Fear and Weakness go hand in hand with Pain and Suffering.
Date: September 2nd, 2000
Time: 9am-ish
Location: Flint Residence, Wales
Characters Involved: Marcus Flint, (and NPC's Nathaniel Flint & Rosalia Flint)
Rating: R for language and violence
Marcus didn’t know how long he had slept, after hobbling home from his fight with Perry. But he woke up feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. With clammy skin, and feverish brow, he fought rows of pain throughout his body. His nose was swollen, which made his eyes water. Yet his left eye could barely open, and felt bruised under the skin. His back was unstable and tense where welts could be viewed along the spine, and his gut tender and sensitive. It hurt to breathe deeply. If he thought he could get away with it, Marcus would just stay in bed and suffer. Just as he got away with sneaking up into his room without notice from his parents.
Or so he thought.
Because Marcus could not ever be observed as lazy on days when his father was home from the office, he slowly forced himself out of bed. But sitting up from his mattress was as far as he got, before he froze and nausea took hold. Not because of his injuries, those were inconveniences compared to what he saw, stuck to the foot of his bed. The folded piece of parchment wrenched a hammer into his chest, and Marcus almost considered jumping out of his two-story window, instead of receiving such a note. Any time his Father planted them it meant big trouble. Slowly Marcus pulled himself over, and retrieved the letter carefully, as if cradling an exotic mystery.
It was a call to Duty. The paper held a valuable lesson, deep within it’s meaning, one that had been implanted within Marcus for as long as he could remember. It was his Father’s way to psyche him out, make him fret the unknown yet understand that certain doom waited. Something he couldn’t escape so long as he remained under Nathaniel’s roof. The only time he did not have pieces of paper stuck to his bed, were the three years he attempted the single life, while working as a curse-breaker assistant. But then, instead of paper, he had to be wary of his Father appearing, at any time and any place. He didn’t really know what was worse, taking the role of son below his Father and complying, or trying to be the man’s equal, as he restlessly waited for the knife in the back. Nothing else ever frazzled Marcus; nothing could get him so uneasy like the man that was his Father. The man he loved and respected, yet feared before any one thing, was the keeper of Marcus’ soul- and Nathaniel knew it. Which made it that much worse. ‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely’.
But he did not dare to read the letter immediately. Instead, Marcus put the folded parchment down on the bed beside him, and then wobbled out of bed. Like a mindless zombie, Marcus washed up and dressed, before he decided to read the note. These special notices altered Nathaniel when they were opened, so Marcus made sure to be ready for anything before hand. It was his Father’s way of learning when his son was awake and ready for interrogation and conditioning.
A cloud of red smoke swarmed out of the envelope of folded paper, and seeped under the crack of Marcus’ door, as he read the message.
Outside. A.S.A.P.
Breakfast is nonnegotiable.
Marcus was out of the kitchen door, and dragging his sore body into the back area of the house, outside, without hesitation. He knew exactly where his Father would be, even if it literally had been years since the last time he had to go where he did. That was a solitary thought, to fill his mind as he walked sluggishly. The last time the rope was used had been Marcus’ last year at Hogwarts, nearly seven years prior. To be facing the spike now, was scaring Marcus anew. What could he have possibly done to be reviewed as a misbehaving adolescence? Or had his Father missed the cruel form of punishment, since Marcus had gone off on his own, and then Rome beckoned the family back together only to keep Nathaniel busy with unpleasant tasks? Whatever it was forced Marcus to relive his youth and feel eighteen all over again.
The back area of the Flint house meant ten acres, eight of which were free of trees and disorder. Two acres near directly south of the property were lined with thick trees, cutting off the Flint residence from any neighbors. Though if one were to cut through half a mile of the wooded area, there would be a neighboring field with livestock. A sliver of Marcus’ childhood had been in that field, tormenting the animals for fun, when he wished to escape his holidays with his family.
