Queendom 11: Original Offense

No it wasn't the grin. But her strange irreverence towards the guards present, and the Whipper. Am I reading this wrong? The next loud crack however put things in perspective. She should be concerned about herself now, and not the young Lyanda's irreverence.

A feeling of helplessness consumed the Queen, blaming herself for not passing the amendment way earlier. The weight of Cynthia's ruined prospects was heavy enough, and Elanor could tell, at least half to her right had already lost all hope. That's when she spotted the much despised grin, pointing her way.

"NUMBER NINE! You are up."

It was at that moment, Elanor realized, that she didn't want to be canned at all. Not in broad daylight, not for a crowd of her subjects, and certainly not at the hands of this wicked woman of worship. But she kept up a good front, as the two guards picked her up like she weighed nothing. The Queen didn't squirm or shout like the ones before, nor did she act like she had something to prove. As they began shackling her foot, the Abbess asked.

"Wait! Isn't she the exhibitionist? Let's make it easy, boys. Face the other way."

Two of them pushed the wheeled water barrel under the frame to the other end, as two others shackled her angles to the frame, with her rear to the crowd. This time, they kept her foot together, instead of the inverted V, so her thighs felt a deeper stretch as she bend at the hips. Elanor squinted her eyes in shame at the whistles, as the hem rode up as she leaned forward, teasing the very edge of her rear curves. It felt different, even if she couldn't look back, the way their collective gaze fell over her well-toned naked legs. There was certainly an emotional arousal, but not the basal lust, as she was so used to by know. It was a mixture of ridicule, retribution, and condescension.

"Labiet! Read the crimes..!"

The young Abbess barked, wasting no time. The inexperienced cleric she remembered from earlier, announced to the crowds.

"Convict Number Nine. This is an expedited case, but the accused has confessed and taken full responsibility of her actions. On the final night of the Templeton Sacred Celebrations, the accused rode across the deserted town, under the cover of night, upon a dark stallion, wearing only a black cloak and a white loincloth. She was seen disturbing the vagrant community, enticing them to the path of sin, and mocking at their misfortune. Later she discarded all cover and disappeared into the night, riding the creature in nude. For the crimes of disrespecting the sanctity of the Holy streets, enticing the dispossessed down the path of sin, and tainting the memory of a divine day, the accused shall receive fifteen lashes, with an option to appeal during the first five. Afterwards, she's expected to.."

Sister Lyanda walked up, clutching the cane, her fingers twitching already.

"Just give me the name, Labiet. We've heard enough."

"It's.. Abbess, it says here.."

What? Sister Lyanda took the file from his hand, wondering what's gotten to him. With most of the details redacted, her eyes quickly focused on what remained. A name, and a place. A smirk of hilarity spread across her lips, as she looked back to Labiet.

"Did you confirm?"

"The girl authenticated herself, Abbess. Even signed it by thumb-print." He nodded.

What a cursed coincidence. Quite emblematic of the rot at the throne.

That's hilarious. That's so.. Ho ho..

The audience looked around wondering why the Abbess is taking so long. Lyanda nearly coughed up suppressing her laugh. Oh God! Is this you consoling me, for all my efforts, failed as they did. Is this your gift, a little win, to keep up the good fight. A payback of sorts?!

"Good people of Hillsdale. I'm sure the dipsomaniacs and debauchees among you have valorized her indecency plenty by now. But the Imperial Justice have finally caught the infamous.. 'Midnight Queen'? Isn't that the one.?"

"Trollop! The Templeton Trollop!!" Someone yelled out, as the crowd erupted laughing.

"Yes, yes.. The same. Well, we have a name here, and unsurprisingly, when her actions teeters on indecency, her name borders on blasphemy."

Oh, no.. She wouldn't.. Elanor squirmed within, her hands gripping the edges of the water-barrel, her face in the reflection growing pale underneath all blue. Her but-cheeks clenched, not in anticipation for the strike, but for fear of her frilly white loin-cloth slipping up, thanks to the torn elastic. The Abbess announced, as her right hand positioned the cane softly against her speckless skin under the butt-curves, practicing the striking path as her grin widened.

"Let's give unto her what she deserves, to the shameless trollop, your mystery Midnight Queen, Elanor of Wolkenshire.!"

CRACK!!

