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“I claim the Right of Verum Lignum.”

Vash stared down from his seat beside his father’s vacant throne at the man he should call uncle, as the throne hall burst into worried mumblings and whispers. He couldn’t recall if he’d ever met the man in person, probably not since he was a babe, and so he wouldn’t remember it.  

“How dare you?” His advisor scorned in his stead. Roberto had served Vash’s father well, and had pledged himself to Vash on the eve of the king’s passing.

“It will be dangerous for you, my prince,” he’d warned, taking Vash’s hand in his own. Vash was struck by how much smaller he was in comparison to the grizzled old man he used to pour wine for during his father’s privy councils. Vash was no fool, and he certainly wasn’t raised to be one. He knew why he was small, age aside, and knew what the man’s warning meant.

Vash hadn’t the time to mature and come of age, to be wedded, before his father’s untimely passing. Gored by the very stag he’d been so ardently hunting, merely a fortnight ago, and now so soon vultures began their descent on the throne. He’d scarcely been allowed his time to grieve.

“‘Tis the Right, or we could go with the alternative. I kill the lad,” his uncle smirked, earning many an affronted gasp from their audience, nearly the whole of the gentry stuffed into the throne hall, eager to watch the strange affair unfold. “Which, I confess, would be a terrible shame. My nephew is quite lovely. He takes after his father.”

Vash’s cheeks burned, but he wouldn’t give this interloper the satisfaction of a reaction beyond a slow blink in response. His uncle’s apparent proclivity to incest was twofold, it seemed. Vash knew his father had been a handsome man, and he could see the resemblance in his stranger-uncle’s appearance. Their familial connection was unmistakable.

“Foul rogue,” Roberto sneered, motioning to the Red Guard surrounding them. They lowered their spears, easing into formation in front of Vash, protecting him and the throne from the interloper.

“Ah,” his uncle chuckled, seemingly unfazed or unaware of the immense danger he was in. “Perhaps introductions are in order. Unwise indeed for me to march in unannounced. You know me as uncle, your father’s brother,” he said, staring directly at Vash. Sweat trickled down his spine. “But perhaps you will know me by a different name: Millions Knives.”

The unsettled murmuring in the hall immediately rose to an uproar. Lesser ladies of the houses screamed and made for the doors, other cowardly noblemen attempting to join them. Vash was quick to label them cowards, but they had reason to fear. Plain clothed soldiers made themselves known, sell-swords, brigands, cutthroats and corsairs all brandishing their blades and jeering in the face of the nobles’ panic, blocking their escape.

Millions Knives was a name Vash was all too familiar with, as was everyone else in the three allied kingdoms. He stared, wide eyed, at the new, true face of his uncle before him. He wore the same smirk, the same cocky set of his shoulders, but beneath it all Vash could sense the coiled displeasure of a very dangerous man.

Millions Knives had been an enigma, an unseen enemy in the south coming out of the badlands. He’d scoured the rocks and sands and had created his armies, a million blades at his beck and call. He’d been nameless, faceless, more a force of nature than a man. The threat of invasion by him had always loomed over any monarch’s head, for this exact reason. No one would be able to tell they were invaded until it was too late. A slow death, an infection that could spread whole cities in complete, innocuous silence.

“What need would a man like Millions Knives have of a gentle prince?” Vash asked calmly, thanking the Old Gods and the New for keeping his voice steady.

“I have come to claim my throne,” Knives answered simply with a shrug, “and I want beautiful blond children to inherit after I’m dead and buried, and even better, a blond beauty to bear them and warm my bed.”

“There are golden-haired whores aplenty in the lower pleasure houses, brigand, you can sow your seed there,” Roberto snarled. “Sire all the bastards your heart desires, you will not touch the prince.”

“It seems my kinsman require a history lesson,” Knives sighed. “Conrad,” he snapped his fingers, and an older man, older than Roberto, stepped forward from the crowd.

“The Right of Verum Lignum is an ancient one, yet still holds merit in these modern times, given the…circumstances,” Conrad spoke.

Verum Lignum, Vash pondered. It meant the true wood in the Old Tongue, or perhaps root? Or had that been radix…The high language was not spoken by many outside of Vash’s royal line and he hadn’t had anyone to practice with after his father’s death.

Conrad adjusted his spectacles before retrieving a weathered old scroll from his satchel. Vash noted it, too, was written in the Old Tongue.

“Any member of royal blood,” Conrad read, “unwed and unseeded before their time of succession—”

Vash flushed again, his ears ringing.

“Can be supplanted by means of forced marriage to any other family member present who would invoke the Right.”

“Aye, I know my liege’s history well enough,” Roberto interrupted, solidly placing himself between Vash and his uncle. “Especially with regards to any means to overthrow him. It cannot be just any family member.” Vash’s heart skipped a beat, hoping. “They must be—”

“Of the Old Blood,” Knives finished for him, stepping closer. Symmetrical lines of light bled across every exposed inch of his skin, creeping across his cheek bones, temples and forehead to craft a crown of glowing white. They weren’t the same color as Vash’s, but they were unmistakable.

Vash’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He thought he might vomit when his own light lines sluggishly bled into sight, attempting to resonate with the only other partner they could seek. Knives’ wild, glowing eyes tracked across his lines hungrily, catching his gaze in the process. Vash couldn’t tear his eyes away, he let out a nearly mewling breath of fear and Roberto cursed softly, daring to reach back and place his hand on Vash’s shoulder to steady him.

“D-did you know…?” Vash asked softly. Roberto shook his head, silent and stunned.

“It is a rarity that two in successive generations would share in this gift,” Knives crooned, “usually it skips one, or two. We are Chosen, nephew. Destined.”

