In which Alfonse is a lightweight and certain punishment is in order.

(I'm very sorry for the long delay! I've recently started a new job, and I have my professional writing I've been focusing on as well. Updates may be slower than before, but I'll try to release at least one chapter a month! Thanks as always for sticking with me and validating my self-indulgent smut!)

Right before he disappeared, as they stood body to body in that breezy, open plain where the grass was too tall and the sun was too hot, Zacharias kissed Alfonse.

There was no provocation for it as far as Alfonse could tell. They were traveling together with a handful of soldiers to some of Askr's fringe villages to improve morale in the wartime, and when they'd stopped to break for lunch, he and Zacharias had stolen away on their horses to find respite from their overbearing company. They'd been sitting back to back peeling apples they'd looted from the supply of rations when Zacharias abruptly stood, knocking Alfonse onto his back.

"What was that about, Zach?" he'd grumbled, sitting up and brushing grass and dirt off his tunic.

"Alfonse. Come here," Zacharias said in an odd, strained voice. When Alfonse stood as well, that's when he moved in.

The moment was far more picturesque than such moments are wont to be despite all the romance popularly given them. The sky was blue and vast. The breeze was slight, enough only to sift through their hair like the caress of gentle hands. Brown grass crawled up to their hips as Zacharias put his arms around Alfonse's back and his mouth on his lips.

It lasted no more than seven seconds, if even that, and then Alfonse pulled away. It wasn't a big deal, is what Zacharias told him after when he'd started to panic (it was a big deal to him), it was just something boys did, something that showed they were becoming men. He was still holding a paring knife, gripped tight in his right hand, and when Alfonse, in his need to distract himself from what had just transpired, inquired as to why, and informed him that he could have chanced to stab him when he'd put his arms around him like that, Zacharias only shrugged.

"But I didn't," he said, and his voice was stiff, so unlike him that Alfonse felt even more discomfited, but he resolved to speak no more on it, not least of all for the sake of his own abashed dignity.

They never did speak of the kiss again, and Zacharias was gone before their trip was up.

Alfonse wakes up in pain. Every part of him hurts, from his shins and thighs up to his shoulders and even his face. His memory's spotty, and he has a feeling he ought to keep it that way for now. He has the presence of mind, at least, to try to ease himself back into the unconscious bliss of sleep. It doesn't work; he's awake enough now that the pain is impossible to ignore.

He opens his eyes to find himself staring up at the canopy of his bed. The room is dark, but there's a candle on the desk and a fire in the grate, offering some illumination as well as casting long, jagged shadows against the bars. He isn't alone; slumped forward on his stool, head and arms resting on the edge of the mattress, is Gordin, sleeping soundly. Alfonse regards him curiously for a moment, then tries to sit up. He regrets it immediately; a ravenous pain spikes through every part of him, and he groans, rousing the sleeping servant.

"Ah-Your Highness, don't move!"

Gordin jumps to his feet and catches him by the shoulders, gently lowering him back onto the pillows. "Hold on-I'll get you some water."

Alfonse has to chew the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as Gordin slips his hand beneath his head and carefully lifts it, guiding the crystal glass to his lips. Alfonse drinks so fast that he chokes, spraying water over the duvet. Gordin dries his his face and chin with a handkerchief before lowering him back onto his pillows.

"I have a bit of wine if you'd like, sire," he says. "For the pain."

"Please," Alfonse rasps, and Gordin retrieves from the desk a heavy goblet filled to the brim with a dark liquid. This time, Alfonse takes measured sips, savoring the flavor as well as the lightness that gradually claims him, dulling the pain. Once he's finished, Gordin returns the empty vessel to the desk and then takes up his post on the stool at his bedside.

"How are you feeling?" he asks him.

"H-hurting," Alfonse manages. He clears his throat. "What time is it?"

Gordin dips his hand to the belt at his waist and lifts an old pocket watch by its chain. "Nearly three in the morning," he reads by the light of the candle. "You've been asleep for about two days now, sire."

