Written by pr0nz69 the younger.

This literally all started because of Alfonse's stupid sexy clothing damage. So you have Kozaki Yusuke to thank for this.

(FYI: Kinks are tagged on the AO3 posting!)

Cover art done by AO3's wonderful Fluticasone!

Princess Veronica doesn't even wait till they're off the battlefield before she divests him of his armor; she wants the others to see her do it, Kiran, Anna, his own sister. Alfonse watches them with flushed countenance as she has her soldiers strip him almost bare. His tunic and trousers have already been cut close to tatters; the pale flesh of his thighs shows through where even his smallclothes have been sliced apart. He stares down at himself because he can't bear to lift his head and face his companions, not in this disgraceful state.

But they're not watching him, they're busy screaming out at Princess Veronica, impressing on her that he's royalty, and captive or no, he must be treated as such. He surrendered himself willingly upon defeat, they remind her-or as willing as exchanging one's life for the peace of the kingdom can be considered-but she doesn't heed them. She has the audacity, even, to come up beside him and lightly slap his face-for speaking without permission, she informs him (he only meant to reassure the others that this is okay, that he is okay). It isn't painful and isn't meant to be; it's a show of power, and her aim is to humiliate, not to hurt. He hates to acknowledge that she succeeds in it, too.

Once she has him disarmed, Veronica does not linger. Her soldiers are quick to manacle his wrists before him, and he's bound by a long stretch of chain to the back of her horse, to walk behind her as a prisoner. He doesn't look back at his friends as they begin to move; he doesn't want their last memory of him to be with his eyes unsettled and his cheeks hot with shame. Instead, he straightens his back, squares his shoulders, holds his head high, and generally tries to look princely and dignified even as he feels like the lowliest wretch. It's only once he's certain they are out of view of the others that he finally releases the air from his puffed-up chest and deflates, exhaustion and resignation overtaking him.

They make their way through the lawless wilds and into Emblian territory, over green-grass hills and across swaths of hardy farmland. They move at a steady clip, and though Alfonse has to pay particular attention to his own pace lest he be pulled, or worse, dragged, he can't help but take in all of the idylls of the landscape as they pass. Askr is replete with natural beauty, but Embla, with its high-rising mountains and patchwork of blue-white streams, doesn't appear to be lacking in any significant way. He can't fathom the princess's envy of his kingdom's aesthetic when hers can scarcely be called inferior.

Before long, however, a thick fog settles over the valley, obscuring even the princess's horse before him. He can only walk blindly forward, listening for hoofbeats muted by the mud, feeling for a tug at his lead to direct him. He ends up taking the chain into his hands and holding it taut to use as a guide. Meanwhile, the cavalry takes advantage of the fog's cover to taunt him, poking and slapping his legs with the butts of their spears, trying to trip him up, until the princess herself notices and orders them to stop. Alfonse is almost appreciative until she murmurs, "Any bruises upon his body I'd like to place there myself."

"Under the terms of surrender, you are obligated to keep me alive," he warns her, trying to reestablish even a bit of power for himself.

"Of course I will keep you alive, little prince," she says, and the diminutive incenses him. "After all, you wouldn't be much fun to me dead. Oh yes, you should know that I keep all of my playthings in fair condition-barring a little bit of..." She pauses here, pretending to think up an appropriate term. "Rough play," she settles on at last, and dread and resentment roil in the pit of his stomach.

"There is the expectation that I will be treated humanely," he counters weakly, for no clause in the terms of surrender stipulates that he must be, and as the one who drafted them, she is more than aware.

"I will keep you alive," she repeats rather ominously. Then she adds, smugly, "Now, do not speak unless you are given express permission to do so. As much as it would amuse me to punish you, I can't imagine you share the sentiment, prince. So for your own sake"-he can hear the smile in her voice-"be a good boy."

