#oc cinn

A bit of a drabble from my imagination for whump-y enjoyment (Masterlist)

Content: forcefully stripped (not full nudity) , manhandling, whipping, gagged, royal whumpee

The enemy had a reputation for absolute devastation. The land would be left intact but the people… women and children dragged off as slaves, to the mines or worse, and men forced into the army or to the navy as galley slaves. The young king’s land was their next conquest. 

They were a small nation, with a powerful port and good relations with their neighbors. Until the empire decided they must control all this region, there was not a threat of war, and now one by one allies began to fall in brutal onslaughts. But the empire had not counted on the small country’s spirit. The shores they dwelt upon were not friendly. Nearly every other year new houses must be built after hurricanes ripped through. 

When the enemy came, the response, then, was unexpected. Whole villages on the outskirts poisoned their own wells, fighting until all were slain and still decimating the attackers when they thought they’d won. Fields were salted, livestock slaughtered in a last feast as the enemy army approached. 

The young king sent an emissary under flag of truce to the general. 

For the first time in the empire’s onslaught, a peace treaty was negotiated. The small nation would maintain its sovereignty but pay a reasonable tithe to the emperor, and the taxes of their port would be diminished for the empire’s vessels. It galled the general to agree to such, but a country empty of people and unable to grow anything had far less value. The one stipulation: the country would have a new ruler placed on the throne, and the king would surrender himself, understanding that any rescue or escape would void the treaty. 

The day of the proclamation dawned. The young king had selected his successor: not a noble, but a man who had long run the palace with wisdom and care. He dressed himself simply for his abdication, a white tunic and plain trousers beneath his royal robe. At the appointed hour, he climbed the dais in the square of the capital, flanked by his chosen successor and the enemy general. 

To one side stood two wooden posts, erected in the night. He swallowed hard as he passed them, but forced his gaze forwards as he addressed the gathered crowd.

“My people, you know it brings me much grief to leave you, yet I trust that this man will serve you well as he has served my household. You have all shown great bravery. The empire has great might and we will pay the emperor his dues, but we will not be slaves. You will not. I bid you farewell and pray that you continue as you have always done, in the quiet strength of our land, no matter what winds blow.”

He stepped back, turned to his successor. He removed his own crown and placed it on the man’s head, followed by the royal robes around the new king’s shoulders. He dropped to one knee before him. The new king swallowed and stepped to address the people. 

“I swear to serve you well, with all that I am, and to honor our beloved former king, whose sacrifice honors us all and has saved our land. I do not know what all may come, but we will stand.”

With that, the new king stepped aside for the general to speak. The general’s face was dark with anger and his words clipped.

“Honeyed words have been spoken, but I will warn you: if you do not honor the terms of this truce, your defiance will reap worse than you may have faced without this truce.” He made a gesture to his guards. “My men and I shall return to the emperor in two days’ time, but let us leave you with an example of what will happen to any who defy us or attempt to rebel against this truce.”

The guards roughly grabbed the young king’s arms. He swallowed but allowed them to force him to his knees. A sharp point of cold iron scraped over his ribs, only barely scratching them, then his tunic was torn from him. His trousers and boots, too, were roughly removed, leaving him shivering in only his braies. Before he could do anything, a torn piece of the tunic was shoved in his mouth and tied behind his head, and he was dragged to the posts.

Cold iron was clapped around his wrists and large nails hammered through the iron rings of the short chains, spreading his arms wide between the posts as he knelt between them. 

He clenched his jaw. His people were watching, he had to stay strong. Could not show fear. He waited for a blow to end his life, praying it would be swift at least.

Crack!

A line of searing pain burned across his back. 

Oh. It was to be a beating first, then.

Crack! Crack!

Another, and another. Each preceded by a crack at which he could not but involuntarily flinch. 

Crack!

His hands wrapped around the short chains, the cold digging into his palms as a brief and insufficient distraction from the bite of the whip. 

Crack!

He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw against the gag.

Crack!

The whip’s tip carved across the previous lashes.

Crack!

His back was on fire.

Crack!

Blood trickled down his side.

Crack!

His body bucked in pain, arching away from the whip.

Crack!

All pretense of calm was gone.

Crack!

He screamed against the gag. All was blinding pain, his vision white with agony.

The beating continued until his throat was raw from muffled screams. Blood trickled from his wrists now where they had pulled against the chains. By the end, he hung limp. 

They left him alive.

