[fic] 406 A.D. [OC!Barbarians/France]
Title: 406 A.D.
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: OC!Vandal/Gallic!France, OC!Suebi and OC!Alanii/Gallia, previous Rome/Gallia
Warnings: non-con, shota, violence
Wordcount: 1,730
Summary: for the prompt - The time is set during the Barbarian Invasions. I'd like to have a Young!France (still quite Gallic and related to the Roman Empire) raped by the barbarians (Vandals and/or Franks). Warning again for rape of underage character and numerous triggery images, not for the faint of heart.
Gallia feels the onslaught of their arrival in his bones, and helplessly, he watches from the shelter of the woods as the battle rages over the frozen river. Even after losing countless numbers of their warriors, enough to feed the ravens until they fatten from their feast, the Vandals continue to push through the defenses of the Frankish fighters. Their king’s death does not deter them, and when the Vandals draw back and regroup with the Alans, this last bloody surge carries them over the Rhine and into Roman territory. Into Gaul…
He flees the battlefield, the sickening feeling of invasion causing his stomach to roil. But he knows he cannot run fast or far enough. They will catch him in the end, and with Rome weakened and rotting from the inside, barely able to support his own people, Gallia has no chance of fending off the barbarian forces.
For weeks, the Vandals and their allies ravage the cities and villages of Gaul, murdering, burning, pillaging, raping. His people, Rome’s people now, having nowhere to go, they must endure this, and so he suffers with them. As the days pass, Gallia never stops feeling the fields burning on his skin, the senseless slaughter ripping through his chest, the rape and plunder weakening him, chipping away at his spirit until he can barely stand or walk and all he can do is huddle into himself, praying for the barbarians to get out, just hurry and get out.
The legion stationed at Durocorter hold their lines for as long as they can, but the garrison is too inadequately manned to stand against the vast horde hollering and bellowing in blood-rage as they stream through the trees. The crash of axes and swords against shields rings out harshly in the grey light, and the defenders, seeing defeat, eventually break under the attack. Soon the barbarians are free to raid the doomed city, carrying off whatever they can - food, wine, gold and silver, women and girls, setting fire to the rest. Above the screams of the dying, the bishop’s calm prayer continues to drift upward even after his bloody head rolls down the steps of the altar. The holy men and women are dispatched to their creator, but it seems the Vandals have had enough for now, and they withdraw from Durocorter with their spoils.
A lone young warrior detaches from the invasion force, approaching Gallia with long strides, implacably calm. There is no mistaking who he is, for those ice-blue eyes are as pale and unforgiving as his predecessor’s, the one who, with Rome, brought down the pride of Gaul centuries before. Standing in an open field with no cover nearby, Gallia freezes, short sword in hand, and at the last second, he turns and runs. But he is easily outpaced and overpowered, the sword knocked aside as if it were a toy, and he is thrown to the ground face first. His arms are pulled back sharply, and he catches his breath, writhing in agony.
He just barely understands the barbarian’s rough Latin muttered into his ear, but the intention is clear. Gallia struggles to his knees as commanded, offering no resistance as his breeches are yanked down and his woolen tunic pulled up and out of the way. A callused hand palms at his groin, and he makes a whimpering sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“No woman… but pretty enough,” Vandal says coolly.
He has heard those words before, and has yet to become used to what comes next. The taste of fingers shoved into his mouth, the feeling of being forced open by another, the searing pain of the first thrust into his unprepared body. Gallia strains to yield, spreading his legs apart, arching his back, anything to lessen the torment, but the barbarian only wrenches his arms even harder, almost tearing them out of their sockets. Despite his resolve, Gallia screams, hoarse, desperate cries. His arms are released long enough for Vandal to grab him by his hair and push his face into the earth, silencing him effectively before resuming the assault.
At least it is quick, though it feels more like an eternity. Still riding the blood-rage, Vandal shudders and comes with a grunt, emptying himself into the small body in his grip, then pulling out, satisfied at last. Trembling violently, Gallia slumps to the earth, the insides of his bruised thighs stained with blood and semen, too wracked by pain and humiliation to think of covering himself. He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him over.
The barbarian stares down at him emotionlessly, and in the light of the burning city, amidst the wails of the suffering and the laughter of the triumphant, it is like a glimpse into hell.
“He won’t come for you, Gallia. I’ve made you mine.”