Surrounding the border of the property was a row of metal spikes. They were uniform in size and width, looking to be no more than an unfinished fence- to keep trespassers out. A fence wasn’t needed for a magical family where spells and enchantments were effective to keep people out. These were merely markers for the borders, to trigger things that would end invasion and also inform of it. One spike, however, was thicker and taller than the rest, looking like a grotesque statue in comparison. It rested directly vertical from the Flint’s expansive house, nestled deep in the trees where none would see, unless someone was trying to find it. Wielded to the spike was a metal bracket, holding a two-foot chain that dangled a sturdy iron cuff. A cuff that Nathaniel Flint was holding in one had, as Marcus cut through the trees and approached.
The men greeted each other with a serious stare, and then Marcus bowed to show his respect.
“Good Morning, Sir.” Marcus said after a moment of silence.
The bulky, elderly man in sharp black robes, Nathaniel, stared at his son with hard brown eyes sunk deep into his skull. He was an older wizard, but youthful and energetic looking for his age, which was turning half a century. He had visible gray lining his brow at the temples, and sprinkled into his thick eyebrows, below a wrinkled forehead. Marcus had inherited his nose, and jaw, both hard-edged and rough to look at. Even if Marcus had passed his Father’s height in his last years of school, it was still hard to look eyelevel with the man. He preferred, from his hardened training, to look at legs, shoes, or the ground his Father walked upon. He didn’t like seeing himself in his Father’s face, and was certain his Father saw nothing of himself in Marcus.
Marcus noticed the coiled beige rope, rested on the ground next to the column of metal his Father was leaning against.
“Is this how you repay me, Marcus? Getting yourself disfigured is showing your gratitude, is it?” The man asked calmly, yet it was obviously forced. He only paused his crisp voice a minute, before his anger shot past thin lips. “Answer me!” Nathaniel bellowed, which would make anyone else flinch, where Marcus froze. Flinching was a sign of weakness.
“No, Sir.” Marcus spoke quickly, yet softly and hoping to sound appeasing.
“Violence, Marcus, is disrespectful.” Said Nathaniel as he stood straight away from the metal spike. His emotions were borderline, and Marcus could hear the unsteady balance in his Father’s voice. “You will be punished for disrespecting your Father, for whatever reason you came crawling home yesterday.”
Punished. Disrespecting. Violence. Marcus backtracked his Father’s words with a sharply held breath, but a rocky stance, as he waited to hear his sentence.
The chain rattled against the metal spike, which made Marcus look up. His Father held out the iron cuff to his son with no expression except demanding eyes. -And so the mold of control flexed again, within the dark recess of Marcus’ mind, fixing his feeling of youth into solid mass. He was no longer the growing adult that his years granted him, but Marcus the child of rebellious mind and abandoned heart. However Nathaniel had bestowed such power upon himself against his son, it had worked far more than the man could possibly hope. Marcus was not only controlled, but knowingly so, and could not lift a finger against it. A puppet without strings still needs master to control it.
Quickly Marcus went to work, rolling up his white sleeve past the elbow, before he took the necessary steps to offer his wrist above the cuff. To do so, he had to stand very close to the brute figure of his Father’s. He still did not dare look into his Father’s eyes, but instead stared at his wrist as the cuff circled it, and then Nathaniel sealed it shut with his polished black wand. Then a blur moved near the side of Marcus’ face, as his Father grabbed Marcus by the shoulder and punched a fist into his son’s gut. It made Marcus’ knees buckle, and he nearly collapsed, had the chain and cuff not secured him in place.
Nathaniel spat at his staggering son, before he stepped away a foot, while straightening out his robes.
“You will report to my office come Thursday, Marcus. You did not get out of your responsibilities this time.” Nathaniel’s voice faltered gruffly, and he cleared the tension with a cough before he continued. “But… I am curious.”
Marcus only stared at his Father’s brand new black shoes, while suppressing the pain he was feeling in his gut with all of his ability. Making a whimper would be a sigh of weakness.
“Did you do what you set out to do when you left the house yesterday?”
Marcus knew his Father was baiting him, coaxing Marcus to speak about the outcome of his fight with Perry Derrick. Even if his Father didn’t know the story, Marcus knew the man could smell failure. His Father wanted to rubs his son’s nose in his own stench, to prove once again that his son was incompetent.