"T-two days?"

"Yes. I won't force you, but you ought to eat something once you feel able to."

But that isn't his major concern at present. "What of Felicia?" he asks sharply. "She-she took blows for my sake. She could be hurt! I need to speak to her!"

Gordin reaches up to the back of his neck, tugs at his hair. "I-I'm sorry, sire-I've neither seen nor heard from Felicia in two days."

Alfonse feels his heart rate start to accelerate. "Th-then find her-we have to find her!" he gasps, struggling under the bedclothes in a vain attempt at extricating himself from them, but the pain, as well as Gordin's hand against his breast, detain him.

"Forgive my impertinence," he says, removing his hand at once, "but nothing good will come of you moving about now, Prince Alfonse."

"But Felicia!" Alfonse cries, nearly growling in frustration. "She was injured! She could be injured now! I can't allow her to die!"

"Please try to relax, sire! Felicia is alive-other servants have seen her. She won't speak to any of them, however, and dashes off the moment she's confronted. I think she needs to be alone for now."

Expended of energy but light with relief, Alfonse falls back onto his pillows. "Are you sure?" Gordin nods. "I-I see. Then... I suppose... we have no choice but to give her her space." He says this last part unwillingly; he wishes she would at least speak to him, confirm that she's alright. The reason she won't, he can't help himself from thinking, is likely because she's not alright, because she's hurting and she doesn't want him to see it. It would be just like her to do such a thing.

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable in the meantime, Your Highness?" Gordin asks.

"No, it's quite alright-you don't have to stay beside me, Gordin. You've already done enough for me. Go take some rest in your quarters."

Gordin glances nervously at the cell door. "Even if I were inclined to leave you, sire, that would be impossible-Princess Veronica has locked me up in here without a key. She wanted someone by your side constantly, and I suppose she feared you would attempt escape if I had a key to your cell on my person."

Alfonse glares into the darkness. "I've already made it very clear to her that I have no intentions of fleeing. Even now." He shudders, skimming the welts on his arm with the pads of his fingers. "She likes having me wholly under her control with no agency of my own, so I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised."

"Regardless, sire, I'm happy to remain at your side as you recover," Gordin says cheerfully. "So rest easy knowing I'll be here should you need anything."

"I appreciate it, Gordin, I really do," Alfonse says, "but I have to know"-he expels a tense breath-"why do you care so much about my well-being? I've thought it over, and I can't seem to figure it out. Is it out of obligation because-because I'm royalty? Or is it because of Princess Veronica's contract?"

"It's none of that, Your Highness!" Gordin says with a laugh that makes Alfonse feel suddenly very foolish, though he can't entirely explain why. "As I told you before, though I'm merely a pawn to Princess Veronica here, I proudly serve Prince Marth back in my own world and hold the deepest affection for him. I also have a best friend named Draug and a little brother named Ryan, both of whom I love with all my heart. But even though I can't see any of them right now, I have hope that we'll meet again someday. And in the meantime, I have you, Prince Alfonse." He smiles, and Alfonse blushes in spite of himself. "You're kind and strong, just like them. And you're the most selfless person I've ever met, putting yourself through all of this for the sake of your country and people. I can't help but admire that about you-and grow attached to you in turn. So I cherish the bond that we share, and I'm honored to serve at your side."

"S-stop," Alfonse says, his neck growing hot. "You don't have to say such things to cheer me up..."

"I mean it, Your Highness. I wouldn't say it if I didn't." Gordin smooths the covers down over him in motherly fashion. "You needn't worry about things like that now, however. Just rest and recover your strength."

Alfonse feels like a child again, being babied by the family servants. He's far too drunk and exhausted, however, to feel very self-conscious about it, and soon enough, he slips back off to sleep.

He wakes periodically through the night in varying degrees of pain, and true to his word, Gordin is there to tend to him each and every time with salve for his wounds and wine and gentle reassurances. Once, he wakes to Gordin arguing with someone in possession of a stern and powerful voice that rings all too familiar to him. He opens his eyes and is awash in cold dread as he perceives Prince Xander there in full armor, arms crossed and jaw set.

