The Cursed Six
Chapter 6

Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, mt/Fa, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Ma/Ma, Ma/mt, Teenagers, Coercion, Consensual, Magic, NonConsensual, Pedophilia, Rape, Reluctant, Romantic, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Historical, War, Incest, Mother, Son, Brother, Sister, Father, Daughter, Cousins, Uncle, Niece, MaleDom, Humiliation, Light Bond, Rough, Sadistic, Spanking, Torture, Orgy, First, Lactation, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Pregnancy, Politics, Royalty, Slow, Violent,

Desc: Historical Sex Story: Chapter 6 - A historical fiction surrounding a cursed royal household. A dark tale of siblings and the lives they live.

~ ETHAN ~

Thelle Castle Thelle, Thellemere

When he’d gone to his father and demanded--or asked in as assertive a tone one would dare with a man the likes of King Robert--the secret to claiming his sister’s heart and eventually becoming a glorified ruler etched into time itself, this was not the answer he’d sought. The Ice Crypt was blue and dark and housed the smell of layers of century frozen cavern rocks. It was a sanctified compartment tunneled beside the royal castle. One hundred and fifty feet below the surface, he was told. Its entrance into the ground was nothing more than an icicled porthole guarded by the ancient stone slabs he could often see from his bedchamber. An insignificant artifice of Thellemere’s landscape, he had always assumed, and could still remember the childhood days of refusing to peer out his window at night, foolishly afraid the ascent of a crimson, ill-formed creature would come crawling from its depths.

The fear hadn’t parted completely when he and his father had begun the descent just hours prior. At first, he was unsure why Father had led him into the crypt. It had been just after one of Father’s council meetings, where Ethan had taken it upon himself to wonder if perhaps Mother was right, that Eleanor would need to be tamed and that Father’s counsel may in fact be needed. But when he’d gone to his father with this concern of co-ruling and how to best make his sister of tamer qualities, King Robert had said nothing more than, “Follow me.” Foolishly, Ethan had, inwardly grumbling over how A’zur and Astrid had it much easier. While they were off traveling the lands and enjoying the scenery on their way to Redthorn to gain the favour of some wealthy prince, he was stuck to ponder matters of the kingdom and his future reign, having been guided into some lone dark place. The crypt had been crafted for the First Royals hundreds of years ago. Rumoured to be the sanctuary where Misseldons sought absolution--by descending and speaking with the gods Roirii and Rarah, where in the end, the gods would tear their soul from their bodies and give them new ones, colder ones that would get them through the coming winter.

Sir Thomas had told him it was a lie, that while the leopard gods Roirii and Rarah presided in the belly of the crypt, they were but magnificent ice sculptures, positioned before a great chilling pool of water. It was a chamber of prayer, where the king or queen would voyage down the one thousand and ninety-six quartzite stairs, peel off their long white robes, and step into the freezing water. Always did it emit muted, faint pulses of nimbus and white ripples of light, bouncing off their pale faces as they stared up into the all-seeing blue eyes of the two snow leopards and began their prayer.

Ethan had tried to imagine himself or Eleanor indulging such a habit of prayer, then prowling back to the surface, where some may have observed from a distance as they walked in drenched robes across the field of snow-white grass back to the castle.

He could understand how rumours of soul-swapping could be spun.

But then the current purpose of the Ice Crypt’s usage had been revealed: Alan’s purification to prepare him for the sacrifice.

Common practice had been for a royal to enter the shimmering waters whose depths scaled lower the closer one swam to the other side of the round depression, and to stop when their chins touched the waterline. They would cup a handful of the cleansing liquid and splash it on their faces for clarity. Again for forgiveness. Again for redemption. Again for prosperity. Again for eminence. Again for absolution. Again for strength. Again for courage. Again for erudition.

But his father had informed it was not to be done the same way for Alan, for they sought change in their future, thus they must implement change in their practice.

Alan was strapped at the wrists and ankles to an immaculate wooden body bed carved for his precise frame. He’d lost a frightening amount of weight, his bones and veins more visible than the white skin itself. Blonde curls had grown to his back and he almost looked like a girl.

