#katmie

Whack. The tasseled leather strips at the end caught the curve of his hip where his trousers had slipped down, pulled by the way his knees were bent underneath him. His chin dipped down, hit the edge of the wooden bar; manacles rubbed his wrists where his arms were outstretched, chained down to the bar. The point of the stocks was simple; public humiliation as a way to deter bad behaviors. Lashings were usually reserved for violent offenses; an hour or two displayed for the town folks to jeer at was enough for petty crimes and drunken behavior. But that had changed with Thane Shaw’s new rules; more and more people found themselves at the business end of a cat’o’nine tails.

Whack. Four more. Erik’s back was a checkerboard of agony as new marks crisscrossed others. He could feel the blood trickling down his skin, mixing with his own sweat. There’d be red smears and dark bruises, he knew from experience; after all, he’d been in the same place Quested was now just two days earlier, standing beside Shaw as he plied the whip on another. Watching as Shaw bit his lip, his nostrils flared, and his eyes dilated with each strike; there was no hiding the bulge in Shaw’s trousers when he was done meting out punishment for some imagined slight. The man gained pleasure from causing pain.

Whack. It helped to fill his mind with plans, to think about how to fix what was wrong. Lord Marko’s death two years ago had freed Thane Shaw from any control over his impulses. But it was more than just a sadistic overseer; Xavier Manor had been in decline since the last Lord Xavier’s untimely end, an accidental death that was more than likely Marko’s doing. He’d moved quickly to marry the widowed Lady Xavier, and a string of tax increases and harsher penalties followed.

Whack. He couldn’t breathe; expanding his chest was impossible, the wall of agony that was his back constricting his lungs. Squeezing his eyes shut, he refused to see the scared looks of the villagers, the concern from the other knights, or the hatred lingering in some. They knew, all of them, that the charges were fiction, just a reason for Shaw to teach Erik a lesson for his insubordination.  The story had spread like fire, how he’d challenged Shaw’s judgment against Widow Tate and her grandson, tried to stop their eviction. He’d known the consequences, but forcing an old woman and her only remaining relative out at the start of winter was a death sentence for them.

Whack. The scalding marks on his back matched the acid burning in his stomach, churning up a thirst for vengeance. Too many had suffered already; too many more would endure much worse if he didn’t stop Shaw. A determination grew and the pain receded, driven back by a new purpose, a reason to survive.

“What are you doing?” The voice demanded and Shaw hesitated before the final blow. Erik blinked, managed to raise his head, and tried to focus his blurry eyes. The dark-haired man sat on his horse with the ease of someone accustomed to riding, surveying the scene before him. His armor was ornate, if in need of cleaning, sliver shot through with gold filigree designs that spanned the breastplate and curved along the pauldrons, echoed again in the tasset and greaves. Underneath, chainmail gleamed at his throat, the curves of his shoulder, and along his thighs. A brilliant blue cloak and Erik knew this was no mere knight, but a lord come upon the scene of his degradation.

“Who are you to question me?” Thane Shaw demanded, voice thready with the effort of keeping his composure.

“I am your Lord.” Swinging his leg over the saddle, the man dropped to the ground and stalked forward, hand resting on the basket hilt of his sword. “I am Charles Xavier and you will tell me what offense this Thane has given to be treated so.”

Erik blinked sweat from his eyes and stared at the man who was younger than he was, fresh faced and so earnest. This was the missing heir, driven away years ago by Marko’s cruelty? Off to the university wasting time in books and learning while his people suffered and the lands deteriorated? Spoiled and soft where the people were starved and wanting? The hatred building for Shaw shifted, split, enough for two.

“Of course, Milord. Thane Lensherr questioned an order then disobeyed a direct command.” Shaw sounded proud of himself, preening now in front of the rich man playing Lord.

“You mean he stopped you from sending a woman and a boy to their deaths? I hardly think having a brain and compassion is deserving of this.” Xavier strode up to the platform and confronted Shaw. “You’re done here Shaw. Take your things and go. Hank, see he’s escorted off my lands.”

At Xavier’s nod, Quested stepped over and unlocked the cuffs, easing Erik back onto his heels, careful to avoid the open wounds on his back. A warm hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned his head to find the most open blue eyes he’d ever seen just inches away, concerned etched in their depths.  Pale skin with a smattering of freckles winkled around his mouth as the edges curled up.

“We’ll take you to the manor,” Xavier said. “This ends now. I will set things right.”

He was so sincere, meant every word; that callous-free hand squeezed lightly, a gesture meant to be comforting, but it did no such thing for Erik. Instead the ball of anger inside of him solidified as he was lifted to his feet. He shook off the helping hands and limped by himself to where his clothes were folded, his sword across the top. If Xavier thought he could just show up, give a few orders and all would be well, he was dumber than Erik could imagine. This was only beginning. There were too many people with fingers in the till, making money off of the pain of others. Too many who deserved retribution for their actions.

“Good luck with that,” Erik growled. He knew he needed help, but he was damn well going to walk out of her under his own power. “Welcome home.”