Alfonse grits his teeth and bites back a retort. He hates her threats, her self-assurance, her condescending sense of superiority. But he understands his own situation, too, enough to keep himself from jeopardizing it needlessly. He is her captive now, her veritable property (the thought makes him sick), and it doesn't matter whether he likes it or not. By the agreement he himself signed-willingly, by all appearances, but truthfully without much of a choice at all-his fate now is to follow her in every order, no matter how unpalatable. So he falls silent and prays to every god he knows that his companions will follow through on their promise to find a way to bring him home.

When it begins to rain, showing no sign of letting up, they stop and make camp for the night. Alfonse is left tied to the horse, shivering in his torn clothes while the wind and rain lash against him and a city of tents is erected around him. At some point, a mounted party comes into view on the horizon, riding toward them from the direction in which they came, and for a moment, he is elated to think it's his own army come to take him back. But as the party nears, his heart falls when he realizes it's only the masked man and Xander and a collection of other soldiers loyal to his captor, the princess. Without sparing so much as a glance at him, both men dismount and make their way to Princess Veronica's tent, disappearing within.

Alfonse resists the urge to sink to his knees. Against the princess's wishes, his legs are mottled with bruises, both from the ill-fated battle that landed him here and from the lances her own soldiers used against him. He wants to sit down and rest them, but he won't show weakness like this, won't let her think he's so easily broken. Still, he's tired from walking and fighting, and it's getting harder to stay standing, even as he partly leans on the horse to try and keep his balance. He thinks about his four-poster bed back at the palace and even his decidedly less comfortable field cot. He wonders where he'll be sleeping tonight and if he'll even be able to.

He only realizes he was dozing where he stood when heavy footsteps wake him from his trance. Blearily, he looks up to find the masked man staring down at him, too close for comfort. He hastily steps back, tripping over his own chain, and his stiff legs won't comply with his body in time to correct his fall. The man's there in an instant, catching him by the arm and yanking him back upright, supporting the bulk of his weight as his legs finally give out under him.

"You again," Alfonse breathes, head flopping forward as the man moves to hold him under the arms while unhooking his chain from the horse's saddle. "Why didn't you just join our cause? I see no benefit in aiding the likes of her..."

"You do not need to see any such benefit," is the curt response, and then: "Walk."

It's difficult to get his feet moving again, but with the man's help, Alfonse manages to make it to the entrance of Princess Veronica's tent, his chain dragging like a weight between his legs. The man opens the tent flap and guides him in, keeping him steady by a grip on the shoulder as he steps in after him.

The tent is spacious and warm, to Alfonse's immediate relief, its walls hung with furs and its floor spread with pelts and plush rugs. In the center burns a magical smokeless fire, shading the canvas a pale green, and in the back corner is a cot that's more of a bed with its rich silk sheets and heavy quilts. Alfonse stares at it longingly until he realizes Princess Veronica is watching him from the other side of the fire, an amused glint in her eye.

"How are you feeling, little prince of Askr?" she inquires innocently, rising to meet them. "You're looking rather ragged."

Alfonse catches her in his gaze, eyes narrowing into a partial glare. "I'm as well as can be expected in a situation like this, Princess," he says frigidly. Veronica chuckles.

"Yes, yes, I can see that you're not looking your princeliest." She gestures to the rugs on the floor, indicating that he sit. "Go ahead and strip. I've already sent for a cleric to come and clean you and see to your wounds."

In spite of himself, Alfonse blushes. "Princess Veronica," he says quickly, "I cannot have a woman, let alone one your age, see me... see me..." He trails off, too flustered to continue. Veronica merely raises an eyebrow.

"Very well, foolish prince," she says, stepping around the fire to retrieve a cloak that lay abandoned on the floor and throwing it around herself. "Since it's your first night and I'm too tired to entertain your silly modesty, I will let it slide for the time being. Next time, however, I expect to see you-all of you." She looks pointedly at the tears in his trousers, at the tracks of his thighs showing through, and he turns redder. Then she pulls up her hood and addresses the masked man. "Bruno. Have him cleaned and ready by the time I return from mess. I am tired and do not wish to be kept up much longer."