"Her Majesty ordered me not to leave his side, milord," Gordin says firmly, but Alfonse can perceive his small frame shaking.

"I will not relieve you from your post for long," Xander says. "Do not make me remove you by force."

"Gordin," Alfonse says softly, and Gordin jumps and whirls around. "It's alright. Just do as he says."

"But Your Highness-!"

"Go. Please." He won't see him hurt again. Not on his account.

Gordin relents and ducks out of the cell. He glances behind him when he reaches the door, then pulls it open and departs.

"Loyal, that one," Xander comments, sounding rather impressed and perhaps even pleased.

Alfonse struggles to orient himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pull at his wounds as he moves. "Prince Xander. What do you want of me?"

"What is this?" Xander asks in honest curiosity, ignoring the question, and Alfonse blushes wildly as he skims his fingers across the gold band encircling his throat. "Is this... a collar?"

"Yes," Alfonse mumbles, staring off to the side.

"But-but why are you wearing it?" Xander sounds nearly at a loss for words, which, somehow, is something of a comfort coming from the seemingly infallible prince. "What is it's utility?"

Don't make me answer that, Alfonse wants to say, but of course, he can't. "Princess Veronica makes me wear it. She... fixes leashes to it so that she can better control my movements." Looking down at it now, he realizes Veronica must have removed the chain linking it to the one between his nipples, and it's a small relief that Xander has no occasion to see it and thereby follow it to its source.

"That is... an odd designation," Xander says, sounding as if he knows very well how he feels about it but is pretending otherwise. "I-in any case, my purpose in coming here is simply to check up on your health. Excuse me..." Before Alfonse can object, he starts to lift his tunic up.

"No!" Alfonse grabs his wrist with both hands, stopping it on level with his breast.

Xander frowns. "I'm not going to hurt you. You have my word." He pries Alfonse's hands back and pulls his tunic up under his arms. Alfonse closes his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, desperate to conceal the signs of his debasement, but instead of meeting with cool metal, he's shocked to feel the coarseness of linen against his skin.

"Come now, move your arms so I can take a look," Xander chastises, and numbly, Alfonse obeys, looking down to find the uppermost portion of his torso wrapped in clean, white bandages. Meanwhile, his stomach and shoulders are striped with lash marks and bruises. Did Veronica foresee this, he wonders, and opt to preserve something of his dignity? He can't entirely rule it out, though he's reluctant to give her such credit.

True to his word, Xander doesn't harm him, doesn't even touch him, just looks him over with an increasingly furrowed brow before letting his tunic fall back over him. Alfonse curls up against his knees, gazing warily up at him. How degraded he feels by comparison, reduced to a meek, cowering shell of a prince who allowed himself to be captured because he could not lead his army to victory.

But all Xander says is, "I'll send a cleric to treat your wounds." He gets up to leave.

"How kind of you," Alfonse snaps before he can temper his frustration. "But do you not find it disgraceful to allow fellow royalty to suffer as I have suffered at the hands of Princess Veronica?"

Xander turns. "Even royalty must be punished for disobedience, as my siblings and I rightly know," he says, though his tone is not as firm as might have been expected.

Alfonse laughs grimly, an unpleasant sound even to his own ears. "Even if I have been disobedient, as the princess alleges, do you find my wounds, which you have just now seen with your own eyes, to be fair retribution for such actions?" Xander is silent, so he continues, "I have been tortured in ways that even you cannot imagine, Prince Xander."

He presses his legs together unconsciously, feeling the heaviness of the cage between them.

"I will... have words with the princess," Xander says at last. "Rest for now. The cleric will be up momentarily."