“N-no, Sir.” Marcus forced himself to say, as he turned around in a wobbled stance to place his back in front of his Father’s face. He knew Nathaniel would not desire to look at the disgraceful face of his son.
“You are lucky you are my only son, Marcus. Had I decided to bring another into this world, you would be staying out here like the animal you are, from the beginning.” Then there was a pause, after Nathaniel lectured Marcus, as the man twisted away the coiled rope from the ground. “I did not return from Rome to waste my time on idiots.”
Marcus assumed that would be the end of it, and soon he would find the only sound to be his own voice, trembling in agony, but suddenly his mother’s rich Italian voice cut through the growing silence, shortly after her running footfalls.
“Nathaniel, no… leave him be. He was such a good boy in Rome. You must give him time to adjust.” The woman whined as she approached Marcus’ Father. Marcus was sure he heard his Father growl before his mother crossed over.
“Rosa! Go back into the house and make tea! Now.” Came Nathaniel’s voice, sharp and vicious like a jagged razorblade.
“But Nathaniel, this is non necessario. He is grown boy now. Please, leave him be.” Rosalia Flint softly pleaded, behind Marcus’ back.
There was a loud crack of skin hitting skin, and Marcus knew what it had been way before he heard his mother shriek. He twisted around slightly, to see the aftermath. His mother had been forced down to the ground in one hit, by a single backhand. But she looked as if she had more fight left in her as she stared up at Nathaniel. The sight enraged Marcus, and he found his voice.
“Ma, do as he says! Get the fuck outta here. Do it!” Marcus yelled over his shoulder, catching his mother’s attention sharply. The small figure of his mother pulled herself to stand, just as Nathaniel kicked Marcus on the back of his knees, making him fall down onto them violently. Now his right arm was stretched above his head from the cuff at his wrist.
“Hold your fucking tongue, you disgusting piece of shite!” Nathaniel said to his son, with burning irritation. Marcus would do as he was told now, knowing he had crossed boundaries that were never crossed, even as he heard his mother and Father tussle about the area behind him. Marcus just wouldn’t allow his mother to try and ‘save him’. What a disturbing notion. Marcus didn’t need to be saved. Even if it was someone else doing the saving, Marcus would respect his Father’s wishes and give what was due for his reckless behavior and failure. He wanted to prove to his Father that he was becoming a man, and did respect him. The drive to prove himself was the only thing keeping him from wavering at such things as punishments and/or words of wrath.
A few moments later and his mother had left the two men alone in the borderline. Nathaniel was breathing heavily from his excursion with Marcus’ mother, which meant he was extremely angry. The man’s temper was also evident as he ripped his son’s shirt in such a way that repairs would take up a long afternoon. Now Marcus was baring his back, as he kneeled on the ground, chained to a post.
“How many, Marcus?” Nathaniel snarled out, while snapping the rope near Marcus’ feet.
“Uh…. Fifty Sir?” He replied as quickly as he could, knowing hesitation was showing weakness.
“Fifty, huh? No… no not after the morning I’ve had. Since your behavior has affected your mother’s, you will receive twice your sentence to learn the disadvantages of cause and effect.”
“Yes, Sir.” Marcus replied again, right on cue.
Then the noise of twigs and branches snapped behind Marcus, where his Father crouched down beside his son. Marcus’ head was yanked back by large fingers in his hair, forcing his eyes to look upon his Father’s face. “The next time you set out to do something, you better do it, if it means coming home looking like this. Do you understand!?”
Marcus could only nod slightly, from his restricted pose. His voice refused to work when he was staring into his Father’s eyes. Eyes that have burned themselves through Marcus more than once, and will never be forgotten. Surely they were enchanted, having some special magical ability. But no, they would be remembered from the pain that followed when Marcus stared into their vengeful depths.
“Then I expect you to fix whatever issues you have here, Marcus. Do not let me catch you looking like this again. Especially now that you are working for me.” Nathaniel shoved his son’s head down before he released it to stand.