That moment, she felt the sting. The cane rattled a bit as it slammed into her soft skin, leaving a thick white line across both thighs, which turned red in no time, as the audience gasped. The cane wasn't what stung, but the inflection in the nun's voice, as she said the name. It sounded to most, and to Elanor, as if she had said, Queen Elanor of Wolkenshire. It certainly sounded like how she remembered the Abbess address her, a week ago.

"Did she say Elanor of Wolkenshire?"

"That's blasphemy!"

"Agreed. What's this nonsense?!"

As the crowd began raising objections, Lyanda turned around, acting innocent.

"What's so troubling. good people of Hillsdale?"

"You can't do that!" Someone shouted from the very back.

A young girl from the front stood up and said.

"That's our Queen's name. You can't sully it in her land. We won't stand for it.."

"Yeah, we won't!" Many other voices joined her.

Hoyt looked around worried, wondering if his little joke had gone overboard. He wanted to teach Demura a lesson, a remainder than she's undeserving of the royal name, but.. He hadn't taken into account how the people may feel about it.

Lyanda smiled, quite impressed by the protestation.

"Good people of Hillsdale, I share your concerns, but.. Rules are rules. Her given name is Elanor. Well, it's Eleneur, but spelled the same. And she is from the old town by the south, Vorchen-Schire. Again, pronunced the same. Elanor of Wolkenshire!"

Hoyt grinned hearing the name announced out loud, even as a part of him felt conflicted. He wasn't trying to drag the royal name through mud. But he didn't like the fact either, that his random tart got to pose as the Queen. She wants to play the Queen. Well, here's my gift, dear! Be the Queen, and the play the whore you truly are. I hope she cracks you good.

Lyanda continued.

"I was just as appalled. Now you tell me. Shouldn't we be focusing on punishing her well, for tarnishing the good name of our dear Queen, while engaging in such depraved acts, instead of quibbling about rhymes and mis-pronouncements.?!"

No protestations came.

"Rules are rules, people. The Queen knows it well. She wouldn't have send this trollop down here, otherwise. The ones who can't stomach it, are welcome to leave."

Most of the audience nodded, though not everyone was on board. Paying which no heed, the Abbess asked the convict, enunciating comically.

"Eleneur of Wolken-shire, I forgot to ask. Redemption, or punishment..?!"

The Queen was enraged by the woman's mockful tone. She could feel the frustrations from all the sleep-deprived nights bubbling up from within. In the reflection below, her fuming eyes stared back. Further enraged by the word written across her forhead, in black ink. The only identity I ever earned. Why can't I just wash it off my mind? Kazian's cackle ringed deep in the inner ears. Her forehead began sweating up, as she gritted the teeth, and shouted back.

"Punishment!"

CRACK!

The Queen jumped up to her toes. This one stung more, not just in her mind. Labiet walked up to the nun and asked.

"Abbess, come ask it to her face. Isn't that the tradition?"

"It's alright, Labiet. It's all the same."

I'd rather not see her real face. It ruins the fantasy. She's that bitch widow Queen to me.

Lyanda lovingly caressed the cane, before raising it again. By the fourth strike, the Queen felt a sense of resignation. Her body didn't fight it anymore, her mind brought back to the present only in moments of biting pain, as the cane kissed her skin. She had her wins, be it tricking the handlers for so long, or arguing the young Abbess back in court.

Maybe this is a necessary ebb, so the things of import could come to focus with ease.

The rhythm of it was getting familiar. A sudden jolt running up the spine, followed by an extended numbness around the bulk of her thighs. And a slow burn creeps in slowly, emanating from a straight line, made across both legs. As her body braced for the final strike, the Queen felt funny about the things that angered her through out the day. Her annoyance at Hoyt's sudden appearance, her humiliation at the hands of the Vigile guards, the 'walk of disgrace' a little earlier, even the somewhat rightful condescension in the young Abbess's tone.

But it wasn't like she could do a thing about it.

Not when standing in such a humiliating posture, witnessed by her loving subjects, admitting to things she never did. Well, may be I am the infamous 'Templeton Trollop'. But I don't resemble in any way this caricature from that night, the townspeople all seem offly familiar with. I did end up riding as said. There's no two ways about it, that was public indecency.

Maybe this is where I'm supposed to be, maybe this is things coming full circle.

Maybe I should just sit back, and let things be.

There's no way for me to prove myself to Hoyt, other than let him be.