Differently, his father had told him. We are to do things differently. He will be lowered into the waters repeatedly, to ensure his vessel is pure for Roirii and Rarah when the time of sacrifice comes.

But first, they’d had to ensure the purity of the water itself.

And Ethan had witnessed with pressed lips as one brown clothed man had placed his foot onto the first step of the pool, crystal waters shining and throwing pale light though there was no outward source. Then another foot. Another. Another. When the male was completely submerged, save for his head, he had turned to stare directly at the king.

Until his skin turned from white to blue.

Until his eyes lost their lustre.

Until he was but a frozen corpse.

Only when the water was deemed pure and cold and suitably deadly did they find it worthy—for royal Misseldon born were incapable of feeling or being affected by drastically low temperatures.

So it was only then that the six men distributed on either side of the pool, each holding a black belt connected to Alan’s wooden board, commence the purification process.

“Un tifi, nine,” his father’s voice brought him back to the present.

They were dressed alike. His father, standing on the cold stone floors, wore a loose, sinfully black shift, blond coils of hair falling onto the fathomless top. Laceless black pants hung casually at his hips, a purple rope belt tied around the sure frame. That was it, nothing more. Like this, he looked far removed from being a stony king, but closer to something ... evil and wrong.

Ghastly blue reflected off his face. He stood tall, sturdy. One forearm poised in front of his chest, hand fisted, the other resting on top, hand pressed to his lips, fingers wrapped around a blue holystone.

“Un tifi, ten.” His breaths fogged in the Ice Crypt.

The men loosened their grip on the belt with perfectly matched motion, and Alan dropped into the falsely inviting waters again.

Gurgles, harsh and loud. Bubbles popping to the surface instantly as the boy struggled against his binds. He’d learned to keep his mouth closed nine plunges ago, after swallowing a mouthful the first time, choking, only to be lowered again while still coughing.

Ethan swallowed, though the pebble of spit joined the shrine of rocks that was his stomach. He didn’t dare break his stance as he stared. He knew Father was watching. Even though his eyes were trained on Alan.

Whom they were finally bringing to the surface.

His brother’s eyes were red from crying and suffocation, his upper lip so shiny it had to be nose-drippings. He gagged though nothing came of it as he’d been restricted food prior, and Ethan wished he’d known this was what his father had planned, because he’d have fasted as well.

“Un tifi, eleven.”

The boy dropped.

Ethan must have made a sound for he suddenly felt the prodding stab of his father’s gaze.

“Is there a problem, son?”

He shook his head. “The clothing are a bit irritating.”

His throat burned with untold truth. That he despised what he saw before him. That he wished it was his father tied to that board, his lungs raw from repeated submergence, his eyes burning from all of the screaming and protest.

“They are ours.”

Ours. Thellemere’s. All black. A simple purple belt.

“Ours” was loathsomely itchy and he hated how they were not form fitting. Or perhaps it was just him. He and his boy body while his father oozed power, his physique as hard and vicious as his heart.

He longed for the day he became like that. Then Eleanor would not dare piss on him the way she did as of now. But if he became like his father, would she become like their mother? If so, was that much of a victory for either of them?

Ethan fixed his eyes to the snow leopards at the opposite side of the pool. They were entirely carved of cloudy blue ice, their heads large and detailed with fur. Their molars were expressive as they peeked from the folds of their serene mouths. Their bodies were glossy and white-blue against the dark shadows of the crypt.

“Un tifi, twelve.”

Alan gave but a sob this time before the water swallowed him.

Fingers closed around his chest.

Though it was an awful and sickening admission, he found himself wanting the company of another sibling. Any other sibling. Someone to stand beside him, forearm before chest, other atop it, fist to lips. Watching as they destroyed their own blood.

“You disappoint me,” his father said. Barb-wrapped abjection, frowning like he’d tasted month-old poultry.

What was new.

“You are weak.”

