cw: ptsd, flashbacks, past physical abuse (it's like the main focus of this story ssldkj)

They’d been betrayed. 

Tug.

Lord Gearloose had turned out selfish and manipulative, slowly plotting to overthrow the kingdom.

Tug.

He’d finally acted today. 

Tug.

Mads and the king had been locked in a cell, thrown in with the unconscious Gyro, Cabrera, and Blue. 

Tug.

Blue was sick, they could be heard feebly coughing on the other side of the cell. 

Tug. 

They were too weak to use their magic to stop Gearloose. They’d only have hours to live. 

Tug. 

None of that mattered right now. 

Tug.

Mads was chained to the wall in the back right corner of the cell, on his knees with his wrists in magic-blocking cuffs above his head. He couldn’t focus on anything but getting out of them. 

Tug.

He had to get out of them. 

Being forced to the ground, the back of his shirt being torn open. His wrists grabbed harshly, and tied too tightly to the post above his head. He couldn’t see behind him but he could sense her there, weighing the whip in her hands.

She cracked it once, twice, testing it out. Eleven flinching violently both times, trying to stop his shaking. He wouldn’t let her see she’d won.

All he could do was kneel helplessly as he braced himself for the blows. 

Mads forced his eyes open with a gasp, putting his entire weight into tugging his hands free. His wrists and shoulders already ached, but he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t been in this position since then, and just this feeling was sending panic through him like he’d never felt before. 

He was hyper aware of every feeling against his back, the brush of his shirt on his scars feeling almost painful. It was a repulsing feeling, only making him more urgent in trying to get himself loose. The sooner he got free the sooner he could rid himself of the sensation. 

Tug. 

There was magic crackling around his fingers, the cuffs preventing it from being set loose. His fingertips felt numb, the magic building up there in response to his panic, unable to release itself. 

Mads could faintly hear the others stirring behind him, finally waking up. The scuffling in the straw, the urgent murmuring to each other. He couldn’t concentrate on the words, they were blurred together by the roaring in his ears, the way his heart was beating out of his throat. 

There came a sudden rustling beside him, and next thing Mads knew the king was kneeling next to him. “Mads- Mads, are you alright? You-” 

Fenton put an arm around him. 

Mads shrieked, pulling away from him, whipping out a foot to try and kick Fenton away. Every scar the king had touched now felt as if it were on fire, stinging just as badly as the day it’d been etched in his skin. “Don’t touch me!” 

Fenton fell back and Mads went right back to trying to pull himself free. He barely spared a thought for his partner, having no room around his panic to feel bad for him, to even realize he’d just lashed out at him. All he could focus on was his need to get out of the cuffs. 

The king moved closer to him once more, thankfully not reaching for him. “What’s going on? What do you need?” 

“I need to get out of here,” Mads growled through gritted teeth. 

Fenton tilted his head, trying to meet his gaze, but Mads couldn’t look away from his wrists above him. He gave one extra hard pull, hardly caring as pain shot through his right shoulder. 

“Mads, hold on, stop, you're going to hurt yourself.” Fenton intervened. He moved to put a hand on Mads’ arm, but thought better of it. 

It was too late for that. “Can’t,” he snarled.

“No, Mads, really, hold on a second. We can get you out of here, but you have to stop.” 

“Can’t.” This was all he could focus on. He had to keep actively fighting or the memories caught up. He knew his hands wouldn’t be able to slide through the metal manacles, but he wasn’t thinking rationally. The flashbacks were all too consuming. 

“Why not?” 

There was too much to explain, and he didn’t have the thoughts or the words to do so. So Mads just ignored him, hardly noticing when Fenton’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Mads, you have to stop or I’m going to make you. You’re going to hurt yourself like this.” 

Mads still couldn’t look at him, still couldn’t stop long enough to string together a coherent sentence. “Don’t touch my back.” The stinging was fading, but each brush of his shirt only made it worse. 

“Oh,” he could sense Fenton hesitating, finally putting things together. “What about this… reminds you of that?”

“Same position.” Mads had to say everything as quickly as possible, trying not to divert his attention from his task. “Can’t stop.” 

“Would it help if you stood up?” Fenton suggested. “Would that be different?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Can you stand?” 

Why couldn’t Fenton understand that he couldn’t do anything but this? If he were able to slow down and think through how to get out of it he already would’ve by now. But he couldn’t, and he had to ignore Fenton’s questions if they were going to continue to distract him. 

The king let out a breath. “Alright, we’ll get you up and see what happens. You- come over here and help him stand.” 

More rustling, and Fenton was talking to him once more. “Mads, I don’t know if we can get you up with you pulling like this. Do you think you can…” 

His voice faded out in Mads’ head as he sensed someone standing behind him, and every one of his feathers stood on end. He glanced back, catching a glimpse of Cabrera standing there, looking anxiously for instructions or a way to help. 

Mads squeezed his eyes shut, taking a breath and giving one extra hard yank on his cuffs. It was just Cabrera, it was just Cabrera it was just-

“Don’t stand behind him like that!” The king snapped, effectively breaking Mads from his spiral as well. He opened his eyes and continued pulling. Like a dog on the end of a chain, putting everything he had into it. Placing all of his weight on his wrists in the manacles.

“Sorry! Sorry, I-”

Fenton cut the merchant off. “Get on his other side, we’ll try doing it by his arms. Whatever you do, don't touch his back.” 