Before this day, perhaps Vash had considered his Old Blood a gift. He was a direct descendant of an Old God, one of green, one of life. He had diminutive power over plant life, urging and fostering growth where it would perhaps be impossible. He would have longevity, and good health.

He used to play about the roots of the sacred trees in the godswood, sucking up their energies like a little sponge until he glowed. He remembered resonating with his father when he grew tired, nestled in his arms, their lines a perfect match, elder white and youthful blue.

Tears ran down Vash’s shining cheeks when he saw those same exact lines on his uncle’s face.

“Right or not, I will not allow it,” Roberto growled, drawing his sword.

“Ser, no—!”

Vash could scarce shout his warning before a wicked, cruel blade pierced through his advisor’s chest and clear through his back, parting his armor like butter. Hot, thick blood splashed onto Vash’s face—Roberto’s blood, his friend’s blood—and he gasped out a short scream. He managed to catch him as he fell, bearing him to the floor.

“Forgive me…your highness—!” Roberto spluttered, his voice wet and wheezy. “I could not…protect you…”

Blood pooled from his chest, soaking Vash’s hands and thighs as he scrambled to part his armor, to put pressure on the wound. He knew it was too late.

“No!” He sobbed, crumpling over Roberto’s chest. “No no no…!”

Knives flicked his blade, spattering more of his precious advisor’s lifeblood over his cheek, in his eye, before sheathing it. Vash hadn’t even noticed he was carrying a weapon.

Heavy steps rattled in his ears, wet with blood and menacing. His uncle paced around him and sat on the vacant throne, his father’s throne. The king’s throne. His armored thighs bracketed Vash’s narrow frame as he heaved and sobbed and he couldn’t even find it in himself to be ashamed of his position, on his knees between a tyrant’s legs. He could only cry and cling to Roberto’s cooling body, the man long dead.

He was pulled from the throne hall on shaking, uncooperative legs. The sounds of plunder and diabolical mirth pierced through the fog in his mind. His city was being ravaged, his people murdered all around him. He grew accustomed all too quickly to the wet crunching of blades through bodies. Women were dragged screaming behind chortling men with devilish, leering intent on their blood-dirtied faces and Vash shied away, hiding from the fear of it.

His own fate, he knew, wouldn’t be dissimilar.

On and on he was dragged helplessly through the keep, putting up his weak, token struggles but he knew—bitterly—he was no stronger than the fairer sex. He cursed the once celebrated circumstances of his birth. For the first time in his life he found himself wanting the brutality of a man’s strength, to fight as his honor demanded. Instead he could only weep.

His captors burst through several sets of familiar doors, and finally Vash realized where they were, where they were headed. His father’s old rooms. The King’s quarters.

“Round up some servants to draw me a bath. Make it big and steamy,” his uncle ordered with mirth, “for my nephew is so very dirty.”

His henchmen chuckled as they threw Vash to the ground at his feet and left to do his bidding. It was nearly silent, this far into the keep. Vash could scarcely tell they were being invaded. He could hear distant screams, the bells tolling for mercy in the city that wouldn’t come. He saw great plumes of smoke billowing through the windows. The scent of char and burning flesh laced the air.

Vash flinched when his uncle stepped closer to him. He crouched, his armor and leathers creaking and grinding terribly, like the maw of a dreaded beast.

“Have you at least had your first bleeding?” He demanded coarsely, his tone far from the jovial, cocky pomp from the hall. Vash shivered, remaining silent and still on the floor.

“Answer me, boy, I’ll take of you whether you speak or not,” he growled, fisting Vash’s blood-wet hair tight, yanking his face upright to meet his own.

“Three weeks past,” Vash rasped.

“Your first?”

“…Yes,” he whispered.

“Gods,” Knives swore in response. “Still, ‘twas to be your fate regardless, was it not? I confess I was surprised you were not wedded already, with child blooming in your belly. Perhaps that ill-fated protector of yours wanted to do the job, hm?”

“Please, do not speak ill of the dead,” Vash pleaded quietly.

“I’ll speak how I want of them, they’re dead,” his uncle countered simply, rising to his feet.

Knives spent the next minutes digging around his dead brother’s rooms, rifling through every drawer, sniffing every decanter until he found a drink that pleased him, taking a swig. That had been his father’s favorite as well. Vash remained on the floor, clutching himself tight for some amount of comfort. He shivered, his groin tingled and throbbed with his fear, dreading what was to come.

He’d never been touched. Not once. His mother, long dead, would have had the right to help him through his first bleeding properly, using her fingers and instruments to ease his cramping and soreness but instead, he’d been forced to face it alone. It was a grueling, painful week, the maids sympathetic as they’d dabbed his brow and changed his soiled bedclothes.

His father had waited for him outside his rooms to greet him when it was finally over, taking him into his arms to whisper soft words and old prayers of encouragement, soothing him with his familiar warmth and scent. Nothing had changed, the earth hadn’t shifted overnight, leaving it all topsy-turvy. Vash had merely bled, as he would each new moon. Life would go on.

“You know, I kept an eye on things here,” Knives spoke, absently, like he wasn’t expecting Vash to listen, “I read all missives, all news and decrees, fully expecting an announcement of your engagement to some fancy lord or king looking to secure his seed. For some time I’d been prepared to slay my own brother and his spawn.”

Vash watched his uncle out of the corner of his eye as he opened the door to his father’s dressing rooms. Knives was broader than his father, but most of it, Vash knew from a glance alone, would fit him with little issue.

“Imagine my surprise when fate had a better answer. Killed by a mere animal, ha!”