He departs after that, and Alfonse slumps against his pillows, cringing at the pain that thrums up through him. The cleric, arriving a quarter of an hour later, helps ease the ache somewhat with her staff, and he's able to sleep comfortably for a time. When he wakes again, it's late afternoon, and Gordin is at his bedside with a goblet of milk and brandy and a bowl of hot porridge mixed with strawberries and honey.

"Any news of Felicia?" Alfonse asks weakly as Gordin props him up on a stack of pillows.

"No, sire. I managed to locate her when Prince Xander sent me away, but she would not speak to me when I call out to her. I gave chase, of course, but she was fast to lose me." Gordin sighs, taking a seat on the stool by the bed and balancing the bowl of porridge on his knee. "Quick as she is, she doesn't appear to be terribly injured at the least."

"Perhaps she's too disgusted with me and can't bear to face me."

Gordin holds up a spoonful of porridge, which Alfonse reluctantly accepts. He doesn't realize how hungry he is until the food is in his mouth, warm and savory.

"I can't imagine that that is the case at all, Your Highness. If you don't mind me speculating, I think she is feeling some misplaced guilt at her part in bringing you to harm."

Alfonse swallows too quickly and gasps at the heat that catches in his throat. Once he can speak again, he says, "She was under duress-and I ordered her to play along-how could she think I would be angry at her for such a thing?"

"Much in the same way that you were distressed when you were complicit in my harm while you were under duress, sire," Gordin says gently, feeding him another bite. "But of course I didn't blame you!"

Alfonse slowly chews and swallows, contemplating. "Yes," he concedes at last, "I suppose you're right. But please, Gordin-if you can somehow get word to her that I'm okay, that I don't blame her, and that I'm worried, then..."

"Yes, of course! I'll leave a message in her quarters with what you've told me and try to track her down in the meantime."

"Thank you. I truly am indebted to the both of you. You two-you give me hope in this wretched place."

Gordin flushes a deep red, and Alfonse reciprocates, to his embarrassment.

The remainder of the day is passed in relative comfort. Alfonse, dizzy from the alcohol, spends much of it in a dreamlike state while Gordin reads to him from various tomes taken from the bookshelf until late into the night. He must have fallen asleep eventually, for at some point, he has another dream about Zacharias-but he's woken out of it by the sound of impassioned voices before he can remember much of what it was about.

"Princess Veronica, you cannot treat him this way! I've seen it myself-he is feverish and weak! It is verging on a war crime to abuse a captive this way, not to mention hardly diplomatic considering he has willingly surrendered himself to you! There is punishment, and then there is torture, and this-this is something that my f-that the previous king of Nohr would have done, and I cannot tolerate it!"

"Oh, Xander, I understand, I do-please, please don't leave me! I only meant to punish him for his constant insubordination and disobedience-I never meant to cause any severe harm! He is terribly disobedient, you know!"

Alfonse curls his hands into fists under the covers. He hears the creaking of his cell door opening, but he keeps his eyes shut.

"I will not leave you, Princess-and I would not dare to leave his care to you as it is," Xander says sharply. "But I will teach you the proper way to punish disobedient wards. I have, after all, had to do it many a time myself." Xander pauses, apparently observing him. "See how flushed he is? One of his wounds must have gotten infected. I've had him seen and treated by a cleric, who said he ought to come around within two weeks' time."

"Oh, thank you, Xander!" Veronica cries, sounding for all the worlds like a giddy sycophant, and it's so jarringly uncharacteristic of her that it puts Alfonse immediately on his guard.

"Since I will be administering to him some manner of corporal punishment"-Alfonse has to consciously keep himself from physically reacting to the term-"we must wait until he is recovered. After all, punishment is meant to discipline, Princess Veronica, not to wear him down until he's clinging to life."

"Yes, yes, I made a mistake! Oh, Xander, won't you forgive me?"

Xander sighs. "I could never be mad at you, Princess." Alfonse wonders how long that would remain true if only he knew the true nature of her cruelty. "You may go. I will examine Prince Alfonse and report back to you shortly."

Princess Veronica mutters her assent, and Xander waits for the door to close behind her before speaking again. "I know you're awake."