He is covered with a cloak, being carried away from the city, and exhausted, he soon loses consciousness. When Gallia next wakes, he has been bound hand and foot and left lying alone in a tent, from the sound of it, close to the edge of the enemy camp. Painfully, he slithers to the flap of the tent, peers through the opening and immediately regrets doing so. Outside, a warrior is claiming his prize, a dark-haired girl only a few years older than Gallia, long past the point of screaming or fighting back. With a disgusted curse, the barbarian shakes the girl by the shoulders, but her eyes roll back in her head, and he abandons her ravaged lifeless body when two other tribesmen arrive. There is the sound of argument among the three, obviously the girl’s unusable condition angers the higher ranking men, and the disgraced warrior stalks away. Gallia curls into a ball, heart thumping rapidly in his chest as he shuts his eyes tightly, but he cannot block the sight of the girl being raped, nor could he completely ignore the lingering soreness between his legs. Footsteps approach the tent, and he stifles a gasp when the two barbarians enter. His pretense does not fool them. Someone grabs him by one arm and pulls him to a sitting position.
The men glance at each other in surprise, apparently expecting someone else. Unsurprised, Gallia recognizes them despite having never seen them before. Suebii, with his long yellow hair tied into an high elaborate knot, Alanii, dark-haired and fearsomely scarred, these are the two tribes that followed Vandal into Gaul.
He is sure they know who he is, or at least suspect his true identity. Curiously, Alanii touches his hair, and Suebii says something in their language that causes both to laugh.
“You were one of us before?” Alanii asks in crude Latin, his knife cutting through the ropes tying Gallia’s wrists together.
Rubbing his hands, Gallia refuses to answer, but they can tell, for he is still blond-haired and blue-eyed like the barbarians of the east, long after his people have married into the empire and adopted its ways.
“But look, now you are one of them,” Suebii says while Alanii’s knife slides in between Gallia’s thighs and flicks the hem of his Roman-styled tunic up, exposing him. “Bad for you.”
“Good for us.” They strip him of his tunic and cloak until he kneels before them, shivering and naked. Gallia shuts his eyes again, tries to not cry when a hand force his mouth open.
“Don’t think of biting.”
It takes everything Gallia has left to not recoil in horror when something thick and blunt thrusts in between his lips. Fingers curl into his hair, holding him steady as he tries to accommodate the large organ mercilessly pummeling his throat, and he must swallow the thick salty cum that suddenly fills his mouth or risk suffocating.
Alanii withdraws, exhaling slowly, pleased. “He’s good,” he rumbles lazily to his partner, and passes Gallia over to Suebii as if he were nothing more than a skin of wine, meant to be enjoyed among friends.
Suebii is already hard from watching, his pale cheeks flushed, heavy leather armor unbuckled haphazardly. Only a little while after Gallia takes him into his mouth, he jerks and comes, almost urgently. They crave more, he can sense that, because everyone always wanted more from him, the Romans, the Franks, but Suebii and Alanii dare not risk playing any further with their leader’s war spoil. Reluctantly, Suebii dresses him, fumbling with the pin of his cloak, Alanii reties his bonds securely, and they depart without a further word.
Later that evening, Vandal finds him drowsing off in a corner of the tent. He kneels down before Gallia, holding a plate a roast meat, a piece speared on the end of his knife.
“Eat.”
But Gallia does not open his mouth, and when pressed, he makes a pitiful gagging noise. He turns his head, coughing and then vomiting up what he has swallowed. Vandal watches him grimly, and when Gallia has stopped heaving, uses a rag to wipe away the foul whitish fluid from his mouth and chin.
Now Gallia breaks, and he starts to cry, sobbing miserably, humiliated and violated. He weeps uncontrollably, not caring anymore because even after all he has seen and experienced, he is still a child struggling to survive on his own. It is not fair that he has to be treated like this, but when has anything in his life ever been fair.
Finally, the sobbing subsides into pathetic little sniffs and hiccups, and Vandal gathers the exhausted boy in his arms, lying down with him on the furs spread over the floor of the tent. In the following silence, all he says is, “You are not the only one who suffers.”
Perhaps those words were meant to be comforting, but Gallia would never know. Vandal releases him the next day, only to hunt him down later as the barbarians continue their plunder of Gaul, as a cat toys with a mouse. When they catch him for the last time, three years after the crossing of the Rhine, they drag him with them to the foot of the Pyrenaei mountains. Gallia watches helplessly as the ever-hungry horde leaves his lands, exactly as he had prayed for, and then he cries bitter tears for his sweet brother, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” into the wind blowing south.
[The crossing of the Rhine river, which marks the invasion of the Roman Empire by the Vandals and their allies the Germanic Suebii and the Alans of Eurasia, occurred in winter of 406 AD. In 409, the tribes head to Hispania and later the Vandals cross the Mediterranean Sea to invade Carthage in North Africa. Here I included the story of the bishop of Reims (Durocorter), who predicted the invasion of Gaul by the Vandals. The "brother" in this case is a fellow Roman territory, young Spain.]
