Dethroned

+DETHRONED+

Author's Notes: This story is being written purely for therapeutic reasons.

That means that it has no beta and undergoes very little editing. It serves absolutely no purpose except to let me pour stress out onto a page when I don't want to concentrate on anything serious.

The main characters, Ciro and Azelus, were actually OCs that I developed for random slash artwork, not fiction. Eventually the backstory seemed mildly interesting enough to bank up with some text.

The Dethroned website is located at: http://dethroned.kidavi.net.

Brief Synopsis: "A young monarch takes a spectacular spill from the throne when he murders his parents and brothers. Cast from grace, he tumbles into the clutches of a king of a darker realm. With no further to fall and nowhere to ascend, he attempts to come to terms with his own black heart. Plummetting into sins of the flesh, he abuses his status as an exotic pet to commit his own brand of treachery against the demonic throne."

This is a Male-Male slashfic. If things like fratricide / patricide / matricide, rape, master-slave, angst, betrayal, and hardcore gay porn bother you, don't read on.

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His arms had been bound behind his back, the ropes jerked too tight by furious hands. The gravel chewed into his knees; pebbles and bits of dirt clung to his sweaty, bare thighs. His feet, tucked awkwardly beneath him, had lost circulation some time ago. Absently, he tried to wiggle his numb toes as the General—his General, he reminded himself—paced before him.

The stubborn little digits remained unresponsive. He scowled.

“Ciro.”

He started. The General had always called him by his honorary title. Hearing his name pass those thin, chapped lips displeased him. He glowered and raised his chin to eye the angry man.

Ever since he was small, he had disliked the General. He hated him now more than ever as he stared up into one beady, button eye, the other scarred shut by discolored tissue. As a child, he had been alternately horrified and fascinated by the General's shocking appearance and jerky manner. The man had almost no forehead, great clumps of wiry black hair springing from above his brows. He had had one eye for as long as Ciro could remember. He didn't know how he had lost the other, and he had never cared to ask. A crooked nose sat atop a magnificent mustache that sprouted uncontrollably from the General's upper lip—a lip now curled into a hateful sneer. A few startlingly white teeth peeked from beneath the bristling whiskers.

“You have betrayed your family, your lands, and your people.” The General's voice barely broke a whisper, but Ciro could feel its venom and it made his spine tingle.

The General stepped closer and Ciro watched his blood-soiled uniform crinkle at the midriff as he bent down. Strong fingers tangled in his hair and he flinched instinctively—not because it hurt, but because he abhorred the very thought of being touched by this man.

The General's sneer widened. Ciro was acutely aware that his own breathing had become shallow and uneven.

“You're sweating and trembling,” remarked the General. “So now you are afraid. Afraid for your own worthless life after mercilessly taking the lives of your kin...”

Ciro stared at him. It would be a waste of breath to speak. Instead, he smiled.

The General struck him across the face and he felt his scalp tear as the force of the blow whipped his head back. He blinked hard as his cheek hit the gravel. He tasted sand and metallic blood. The General's scuffed boots swam in and out of focus.

He choked as irate fingers suddenly seized the right cheek of his bare ass. A thumb slid slowly back and forth over the flesh of his lower back.

“This tattoo...” the General hissed. “A symbol of purity. I should carve it from your body, traitor.”

The low groan escaped before Ciro could bite it back.

The General chuckled darkly. “If I thought it would bring peace to your murdered parents and brothers, I would carve the flesh from your bones and offer your skeleton to the hounds of Hell...”

“Ha... morbid bastard,” Ciro spat breathlessly. There were grains of sand and grit between his teeth. A thin trail of blood threaded from the corner of his mouth. His scalp ached where the General had torn a handful of hair from his head. “Be... pleased, servant,” he panted. “You can declare yourself the new king. Turn this festering, wounded nation into a proud empire—”

His words were cut short as a steel boot heel slammed between his shoulder blades. The impact bounced his chin off the hard ground; he heard more than felt his jaw crack. Tears blurred his vision and he gasped.