Nor for me to put the young troubled Abbess in her place, again. Doing so last week, only drove her further into the extreme. And as for the poor convicts watching.. Most of them will go Cynthia's way, perhaps deservedly so. Who am I to judge? Their fate is beyond me, no matter how hard I squirm.

What was it that Father said?

Yes.. Perhaps it's too big a question, to look for a solution.

It would only tire you. Perhaps one must pray in alignment.

Elanor took one last look at the blue-faced Queen staring into her depths. The ink remained on her forehead, but it bothered her less now. As her eyes closed, with cold from the water wafting up, the Queen felt all her worries float up. The enormity of things ceased to overwhelm, for it could only overwhelm when you believed you stood a chance. Random patterns began to coalesce, thoughts of her own, and others, glimpses that had stirred up more queries than conclusions for the past few days.

.You think you have it, decoy? To convincingly Queen for them all?

. Their mind can't desecrate that which is sacred, Highness.

.Might a suggest a confession, my child?

. You are but a woman, woefully immature and inexperienced.

.Never meant to rule, never meant to grasp what it takes to reign.

. What are you up to now, Decoy, nuding around on rooftops?

.Bella, if you call it poison, are you admitting it is lethal?

. Highness, I'm reminding it is useful.

.Conflict is always moral. Especially for the puritanical, and the libidinous neoteric.

. Would you burn down the whole haystack? For a single needle?!

Elanor felt a breeze along her hanging hair. The cool touch of it caressing up her chin, tickle along the earlobes, and whisper something strange. For a blink, it seemed she was back at the castle balcony, deep in an embrace. Her muscles loosened, and the loincloth slipped up by an inch. The hint of a smile sprouted at the edge of her lips.

"I SEEK..!"

The crowd gasped as Lyanda paused her final strike, mid-air, her brows lifting.

She seeks.?! Redemption? But, she was doing so well..

Why? When Lyanda was confused, Hoyt literally turned white, sweat running down his spine.

No no no.. She can't.. She can't..

That's the royal visage. She can't reveal it, not like this, shackled and disgraced.

Not to the public, oh God!

Elanor opened her eyes. The wiggling blue-faced Queen in the reflection had a calm smile. The ripples quieted down, turning the surface to a shiny mirror. She watched the reflection match the twinkle she had now. She could see them all now, the nine remaining convicts, the taunting young Abbess, the moralistic Hoyt, her dear friend Bella, the wise words of the High Priest.. Perhaps the worries that won't let her sleep even. She saw them all align, as she stayed on the moment.

"Did you say.." Clearing her throat, Lyanda asked again.

"Convict Number Nine, what would it be?"

The audience were all quiet, wondering if another one is going to confess. To show face. Hoyt felt like his heart would burst out at any moment.

"ELANOR Of WOLKENSHIRE, I asked a.."

The question got stuck midway, as the Abbess suddenly noticed her protruding posterior. The recently reddened skin, and the loin-cloth peeking out the hem, about to slip-out. The unique embroideried golden ring was hard to miss.

What?! Is that a Shafka?

As her eyes bulged in shock, the girl spoke.

"I seek abslv..." The rest of it got obscured into a whisper.

Elanor couldn't fathom what it would entail, not at the moment. And yet, it felt right. As if she's supposed to be here, as if she's supposed to admit. For what troubles her, was too big to take head on. For it couldn't be tamed, perhaps, but only be understood.

Oh, Bella.. You perceptive one.

Perhaps it's time we burned the whole haystack down.

"I seek the Original Ordeal. I seek Absolvement.!"

The old-timers in the audience gasped out loud, as the rest looked around confused as to what it meant. Is that another word for Redemption? Few middle aged women dropped down to the ground and started praying, visibly shaking. Mothers slowly began making their way out, pulling kids along, their faces all pale and worried. A few crooked old ladies, and a couple men of ill-repute rushed through the crowds to the front, quite excited. Hoyt looked around, relieved that the girl didn't ruin both their lives by revealing her 'identity', but he remained couldn't make heads and tails out of this 'absolution' thing.

Scanning the crowds, his eyes locked on to the pair from earlier again, dressed in long sleeved hemp robes, much like the clerics. One of them seemed very interested in the convict onstage. It suddenly dawned on him, what was so odd about the pair. It was their gait. They way they stood, moved, even the way they kept calm with the sudden confusion, yet remained vigilant and observant. Like a soldier. No, like a warrior. One of high birth, and top-tier training.