Alfonse opens his eyes. "What do you want from me now?"

"Be at ease. It is as I said; I just wish to examine you."

It's morning and rather early into it, Alfonse determines, given the weak, gray light reaching through the window. Gordin is in the corner of the cell, kneeling and with his head turned down. Xander is standing at the foot of the bed looking pensive, but after a moment, he approaches. Alfonse squirms as he pulls back his covers and brushes up his tunic.

"I don't understand," he says, creasing his brow. "All of your wounds seem to be healing just fine. And yet-"he slips his hand beneath Alfonse's hair, feeling his forehead-"you're burning up."

He pulls the blankets down further, and Alfonse tries to turn onto his side, terrified of the bulge in his trousers showing through, but Xander stays him with a firm hand. "Don't move. I'm just going to check your legs."

Alfonse shivers and holds his knees together as Xander rolls up the left leg of his trousers. He stops abruptly, and Alfonse looks down and realizes he's gotten to the bloodied bandages covering the wound on his thigh.

"Don't touch it!" he snaps, kicking away Xander's hand, but he regrets the action when pain pinches up and down his leg.

"What is this?" Xander asks, apparently unperturbed by his violent display.

Alfonse gingerly folds his leg up to his torso. "It's a wound."

"How did you get it?"

Alfonse buries his face in his pillow. "The princess," he mutters.

"What was that?"

He turns his head slightly. "I said the princess! The princess gave it to me! She stabbed me!"

Xander looks taken aback. "Why did she stab you?"

"I don't know! I don't know why she does anything!"

He feels so pathetic, curled up like a frightened animal in its den, fearful of what lies beyond. Thankfully, Xander doesn't push him.

"I'm going to send the cleric up again," he says. "You must allow her to clean your wound. It's most likely the source of your infection. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Alfonse doesn't look at him, and Xander sighs.

"Very well. But do not resist the cleric. I can't guarantee your continued survival if you don't allow her to treat you."

He departs, and the instant the door closes behind him, Gordin leaps up like an unwound spring. "Are you okay, Your Highness?" he asks, arranging the blankets so that Alfonse is covered again.

"Yes... Yes, I'm okay." Alfonse hugs the blankets up to his chin. "Thank you for worrying about me."

He isn't certain how okay he is, though. The days move along at a snail's pace. His recovery is slow as well. Gordin is eventually released from his nursing duties, but he returns frequently to provide care when he can. Slowly, slowly, Alfonse begins to feel healthier. He takes up pacing his cell once his leg is strong enough to stand on. He realizes he must look very much like a penned animal at a zoo, restlessly prowling the perimeter of his confines, but he can't seem to get himself to stop.

Felicia remains all but missing. Gordin claims to see her frequently, but according to him, she will not be approached. Whether or not she read the note left for her at Alfonse's behest can be neither confirmed nor denied. Even as his health returns to him and Veronica remains as distant from him as Felicia, Alfonse finds his spirit sinking lower and lower. His near-total isolation is maddening, and Felicia's behavior, increasingly worrying.

One day, more than a week after Xander's last visit, Gordin enters his room looking exceedingly depressed.

"I'm sorry, sire," he says, hanging his head. "I've been instructed to take you to the princess."

The direction is unpleasant but hardly shocking.

"I understand," Alfonse says, even as he tries to calm his breathing. He follows Gordin out of the cell and then hesitates at the door. "Usually she has me bound," he says uncertainly when Gordin makes no move to do so-he isn't even carrying any form of restraint on him.

"Then perhaps this time she doesn't mean to harm you?" Gordin suggests hopefully.

But Alfonse shakes his head. "I'm to be punished by Prince Xander today, I'm certain of it. He promised as much for when I was recovered."

Gordin stares miserably at his feet as he apologizes. They make their way to the sitting room. Veronica and Xander are already there, the former seated languorously on the sofa and the latter speaking in soft tones to her. He turns when the door is eased open.

