Sins of Lust Filled Love Pt 4

A Chapter by Tsukin Archangel

Ciaran's big return to Geata Ifreann

-Betrothed-

Sins of Lust Filled Love

Part 4

The carriage bumped along the road, jostling Ciaran's arms every few seconds, causing him to wince in pain as the cuffs bit into his already raw wrists. It had been a week since he'd been forced back into the politics of Geata Ifreann, and true to his word Thyme hadn't killed him, he had actually attempted to be hospitable giving the Lost Prince delicate foods and plush covers as soft as silk. Those were the moments Ciaran could tolerate, the moments when he actually had some freedom, where he could pretend that he truly was an equal, his own man, here of his own volition.

Of course that was a lie. He didn't want to be here and the kindness's were two faced gourmet food they offered him hid poisons and rot; the plush luxuries, needles and nails. It was all a facade, a terribly intricate and clever rouse to fool the populace into submission. He was forced into public debates, debates where he'd respond with scripted answers, slowly gaining the people's support for Thyme. Making them think that he was the true king. The real king. The king they should have. It was the only way he could survive.

And he had to survive.

He had to have his revenge. He had to. He could never forget the horror's that so called king inflicted on his family. His father, his mother, his innocent sister. To forget was to die.

His hate was what kept him going. It's what fueled him to follow the orders of that psychotic genius, Thyme. It's what he used to justify his public denouncement of his claim to the throne; what kept him from screaming LIAR! in the middle of all the debates he'd been forced to endure. It's what kept him locked into Thyme's plan.

And he hated it.

He hated himself, he hated what he'd become, he hated what he'd allow himself to do just for the chance to slit that mans throat, to watch the life leave his eyes forever. The sick satisfaction that, that thought gave him scared the young prince beyond belief. The fact that adrenaline would course through his veins, that his blood would boil and his heart would pound in his chest as if high off battle. Those changes scared him.

But he didn't stop them.

They were his life support now. They kept him strong, they gave him a goal, they toughened his soul into an impenetrable wall of diamond. Just this single week in hell had been all he needed to perpetuate his resolve. The carriage jumped over another bump, and the cuffs cut into his wrists again, but he didn't scream, he didn't call out. He sat there, regal and dignified, chained and immobile, even if no one could see in the vehicle, the curtains drawn over his window. They couldn't let the poor people of Geata Ifreann, see that the last living heir of their royal family was nothing more than a prisoner, a puppet, now could they?

Ciaran blew his raven black bangs out of his eyes, unable to raise a hand high enough to move the hair out of the way, and looked over his appearance. He wore a modified version of the traditional garb of his people, a black toga, but where skin would usually show in the arms and shoulder was a shear almost see through shirt, long enough to cover up the raw skin of his wrists. If anyone asked about the sudden change he'd just say he'd forgotten how cold Geata Ifreann. was. A dark thick gray ornamental belt telling the story of his families rise to power held the garb together around his waist, silver bangles hanging from that, chromium rings interlocking throughout the black cloth making it seem to shimmer and form around his body like a wave, inconstant; forever changing. His curly raven hair was styled to perfection, a silver crown of thorns wrapped around his temple, and black sandals donned his feet.

The carriage stopped with a sudden jerk, the metal cuffs rubbing against his wrists for the final time before the carriage doors swung open. Two burly men stood besides the doorway, guarding it, a third in the middle, a blonde haired, blue eyed scarred menace to society. Dolor Basileus, Thyme' oldest and most like himself, son. The one son who took as much care in making Ciaran feel utterly miserable as Thyme did in pretending to be hospitable. Ciaran wasn't particularly fond of the second son, Epona, but at least that boy didn't outwardly display his hate.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, Dolor with his hands firmly gripping the ring of keys in his hands, so hard, in fact, the knuckles turned white, his mouth set in a grim line of barely contained disdain, his flowy crimson red toga hanging from his shoulder, a clasp of gold holding the cloth together. Ciaran glared back with his harshest glare, not even bothering to pretend to like him, pouring all his anger and hate into that single fiery gaze. Dolor broke contact first and stepped into the small cramped space, one that had been designed for two but could only comfortably hold one, before grabbing at the shackles roughly and jamming a key into the lock.