Marcus gritted his teeth, tucked his chin down into his chest, and waited, as he knew his Father was preparing the rope with a spell. The rope was no ordinary rope, used for the purpose of punishment, because Nathaniel was no ordinary man. Since Marcus was seven, Nathaniel had used the rope, but with certain experimentations at every use, that lessoned over the years as Marcus learned his place. But now the spell preformed was perfected and all together vicious. It was used for whipping of course, but the way it worked took years of fine-tuning. Now whenever it was used, it would cause no outside searing or cuts, but channeled beneath the skin to bruise muscle and crack bone. Internal damage was easier to hide, but more painful than a slice of flesh.
Marcus knew a hundred stings were going to crack his ribs, and tear back muscle, but he did not tremble in fear of the pain. Even as sore as he was from yesterdays’ fight, he would not indulge in worry about how much his punishment would hurt.
The spell was uttered and the enchanted rope lashed out, quicker and harder than anything his Father would do outside of magic. Beyond the cracking sound of the rope, he heard his Father walk away, to leave his son to suffer alone. It seemed Nathaniel had more important things to do, other than watch his son whipped.
Before twenty strikes had rattled Marcus’ bones, burned muscle, and sent stings of vibration through his chest, Marcus hoped his Father would remember that his son was outside, strapped to the spike. He also hoped his Father would grant him some healing before he would be to work come Thursday. Sweat started to line his features, and soon Marcus would black out, leaving his shoulder to scream when it hung by a thread from popping out of socket. He used to be able to take the pain, but since the length between strapping had been so long, Marcus was softened up from handling the sensations. He audibly whimpered as the rope neared thirty.
Rome had changed his perception, as well as his Father’s, it seemed. Marcus had groomed his ego, under his Father’s limited reach, since a rich relative was their hostess. So now that England was their home again, and Marcus was forced under his Father’s roof once more, he had taken for granted what he could and could not do. Marcus was going to have to be more careful, or he would have to rework his way of life. If he could get out on his own, in a respectable manner, the punishments would cease, as it had years ago. But his Father was stingy with the family fortune, and Marcus liked his whores and drugs, so he would have to compromise.
Or his Father would have to drop dead.
One of the two.
Time: 9am-ish
Location: Flint Residence, Wales
Characters Involved: Marcus Flint, (and NPC's Nathaniel Flint & Rosalia Flint)
Rating: R for language and violence
Marcus didn’t know how long he had slept, after hobbling home from his fight with Perry. But he woke up feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. With clammy skin, and feverish brow, he fought rows of pain throughout his body. His nose was swollen, which made his eyes water. Yet his left eye could barely open, and felt bruised under the skin. His back was unstable and tense where welts could be viewed along the spine, and his gut tender and sensitive. It hurt to breathe deeply. If he thought he could get away with it, Marcus would just stay in bed and suffer. Just as he got away with sneaking up into his room without notice from his parents.
Or so he thought.
Because Marcus could not ever be observed as lazy on days when his father was home from the office, he slowly forced himself out of bed. But sitting up from his mattress was as far as he got, before he froze and nausea took hold. Not because of his injuries, those were inconveniences compared to what he saw, stuck to the foot of his bed. The folded piece of parchment wrenched a hammer into his chest, and Marcus almost considered jumping out of his two-story window, instead of receiving such a note. Any time his Father planted them it meant big trouble. Slowly Marcus pulled himself over, and retrieved the letter carefully, as if cradling an exotic mystery.
It was a call to Duty. The paper held a valuable lesson, deep within it’s meaning, one that had been implanted within Marcus for as long as he could remember. It was his Father’s way to psyche him out, make him fret the unknown yet understand that certain doom waited. Something he couldn’t escape so long as he remained under Nathaniel’s roof. The only time he did not have pieces of paper stuck to his bed, were the three years he attempted the single life, while working as a curse-breaker assistant. But then, instead of paper, he had to be wary of his Father appearing, at any time and any place. He didn’t really know what was worse, taking the role of son below his Father and complying, or trying to be the man’s equal, as he restlessly waited for the knife in the back. Nothing else ever frazzled Marcus; nothing could get him so uneasy like the man that was his Father. The man he loved and respected, yet feared before any one thing, was the keeper of Marcus’ soul- and Nathaniel knew it. Which made it that much worse. ‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely’.