Vash winced, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d seen the festering, gored wound himself when the healers finally brought the king back from the hunt, when it became apparent it was no flesh wound. Maggots had been put to it, to attempt to clear the dead flesh to make way for healing. But even Vash could tell—from the look of it, from the smell, from his father’s wasting attention and bleary eyes—it was done.

“And no betrothed for the prince. Why is that? Normally a royal broodmare is long promised, oft before they’re even born into this wretched world.”

“There was no match that pleased the king,” Vash answered, knowing this miserable man would badger him until he responded anyway.

“No match that pleased him? Or perhaps he did not want to so easily give you up, sweetling. He never remarried after the queen’s death to father more heirs. Very odd indeed.”

Knives left the dressing rooms, a rich cloak of deep crimson in his arms. Vash recognized it immediately. It was the cloak his father wore when he’d left for the hunt, pursuing the very stag that killed him. It had been washed and mended, kept for sentimental reasons. Knives tossed it onto his father’s bed, presumably for later use in Vash’s torment.

“Milord Knives, your bath awaits,” a gruff man called from the fore of the rooms, startling Vash upright.

“Ah, good,” Knives clapped his hands, striding Vash’s way to yank him to his feet. Unnatural strength lay beneath all that armor, or Vash was limp and lighter than he realized. He hardly put up a struggle as they followed a shaking, sobbing servant girl to the baths. Vash longed to soothe her, to whisper his reassurances and ease her fears. But it would be a lie. Vash was no surer of his own fate than hers.

“Strip,” his uncle demanded, “then undress me.”

They’d been deposited in one of the larger bathrooms, the one reserved for the king and queen’s use. Vash had rarely been inside it since he was a child, save a few occasions. The air was humid and smelled herbal and sweet from the bath oils and soaps prepared for them. Vash was no stranger to such luxuries, but he did wonder what sort of filth waited for him beneath his uncle’s armor, if he’d ever had a full, indulgent bath ever in his life.

“I haven’t all day, boy,” Knives snapped, “each minute you dally means a cooling tub.”

Perhaps often, Vash thought bitterly, if the prospect of a lukewarm bath displeased him. With a shy glance over his shoulder, the two servant girls at the doors behind him flinched and dropped their gazes to the floor, tightly clasping their hands in front of them, white-knuckled in fear.

He bit his lip and started on the many ties and buttons keeping all his royal trappings in place. He didn’t wear a gown, that would be silly, but his tunic was lengthy and voluminous, having the effect of one anyway. All his decorations and riches fell easily to his feet, a miserable pile of silks and thick brocade colored dark with his former advisor’s lifeblood.

“Come, come,” his uncle scoffed, when Vash’s fingers halted shyly at the ties of his leggings. “It is nothing I haven’t seen before, I assure you, nephew.”

Flushed and faint, Vash picked at the strings, untying them as quickly as he could manage under his uncle’s unscrupulous gaze. He sucked in a shaky breath and pushed them down his legs, faltering in embarrassment when he realized he’d forgotten to unfasten his sandals. Knives chuckled, watching him struggle with heated cheeks as he staggered and shuffled finally free. He shyly cupped his hands over his groin, shifting in discomfort as air brushed over his genitals.

“Drop your hands or I’ll remove them. You needn’t hands to bear sons.”

Vash and the maids by the door wept as he did what he was told. His ears rang in mortified embarrassment when he lost control of his bladder in all the terror of it. Urine trickled hot and damning down his thigh as he sobbed and gasped for air, wincing when it audibly splashed aground. Knives chuckled at the sight, but surprisingly did not mock him for it.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now come,” he beckoned. Vash was surprised he could move at all and didn’t immediately crumple to the ground numb after his first step. He felt separate from his body as he moved, watching his own hands reach forward to unclasp and unbuckle each piece of armor, one by one. Everything felt and sounded like he was underwater, slowed and agonizing. He was drowning.

“Breathe, nephew. I won’t be skewering you just yet.”

He sucked in a gasp and Knives stepped away, pulling his tunic and breeches off himself. Vash averted his eyes, unsure how he could flush any deeper and yet did when he caught sight of his uncle’s endowment. He’d seen his father’s, even when he was ardent, and though he was soft, Knives was larger, long and thick. His groin throbbed again and he moaned quietly in despair, squeezing his thighs together. It was impossible. That wouldn’t fit inside him. He would break.

Ignorant—or perhaps uncaring—of his terror, Knives gripped his bicep and pulled him to the lip of the bath. His hands were rough, calloused, and massive, easily encompassing Vash’s arm.

The bath was a large sunken basin of marble, with many taps and alcoves. A luxurious, modern comfort. It could house two easily, perhaps even three or four grown men.

Knives dumped a bucket of waiting water over his head to rinse and shuddered, taking the second and doing the same to Vash. It took every ounce of effort left in him to keep his hands free from his groin, to shield himself from his uncle’s scrutiny. The threat still hung in the air between them, acrid and unpleasant, the threat of violence should Vash disobey.

Something that had once been so comforting was a source of menace, now, as Knives pulled him into the hot water beside him. They sat on the submerged lip by the window, giving Vash an unfettered view of his ravaged city far below, and the girls at the door view of him as well. A glance showed them still with their eyes on the ground, as respectful as they could be. But Vash knew that wouldn’t keep. Morbid curiosity would have them looking before long, he knew he would.

“Did your servants do everything for you, spoiled child?” Knives sneered. “That there’s the sponge, and there’s the soap. Get started.”

