Dethroned

+DETHRONED+ Part II

The General stared down at the senseless man at his feet. He nudged the prone form with his boot and marveled inwardly at the contrast of flowering bruises beneath his milk-pale skin. Strands of lank, brown hair clung to his face, matted there by sweat and blood. His arms were twisted grotesquely behind him, the joints wrenched from their sockets.

The General licked his dry lips. Angrily, he placed his boot heel against Ciro's lopsided shoulder and kicked him onto his back. His body lolled compliantly. His vulnerability prompted a stirring in the General's gut, but he couldn't pin it as arousal or hatred... or some mix of both.

He knelt down. Nervously, he passed his hands over the quivering chest as the young king struggled to draw breath into his crumpled lungs. The General was fairly certain he would die soon, with or without medical attention. He had beaten Ciro badly, even after he had fallen unconscious. It was an act of vengeance and unstemmed fury, completely unbecoming to his own righteous stature.

Now, as he trailed his fingertips over Ciro's swollen lips, the enormity of his own crime struck him. The young man was his king. The General had knelt, however reluctantly, and sworn his life and loyalty to this boy.

The General grimaced as he stared down at the broken body before him. He clearly remembered Ciro as a child, forever peering at him through piercing green eyes as he sat stoically at his father's side. The General shook his head in disbelief. The silent, clever boy had grown to become a traitor and a murderer.

A shifting of the breeze through the execution courtyard flapped his collar against one cheek. Slowly, he became aware of his audience. He made a show of straightening the hem of his jacket before standing to face the three officers who had arrived upon his order. His single eye narrowed as he registered their shock. They stared unabashedly at their king's abused form before looking to their commander in consternation.

The General cleared his throat gruffly. No doubt his men considered him guilty of a coup. He moved to obstruct their view of Ciro's nude body, forcing them to meet his gaze.

“In the king's chambers, you will find an act of great treachery and abomination,” the General said. His steady voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “No doubt servants have already unearthed the tragedy; it is your duty to clean up and calm the turmoil until I return.” He allowed the men to furrow their brows in doubt before adding, “No one would have suspected the king of familial murder.”

They gaped at him and he continued grimly, “The country's leadership is about to come under dispute. His crime is painted in blood. Let your doubts about my integrity be laid to rest by the scene that awaits you.” He drew himself stiffly to full height and gave them a curt nod. They took a moment to gather their wits before saluting and marching away. He watched them go, their shoulders stiff with dread and confusion.

It was the wrong thing to do, he knew. It was unwise, rash... unjustifiable. The General sighed and cradled his forehead in a moment of weakness. He felt nauseous—he himself was about to commit regicide, and the horror of the situation finally gripped him. Turning, he leaned over and vomited.

His vision blurred as he swallowed traces of bile. He spat on the ground and dragged a shaking wrist across his mouth. Fumbling a bit, he undid the top buttons of his uniform to let the breeze grace the back of his neck.

Behind him, a low moan.

The General's knees knocked as he walked toward his captive king. Ciro's dazed eyes stared through him before sliding slowly into focus. They widened quickly, the pupils dilating to consume the green irises. He opened his mouth and the General caught sight of even teeth stained with blood.

“I am merciful.”

He spoke the words more for his own benefit than for his king's. Ciro stared up at him, his fine features contorted in pain and fear. The General smiled cruelly at this.

“Did your brothers make that face at you before you killed them?” he asked, shocking himself with his own vulgar question. A sick satisfaction coiled in the pit of his belly. “Did your father?”

Ciro's broken jaw hung open; fresh blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. The General stepped closer and bent down.

“How about your mother?”

No reply, only the same fearful eyes. The General felt a familiar rage building. With deliberate effort, he quelled it and reached down to wrap his fingers around Ciro's slender throat. He could feel the young man's warmth through his glove, the frantic pulse racing against his palm. He squeezed and the dark eyes bulged slightly.

“I'm going to take your body to the river,” he murmured. Blood raced to the skin, flushing Ciro's pale cheeks as the General continued to apply pressure to his windpipe. “Put you in stocks. The people may look at you from the opposite shore, but nature and the devil's wrath will ultimately undo you.”