But he did not dare to read the letter immediately. Instead, Marcus put the folded parchment down on the bed beside him, and then wobbled out of bed. Like a mindless zombie, Marcus washed up and dressed, before he decided to read the note. These special notices altered Nathaniel when they were opened, so Marcus made sure to be ready for anything before hand. It was his Father’s way of learning when his son was awake and ready for interrogation and conditioning.
A cloud of red smoke swarmed out of the envelope of folded paper, and seeped under the crack of Marcus’ door, as he read the message.
Outside. A.S.A.P.
Breakfast is nonnegotiable.
Marcus was out of the kitchen door, and dragging his sore body into the back area of the house, outside, without hesitation. He knew exactly where his Father would be, even if it literally had been years since the last time he had to go where he did. That was a solitary thought, to fill his mind as he walked sluggishly. The last time the rope was used had been Marcus’ last year at Hogwarts, nearly seven years prior. To be facing the spike now, was scaring Marcus anew. What could he have possibly done to be reviewed as a misbehaving adolescence? Or had his Father missed the cruel form of punishment, since Marcus had gone off on his own, and then Rome beckoned the family back together only to keep Nathaniel busy with unpleasant tasks? Whatever it was forced Marcus to relive his youth and feel eighteen all over again.
The back area of the Flint house meant ten acres, eight of which were free of trees and disorder. Two acres near directly south of the property were lined with thick trees, cutting off the Flint residence from any neighbors. Though if one were to cut through half a mile of the wooded area, there would be a neighboring field with livestock. A sliver of Marcus’ childhood had been in that field, tormenting the animals for fun, when he wished to escape his holidays with his family.
Surrounding the border of the property was a row of metal spikes. They were uniform in size and width, looking to be no more than an unfinished fence- to keep trespassers out. A fence wasn’t needed for a magical family where spells and enchantments were effective to keep people out. These were merely markers for the borders, to trigger things that would end invasion and also inform of it. One spike, however, was thicker and taller than the rest, looking like a grotesque statue in comparison. It rested directly vertical from the Flint’s expansive house, nestled deep in the trees where none would see, unless someone was trying to find it. Wielded to the spike was a metal bracket, holding a two-foot chain that dangled a sturdy iron cuff. A cuff that Nathaniel Flint was holding in one had, as Marcus cut through the trees and approached.
The men greeted each other with a serious stare, and then Marcus bowed to show his respect.
“Good Morning, Sir.” Marcus said after a moment of silence.
The bulky, elderly man in sharp black robes, Nathaniel, stared at his son with hard brown eyes sunk deep into his skull. He was an older wizard, but youthful and energetic looking for his age, which was turning half a century. He had visible gray lining his brow at the temples, and sprinkled into his thick eyebrows, below a wrinkled forehead. Marcus had inherited his nose, and jaw, both hard-edged and rough to look at. Even if Marcus had passed his Father’s height in his last years of school, it was still hard to look eyelevel with the man. He preferred, from his hardened training, to look at legs, shoes, or the ground his Father walked upon. He didn’t like seeing himself in his Father’s face, and was certain his Father saw nothing of himself in Marcus.
Marcus noticed the coiled beige rope, rested on the ground next to the column of metal his Father was leaning against.
“Is this how you repay me, Marcus? Getting yourself disfigured is showing your gratitude, is it?” The man asked calmly, yet it was obviously forced. He only paused his crisp voice a minute, before his anger shot past thin lips. “Answer me!” Nathaniel bellowed, which would make anyone else flinch, where Marcus froze. Flinching was a sign of weakness.
“No, Sir.” Marcus spoke quickly, yet softly and hoping to sound appeasing.
“Violence, Marcus, is disrespectful.” Said Nathaniel as he stood straight away from the metal spike. His emotions were borderline, and Marcus could hear the unsteady balance in his Father’s voice. “You will be punished for disrespecting your Father, for whatever reason you came crawling home yesterday.”