At some point during the night, someone from the city snuck onto the platform and applied a salve to his wounds. The cool balm helped, yet he could not help wondering if this would only prolong his agony, if he was meant to die of festering wounds or loss of blood. 

The next day dragged on, and on, and on. 

People went about their business. Many tried not to look at him. Others looked at him with pity, but with bowed heads of respect. 

His arms ached. He tried to stand, but the movement of the attempt pulled at the gashes lacing his back and he nearly fainted. His knees hurt. His mouth was dry from the gag. 

The second day ended. 

The day of the general’s departure dawned. 

He looked up as soldiers’ boots thudded on the platform, approaching him. Weary, aching, he bowed his head and waited for death once again.

Once again it did not come. 

Keys clinked in the locks of the manacles and his arms dropped painfully to his sides. Roughly, he was hauled to his feet and dragged off the dais. His hands were lashed together with a rope in front of him and its other end was tied to the general’s pommel. The general sneered at his confusion.

“You didn’t think you’d have it that easy, did you, boy? You’re to be a trophy for the emperor, after all.”

As the army caravan left the city, he was forced to stumble along on bare feet after them.

I’m doing ArtFight! All signed up with 5 OCs (3 LOTRO, 2 from my original fiction story)! Can’t wait to see how this goes!

Character reference cards below the cut

prettyboy rabbit bf and spaced out werewolf gf (cinnamon and ako/aconite)

they are very silly… i love you miss ako she’s so creechur

Fic premise: The king of a small but stubborn kingdom faces an invading empire. To save his country, he surrenders himself only to face torture, humiliation, and enslavement. Yet he remains defiant, his spirit strong.

Content: royal whumpee, defiant whumpee, medieval whump, torture, stress positions, whipping, humiliation, slavery

Main whump story on AO3

Recovery/Romance continuation on AO3

Cinn character art sheet

Maira character art sheet

My original doodle that started it:

Section 1: Captivity and Torture/Humiliation

Part 1 — The young king surrenders himself to the enemy

Part 2 — The young king becomes a captive and discovers what is to be his fate

Part 3 — The young king is faced with torture

Part 4 — Cinn is tortured further and finds out what the general wants

Part 5 — A vindictive soldier takes revenge on Cinn

Part 6 — Cinn faces a new torture

Part 7 — Cinn has a brief respite in his cell and recalls a bittersweet memory

Part 8 — Cinn faces a brutal beating

Part 9 — Cinn’s wounds are treated

Part 10 — A cruel twist may finally break the young king

Part 11 — Slavery and worse seem to be Cinn’s fate

Part 12 — Cinn learns another aspect of his humiliation

Part 13 — Cinn faces public display

Part 14 — Another part of the new routine is made clear and disobedience is punished.

Interlude: the General — A new secondary character is introduced

Part 15 — The emperor’s general has a cruel way to finally break Cinn

Part 16 — Caretaking finally happens

Interlude: Mother and Daughter — New secondary characters introduced

Part 17 — A plot is revealed

Part 18 — The plot is continued

Part 19 — Consequences of the plot become clear

Part 20

Part 21 — The riskiest part of the plot is begun Alternate tragic ending (Bonus: Maira POV)

Section 2: Escape

This section is largely whumperless but still has whumpy themes and content

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

Part 28

Part 29

Part 30 — Cinn’s wound becomes infected

Part 31

Part 32 — Infection leads to delirium

Part 33 — Maira learns more about what happened to Cinn

Part 34

Part 35

Part 36 — soldiers from the empire track down the group

Part 37

Part 38 — arrival at Cinn’s kingdom does not go as expected

Interlude: the Steward King

Part 39 — an unexpected reunion after misunderstandings

Note: the more whumpy parts of the story end here. The remainder of the story is dealing with recovery and a budding romance as well as figuring out how to fit back in their lives

Section 3: Recovery and Romance

Part 40

Part 41

Part 42 — Maira provides a solution for Cinn’s struggles with shaving

Part 43 (and art) — Another sweet and angsty shaving scene

Part 44 — Celebrations of Cinn present new and unexpected challenges

Part 45 — Cinn learns more of Maira’s history

Part 46 — Martha and Cinn have a conversation

Part 47 — Cinn has a breakdown

Part 48 — Maira tries to help and makes things worse

Part 49 — Maira and Cinn talk things through

Part 50 — Another important conversation

Part 51 — Maira and Cinn have another conversation and discuss their future

Part 52 — Martha and Akon talk, as do Martha and Maira

Part 53 — Martha gives Cinn a maternal talking to

Part 54 — Return to the capital

Part 55 — Another Maira and Cinn shaving scene

Part 56 — Cinn remembers his farther’s coronation

Part 57 — Cinn’s re-coronation (original draft as bonus content)

Asks answered

Does Cinn resent his birthright?

