbulent times, and the clan requires capable, reliable hands. Not impulsive irrational hot-heads. Consider this your final straw."

"Chieftain. Your hand.."

Billet said again, quickly rummaging through his satchel.

Elanor remained in impeccable posture, as Fred disappeared into the back, ashamed and angry. Ransford noticed what Billet meant, a fresh burn mark along his right wrist. From when he had gripped onto the other end of the hot iron-brand. He hadn't grabbed it by the head, but the rod was relatively hot, and his glove, torn at parts. As Billet applied the medication, Maxim brought a chair, and the rest of the clansmen gathered around.

What now?

Elanor truly had no clue.

"An obedient one, ain't she?"

A shiver run up her royal dorsum. My turn to be berated, is it?!