Vash did as he was told, quickly lathering the sponge with plenty warm water and soap, and some cleansing oils for good measure, and started on his uncle’s nearest forearm. He fell into the familiarity of bathing, pretending it was his father’s skin beneath his hands, not his warring uncle’s. The illusion was quickly shattered by the sheer amount of scars and blemishes spotting his dusky flesh.

His father had been pale, and while he had his own share of scarring, they were old and faded, from battles fought and won long before Vash was born. Knives’ scars, new and old, were bumpy and unpleasant under Vash’s touch. He tried not to linger on them, nor to acknowledge his uncle’s gaze on him as he worked.

The more skin he cleaned, the harder it was to put off the man’s broad chest and stomach, and the flesh hidden by soapy bath water he would no doubt be required to clean as well. With an absent sigh, a near casual sweep of his arm, his uncle pulled Vash onto his lap.

Vash tried not to cry again—how he still had tears left, he didn’t know—when he was forced to spread his legs, straddling his uncle’s thighs. His muscles quivered from the strain of keeping himself awkwardly upright and his groin away from Knives’.

“Continue,” Knives demanded with a jerk of his hand. Pressed together, Vash could feel his deep voice reverberate in his own chest.

The air began to cool as the night grew longer, as their bath remained warm. The servants had thought to add hot coals to the alcoves beneath the tub, even in all the rush and chaos and fear. His exposed skin pebbled in the chill, he bit his lip when his nipples peaked and his small breasts stiffened. He couldn’t stifle his affronted cry when his uncle cupped one of his breasts, squeezing the sensitive flesh with a neutral expression.

He felt violated, examined like a common whore, or worse like lowly livestock as his uncle’s hands wandered. Vash had dropped the sponge, the act of bathing long forgotten in the face of this new debasement, but Knives didn’t chastise him or demand he continue.

“Gather some of that oil there,” the man murmured, “the one that smells like you.”

Vash knew it, he’d used the very same that morning as he’d been washed and dressed by his servants for the day. With a thick dollop pooled in his palm, his uncle grasped his wrist and submerged it between them.

“Take it in hand, boy,” Knives whispered hotly. Vash couldn’t breathe. His uncle’s ardent member pressed against the back of his hand where Knives held it, twitching and slippery at the head. “Take it,” Knives hissed again, giving him a firm shake. Quivering, whining softly, he twisted his wrist and gripped his uncle’s member.

It was unlike anything Vash had ever touched before. His fingers couldn’t meet around its velvety, firm girth. His uncle sighed and relaxed against the lip of the tub.

“Move your hand, up and down,” he instructed, voice a deep, satisfied rumble, “squeeze on the upstroke, that’s it…good boy…”

Vash kept his eyes shut, his other hand clenched on his thigh, and tried to ignore one of the girls sobbing behind him or he would surely join her in seconds. His fingers squished over his foreskin on every stroke, a strange, unpleasant sensation. His father had been cut.

Content to leave Vash to his ministrations, for now, Knives let his hands wander again. He fondled his chest for awhile, plucking and kneading the small points of his nipples until they were swollen and Vash was crying once more. He traveled lower, brushing his hands over every exposed inch of smooth flesh, murmuring instruction as he did.

Knives gripped his ass, hard, and Vash keened, jerking his hands free of the water to push, unthinking, at his uncle’s chest. Fear and adrenaline had all thought and reason flooding from his mind, pooling sharp and urgent between his legs once more. He couldn’t urinate again, not here, straddled on his uncle’s lap. The mortification would end him, and he was sure the man wouldn’t take too kindly to being pissed on.

His uncle’s large palm meeting his cheek with a resounding crack had him back in his skin in an instant, struck dumb and silent from the shock of it.

“Don’t fight me again, boy, this is your last warning. There’ll be plenty servants left to serve you, hand and foot.”

Vash nodded, disturbed by his uncle’s calm. His warning was clear.

His cheek was throbbing and hot when Knives settled him back onto his lap, pulling him flush to his groin. The man’s rigid cock pressed against him and he swallowed thickly, keeping still. His tiny nub was laughable in comparison, though he knew there was no comparison to make. Though he was male, his genitals didn’t match his sex. 

“He is of the Old Blood,” the meisters had claimed upon his birth, “see how he glows? No carrier of the lineage is female.”

Never before in their family’s long, illustrious history had a female been born with the lines. So, Vash could only be male, and was raised as one between two genders, special account made for the thing between his legs and inside him that would have him bleed once a month, that could conceive, carry, and inevitably birth an heir. He was a blessing twofold. Of the Old Blood, gifted with their magics, and capable of ensuring the purity of his line within his own body.

He was a gift, now plundered and soiled by unworthy hands.

Vash was made to take him in hand again and Knives moaned in his hair, burying his face in his sweaty locks, breathing deep.

“Gods, you even smell like him,” his uncle groaned quietly, kneading his hands into Vash’s ass. Vash didn’t comment, he wouldn’t linger on the implications of his uncle’s words. It was the past, it was done. All the horrors waited for him now, in the present.

He tried to imagine he was sitting in the godswood beneath his favorite tree, an old grandfather of a Weirwood, its ancient carved face watching over him as he rested. Its offerings of dropped leaves would be a soft, crimson blanket to lay on in the autumn.

He jerked back to the present with a startled wail when Knives dug one of his fingers deep into his asshole. Dry, thick, and hot. His muscles clenched, trying to force the intrusion out and he panted and sobbed against his uncle’s chest, muffling his embarrassing pleading between his scarred pecs. The alien sensation was mortifying, he grew faint so quickly his head swam. He feared what would happen if he removed the digit, if his body took it as a sign for…for something else to leave his body, too.