How old is Cinn?

Would-he-rather (+ pet preference)

Backstory miscellania

How would Cinn explain scars to his children (and will he have children)?

Does Cinn miss anything from the Empire?

Thoughts on cinnamon

"The wife's murder ballad" by Lydia the Bard

From my ask game:

What done to Cinn makes Maira angriest?

What did Cinn fear would happen that didn't?

Would Cinn go through it all again?/Would Maira take his place?

When was Maira most scared for Cinn?

What would each character do if they had a whip and the general in chains?

What would break Cinn?/Is suffering yourself or others suffering worse?

Other

Masterlist

He has a name now! (Thank you @anarlossethedunadan!)

Contents: sleep deprivation, torture, stress position, beating with a metal rod, royal whumpee, defiant whumpee, multiple whumpers

The young king tried to sleep, uncomfortable though his bonds and the cold stone floor were. But every few hours, as best he could guess, a guard or soldier came by, banged loudly against the bars of the cell, then left. It seemed he would not be allowed to sleep.

Eventually, the soldiers from before came, stopping at his cell. He tried to get to his feet, face them standing, but his exhaustion coupled with having his hands bound behind his back threw off his balance. He was yanked up and dragged down the hallway, not allowed to walk on his own. He glared at them.

“I can walk, you know.”

They ignored him.

They hooked his bonds to the same device as before. He tried to steel himself for the pain, but the wrench of the chain on his already tender and aching arms forced a cry from his throat.

Bent over, shoulders aching as he tried to hold what he could of his weight on his tiptoes, he found himself again wishing he had just been executed.

The general took the lead this time. He grabbed the young man’s hair, forcing him to look up. “Let us start simply. Tell me your name, boy.”

The young king hesitated. He did not want to give them any satisfaction of answers, yet was refusing to answer something they already knew really worth the pain they would enact if he did not speak.

He saw the general prepare to strike him and he choked out, “Cinn. My name is Cinn.”

The blow came anyway, the impact radiating through his body. He gasped in pain.

“Wrong. You have no name, until you choose to beg for the name of ‘slave’.”

Cinn clenched his jaw. Hot tears pricked at his eyes but he met the general’s icy glare with his own. “My name is my own, and I know it whether you recognize it or no.”

That was most certainly not the answer the general sought. He held out his hand and a soldier — the one who had lost his brother — handed him a metal rod. The soldier’s smile looked almost giddy in anticipation.

Cinn tried to brace himself but he had no leverage. The first blow hit his ribcage, hard, and he felt something crack. He screamed. The next blow hit his legs, then across his spine.

The blows after the first were measured, not dealing debilitating injuries, yet each made his body jerk in pain. His vision began to dance with dark spots.

A blow struck his right arm, wrenching it harder against the ropes. His shoulder flared in agony.

Then his left was struck, and with a sickening pop it dislocated again. His cry of pain was a strangled howl. Tears streamed down his face beyond his control.

Suddenly the suspension slackened and he was dropped again to the floor. The soldier came over, pressing a knee heavily against Cinn’s back. He grabbed the young king’s arm and re-located it roughly.

“Look at me,” the general commanded from above him.

Cinn strained to look up.

“What is your name?”

Cinn spat a gob of bloody saliva at the general’s foot. “Cinn.”

Masterlist

Content: new secondary whumpee, military whumpee, leader whump (sort of), betrayal, forcibly stripped, forced to kneel, whipping, branding, stoic whumpee, compliant whumpee, older whumpee, slave whump, medieval whump

Akon stood before his men as his king signed the surrender. He clenched his jaw, trying and failing to tune out the screams and weeping of the civilians being taken and shackled to be sold as slaves in the empire’s capitol or along the journey there. Many of his own men — and their families — would suffer a similar fate if they did not agree to join the army of the enemy. 

He swallowed hard. He had no family left — he had never married and his men had been all the family he could need. He would join the empire’s army and throw himself on his sword before they forced him to help conquer another country as his own had been. 

The surrender was signed.

The enemy general turned to him. He met the man’s cold eyes in confusion. Two soldiers stepped forward. Akon caught an apologetic look from his king but had no time to decipher it before he was roughly grabbed and forced to his knees. 

The enemy general circled him. “Yes, he will do as the emperor’s next trophy.”