The chains fell to the floor and Dolor half shoved, half threw Ciaran, who only barely managed to stay on his feet, out of the carriage and into the chilly Geata Ifreann, winter air. Ciaran turned and shot Dolor a deadly look as he regained his balance, pulling up the shoulder of his toga as he did so. "I can't wait to slit your godforsaken throat." He growled at the taller blonde.

Dolor scowled, his scar transforming his face into a hideous grimace, before walking up to the Lost Prince. "You better watch your goddamn mouth." He whispered, grabbing onto Ciaran's wrist with bruising force, knowing how much pain the other boy was feeling and relishing in that knowledge. "Just be glad, I'm not king yet." He pushed up against the alley wall, slamming his hands at his sides. "You'd already be dead then."

Ciaran set his jaw, refusing to cry out, taking in quick shallow breaths as pain radiated through his wrists and up his body in flaming tendrils. They were in an alley and while Ciaran knew Dolor wouldn't openly abuse him now with the chance of being caught, it didn't mean he wouldn't later, and it didn't mean he wouldn't leave subtle marks all over his body, in the places one couldn't see, example, his wrists.

Ciaran dropped his gaze, and Dolor dropped his hold on the smaller boy, smirking in the afterglow of victory in making the other submit to his will. He was truly pathetic, Dolor thought to himself, all big talk and no bite. He didn't see how he could've possibly hidden away for so long.

"Come, your highness," He said with a mock bow, "You have your subjects to attend to."

Ciaran glared, but said nothing, he knew he was in for a beating when they got back to the castle, who knows, maybe it would be even sooner in the carriage ride back. Ciaran shivered and began to move forward, he had no desire to make things worse for himself.

He continued forward, towards the pale morning light at the end of the narrow alleyway, the shouts of the people growing louder by the second. The young prince felt his spirit fill with dread and nausea. Again. Again he was going to betray the trust of his people, lead them down a false sense of security, that their way was now the enlightened path. The path to a new blessed world. A world that didn't exist.

Ciaran tugged at the hem of his toga, and forced his breathing to normalize, refusing to go further in this undignified manner. He needed to remain strong, he had to appear the part. He was the last Biard, he would not tarnish their name by appearing weak.

The Lost Prince stepped out of the alleyway and the crowd went wild, he offered them a small smile as he approached the podium, walking up the steps and taking his seat at the end of the row beside Epona of the new royal family, the Basileus’.

He sat down and placed his delicate hands in his lap, back straight yet relaxed, his face a mask of emotion, exuding an air of calm upon the crowd. Ciaran turned his attention to the current speaker Thyme, and felt anger start to coil in his stomach, how dare he spout such lies to his people. He wanted nothing more than to jump across the stage and stab the man into oblivion, but he held that emotion back, never letting it touch his face, never letting it reach his eyes, eyes that would betray everything he truly felt. Instead he looked down, down at the ring on his finger, the small simple yet elegant silver token imbued with tiny bits of emerald that upon its center held the royal crest of the Vonhussen family: the trident.

Shep. He thought, fiddling with the ring. Oh, how he missed his smile, the lopsided grins, and easy going laughs. He had made him feel safe, secure, protected, cherished, wanted, and loved, but now... now that couldn't be. Now all he had was a ring and a box full of memories, memories of his gentle touches, of his heated kisses, of the feelings he could entice out of him with a single look. Ciaran didn't even know if Shep truly understood the power he had held over him, he would've-and still would-do anything for that boy. No matter the price, he would answer his call and he knew Shep would do the same for him.

But now that was over. It was better this way. In the end he knew it had to be like this. In the end he knew he should be thanking Thyme for giving them an excuse to break up without any hard feelings towards each other. He'd given him something to blame instead of themselves. Now Shep was free to forget about him, to marry Diana like he was meant to, and move on with his merry life.

Ciaran told himself this. Told himself that Shep would be okay without him. His mind told him it was logical and true and just, but in his heart of hearts he knew it was false.

He knew Shep would be miserable without him.

He knew Shep would always and forever be his.

He knew this.

But still he hoped he was wrong.

-Betrothed-

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