“Mmm…too small still for proper pleasure here,” Knives chuckled, one of the poor maids crying her sympathies for him as Knives removed his finger. “I don’t want to break you permanently, nephew.”

Vash shivered all over, panting, indignant and so afraid.

“So let’s feel where you’re meant to take me,” Knives said. Vash hadn’t the time to process it before his uncle hiked him up into his arms and splayed him backwards on the lip of the basin. He shivered in the sudden burst of chill air, his nipples tightening to sharp points once again. It was maddening how his first thought was of the wasted water sloshed all over the floor, how his minders would surely have words for him upon seeing the mess.

Upside down, he could easily see the maids staring at him, their wide eyes brimming with tears, cheeks soaked and bright red. He couldn’t look away, and neither could they, when Knives spread his legs and settled between his thighs.

“I was there, you know,” Knives murmured, dragging his hands down Vash’s twitching stomach, “when you were born. It was a difficult birth, your poor mother struggled so.”

Not true, Vash thought, he’d been an easy birth, everyone said so.

“I was there to support my brother. He was terrified he’d lose you both. The meisters all tried to make him decide. His wife, or you.”

Vash sobbed.

“In the end you both survived the birth but Rem wasn’t the same after, was she? Sickly. Poorly.”

No, she’d always been poorly, before Vash was born. That’s why he’d been celebrated. He was a miracle.

“I said you’d sucked it all out of her, all her lifeblood. A little leech, desperate to be born. Oh, how I hated you, squalling little thing you were, all lit up like a glowgrub.”

Vash wailed, covering his face. He couldn’t face the terrible words, he didn’t want to look into the maids’ eyes and see the truth there, the lack of surprise in them. Was that what his people thought of him? A life sucking leech who killed his own mother?

“And yet, I loved you. You were a part of her, and of him, my two beloveds.”

Cruelty. It was cruelty and nothing more. Nothing at all. Don’t listen.

“I saw the lines on you and thought nothing of it at the time. But as the years dragged on, as I grew apart from my brother and his softness and all the pomp and wretched filth of the three kingdoms I knew what I had to do.”

Even with his eyes shut, with his hands over his face, Vash could see his ancestral lines humming awake. They could only be responding to his uncle’s. He opened his eyes, and his breath hitched painfully in his chest. For a brief moment, he saw his father between his legs.

Knives looked so much like him, with the white glow bleeding across his face and chest, further beneath the water, lighting it up beneath them. His face split into an eerie, under-lit grin, however, and the vision was gone.

Oiled fingers prodded at the delicate place between his thighs, where not even Vash had dared touch before for fear of spoiling his purity.

The sounds. Gods, the wet, squelching sucking there as Knives flirted his fingers outside his entrance, swirling across the delicate, flushed flesh, just barely dipping inside before retreating. His fingers were so big, too big. One had been inside him already and his ass throbbed at the memory, clenching in fear.

“I’m sure you lovely maidens are no strangers to the act of lovemaking,” Knives taunted, and the girls flinched and hiccuped at being addressed so suddenly. “How many filthy men have you allowed to spill into your whoring cunts?”

“L-leave them,” Vash stammered, “your ire lies with me. They are blameless.”

“Ha!” Knives guffawed, smacking his hand on Vash’s wet thigh. “See there, girls? Here be a true prince of the people. On his back, legs spread, and he can only think of your virtue.”

Knives’ laughter took on an unsettling, unstable tinge as he leaned over Vash, looming in his face.

“You truly do take after your father, don’t you? Little martyr of the Old Gods and the New. Bleeding heart. Here’s a secret, nephew, these people don’t give a damn about you. They’d just as soon abandon you if it meant saving their own skin.”

Vash locked eyes with the maids again.

“I tried to get my brother to see as much. But he wouldn’t listen, none of them did. Now look where that’s gotten him, killed by the animus of the hunt. The Gods were laughing at him, nephew.”

“Yet still I care for them,” Vash sniffed, more tears spilling down his cheeks, pooling in his ears. “Please, do not harm them. Torment them no longer…”

His uncle grew quiet. He caressed his thighs, kneading his soft flesh, before he gripped him tight and flipped him. Vash shouted in surprise, just managing not to bite his own tongue when his chin smacked onto the wet tile beneath them. He barely caught his breath before he was whimpering in alarm, at the prodding at his untried entrance.

“Any advice for the virgin?” Knives cajoled. Vash heard some rustling and tinkling behind him, and flinched when floral oil spilled down his backside, oozing over his clenching ass and the plump lips of his cunt.

“R-remember to breathe…!”

“Try to relax, my prince. Oh, Gods, I’m sorry!”

“Just lie still, don’t look.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Vash tensed, choked, and squealed when he was suddenly plundered wide. The girls screamed with him, sinking to their knees at the door. He couldn’t see them anymore. All he had was their advice echoing in his head but now it all seemed too difficult. It was easier to clench, trying to crawl away, to force his uncle out. It was easier to wail and cry, sucking in shuddery, fast and shallow breaths than it was to try and breathe calmly.

Knives groaned, deep and appreciative, and started up a quick, brutal pace. His hips and scrotum smacked against Vash’s delicate skin over and over, leaving him raw and stinging. The pressure, the pain of it was too much to ignore. It couldn’t just be his uncle’s cock, it had to be his whole fist, his entire arm inside him, spreading his guts and scrambling them like an egg with every thrust.

It felt like Knives had sprouted extra arms, his touch was everywhere. Nothing was sacred or left alone. Fingers stroked his tongue, plugging his mouth so deep he gagged. Hands dug under his heaving chest and cupped his meager breasts, squeezing him so tightly Vash feared he would be bruised forever. Hot breath and tongue on his nape, teeth on his neck, an oiled thumb shoved into his ass, plunging and stretching the abused muscle wide.