"Yes, my lady," the masked man-Bruno-replies, and he steps aside, allowing the princess to quit the tent. As soon as she's gone, he returns his attention to Alfonse, roughly shoving him to the ground. "You heard Her Majesty. Strip."

Alfonse swallows his anger and gingerly maneuvers himself onto his backside. "How am I to do that when you have not released me from my restraints?" He holds up his bound hands pointedly, and Bruno grabs them, fumbling at his belt for a key before finally unlocking the manacles. Alfonse retracts his hands to his chest, rubbing the numbness out of his wrists. Bruno watches him expectantly, but even now that he's been freed, he can't get himself to strip before this man.

"Could you at least offer me the dignity of turning away so that I can undress in private?" he halfheartedly asks, already knowing what the answer will be. This, too, is meant to humiliate him, to break him down into something less than human.

This time, Bruno doesn't even humor him with a response. Instead, he crouches down, hovering over him with a blade drawn from his belt as he quickly and crudely hacks away what's left of Alfonse's clothes. Alfonse keeps still throughout, fearful that the knife will meet with his flesh should he attempt to struggle. His hands surge to cover his groin the moment Bruno steps away, and his legs slide together to further guard his modesty. A gust of wind pushes through the tent flap, chilling him as the fire flickers beside him.

The cleric appears a moment later, an elderly woman toting a bucket filled with what must be rainwater. Alfonse tries to retreat further into himself, but Bruno must have used some form of dark magic against him, for he suddenly finds that he has lost control of his muscles and can neither move nor speak. He's helpless to resist as the woman bends him this way and that, checking for wounds.

"Nothing so serious as to require the use of a stave," she says gruffly, tossing aside his limp arm as if it were that of a rag doll. She wets a washcloth in the bucket and begins to clean him. Alfonse keeps his eyes tightly shut throughout, trying not to tremble from both the cold of the water on his skin and the discomfort of having this woman and Bruno see every intimate part of him. She doesn't shy away, either, startling him when he feels the heavy dampness of the cloth against his privates. He's certain his face is as bright as any daylily as she brusquely scrubs between his legs, and the thought that, were the water not so cold, he might not remain in control of his body mortifies him.

At last, the woman finishes, winding a few bandages over his more severe cuts (one of which, on the inside of his left thigh, is uncomfortably close to his crotch, he notes with chagrin) before clambering to her feet and quitting the tent without another word. Bruno barely glances at him as he tosses down a new garment, but he does look up at Alfonse's noise of discontent upon examining the thing. The item is a drab tan gown made of a coarse, pliable weave, and it's so short that it barely reaches mid-thigh when he stands in it.

"Where are my smallclothes?" he asks, tugging at the hem of the gown in a vain attempt to lengthen it.

"This is what Her Majesty ordered," Bruno says simply, daring him to argue. "Would you like me to let her know you are dissatisfied with the conditions of your stay so soon?"

"This is indecent," Alfonse objects, helplessly. "Please, you must bring me something to wear underneath this." He pulls on the gown again to emphasize how short it is, how it just barely covers his intimate parts.

"This may be difficult for a prince like you to understand," Bruno says icily, stepping up to him, "but you don't give the orders around here."

Alfonse flushes, feeling foolish in spite of how reasonable he knows his request is. Bruno lays his hands heavily on his shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees. It's then that Alfonse notices the coil of rope at his belt, and he fidgets uncomfortably as Bruno reaches for it.

"Put your hands behind your back," he orders.

"I signed the terms of surrender," Alfonse retorts, clenching his fists. "I have no intention of breaking that contract by running off."

"I didn't ask about that," Bruno says, his voice dangerously low. "I ordered you to put your hands behind your back."

Still, Alfonse hesitates. "Please," he all but begs. "I don't need to be bound. I won't cause any trouble. You have my word."