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: OC!Vandal/Gallic!France, OC!Suebi and OC!Alanii/Gallia, previous Rome/Gallia
Warnings: non-con, shota, violence
Wordcount: 1,730
Summary: for the prompt - The time is set during the Barbarian Invasions. I'd like to have a Young!France (still quite Gallic and related to the Roman Empire) raped by the barbarians (Vandals and/or Franks). Warning again for rape of underage character and numerous triggery images, not for the faint of heart.
Gallia feels the onslaught of their arrival in his bones, and helplessly, he watches from the shelter of the woods as the battle rages over the frozen river. Even after losing countless numbers of their warriors, enough to feed the ravens until they fatten from their feast, the Vandals continue to push through the defenses of the Frankish fighters. Their king’s death does not deter them, and when the Vandals draw back and regroup with the Alans, this last bloody surge carries them over the Rhine and into Roman territory. Into Gaul…
He flees the battlefield, the sickening feeling of invasion causing his stomach to roil. But he knows he cannot run fast or far enough. They will catch him in the end, and with Rome weakened and rotting from the inside, barely able to support his own people, Gallia has no chance of fending off the barbarian forces.
For weeks, the Vandals and their allies ravage the cities and villages of Gaul, murdering, burning, pillaging, raping. His people, Rome’s people now, having nowhere to go, they must endure this, and so he suffers with them. As the days pass, Gallia never stops feeling the fields burning on his skin, the senseless slaughter ripping through his chest, the rape and plunder weakening him, chipping away at his spirit until he can barely stand or walk and all he can do is huddle into himself, praying for the barbarians to get out, just hurry and get out.
The legion stationed at Durocorter hold their lines for as long as they can, but the garrison is too inadequately manned to stand against the vast horde hollering and bellowing in blood-rage as they stream through the trees. The crash of axes and swords against shields rings out harshly in the grey light, and the defenders, seeing defeat, eventually break under the attack. Soon the barbarians are free to raid the doomed city, carrying off whatever they can - food, wine, gold and silver, women and girls, setting fire to the rest. Above the screams of the dying, the bishop’s calm prayer continues to drift upward even after his bloody head rolls down the steps of the altar. The holy men and women are dispatched to their creator, but it seems the Vandals have had enough for now, and they withdraw from Durocorter with their spoils.
A lone young warrior detaches from the invasion force, approaching Gallia with long strides, implacably calm. There is no mistaking who he is, for those ice-blue eyes are as pale and unforgiving as his predecessor’s, the one who, with Rome, brought down the pride of Gaul centuries before. Standing in an open field with no cover nearby, Gallia freezes, short sword in hand, and at the last second, he turns and runs. But he is easily outpaced and overpowered, the sword knocked aside as if it were a toy, and he is thrown to the ground face first. His arms are pulled back sharply, and he catches his breath, writhing in agony.
He just barely understands the barbarian’s rough Latin muttered into his ear, but the intention is clear. Gallia struggles to his knees as commanded, offering no resistance as his breeches are yanked down and his woolen tunic pulled up and out of the way. A callused hand palms at his groin, and he makes a whimpering sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“No woman… but pretty enough,” Vandal says coolly.
He has heard those words before, and has yet to become used to what comes next. The taste of fingers shoved into his mouth, the feeling of being forced open by another, the searing pain of the first thrust into his unprepared body. Gallia strains to yield, spreading his legs apart, arching his back, anything to lessen the torment, but the barbarian only wrenches his arms even harder, almost tearing them out of their sockets. Despite his resolve, Gallia screams, hoarse, desperate cries. His arms are released long enough for Vandal to grab him by his hair and push his face into the earth, silencing him effectively before resuming the assault.
At least it is quick, though it feels more like an eternity. Still riding the blood-rage, Vandal shudders and comes with a grunt, emptying himself into the small body in his grip, then pulling out, satisfied at last. Trembling violently, Gallia slumps to the earth, the insides of his bruised thighs stained with blood and semen, too wracked by pain and humiliation to think of covering himself. He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him over.
The barbarian stares down at him emotionlessly, and in the light of the burning city, amidst the wails of the suffering and the laughter of the triumphant, it is like a glimpse into hell.
“He won’t come for you, Gallia. I’ve made you mine.”