It was an all-encompassing claiming. There wasn’t an inch of Vash’s body Knives hadn’t touched, hadn’t soiled or bruised or used.

He’d nearly grown numb to the thick length spearing him wide when something new had him flinching with a slurred cry, trying again in vain to drag himself from the bath with fingers capped with bloodied nails.

“Be still,” his uncle panted, ragged and pleasured. “Just take it.”

He angled his hips, shoving Vash lower into the water so that he was practically mounting him, and something caught on his abused entrance.

“Wha—?” Vash whimpered, trying to remember to breathe.

“I can’t imagine your mother had time enough to warn you of this peculiarity of our blood’s line before her passing,” Knives panted, easing his brutal thrusts instead to deep grinding, rolling his hips incessantly against Vash’s bruised ass. “She probably hadn’t even thought once about her precious son taking cock. When did she die again? Were you three? Four? Perhaps your father selfishly wished to teach you himself, hands on.”

That something was still there, and growing hotter, larger, shoving its stinging way deeper inside him with every roll of his uncle’s hips. Vash gurgled out a cry, all his hard-earned breath leaving in a desperate whoosh when it shoved deeper, nearly popping fully inside, bringing with it a new, bright sting to his flesh.

“You may be male and heir, dearest nephew, but this is something your cute little cocklet will never have.”

His fingers swirled over his clit teasingly and Vash keened, grinding his head into the tile.

“Come now,” Knives panted, growling almost, fucking him harder, and harder. “Latch to me. Open. That’s it. Good boy.”

The condescending, slimy praise and the insistent touch of his uncle’s fingers had his cunt throbbing, clenching and unclenching in a quick beat of unwelcome pleasure, but it was enough. His uncle smacked his hips against him, one last time, finally popping that thing inside his entrance.

Vash grunted out a wail, long and loud and guttural. The maids had fully collapsed, screaming for him, and with a barked command from his uncle they were dragged from the room. Had his henchman been standing there in the shadowed corner the entire time? Had yet another been witness to this?

Left in the awful silence, alone at last with Knives, all thought for them left Vash’s mind in a painful instant. He grew faint, weak, and Knives let him spill limp all over the floor, following with his hips.

Vash wanted away. He didn’t want to touch him anymore, all over he felt the sticky, sick remnants of his uncle’s touch but even the smallest shift proved it would be a bad idea. They were tied together, like animals. It was…a knot, inside him, pressing up and tugging on the thin skin stretched wide at his entrance. If he had not torn, it would be a miracle.

“Oh, Gods,” Knives groaned appreciatively, “I knew as soon as I saw your prim little ass sitting in the throne hall you’d be perfect. We were fated to be together, I know it,” he pushed his hand under Vash’s stomach. He could tell without looking he was distended, swollen from his uncle’s cock and the seed he was pumping into him with each tiny jerk of his hips. He could feel his length kicking inside him with each new spurt.

Vash’s lines throbbed in time with his heartbeat, nearly imperceptible pulses that matched Knives’ perfectly. They were resonating.

“I couldn’t have your father,” Knives murmured against his nape, soft as a confession, “so the Gods saw fit to grant me you. I will praise their names each and every day for it.”

He kissed Vash’s neck and he couldn’t even flinch like he wanted to. Sore, exhausted, tired, he let his eyes fall shut.

Vash woke in the dark.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but he was dry, and he couldn’t move. Every muscle in his body was stiff and aching, his groin, ass and hips felt as if they were on fire. But he wasn’t on the wet tiled floor of the baths, he was in a bed, soft and plush against his brutalized backside.

It was his father’s bed. He could smell him, still, even after the sheets and dressings in the rooms had all been washed and replaced. He had seeped into every orifice of this place, every thread of every tapestry and grain of wood in the furniture. Vash knew it well, he’d spent the majority of his mourning period in this very bed.

He sucked in a shallow breath in his grief and felt pressure on his chest. His eyes soon adjusted, and saw that it was an arm, a familiarly scarred arm. His uncle’s. He turned, flinching when he saw the man was awake, watching him.

“There’s the little glowgrub,” Knives rasped, his voice rough from sleep. Perhaps he’d just woken as well. Vash parted his lips to speak—to say what, a greeting?—but nothing came out save a whispery, wheezing breath. Knives frowned and placed his hand around Vash’s neck, giving it a quick squeeze.

“Try not to talk.”

Vash glowered at him and Knives smiled, dropping his hand back to Vash’s chest, his breast almost perfectly fitting into the natural cup of his palm. Vash tried not to be sick thinking about it, the warm pressure of his touch as his chest rose and fell with his breathing.

“You look so much like your father when he was young, so I can’t help but be fond of you, little nephew,” Knives murmured, absently drawing his fingertips in circles over his nipple, “like one would be for a pet bird, or something.”

Knives didn’t strike as the type to keep pets. Not animal ones, at least.

“The Gods must be as pleased by our union as I am, though I doubt you will take from our first coupling. Your fertile period has passed for this cycle but no matter.” His hand slid—thankfully—from pestering his nipple to land on his flat stomach. “We will try as often as it is necessary.”

Like it would be such a burden for you, Vash thought dully, to plunder me again.

“I can’t wait to see you swell up with my child, for little blond babes to hang off your teats—”

That earned a noise from Vash, a harsh, indignant rasp as he managed to roll onto his side, away from his disgusting uncle, who only chuckled and allowed him his small transgression. Bleakly Vash realized this was his future, debasements and transgressions.