Punished. Disrespecting. Violence. Marcus backtracked his Father’s words with a sharply held breath, but a rocky stance, as he waited to hear his sentence.
The chain rattled against the metal spike, which made Marcus look up. His Father held out the iron cuff to his son with no expression except demanding eyes. -And so the mold of control flexed again, within the dark recess of Marcus’ mind, fixing his feeling of youth into solid mass. He was no longer the growing adult that his years granted him, but Marcus the child of rebellious mind and abandoned heart. However Nathaniel had bestowed such power upon himself against his son, it had worked far more than the man could possibly hope. Marcus was not only controlled, but knowingly so, and could not lift a finger against it. A puppet without strings still needs master to control it.
Quickly Marcus went to work, rolling up his white sleeve past the elbow, before he took the necessary steps to offer his wrist above the cuff. To do so, he had to stand very close to the brute figure of his Father’s. He still did not dare look into his Father’s eyes, but instead stared at his wrist as the cuff circled it, and then Nathaniel sealed it shut with his polished black wand. Then a blur moved near the side of Marcus’ face, as his Father grabbed Marcus by the shoulder and punched a fist into his son’s gut. It made Marcus’ knees buckle, and he nearly collapsed, had the chain and cuff not secured him in place.
Nathaniel spat at his staggering son, before he stepped away a foot, while straightening out his robes.
“You will report to my office come Thursday, Marcus. You did not get out of your responsibilities this time.” Nathaniel’s voice faltered gruffly, and he cleared the tension with a cough before he continued. “But… I am curious.”
Marcus only stared at his Father’s brand new black shoes, while suppressing the pain he was feeling in his gut with all of his ability. Making a whimper would be a sigh of weakness.
“Did you do what you set out to do when you left the house yesterday?”
Marcus knew his Father was baiting him, coaxing Marcus to speak about the outcome of his fight with Perry Derrick. Even if his Father didn’t know the story, Marcus knew the man could smell failure. His Father wanted to rubs his son’s nose in his own stench, to prove once again that his son was incompetent.
“N-no, Sir.” Marcus forced himself to say, as he turned around in a wobbled stance to place his back in front of his Father’s face. He knew Nathaniel would not desire to look at the disgraceful face of his son.
“You are lucky you are my only son, Marcus. Had I decided to bring another into this world, you would be staying out here like the animal you are, from the beginning.” Then there was a pause, after Nathaniel lectured Marcus, as the man twisted away the coiled rope from the ground. “I did not return from Rome to waste my time on idiots.”
Marcus assumed that would be the end of it, and soon he would find the only sound to be his own voice, trembling in agony, but suddenly his mother’s rich Italian voice cut through the growing silence, shortly after her running footfalls.
“Nathaniel, no… leave him be. He was such a good boy in Rome. You must give him time to adjust.” The woman whined as she approached Marcus’ Father. Marcus was sure he heard his Father growl before his mother crossed over.
“Rosa! Go back into the house and make tea! Now.” Came Nathaniel’s voice, sharp and vicious like a jagged razorblade.
“But Nathaniel, this is non necessario. He is grown boy now. Please, leave him be.” Rosalia Flint softly pleaded, behind Marcus’ back.
There was a loud crack of skin hitting skin, and Marcus knew what it had been way before he heard his mother shriek. He twisted around slightly, to see the aftermath. His mother had been forced down to the ground in one hit, by a single backhand. But she looked as if she had more fight left in her as she stared up at Nathaniel. The sight enraged Marcus, and he found his voice.
“Ma, do as he says! Get the fuck outta here. Do it!” Marcus yelled over his shoulder, catching his mother’s attention sharply. The small figure of his mother pulled herself to stand, just as Nathaniel kicked Marcus on the back of his knees, making him fall down onto them violently. Now his right arm was stretched above his head from the cuff at his wrist.