Bruno reaches a hand forward, and Alfonse flinches away. But the man only touches his face, surprisingly gently. "Princess Veronica has ordered that no harm is to befall you without her consent," he murmurs, his warm, calloused fingers brushing against Alfonse's cheek. "But if you do not desist in your prideful, foolhardy obstinacy, then I will have no choice but to show violence against you in order to make you comply." His hand suddenly curves under Alfonse's jaw, and he grips it with a startling pressure that makes the prince grunt in pain. "I will not repeat myself again. Put your hands behind your back."

Fuming, humiliated, Alfonse obeys, and, expressionlessly, Bruno releases his face, maneuvering his own body until he's crouching behind him. Alfonse clenches his teeth as he feels Bruno loop the rope around his left wrist, cinch it tight, and then pull it up over his right shoulder and across his neck.

"You'll strangle me," he gasps in a moment of panic, but Bruno seems unconcerned.

"Not if you don't struggle," he says evenly, bringing the rope down the other side of Alfonse's neck while folding his right arm into the small of his back above the left. He winds the rope several times around his wrist and then around both in a figure eight. Then he brings it around the other side of his neck, pulls it taut, and secures it, somehow, at his back, leaving the excess to serve as a sort of lead. Alfonse tests the bonds, mostly out of morbid curiosity, and finds them secure and unyielding. Even struggling just a little puts a suffocating pressure on his neck.

Bruno helps him to his feet, and almost immediately after, the tent flap opens and in steps the princess. She smiles when she sees them, an eerie, gratified look that makes Alfonse's skin crawl. He's once again made aware of his distressingly short garment as Veronica's eyes travel over him, hovering noticeably on his mostly bare thighs.

"Good work," she says to Bruno, who merely nods. "But I'm tired from warring all day and do not much feel like playing with him tonight." She offers a theatrical yawn, then makes a shooing motion with her hand. "Take him away. Make sure to tie his feet so he can't run."

"Princess," Alfonse interjects coldly, "as I've just finished telling him, I have no designs to attempt escape. I don't wish to see my kingdom razed in exchange for my freedom."

Veronica looks at him oddly for a moment, as if considering something she had never thought of before. Then she grins wide, stretching her face almost grotesquely. "Tie his feet," she repeats, "because I'd like to see the honorable prince of Askr squirm-perhaps literally."

Alfonse can feel his face heat again. "Princess Veronica," he implores one final time, "I have complied with all of your demands thus far. I only ask that you treat me humanely, as in accordance with Zenith's code of-"

"If you speak one more word," Veronica interrupts, "then I will have you gagged as well." Alfonse falls silent at once, and she smiles again. "Oh, I do like seeing you so obedient to me!" she says with a laugh. "Tomorrow, I will have my fun. Tonight you have to prepare yourself, little prince."

She turns her back on him with another yawn and the order for Bruno to remove him, which he duly does. Alfonse is shuffled from the princess's tent to Bruno's where, in accordance to Veronica's wishes, he's laid out on a cot on his stomach and his ankles are bound close together with a cord. Bruno doesn't speak, so he doesn't either-he's still angry at him, and at the princess, for so thoroughly collaring him, and for taking away his freedom, and for even waging this senseless war in the first place.

Eventually, burnt out by his emotions, he allows his thoughts to shift to his friends. He wonders what they're doing now, what they're thinking about. Surely they must be thinking of him just as he is of them. The notion is calming, a little, especially when he thinks of Kiran, who he's doing a poor job of not getting too attached to. He wonders if Kiran's brilliant mind is already working on a plan to reverse this whole nightmarish situation. He hopes so. He's sure of it.

Soothed by the thought, he lets himself relax for the first time all day, and sleep finds him shortly after.

I'm calling the masked man Bruno because apparently that's his name in the data files, and it'd be awkward to keep calling him "the masked man." Also, even though he's a wild card in canon, in this fic, he works exclusively for Veronica (who's like 16+ or something for my purposes because I honestly can't get a read on her canon age and also I don't really care). Also-also, the way he ties up Alfonse is actually hojoujutsu, but nobody knows what that is, so I just called it shibari.

Review and follow if you'd like me to continue because Writer Needs Encouragement Badly.