“With any luck they’ll be little glowgrubs just like you and I,” Knives continued, stroking the line of his spine. Touching. Always touching. “Strong little babes to carry on my line.” His, not Vash’s, not theirs. “Ours does not need to be an unpleasant union. All you need do is obey me and comfort will come in time. Coupling will grow easier, you will gain pleasure from it, this I promise.”

Vash did not want pleasure from him, not from this conquering. He was sure, though, that he wouldn’t have a choice in it ever again. If his uncle wanted him in pain, he’d be in pain. If his uncle wanted him to feel pleasure, he would be pleasured.

Cruel hands pulled him onto his back again, thick fingers gripping his jaw tight to turn his head, forcing Vash to face him in the dark. The glow between them was weak, but enough to make out the shape of him. He was stiffening under the sheets, an almost laughable image. Vash might have laughed, once, when he was juvenile and untouched, when he didn’t know the violence that silly looking thing was capable of.

His cunt throbbed in protest as his uncle dragged him close for a kiss. He plundered his mouth with a lazy voracity, spilling his tongue past his teeth and oh, how Vash longed to bite. Perhaps that should be his strategy, perhaps Knives would kill him in his anger. What quality of life awaited him, that he should try to preserve himself? Surely death would be a comfort.

Maybe his teeth came together a little too close, too much intention behind the pressure, maybe their connection now ran deeper than Vash realized, but Knives grunted and dug his fingers into Vash’s jaw so he couldn’t bite. Vash moaned pitifully as his uncle suckled unimpeded on his tongue.

“Take me in hand, nephew,” Knives murmured into his mouth. Vash sniffled, and obeyed, pushing blindly under the sheets until his fingers brushed his hardness. It was worse, without the distracting sloshing of bathwater and crying maids at the door. He could hear everything, feel everything, smell everything. The sharp, masculine tang of his uncle’s seed and sweat flooded his senses. There was no warm water to detract from the actual velvety heat of his uncle’s member in his hand.

His breath hitched on a quiet sob when Knives dropped his jaw—it throbbed, he would bruise for sure—and rudely pushed between his legs to palm his sex.

“Here, little grub,” he panted, “something to grind on.”

Vash didn’t understand until his uncle rocked his hand, pushing the meat of his palm down against his clit.

“…ah…”

The sound that left his lips was mortifying, completely out of his control, colored with sex. A genuine moan made sultry by the ruin of his throat from all his screaming, a whine almost. Knives kissed him again, swallowing his little noises as he continued rocking his palm against him, such a gentle shift from before.

Vash didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to stop his hips from shifting, despite the pain, pushing up into that gentle pressure in an easy rhythm. Is this what his uncle meant by pleasure? If the man was capable of such softness, why was he so cruel in his taking of him?

Tears pooled down his cheeks—Knives ignored them—and Vash rocked his hips harder, desperate for his uncle to let his palm linger, to press harder. He expected his callouses to be rough and offensive against his delicate flesh but they felt good.

He grew wet, and this he knew, this was familiar—nights thinking, dreaming, stolen moments spying on things he shouldn’t, watching broad hands fly over turgid lengths—and Knives made a soft sound of approval, dipping his fingertips between his lips.

Vash keened and tried to flinch away, the soft bubble of pleasure that had been growing burst in an instant when a thick digit breached him again. He was fucked open, raw and puffy, he imagined he could feel each individual bump of his uncle’s finger knuckles as he sunk inside him. His own wetness was no aid, not when he was so fresh from the rape.

“Uhn—un-uncle…! Uncle, please…!” Vash cried, thrashing his head, trying to bunch his hips away but everything hurt so much. An inch gained on those sheets took all the effort left in his exhausted body. “P-please stop, I can’t, I’ll tear, I’ll—I…!

“Quiet,” Knives grunted, removing his finger and Vash sobbed, collapsing into the sheets in relief. His uncle quickened his palm, growing rough and careless in his displeasure. Gods be damned, it still felt nice.

Remembering what was asked of him, Vash squeezed Knives’ cock and continued pumping him. He’d started to wilt, but at Vash’s initiative he hardened up soon enough. It would have to be a careful thing, balancing his uncle’s appetites.

Knives grunted and panted against his lips, plundering him again, thrusting his tongue against his and he could only shyly lay there and attempt to reciprocate. He fucked his mouth like he wanted to fuck his cunt.

“Faster,” Knives hissed, “squeeze harder.”

Vash shifted a little closer, heeding his demands, and Knives gave him his reward. Fingers on his clit, circling and massaging him, spreading his gooey slick from between his lips to soak his palm. Pressure, heat, coiling until it snapped.

He didn’t realize he was crying nonsense from his very first orgasm until his uncle kissed him quiet again, flicking and rubbing him faster, faster, dragging him kicking and screaming back up that same peak to toss him off the ledge once more. Bursts of hot cum coated his fingers and Vash gasped, dropping his uncle’s twitching member in surprise when he felt that massive bulge at the base, the thing that had plugged him wide in the baths.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Knives roared, snatching Vash’s wrist but it was too late. He growled in ruined pleasure as his orgasm was left bereft, unsatisfied by hand or cunt, and put his hands on Vash.

“No! No, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” Vash pleaded as Knives manhandled him onto his front, rough and uncaring as he pushed and pulled him about like a rag doll. Vash muffled his crying in the sheets when his uncle yanked his hips upright, high enough to rut against. He was so sore, so weak he couldn’t hold himself upright, his back bowed painfully and that made him cry harder. Frustration, fear and exhaustion muddled into a thick fog in his brain.