“Hold your fucking tongue, you disgusting piece of shite!” Nathaniel said to his son, with burning irritation. Marcus would do as he was told now, knowing he had crossed boundaries that were never crossed, even as he heard his mother and Father tussle about the area behind him. Marcus just wouldn’t allow his mother to try and ‘save him’. What a disturbing notion. Marcus didn’t need to be saved. Even if it was someone else doing the saving, Marcus would respect his Father’s wishes and give what was due for his reckless behavior and failure. He wanted to prove to his Father that he was becoming a man, and did respect him. The drive to prove himself was the only thing keeping him from wavering at such things as punishments and/or words of wrath.
A few moments later and his mother had left the two men alone in the borderline. Nathaniel was breathing heavily from his excursion with Marcus’ mother, which meant he was extremely angry. The man’s temper was also evident as he ripped his son’s shirt in such a way that repairs would take up a long afternoon. Now Marcus was baring his back, as he kneeled on the ground, chained to a post.
“How many, Marcus?” Nathaniel snarled out, while snapping the rope near Marcus’ feet.
“Uh…. Fifty Sir?” He replied as quickly as he could, knowing hesitation was showing weakness.
“Fifty, huh? No… no not after the morning I’ve had. Since your behavior has affected your mother’s, you will receive twice your sentence to learn the disadvantages of cause and effect.”
“Yes, Sir.” Marcus replied again, right on cue.
Then the noise of twigs and branches snapped behind Marcus, where his Father crouched down beside his son. Marcus’ head was yanked back by large fingers in his hair, forcing his eyes to look upon his Father’s face. “The next time you set out to do something, you better do it, if it means coming home looking like this. Do you understand!?”
Marcus could only nod slightly, from his restricted pose. His voice refused to work when he was staring into his Father’s eyes. Eyes that have burned themselves through Marcus more than once, and will never be forgotten. Surely they were enchanted, having some special magical ability. But no, they would be remembered from the pain that followed when Marcus stared into their vengeful depths.
“Then I expect you to fix whatever issues you have here, Marcus. Do not let me catch you looking like this again. Especially now that you are working for me.” Nathaniel shoved his son’s head down before he released it to stand.
Marcus gritted his teeth, tucked his chin down into his chest, and waited, as he knew his Father was preparing the rope with a spell. The rope was no ordinary rope, used for the purpose of punishment, because Nathaniel was no ordinary man. Since Marcus was seven, Nathaniel had used the rope, but with certain experimentations at every use, that lessoned over the years as Marcus learned his place. But now the spell preformed was perfected and all together vicious. It was used for whipping of course, but the way it worked took years of fine-tuning. Now whenever it was used, it would cause no outside searing or cuts, but channeled beneath the skin to bruise muscle and crack bone. Internal damage was easier to hide, but more painful than a slice of flesh.
Marcus knew a hundred stings were going to crack his ribs, and tear back muscle, but he did not tremble in fear of the pain. Even as sore as he was from yesterdays’ fight, he would not indulge in worry about how much his punishment would hurt.
The spell was uttered and the enchanted rope lashed out, quicker and harder than anything his Father would do outside of magic. Beyond the cracking sound of the rope, he heard his Father walk away, to leave his son to suffer alone. It seemed Nathaniel had more important things to do, other than watch his son whipped.
Before twenty strikes had rattled Marcus’ bones, burned muscle, and sent stings of vibration through his chest, Marcus hoped his Father would remember that his son was outside, strapped to the spike. He also hoped his Father would grant him some healing before he would be to work come Thursday. Sweat started to line his features, and soon Marcus would black out, leaving his shoulder to scream when it hung by a thread from popping out of socket. He used to be able to take the pain, but since the length between strapping had been so long, Marcus was softened up from handling the sensations. He audibly whimpered as the rope neared thirty.
Rome had changed his perception, as well as his Father’s, it seemed. Marcus had groomed his ego, under his Father’s limited reach, since a rich relative was their hostess. So now that England was their home again, and Marcus was forced under his Father’s roof once more, he had taken for granted what he could and could not do. Marcus was going to have to be more careful, or he would have to rework his way of life. If he could get out on his own, in a respectable manner, the punishments would cease, as it had years ago. But his Father was stingy with the family fortune, and Marcus liked his whores and drugs, so he would have to compromise.
Or his Father would have to drop dead.
One of the two.