The heavy foot dug harder into his back, grinding cruelly against his spine. He felt the General shift his weight to lean over and growl above his ear:

“Arrogance. You've beheaded this country, raped her of her leadership. I cannot fathom what could have driven you to perform those acts, but the least I can do is ensure that you suffer for the rest of your treacherous existence.”

He grabbed the ropes binding the captive's wrists and yanked. Ciro howled as his arms were wrenched violently in their sockets. Shooting pains coursed through his joints. Over the pounding of blood in his head, he heard the General give a stuttering laugh.

“You've been dethroned, slave.” His voice had grown hoarse and callous. Through his agony, Ciro smirked. The man sounded almost on the verge of tears.

“You were the king. You had no reason to perform that coup... you were in no danger of being usurped by your brothers. Your father... bore nothing but goodwill toward you.”

Ciro did not reply. The General was a dog in all respects, but particularly in his loyalty to his father... now dead at the hands of his eldest son. His silence seemed to infuriate the grieved commander. He blinked back tears as the General grasped his twisted elbows and raised him to his knees.

“You think I am—” the General's gruff voice cracked— “the traitor.” A hard swallow.

Ciro watched his own legs quiver, his pale skin glossy and pocked with dirt. His entire body ached, his muscles badly cramped. “Do you feel you need to justify yourself?” he asked finally, when the General did not continue. “You did what you had to, is that what you want to say? Your loyalty to my father was stronger than your loyalty to the crown itself. Perhaps it's your duty to pass justice when that crown falls to an unjust leader? One who would kill his own family in cold blood?”

The hand beneath his elbow began to shake. “Unbelievable. You have no remorse... murderer,” the General rasped. His voice was thick with outrage. He jerked at the bound arms again, this time prompting a ragged scream and the dull popping of dislocation.

White spots invaded Ciro's sight as the General dragged him to his feet by his useless limbs. He couldn't stifle the sobs rising in his throat as his watery legs refused to support his weight. He buckled, but the General shoved one knee between his thighs. The thick fabric of the uniform was crusted with dried blood—his father's blood. He had watched the General cradle the former king's slack body as he died. Now, the dead man's gore had hardened into chunks that scraped unpleasantly against his sensitive inner thigh. He cringed in pain and disgust.

The General's breath was hot on the nape of his neck. “An eternity amidst the fires of Hell is the best I can wish for you, and it would be too kind,” he muttered waspishly. He pressed a clammy hand to the base of Ciro's throat, squeezing just hard enough to obstruct the labored panting. “Part of me... wishes to know your reasons.”

The suffocating fingers unclenched and moved slowly down his heaving chest.

“But part of me simply wishes to rape you of your dignity and cast you down, defenseless. The way you struck down the brothers who loved you, and the father who awarded you his crown and his fealty.”

The hand paused over the tense muscles of Ciro's stomach. The General scraped his fingertips over the swells and hollows. Ciro's mind still reeled with the pangs emanating from his dislocated shoulders, but he writhed on the General's knee.

Abruptly, the commander seized his body and hurled him back to the ground. He landed hard on his battered arms. Darkness barreled over him for a few empty seconds before he felt the General kick his legs apart. He was strengthless to draw them back together, and he waited, splayed and breathless, for the violation.

It didn't come.

Warily, he struggled to see through his pained haze. The General stood over him, his feet braced wide apart. He stared down at Ciro's naked body, caked with dirt and mottled with purplish bruises. Ciro wheezed softly. His eyes had grown glassy; he gazed blankly up at his captor.

The General reached up and slowly adjusted his sweat-stained collar. He straightened his sleeves in a show of composure, then drew a pair of wrinkled gloves from his breast pocket. He pulled them on with an executioner's grim deliberation.

“Be grateful that your fate rests in my hands,” he said. “If I were to give you to your people... no doubt they would have you torn limb from limb and your black heart cut from your chest.” He bent stiffly at the waist to meet Ciro's unfocused stare. “But I... I will let you fall into Hell yourself.”

Ciro's scream lodged in his throat as the General delivered a vicious kick to his ribs. Choleric pain erupted in his lungs, doubling him over and contorting his spine. As his consciousness fled, he heard the General murmur:

“...And may the devil take you, traitor.”

Part I fin