Ethan’s head whipped around. “I stand before this infuriating practice, Father, and I speak nothing of its evil.”

King Robert kept the pose, eyes staring at the still submerged boy. “That you care is a token to your weakness. Your malleable, child’s heart. You come to me, you say you want to be king, you want a good wife, yet you are a child.”

He was surprised his teeth didn’t chip from the pressure they inflicted. “I am a man! That I do not support this vile act does not mean I cannot be king or have a good wife. I will be a great king and my wife will place jealousy in the hearts of all who behold her!”

His father scoffed. “Any man can go out and catch a wild boar.”

“By the gods, lift him.”

Grey eyes studied him a moment and Ethan could see the furthering of disgust fathering in them. His father gave a faint nod and the hooded, nameless men brought Alan up.

“You come to me in want of lessons.”

“I see nothing but pain.”

“The lesson lies within the pain.”

“What sort of lesson am I learning?”

“What is it you seek?”

Ethan was taken aback, mostly because his father had turned from the suffering Alan to peer at him with the weight of an anvil.

He sought greatness, of course--well, more greatness. And while it may have seemed implausible, to augment what he considered a perfectly perfect king-to-be, Ethan could admit he saw some (very few) areas of himself that could stand improvement.

He wanted to see Thellemere gain colours to their grey mountains and white fields. He wanted to see the snow melt come spring and there not be children thawing in the streets, those whose bodies were not strong enough, or their pantries not deep enough to provide meals throughout. He wanted the people to come marching up to his castle gates declaring their loyalty and devotion and praise.

Most importantly, he wanted a magnificent queen to raise the Kingdom of Ice with him.

“You want expansion of these winterlands?”

No, I am not you. I want the safety of those within the winterlands.

“Son, as you are now, you cannot keep them safe. You can hardly keep yourself safe. And this fantasy of yours, the toppling of winter starvations, banashings of the snow, illusions of love, makes me question when it was my boy was castrated and given a cunny to match that little girl heart he has rattling in his chest.”

Ethan swallowed a sound, but his ready-set objection was pushed aside as Father’s eyes narrowed and he murmured against the holystone, “Un tifi, thirteen.”

Water splashed.

“You have a small world perspective, Father. But me? I see the big spectra. You see the small things outside of the kingdom, while I see the larger portions within. I will be a man yet. A great man.”

“You will never be a man with the path you walk now. You will never rule like a man, fuck like a man or collar your bitch like a man, when you insist on behaving like a boy.”

Was that it, then? Morality be forgotten and suddenly he would exude masculinity? Father was truly a misguided mind if he thought in such a flawed light.

“I do not want a collared slave; I want a queen. Someone of power and strength, who can recognise my own.”

Someone like Eleanor. If she would simply see him for the man he was trying to become.

“And it is not that I’ve been castrated, but as I said, you can only see small things.” He spread his arms wide, and the black garment sat upon him like oil dripped atop the sculpture of a sensuous demigod. “And perhaps I’ve grown too large for you to see.”

Just as his father’s face contorted in what would have been obvious mocking laughter, the loud, resonating echo of thundering footfalls screeched against the frozen stairwell leading into the crypt.

They both turned their heads, waiting, until finally two guards adorned in a black fur coat and black-purple chest plates clattered to a halt, then immediately dropped to their knees. “Your Grace, forgive the interruption. This is Captain Wallace who claims he has urgent news.”

“News that could not wait?” his father stated evenly.

The man behind both guards wore the white vambraces of the island sailors and a black jerkin. His pants were layered wool and his boots were the thickest Ethan had ever seen in his life and frankly hoped to never have to see again. They were hideous. As was the man’s face, which was snow chafed and brutal, a black beard consuming half of it.

“Your Grace,” the captain said and Ethan noted instantly the lack of true deference in the acknowledgment.

The islanders, Ethan had heard stories of their self-praise.

“Speak and waste not a second more of my time.” His father was a mountain before the captain, in mind and body, waiting for the male’s arrogance to flare out of boundaries.