There was a certain mix of emotion, all fighting for the center-stage, as Sister Lyanda's eyes burned with a strange sense of defeat. The depth of the recent proclamation still ringing in her ears, her gaze fixed on the hint of the golden circle, peeking out the hem of the convict's robe. As if possessed by some demon, Lyanda screamed at the top of her lungs, raising her cane-wielding fist.

"How dare you wear a sacred Shafka! Blasphemer.!"

CRACK!

CRACKK!!

Her eyes were turning red, lips quivering, as the cane kept striking the curves of the rear.

"BLASPHEMER...!! Take that back. Repend, NOW..!"

CRACK! CRACK!!

"Enough.."

Through her teary blurred vision, Elanor saw the man who had been standing calmly behind, observing it all, walk up slowly. The one with the horned antelope head-gear. The State Castigator, or as the locals called him, the Whipper.

"Labiet. Tell your Abbess to step aside."

"Hey! How dare you command the Clerics?! Labiet!"

Lyanda barked at her helper. Labiet looked around baffled, fearing the ire of both, but clearly intimidated by the towering man. The Whipper said calmly.

"The convict has invoked the original Ordeal. Your redemption holds no value to her. In Absolvement, with pain being the sole conduit, her sins will be laid bare for divine judgement. The venue of Chastisement is the Castigator's domain. By administering far more than the stipulated five lashes, you are already in violation of the Codes of Ordeal. You should avoid adding to the embarrassment."

With her lips quivering, Lyanda said, as if spitting on to his face.

"You.. You monster!"

Underneath the mask, she could make out his toothy-grin.

"You haven't forgotten.. I'm touched."

He reached forward, gripping the cane in her clutches, his naily long digits nearly touching her skin, which made her let go, with a visceral revulsion. Labiet found it odd, for he had never seen the young Abbess so visibly shaken. The Whipper said, stepping closer to the Woman of Faith.

"Your behavior was disgraceful, Abbess! I'm hesitant to admonish, for my reverence for the Great Abbess Floress.. But push an inch more, and I'd rope you myself, and spank that ass till it bleeds. Tell me we wouldn't enjoy it, given the audience.."

Labiet felt like the Whipper was crossing a line, but the poor man was too afraid to speak out. Lyanda stepped back, her face contorting with deep abhorrence, those eyes fuming with wrath. As she began stepping down, the Whipper said out loud, so the crowd hears.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Pardon?!" Lyanda couldn't tell what he meant.

Her voice remained parched, yet commanding. It would have made anyone take a step back, but the Whipper just scoffed, mildly. He said.

"The Church shall produce the convict, in her original state, for castigation. Such are the rules."

The cane in his right hand was pointing at the Queen's rear. Lyanda saw what he meant, and so did Labiet. The sacred loincloth that made her so mad, had slipped down further, probably when the girl squiggled from all that beating. The shift hem was low enough that it didn't expose anything unsightly, but the white frilly thing was clearly hanging by a thread.

"Oh.. Let me, Sire.." Labiet hurried to adjust the dress, as the Whipper said.

"Stay put, Cleric. The Abbess can manage it."

Lyanda chose to avoid another staring contest. He will only enjoy it, she knew. Better to get this over with, quickly. The crowd was confused as well, but most were happy to see the arrogant Abbess taken down a peg. They were no fan of her using their Queen's name in vain. An irreverent few even whistled as she approached the convict.

Showing no emotion, the Abbess sat down on her haunches, pinched the loin-cloth by the sides, and slowly pulled it up. She felt no remorse watching up-close the multiple bumpy marks on the fair skin, slightly swollen and red. There was a moment however, as the Shafka slipped under the hem, where she glimpsed the womanly folds of the girl still standing, bend at the hips. Framed by the gap between the adjoining rear-curves, covered in sweat and wafting off that unique virginal scent, her eyes locked on to the only quim she had seen up-close, in fifteen or so years.

Something in her froze up, as the glimpse churned in her parts that had been laying dormant for so long. Lyanda remembered the spirited smugness of late teens. The flush of first shame. And the pain it carried with. She felt the Whipper's gaze over her shoulder, and knew she couldn't meet his eyes.

The bastard will see right through me, and I can't afford it. Not again.

Ignoring the jeering, confused crowd, the clueless Labiet and particularly the knowing grin of the Whipper, she simply walked off the stage, and out through the back exit, keeping her eyes to the ground. As she made it to the empty street corridor, the drums sounded from inside.