The words chilled him to his core and he fought the men holding him. But there were two of them and while his age brought experience, he could not outmatch them in strength. 

“You already won! What do you need me for?” He looked to his king. “Sire! You cannot allow this?”

The king held his hands open in helpless apology. “The emperor demanded a trophy. My people need me to rule but you led our armies so they chose you. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

Betrayal cut him to the core. “Have I not been loyal? How can you do this, Majesty?”

The enemy general struck him across the face and he tasted blood. “Silence or I’ll be forced to gag you. Or perhaps I shall remove your tongue. The emperor’s trophies do not need to speak, after all.”

Akon clamped his jaw shut. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

He could feel fear of a new kind beginning to cloud his mind as the world seemed to tilt around him. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out. 

Distantly, he heard an order given but he couldn’t hear the words. 

Rough hands forced him to the ground and stripped him to his braies. Rope was secured around his wrists and he was dragged to join the slaves. 

He was taken to the capitol. Watched as the people he would have fought to the end to protect were sold to mines and galleys and worse. Mothers and fathers torn from their children. Husbands and wives separated. Every night as the company of slaves dwindled, he wept for them under cover of darkness and recited the names of all he had learned. 

He was separated from those who remained at the capitol. They would go to markets, but he was brought to the palace. 

A lead of rope was secured around his neck like a horse. 

In the Great Hall he was forced to kneel before the throne. He met the emperor’s gaze unflinchingly. The emperor looked amused. 

“Well done. Take him to the dungeons and return him to the retinue when you are finished.”

The chamber below the palace he was brought to could be nothing but a torture chamber. Akon was a practical man. Before they could manhandle him into any sort of device, he lowered himself to his knees before the other general. “Please, sir, I will do as you wish. There is no need for any… unpleasantries.”

The enemy general looked almost disappointed but sneered at him. “Then stand there, palms against the wall.” He pointed to the wall and the soldiers unbound Akon so he could obey. 

He did, bracing himself. His fingers found purchase on the uneven stone. 

A sharp crack was all the warning he got before a line of agony alit across his back. He gritted his teeth. 

Again the whip came down. And again. His fingertips grew white from holding tightly to the stone. 

Ten lashes, one after another, unrelenting.

It took all his willpower and strength to remain standing. 

Then footsteps moved away. 

The soldiers grabbed his arms and pulled him from the wall. He was forced against a wooden frame. They bound him spread-eagle, facing out. He could see a series of metal devices places into a brazier. He gulped. 

One soldier unrolled a damaged banner on the table — the heraldry of Akon’s king. The other forced a piece of wood between Akon’s teeth. He let them do it. He would need it. 

The general turned, in his hand a metal rod with a long narrow line at the end glowing red. Akon’s nostrils flared in fear as he fought to control his expression. 

The general pressed the metal to Akon’s chest. He screamed, muffled by the wood. His hands gripped the edge of the frame as he fought every impulse in his body not to thrash in agony. The smell of burning flesh and hair filled his nostrils with its stink. 

Next came other shapes, a combination of simple lines and curves. Each in turn was placed against his skin, searing his flesh with excruciating pain. 

The wood cracked between his teeth on the final one. 

They released his bonds and he collapsed, spitting out the wooden pieces to vomit. He tried to draw a deep breath and his chest screamed with pain. His vision danced with spots.

In his peripheral, he saw the general turn. “Have him cleaned up and put with the others.”

The others turned out to be a collection of fallen generals of other nations. All had been branded as he had been, the heraldry of the king that handed them over emblazoned in stark scars against their flesh. The routine was simple. They served in menial tasks in the kitchens and palace under the eyes of guards and of the chamberlain, who clearly resented the task. Any misstep won a beating. 

They were made to act as the foodtasters and serving-boys for the midday meal, bearing the courses to the emperor as a display of his power. When he held court, they were lined against the sides of the hall where some would have statues displayed. It was a routine of sorts, and that at least was bearable. Every so often a new man would join their ranks, another greying general of yet another conquered land. Some, like him, simply cooperated. It was better to bide their time. Fighting back just made them weaker and more carefully watched. Those who tried had it beaten out of them. In time all learned to quietly obey as commanded.

But they listened. 

The rumors of a young king taken as a trophy from a land that forced the empire into a treaty rather than surrendering filled the gossip of the household. 

It was weeks after these began that the young man was seen. Collared in the mockery of a crown and chained to the dais as a more prominent display, he bore a tapestry of scars already yet still stood with a spark that spoke of a spirit not yet fully broken. 