But the male simply shared a look between both the prince and the king, prioritising the eyes of the king as he dipped into an explorer’s bow, somehow always more shallow than those of the castle, as though his pride could not send him lower. He spoke above the gurgled protests of his brother. “I regret to inform you, but several fleets of Pyraceans have sank the Horror, Shalla, and Demon. Then they employed a worser fate for those of the Hoar Dancai.” Ethan recognized the ship names. They belonged to the Winter Regiments, and he vaguely recalled mention that they were deploying cargo as a means for peace. Those ships, however, were beloved amongst the Regiments. Loved and cherished and built to endure. What would the Pyraceans sink a peace offering for any other reason than to decline?

“Worser?” his father asked.

“They were forced to harbour in enemy territory, Your Grace, and when torn from their motherships...” The captain cleared his throat. “My men are maritime soldiers, winter soldiers.”

What did that mean?

Ethan glanced up at his father as though the answer were written in the strenuous lines of his frosted surface. All he saw was understanding, led by a hollow flood of fury. It was all he could do not to create distance between them.

“Those ships carried some of our finest vintages as a means to entice peace and negotiation,” said his father.

“I am aware, Your Grace.” The captain glanced to the icy grounds, breaths coming out in white smoke.

His father’s grey eyes slithered down to him and Ethan couldn’t help it, he looked away and gulped.

King Robert was not the man to wrong, lest one sought a premature end for themselves and their families. Either Pyracea’s King Clement enjoyed flirting with the guiles of death, or he was a fool in rich men’s clothing.

“Where are they now?” was his father’s question.

“They march on us as we speak.”

It was always the same with King Robert. When Ethan was younger, much younger, and their mother had caught him or his siblings in an act of insubordination, always did she report back to their father, ‘This child has been insolent.’

Never did he ask what they’d done, who was to blame or if there was an accomplice. He merely issued punishment.

Such as now. But Ethan was curious. This was not a matter of a naughty child. This was grounds for war.

“Father,” he spoke with granite, enough to stake his right to be heard. “Should we not be asking why it is their king has sunk the ships?”

King Robert folded his arms and closed his eyes, lips strained, brows taut, the black garb enveloping his pale image. “It will not alter the outcome.”

“But it might salvage the chance for peace and negotiation.”

“You are not A’zur. You are always so naive.”

Was that an actual compliment spared for his first born son?

“Just as well,” Robert murmured, then looked to the captain with a slit gaze. “Tell my son what he wishes to hear.”

The captain nodded and his green eyes were grim, his mouth as taut as the king’s. “Four nights prior, the Princess Lucia Peveral was found missing from her bouidor. The men who took her wore colours of black and purple, some of white and black, and when spotted traveling the paths between their two main cities, there were sightings of a hailed Lymerean flag.”

Ethan lost his breath, his eyes cutting up to his father’s face, but still the man implicated ice and indifference. No surprise or vexation.

“B-but surely they are not our men, are they?”

A sort of remorse entered the captain’s eyes and Ethan wanted to spit at it, to punch him and demand he not look at him as though he knew absolutely nothing. As if he were a born fool, destined to die as one.

“Your Highness, the men who’ve kidnapped Pyracea’s princess are believed to be none other than a member of one of their larger growing zealous cults, led by her own cousin.”

“Then why has King Clement not reached the same conclusion? Is it not obvious these men are liars who mean to make a fool of his common sense?”

“King Clement cherishes his children.” The captain’s eyes did not waver pointedly to King Robert as Ethan would have liked them to do. “And such a love can blind any man.”

“My son,” his father spoke up. “Values love. My son wishes to be a blind king. So perhaps you may want to choose your words with him lightly, for you see, he is also a delicate lily in the wind who would sooner banish the ice in this land than harvest it in his veins.”

“That is not true!”

His father was a raging torrent, a vicious show of bared teeth and power that made him appear no different than the ice leopard sculptures at the foot of the waters. The waters of which Ethan nearly fell into as he recoiled.