The clouded eyes fell half-lidded. The tip of a blood-thickened tongue protruded past bruised lips. The General's arm began to shake uncontrollably as he crushed the breath from the traitor. When Ciro's chest stilled, he lifted his hand and brushed damp hair from the young man's forehead.

Then he cried.

The blade sank to the hilt in yielding flesh. He was surprised—he had expected it to be more difficult. The blood was hot and it pulsed from the wound, soaking them both. Ciro's lip curled in distaste. The copper smell sickened him. He drew the knife sideways and closed his eyes to the slippery viscera that spilled from his brother's opened gut.

Trembling fingers clawed at his forearms; irritated, he swatted them away with his free hand. A few wet gasps—Ciro shoved the slumping body from him before reopening his eyes. His brother fell, his skull striking the tile with a dull crack. Ciro turned away. His stomach churned at the stench of gore. Without a backward glance, he wheeled and fled from the chamber, leaving the younger man to die on the floor.

He staggered into the corridor and braced an arm against the wall. The cooler air cleared his head and he fought to stave off his nausea. When the dry heaves diminished to hiccups, he steeled himself and moved down the passage. He paused at the next chamber door and drew a deep breath. Cautiously, he pushed it open.

He was met with soft sounds—sounds that confused his tensed senses. Slightly bemused, he edged between two marble pillars and peered toward the bed.

His eldest brother—his twin—was writhing among the silk cushions. His shirt was bunched about his chest, hips rocking languidly as he fisted his stiff cock. He groaned softly and arched his body into his strokes. Ciro smirked as he padded silently across the room. His brother's eyes roved beneath closed lids as his cock twitched in his hand. When his body began to buck feverishly, Ciro reached down and seized the head of his twin's engorged sex.

The green eyes shot open, startled and disoriented. Ciro stared back at him, still clutching the straining cock. The eyes grew large and horror dawned in their depths as they took in the blood and the curved blade.

“How embarrassing that this is how they'll find you,” Ciro whispered as he thrust the knife viciously beneath his brother's ribcage.

It could not have been the gentle lapping of water that woke him. A sound that peaceful couldn't haul him back into agony, he thought. Splintery wood scraped against his throat and he struggled to turn his head. He had been clasped in stocks at the river's edge. He could see his hands out the corners of his eyes, but he had no feeling past the throbbing in his shoulders.

The evening air was pleasant and balmy, almost an affront to his brutalized body. A low clamor thrummed in the distance—the aftermath of his betrayal, no doubt. His injured lungs refused to permit a sigh of relief, but he was grateful for the moment of isolation. The people would make their way to the river in the morning, hopefully to find him dangling lifeless in the stocks.

He let his weight sag. The added pressure to his neck would bring darkness a little faster...

Hollow footsteps and the rustling hem of a cloak roused him. Ciro squinted through the deepening gloom, struggling to make out the figure stalking along the riverbank. The wan moonlight barely illuminated pale hair and broad shoulders.

Ciro shivered. The stranger's presence was both calming and damning. He couldn't stop his body from trembling as the creature halted before him, its face masked in shadow. Its cloak shuddered and a spidery hand snaked out. Ciro flinched as ice-cold fingers traced his bare hip and down his thigh.

The voice that spoke then was rich and amused. “Murderer, traitor, they called you,” it drawled. “And you were cast from the throne and beaten like a whore.” The cold hand seized his leg. Sharp nails bit into his flesh and he uttered a startled gasp.

“They'll find these chains empty in the morning,” the low voice continued. The nails raked through thin skin. Ciro felt blood wet his inner thigh. He tried to speak, but the abuse to his throat had stolen his voice. The best he could manage was a weak rasp.

The stranger chuckled and splintering wood rent the calm. Ciro pitched forward into a firm embrace. His cheek came to rest against a tautly muscled chest. A hand gripped his neck and drew his head back.

The eyes that bored into him were weirdly bright in the darkness. He hung limp in the stranger's grasp. The sudden movement of his body reawakened overwhelming pains, and tears coursed down his cheeks. The foreign being thumbed them delicately from his face. It passed its fingertips over his eyelids, drawing them softly closed.

“You've been damned by the gods of men.” The words were hissed into his ear.

“That... makes you mine now.”

Part II fin