A small mercy, his uncle didn’t penetrate him again. He shoved his hips against Vash’s ass, his cock pillowed between his cheeks and he squeezed them together, creating a moist, hot channel for himself to fuck into. Each thrust shoved the ridge of his uncle’s cockhead against the swollen furl of his ass, catching on it.

His squeaky, agonized moans irritated even his own ears, unable to help mewling like a terrified little animal. This went on for some time, fucking and rocking, his uncle’s sweat dripping onto his back, his quickening grunts vibrating in his chest. At last he emptied his loins again, hopefully for the final time that night.

Weak, warm spurts of seed leaked all over his backside. He heaved a grateful sigh, hoping that would be all and he could go back to sleep, or otherwise stare at the wall and try to ignore the cooling, drying cum on his ass, leaking still from his cunt.

“Gods protect me,” Vash wheezed in the Old Tongue, his voice breaking on every word.

“Those useless cunts can’t save you from my ire if you do that again,” Knives spat at him in perfect form, his tone easily melting over the language’s harsh syllables as he pushed Vash over onto his side, saving him the embarrassment of being stuck in place, ass in the air. Now he truly could not move, pushed to the brink of full exhaustion.

His eyes fluttered closed as Knives hummed an old song, stroking his fingers through Vash’s hair. Vash couldn’t understand his moods, his intentions or his drives. The man could just snap and Vash would be done for.

But the warmth from his body next to his was welcome. His fingers in his hair felt nice. In song, his voice grew honeyed, deep and pleasant. Vash knew this song. He knew it very well. It was the song his father used to sing to him when he was young, when he couldn’t sleep, and—

Knives stared down at his little grub, as his breaths evened out and his thundering heartbeat finally settled. Perhaps he was too hard on the lad. He’d had a life of pampered luxury, he’d never known the meaning of the word hardship before Knives’ coming, not really.

In truth, he’d been terrified his nephew wouldn’t take his father’s likeness. Of course he’d been a beautiful babe, but when he saw him in the throne hall, when he raked his gaze over his young, spritely body he saw his father in him immediately. Dancing fae eyes, hair the color of sunlight and just as soft. He would grow into a handsome thing, perhaps not just like his father, but pleasing all the same. He was a round thing of peacetime, far from the angular beauty of his sire. 

“What words would you have for me, brother? If you knew what I’ve done.” Knives pondered quietly, stroking his nephew’s cheek, forever pleased as his lines shone out softly in the dim. “Knew you that I wanted him? Is that why you kept him stowed away, here, in your lovely little kingdom full of flowers and wine and soft people?”

He frowned, tucking a lock of Vash’s hair behind his ear.

“I do not think your child is suited for any other world. Will he whither in mine? Or will he grow thorns of his own?”

A stray breeze came through the windows, playing through his short hair like fingers. Knives tsked and slid from bed to clean himself. He stood by the window and gazed down at the kingdom he’d once called home.

Dark was the day he’d been forced out. He remembered well all their stern looks of disapproval, the faint hint of fear in their eyes, as if expecting him to retaliate. How could he, then, when he was naught but a young man, no kin or country to claim him?

His brother had only stared at him as he left, and Knives could only stare bitterly back. His only regret was that his brother did not live to see his kingdom fall. His blue eyes now sat in a rounder, softer face, full of youth. He glanced over his shoulder.

Vash still lay sleeping, tangled nude in the red cloak Knives had gifted his father on the day they’d announced Vash’s birth. It was a happy occasion, one he still looked back on with some fondness. Rem’s sweating but beatific face as she held her newborn child, lighting up when Knives walked into the room, holding him out so easily for Knives to see, to hold.

Aye, he’d held that little boy, felt his soft weight in the palms of his hands and had taken every effort to suppress his lines which so desperately wanted to flash out, to answer the call to resonance from that tiny, shining babe. His brother’s lines practically lit up the whole room in his joy, his love.

“What kind of narcissism is it,” Knives had joked, “to name one’s own babe after oneself?”

Vash had laughed, taking Vash the younger into his arms. They glowed brilliantly together, shining scions of an ancient house.

Jealousy had grown from there.

Well, he finally had the thing his brother looked at with more tenderness than he did Knives. He couldn’t smear his son’s rape in Vash’s face but perhaps he was looking down from above, alongside their ancestors and their Gods, with impotent disapproval. Dead men could do nothing.

“I win, you fool,” Knives croaked, his eyes growing hot and prickly as he fought his tears. Tears were for womenfolk and soft boys like Vash. He wasn’t soft.

By morning the signs of his conquering would be swept away. He could feel the rain on the air, the heavy smell of petrichor cut through the salty stink of sex in their room. He left the window open wider than he found it, pleased at the deep rumble he heard in the distance and the wind sweeping through the sheer curtains, bringing fresh air with it. He loved storms, and he loved a good, natural cleansing of his conquests.

Perhaps in the morning he’d bring Vash to the godswood, take him slow and deep beneath a Weirwood tree in all the red, wet loam. With any luck the tempest would still cling to the morn, cloudy skies and stubborn dregs of thunder undercutting his nephew’s sweet moans. The little grub would like that. Faith and the Gods seemed important to him. He wondered what sort of self-important tripe they’d fed him, growing up, about his place in all this mess.

Knives rejoined Vash on the bed and swaddled him close, pressing a final kiss to the base of his neck in the short-cropped hair there. Vash wouldn’t have to worry about any of that anymore.

Knives was doing him a favor, from a certain point of view. Vash wouldn’t need to concern himself with the dangers of politics and statecraft, no social maneuvering or bids for his hand to entertain. No prophecies or expectations of Old Blood and Old Gods.

All he need do now is obey, lay flat, and take Knives’ seed into his belly.