The emperor enjoyed humiliating the young man, toying with him and making him lap wine from the floor like a dog. Akon’s heart hurt for the young man, young enough to be his son, to be one of his men. 

And there were other rumors. Rumors that the young king’s people continued to stir rebellion and fight in the lands around them, even the ones that had fallen to the empire. Even the soldiers in the general’s retinue whispered concerns and frustrations in the halls of the palace. 

So even as the young king’s posture grew more weary and his spark dimmed, Akon bided his time in silent compliance. 

No empire lasts forever, after all. 

Masterlist

Content: royal whumpee, public humiliation, caged, chained, collared, public whump, humiliation whump, medieval whump

The hall remained quiet for some time. At the third bell, the chamberlain entered the hall, bearing a ring of keys. He unlocked the chain from the dais and gave it a yank to command Cinn to follow. 

“Can’t have you sitting here all day, can we?”

The young man grimaced as the collar tugged against his neck but he stood and followed. 

“Where am I to be assigned?”

The chamberlain scoffed. “You’re much too high and mighty to work with the rest. Just another useless trophy I have to deal with.”

They came to the outer wall of the castle, to a heavy wood door set in the stone. He unlocked it, then yanked the collar and shoved Cinn through the door, onto a caged platform that could serve no other purpose than the display and containment of prisoners. He affixed the chain’s end to a heavy iron ring set into the floor of the platform, then turned to leave. 

With a loud thud, the door slammed closed. Metal scraped as the lock was secured. 

Cinn looked around him. The wood below him was sturdy enough, affixed securely to the castle’s wall, though not quite wide enough for him to lie down fully in any direction. On the other three sides and above him were thick iron bars as wide around as his wrist, with perhaps six inches of space between them. It was just tall enough for him to stand, at least, for which he was grateful.

Below him churned a moat and on the other side spread out a city full of bustle and life. The view was much grander than that from his own castle, yet the familiarity of the life moving below seized his heart with grief. To see a city of people from the walls of a castle, yet with a chain around his neck and bars on all sides, only reminded him how far he had fallen. People in the streets began to notice him, a figure silhouetted in a cage against the white marble of the castle walls. A crowd gathered on the other side of the moat, whispering and pointing. Some small children began to pick up and throw stones, boys making a game of aiming between the bars of his cage. Few stones hit their mark, but he could feel his face burn. 

He turned his back, sitting against the bars of the cage with his arms around his knees. A sharp pebble struck his back, sending shooting pain through skin still raw and healing from the brutal whipping. He flinched, a whimper of pain slipping from his lips. Laughter rippled through the children and the rain of stones grew. Bits of rock and slate pinged off the bars or splashed in the water, but those that struck him left bruises and scrapes. He curled in on himself, making himself as small a target as he could.

Eventually, his tormentors grew bored and the stone-throwing died out. As the day wore on, most of the crowd dispersed. The shadow of the palace sheltered him from the worst of the sun but did nothing to protect him from the nip of the wind or the night air as dark fell. 

With horror, he realized he would be left out in this cage for the night. The chill of night had begun to set in and he curled into a ball to preserve what warmth he could. The points of the collar jabbed into the underside of his jaw. 

Eventually, he fell into fitful slumber, dreams plagued with taunting laughter. 

Masterlist

Content: humiliation, slave whump, royal whumpee, collared, overstimulation, caretaker interaction, mention of branding, medieval whump

Cinn had fallen into a deep slumber, able finally to lie down, no longer covered in blood and filth, in a place much warmer than the chill dungeons. 

The opening of the doors and influx of many footsteps roused him from the dreamless sleep, and he sat up, blinking. Servants began to set up the tables, covering them with fine cloths and setting out the silver cutlery, gold and silver goblets, and trenchers. Those preparing the high table for the emperor moved around him, most ignoring him completely, though a few gave him looks of pity. He wished he could simply disappear. But even the table brought him no refuge, as it served only the emperor and did not conceal him.

The chamberlain made his rounds, approving the table settings or harshly correcting where cutlery had been set askew. When he reached Cinn, he frowned deeply. 

“Stand, Slave. You are to attend the emperor at court or at meal as he requires, and you will stand to honor him.”

Cinn’s joints protested as he moved to stand, his whole body still aching and weak. 

The chamberlain drew a short whip from his belt and struck at Cinn’s legs. “You will obey quickly or you will be beaten such that sitting is the greater pain!”

The young former king hissed in pain but nodded. “Yes, sir.” The words still galled, but what else could he do? He stood, back straight but head bowed, hands folded before him.