“You want safety, you must fight for it. These lands are versatile, hardened, and have been threatened by its neighbors for centuries. In light of such a clear act of war, peace cannot be salvaged!”

“Then you would attack them?” Ethan asked, shaking.

“By my god and goddess, I will exterminate them.”

His mouth dropped in horror. “Your age nears, Father...”

And should their family curse take King Robert just after he set off the bells of war, that would make Marianne regent; if their mother perished a meager one to two years following, as the curse was never precise on whether it was age 35 exactly or somewhere near the age, that would make him king.

He hadn’t anticipated coming into his rule right in the middle of a war he had no part in starting, yet it appeared his father did not care. Or perhaps...

He glanced down at Alan. Then to Roirii and Rarah.

“Exactly, son,” his father said, his voice back to its emotionless ice shards. “The sacrifice of your younger brother will extend my lifetime. I will handle this war and hopefully, when all is done, I will have a blind son no longer.”

“What if this sacrifice does not appease them?”

Could he, as he was, protect his homeland from demolition? Pyracea was a fathomless size, nearly equal to that of Redthorn and who was to say the summerlands would come to their aid should Pyracea initiate a full scale attack?

“It will,” King Robert ascertained.

“If it doesn’t?” he pressed.

His father snatched up his hand and smacked something hard into it. “I am needed elsewhere. At the very least, try to be less of a disappointment.”

Only when his father and the captain retreated far up the stairs and he could hear their footsteps no longer, did Ethan glance down into his palm.

The holystone.

His eyes flicked up to Alan, whose lids were slipping open and closed in varied states of consciousness. His breaths rapid. His skin pallid, lips bluer.

The lesson lies within the pain.

Was this the way of ensuring Thellemere’s security? Breaking the darkness reigning over them, securing his own longevity so that he might make a dent in history? He wished to be great and infinite, but did that mean reducing his own blood to something poor and finite?

Ethan bowed his head and assumed the pose of his father. Lips near the smooth face of the stone.

“Un tifi, fourteen.”

The board dropped.

ASTRID

The pile of cards was stacked neatly with not one out of place upon the small dining table. After dinner they had indulged in some recreation, nothing too heavy or challenging. Merely a game of ‘Upstairs or Downstairs?’, so it was luck more so than any sort of skill, and yet, she had won as she always did with card games. Most games, really. The activity simply did not suit A’zur in the slightest, even if the objective was to guess whether the opponent had a card higher in value than one’s own. The gentle congratulations he had given and the commiserations she had directed were pushed to the back of her mind for there was a much more pressing situation at hand. The looking glass trembled upon the dresser top as Astrid scrubbed at the surface, or rather, her reflection. Her brows creased at the sight of the blemish, which she certainly hoped was a project of her imagination and was really just a stain upon the glass.

“Gods this cannot be happening!” She grunted through gritted teeth. The red mark upon her left cheek seemed to be accentuated more so than earlier, likely due to her squeezing and pinching, and generally doing all that was advised not to be done with a potential spot.

“A’zur, can you take a look at this?” It was a sign of gluttony, she was sure of it. Too much oil produced upon the skin. She had eaten the meat which was delightfully juicy a few days prior, which was surely the cause. If not, it was simply adolescence, which would only make her stand out as a poxy child rather than a clear-skinned young princess before Redthorn’s heir. “A’zur! Come here!”

They’d been traveling for shy of five long, grueling days, having voyaged through the stale white lands of Lorewell and hazardously frigid hills of Moui, ending in a quaint inn north of the borderline disputing Thellemere and Redthorn, but somehow her brother had managed to remain untouched by the cruelty nature had bestowed onto her. For hours he had been sitting in a corner chaise, head bent over the binding of parchments given to him by his secondary advisor before their departure. His face was closed off, eyes dully skimming the same pages he’d been skimming yesterday--and the day before that, and that.

Just then, his head lifted to stare across at her, response slow in coming. “What concerns you?” This time. He may not have added the ending, but the words incensed the space between them.

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