“Yes, sire.” Cabrera appeared in the right corner of Mads’ vision, standing between him and the wall.

“Hey, Mads.” Fenton was talking to him again, distracting him again. Despite this, Mads tried to listen. “Did you hear me? I don’t think we can get you up if you’re pulling. Do you think you can stop for just five seconds? We can count it out with you.” 

Mads swallowed, pulling again. He didn’t know. 

“Will you try?”

He managed a nod. 

“Let’s try then.” First he felt Fenton’s firm hands on his right arm and shoulder, ready to haul him up. Next came the more hesitant grip on his right side, Cabrera still uncertain of whether he should touch him. “Ready?” 

Mads nodded again, taking a deep breath. Letting his arms go slack, no longer fighting. He could do this. 

Just as he did so, Fenton began counting. “Five, four, three, two…” 

On four, Mads felt himself being lifted on either side. The strain hurt his already aching shoulders, but besides that he was suspended rather smoothly. He hung there for a moment before realizing he needed to put his feet down and stand, and he was properly upright by the time Fenton got to one. 

Oh. This was much better. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his legs shaky and his heart still pounding. He wasn’t sure if he could hold himself up, and allowed himself to fall sideways against Fenton. The king was quick to support him. “How is this?” 

“Better,” Mads managed, eyes closed. “Good.” 

“Good,” he leaned his head against Mads’. “Thank you.” 

That was evidently meant for Cabrera, as the duck replied. “Of course, your Majesty. Happy to help.” Mads could feel him leave, avoiding walking directly behind the assassin until he was a few feet away. Whether he didn’t want to be snapped at again or was trying to be considerate Mads didn’t know, but he smiled faintly. 

“Are you able to stand on your own?” Fenton murmured. 

Mads nodded, pulling away and lifting his head. “I am now.” He’d needed a moment to adjust. 

“Come here,” Fenton ducked beneath his arm to stand in front of him, between his arms and between Mads and the wall. His own cuffed hands prevented him from hugging the assassin properly, so he settled for looping his arms up around Mads’ neck, holding him close. Mads immediately hugged him as tight as his cuffs would allow, resting his chin on the king’s shoulder. 

Mads closed his eyes, permitting himself to slow down. Taking deep breaths, feeling Fenton’s heart beating against his own. He was with Fenton, and he was alright. He wasn’t in danger, he had never been in danger, and now things were better. Standing chained to the wall wasn’t the greatest of positions, but it was a big step up from the traumatic kneeling. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying his beak in the king’s cape.

“What for?” Fenton’s voice was just as soft, not wanting the others to overhear. Mads could hear them talking quietly to each other, generously giving Mads and Fenton space. 

“I overreacted.” It was easy to see that now, as his shaking stopped. “We have so much going on right now and that was such a small thing to get upset over, especially when it was so easily fix-” 

“Hey, no.” Fenton held him tighter. “It’s completely understandable you reacted the way you did. I apologize if I made you feel like it was inconsequential.” 

“No, no.” Mads took another deep breath. “You were just trying to get through to me, I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

“I-I haven’t been in a position like that since the last time I was whipped, I didn’t realize it would be so bad. I’m sorry I kicked out at you like that, I wasn’t thinking straight and I-” 

“Hey,” there were fingers gently brushing through the feathers on the back of his neck. “You don’t need to apologize, I should’ve been more careful with where I was touching you, and you didn’t even hit me. I’m glad this helped.” 

“Me too.” Mads breathed. “Thank you.” 

Fenton tried to pull away, to lean back and look at him properly, but Mads refused to let him go. Squeezing his eyes shut and holding him tighter, he could feel the king give in with a soft chuckle. “I’m not going anywhere, I just want to see if your wrists are alright.” 

Mads squeezed him tightly one last time before letting go, and the king lifted his arms from around his neck. “How are your shoulders?” 

The assassin shrugged, then immediately regretted it. “They’re strained, my right feels extra sore, but I’ll be alright.” 

Fenton reached up to feel the area, and Mads couldn’t stop his laughter. “My right, Fen.” 

“Ah,” the king switched sides. “Does it hurt if I touch it?”

“Don’t think so,” Mads tilted his head to give him more room. “The massaging feels nice.”

Fenton continued rubbing the area before pulling away. “I’ll get back to that. What about your elbows?” 

“They’re fine.” 

“Your back?” 

Mads hesitated. “Sensitive. But… but it’s okay.” 

The king simply nodded before twisting around, still staying between Mads’ arms, leaning his back into the assassin’s chest. He lifted Mads’ left hand, sliding the manacle back as far as he could to inspect his wrist. Mads peered over his shoulder. 

Many feathers had been rubbed off by the cuff, the skin beneath raw and already visibly bruising. Fenton gently touched space just beneath his palm. “Are they strained badly?” 

“No.” Mads tucked his beak beneath the king’s chin. “There was nothing pulling on my fingers, so it’s not bad.” 

“Hm,” Fenton let go, and Mads wrapped his arms around him. “Well, don’t strain them too much, and be careful with the cuffs. More rubbing could make it worse.”

Mads knew that, but he realized Fenton was just trying to help in the ways he could. “I’ll try.” He took a deep breath. “Any ideas for how we’ll get out of here? How’s Blue?” 

“Cabrera’s with them. I don’t think they’re awake yet.” Fenton murmured, resting his head back against Mads’ shoulder. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Mads kissed his temple. “Gearloose won’t get away with this.”