He is covered with a cloak, being carried away from the city, and exhausted, he soon loses consciousness. When Gallia next wakes, he has been bound hand and foot and left lying alone in a tent, from the sound of it, close to the edge of the enemy camp. Painfully, he slithers to the flap of the tent, peers through the opening and immediately regrets doing so. Outside, a warrior is claiming his prize, a dark-haired girl only a few years older than Gallia, long past the point of screaming or fighting back. With a disgusted curse, the barbarian shakes the girl by the shoulders, but her eyes roll back in her head, and he abandons her ravaged lifeless body when two other tribesmen arrive. There is the sound of argument among the three, obviously the girl’s unusable condition angers the higher ranking men, and the disgraced warrior stalks away. Gallia curls into a ball, heart thumping rapidly in his chest as he shuts his eyes tightly, but he cannot block the sight of the girl being raped, nor could he completely ignore the lingering soreness between his legs. Footsteps approach the tent, and he stifles a gasp when the two barbarians enter. His pretense does not fool them. Someone grabs him by one arm and pulls him to a sitting position.
The men glance at each other in surprise, apparently expecting someone else. Unsurprised, Gallia recognizes them despite having never seen them before. Suebii, with his long yellow hair tied into an high elaborate knot, Alanii, dark-haired and fearsomely scarred, these are the two tribes that followed Vandal into Gaul.
He is sure they know who he is, or at least suspect his true identity. Curiously, Alanii touches his hair, and Suebii says something in their language that causes both to laugh.
“You were one of us before?” Alanii asks in crude Latin, his knife cutting through the ropes tying Gallia’s wrists together.
Rubbing his hands, Gallia refuses to answer, but they can tell, for he is still blond-haired and blue-eyed like the barbarians of the east, long after his people have married into the empire and adopted its ways.
“But look, now you are one of them,” Suebii says while Alanii’s knife slides in between Gallia’s thighs and flicks the hem of his Roman-styled tunic up, exposing him. “Bad for you.”
“Good for us.” They strip him of his tunic and cloak until he kneels before them, shivering and naked. Gallia shuts his eyes again, tries to not cry when a hand force his mouth open.
“Don’t think of biting.”
It takes everything Gallia has left to not recoil in horror when something thick and blunt thrusts in between his lips. Fingers curl into his hair, holding him steady as he tries to accommodate the large organ mercilessly pummeling his throat, and he must swallow the thick salty cum that suddenly fills his mouth or risk suffocating.
Alanii withdraws, exhaling slowly, pleased. “He’s good,” he rumbles lazily to his partner, and passes Gallia over to Suebii as if he were nothing more than a skin of wine, meant to be enjoyed among friends.
Suebii is already hard from watching, his pale cheeks flushed, heavy leather armor unbuckled haphazardly. Only a little while after Gallia takes him into his mouth, he jerks and comes, almost urgently. They crave more, he can sense that, because everyone always wanted more from him, the Romans, the Franks, but Suebii and Alanii dare not risk playing any further with their leader’s war spoil. Reluctantly, Suebii dresses him, fumbling with the pin of his cloak, Alanii reties his bonds securely, and they depart without a further word.
Later that evening, Vandal finds him drowsing off in a corner of the tent. He kneels down before Gallia, holding a plate a roast meat, a piece speared on the end of his knife.
“Eat.”
But Gallia does not open his mouth, and when pressed, he makes a pitiful gagging noise. He turns his head, coughing and then vomiting up what he has swallowed. Vandal watches him grimly, and when Gallia has stopped heaving, uses a rag to wipe away the foul whitish fluid from his mouth and chin.
Now Gallia breaks, and he starts to cry, sobbing miserably, humiliated and violated. He weeps uncontrollably, not caring anymore because even after all he has seen and experienced, he is still a child struggling to survive on his own. It is not fair that he has to be treated like this, but when has anything in his life ever been fair.
Finally, the sobbing subsides into pathetic little sniffs and hiccups, and Vandal gathers the exhausted boy in his arms, lying down with him on the furs spread over the floor of the tent. In the following silence, all he says is, “You are not the only one who suffers.”
Perhaps those words were meant to be comforting, but Gallia would never know. Vandal releases him the next day, only to hunt him down later as the barbarians continue their plunder of Gaul, as a cat toys with a mouse. When they catch him for the last time, three years after the crossing of the Rhine, they drag him with them to the foot of the Pyrenaei mountains. Gallia watches helplessly as the ever-hungry horde leaves his lands, exactly as he had prayed for, and then he cries bitter tears for his sweet brother, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” into the wind blowing south.
[The crossing of the Rhine river, which marks the invasion of the Roman Empire by the Vandals and their allies the Germanic Suebii and the Alans of Eurasia, occurred in winter of 406 AD. In 409, the tribes head to Hispania and later the Vandals cross the Mediterranean Sea to invade Carthage in North Africa. Here I included the story of the bishop of Reims (Durocorter), who predicted the invasion of Gaul by the Vandals. The "brother" in this case is a fellow Roman territory, young Spain.]