the scarred king

⋆˚｡⋆"the one in the dungeon" ⛓˚⋆

In the dimly lit basement of the Beldoir castle the locked up guy rose from the ground, the cold metal of his ankle shackles leaving a little print on his skin with the stretch.

"Hey, sit back down!!" The guard hissed at him.

"Why? I am only Staring at the moon" the prisoner replied all calm, his eyes never leaving the ceiling.

The guard's eyes shrank "b-but there is no window!! How can you see it?"

The prisoner with a number engraved on his neck smiles a little "Does that worry you?"

Grinding his teeth the guard paces here and there until his own steps get muffled by the sound of others approaching.

Under a minute, five guards on their full wits stood inside his cell.

"it's your turn now" one of the guard speaks and the two of them step forward to tie together the hands of the prisoner.

"no need" the prison whispers before kneeling himself on the ground, exposing his back to them " I am tired too" and with a smile he pursed his thin lips.

For a moment, no guard moved forward but then they leapt viciously like little hyenas, ripping out the skin, pulling whatever caught their fingers. The prisoner flinched as the warm blood trickled down against his cold back. He bit his tongue engulfing the painful screams.

"We can try using the scissors again" guard number one whispers to the other.

"and get punished?" the guard number two spoke.

"No one will ever know if we keep our mouths sealed" the guard number one spoke again.

This time the third guard chimed in "unlike last time, three people will use the scissor, that would definitely work".
To this suggestion everyone agreed and so a scissor, the size of an average man's arm was there before the prisoner who stared at different guard every passing moment, his throat all drying up.

...........................................

Six hands embraced the handle of the scissor and two men kneeled him down.
The efforts began and under a moment the scissors broke. The guards cursed and in the prisoner's chest the heart bounced like it had never before.

The screams that rose didn't get heard, the thunder...it muffled them all. And so the agony, it never left the basement. Like always. The butchering...it continued, no matter how much the prisoner struggled or screamed they never stopped. pulling the feathers, ripping the skin. Even when the feathers were soaked and were too smooth to be grasped.
.
Blind.
.
Deaf.
.
Inhumane to everything towards the prisoner whose jaw still remained opened wide but no sound left his mouth.

The guards did the job. They ripped out everything, all the filth, unholiness and danger. His wings. They ripped them out with their bare hands.

After washing their blooded hands in a bucket of water they collected all the feathers. Threw a bucket of water at the prisoner who remained in the same position like a statue but only he breathed. Littles ragged breathes.

The cell, when the guards finally left, showed no sign of the butchering that had just occurred. Only, the new shirt that the prisoner wore, was all soaked again.

Ofcourse it was soaked.

And it will remain soaked with his blood.

Just like how the Beldoir land remained soaked with the blood of the winged folk.

                                                      𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