With a satisfied expression, the chamberlain turned away and finished his rounds of the preparations, then took his place at the opposite end of the emperor’s table to Cinn.

Across the hall, musicians began to tune their instruments, preparing to play for the meal. 

The emperor entered. Officials and the members of the household followed. The emperor ascended the dais, and the chamberlain drew back his chair for him with a sweeping bow. Each of those that entered approached the dais, bowed deeply, then moved to take seats at the tables along the length of the hall. 

A bell rang and a parade of food began. Bread, steaming roasted meat, herb-cooked vegetables. The smell made Cinn’s mouth water, reminded for the first time in unknown weeks that such pleasant fare truly existed. 

But the noise… after the time in the dungeon, accompanied only by silence or the cruel ministrations of but a few, the overlap of music and voices was a roar from which he longed to hide.

The servants began their elaborate dance of verification of food’s safety, each servant sampling the dishes they carried before the emperor. The chief of these presented the king with his utensils, cleaned and tested with a kiss. Cinn watched, boggled by the scale of the doings — he had tasters and a cupbearer when he was a king, certainly, but his was a humble country and the threat of poison rare indeed. 

Some of these servants were clearly slaves, captives on display like him, some in simple tunics, but others clad in braies or breeches, and with a look of beaten endurance. Those whose torsos were exposed were often older, grey touching their temples, with sigils of conquered nations burned into their chests where a heraldry would sit when armed. 

The cupbearer, not a slave but a well-clad servant, approached, reaching to take the pitcher of wine and pour a draught into a tasting vessel. The emperor raised a hand. A cruel smile curled his lips. He gestured to where Cinn stood. 

“Pour it on the ground. Let him taste it.”

The cupbearer’s features remained schooled in a neutral expression as he obeyed. Wine splashed in a small puddle at Cinn’s feet.

“Go on,” the emperor goaded. “Do you not serve your lord?”

Cinn swallowed, throat tightening. He forced himself to obey. 

To kneel, lowering his head despite the cruel points of the collar jabbing into the tender underside of his jaw. 

To lap the wine from the floor like a dog.

A titter spread throughout the officials and household seated in the hall. A few gave him looks of pity as the servants had. 

Rich fruity flavor filled Cinn’s mouth and the taste seemed like to overwhelm him after the weeks of bland gruel and stale water. Which was worse he was not sure — the shame or that even amidst the shame, a corner of his mind was grateful for the taste.

The emperor let the cupbearer pour his drink. Cinn stood again, shoulders back and head bowed as far as he could without pain from the collar.

The meal progressed. Courses came and went, the serving-men bearing the dishes with m straight backs and bowed heads. Every so often, the emperor had a piece of the food or a drink tossed to the ground and Cinn was forced to lower himself again like a dog. His face burned with the shame of it. 

“Coward”, his mind protested, “giving in rather than fighting”. But he could not bear to see another of his people die to punish him. 

And to his perhaps greater shame: he could not help but enjoy the taste of the scraps of food, though the richness of flavor threatened to overwhelm his senses. He almost wished he could beg for more, and the shame of that thought made him close his eyes to shut out the bright feasting hall. If only he could shut out all smell and hearing. 

Finally, the courses ended. The emperor swept from the room, all rising to stand as he did and bowing. Then those attending too left, leaving for their various duties.

Cinn collapsed to the floor as a bustle of servants cleared the tables and swept any crumbs away. He was given one of the stale bread trenchers. The fats of the meat had soaked into it and his mouth watered shamefully. Once the hall had emptied again, he tore it into small pieces to eat it. He forced himself to go slow, afraid that eating it all at once would leave him hungrier than before and perhaps upset his half-starved stomach. 

A servant later came, bringing him a bowl of porridge. It had cooled — the servants had likely eaten their midday meal some hours before. But he was grateful nonetheless and nearly wept to see a wooden spoon in the bowl. The woman dropped into a curtesy. 

“You were asleep earlier, sire, and I didn’t want to disturb you. But you should eat. Regain your strength. You’ll need it.”

The kind gesture threatened to overwhelm him. “Thank you, madam. But I am no sire. Not any longer.”

She tutted as if in disagreement but didn’t try to argue. “Eat up, sire, I’ve got to get back to the kitchens but I wanted to make sure you were fed.”

He obeyed. The unexpected gift of a utensil for the first time in too long nearly made him weep. When he had finished, she took the bowl and curtseyed again before leaving. 

At least his stomach was full for whatever would come next.