"Leave us," he says to Gordin, who departs with one last helpless look, closing the doors behind him. To Alfonse, the sound has never felt more final.

"You understand why you've been summoned here today, yes?" Xander asks.

"Yes." Alfonse keeps his eyes trained on the ground, praying that whatever Xander has planned for him will be over with quickly.

"Good. Then I will not waste your time with idle words. Come."

Alfonse approaches reluctantly. He can feel goose pimples rising along the back of his neck.

"Stand tall and straight," Xander orders. "I won't punish one who cannot accept it nobly."

There's nothing noble about this situation, Alfonse wants to say, but he doesn't, only corrects his posture.

"You are not to speak for the duration of your punishment unless you are given express permission by me to do so. Otherwise, you will nod your head if you understand. Am I clear?"

Alfonse grits his teeth and nods.

"Good. Now, before we begin, I will give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Do not expect it to change my mind on whether or not to punish you, but I believe it is only fair to offer you the chance to explain yourself."

Alfonse almost laughs at such false diplomacy. "It's as I said, Prince Xander. If you knew all that has been done to me these past weeks in spite of my best efforts to broker peace, then you would not have the stomach to punish me in this or any capacity." Xander regards him with a slight frown but does not speak. Alfonse exhales softly. "That is all that I have to say to defend myself. Please, let's begin and have it be done with."

Xander gives a curt nod. "Very well. Then, divest yourself of everything but your smallclothes."

The order doesn't entirely surprise Alfonse, though he's alternately grateful and perversely disappointed that he's been permitted to retain his smallclothes. He can't imagine what Xander might say on perceiving the state of his privates, and yet perhaps such knowledge would get him to call off the punishment and round on Veronica instead.

Still, despite his previous steadfastness, Alfonse finds it difficult to obey. He hesitates, hands on the hem of his tunic, fingers curled inward. Doing it for Veronica is one thing-loath as he is to admit it, he's used to her seeing his naked form now. But Xander is a horse of another color. Not only is he one of the most powerful heroes ever summoned to Zenith, he's also the crown prince of the most militaristically advanced kingdom in all the discovered worlds. Furthermore, unlike Princess Veronica, he is well-known the worlds over for his virtue and honor. There's something distressingly emasculating in being forced to bare himself to a man of such caliber.

"See?" Veronica complains from her spot on the sofa. "He doesn't obey!"

Alfonse jolts. His fingers shake, and yet he cannot urge them to continue in his undressing.

"Then I will show you how to properly punish such disobedience," Xander says. "Prince Alfonse. Put your hands behind your head. I will only ask you once, and if you do not comply, prepare to face the consequences of your obstinacy."

Slowly, still trembling, Alfonse raises his hands and folds them behind his head. Xander approaches behind him, and he stiffens.

"If you cannot bare yourself like a man, then you will be undressed like a child."

He feels hands at his hips as Xander pulls down his trousers and orders him to step out of them. "Arms up." Alfonse lifts his arms into the air, and Xander draws his tunic up and over his head. It's infantilizing, just as he said it would be, and now Alfonse wishes he'd just done it himself. As soon as his tunic is off, he wraps his arms around himself, shivering from something other than the cold. Even though his bandages are still in place, he's terrified Xander might see the impression of the rings through the cloth.

"Arms at your sides," is his next order, and, unwillingly, Alfonse drops his arms.

"You seem to have some misconceptions about your place here." Xander walks around him, and Alfonse averts his eyes again to the floor in a show of submission but also because he can't stand to meet the gaze of the man who reduced him to this state. "You are not a prince here and have no authority associated with your former title. You are Princess Veronica's prisoner and therefore must abide by her rule. Your inability to do so is what has landed you with this punishment today."

Alfonse discreetly fingers the silk of his drawers, praying the cage does not show through the front. Xander notices and snaps, "Are you paying attention?"

Alfonse nods emphatically.

"Then repeat back to me what I just said."

Alfonse licks his dry lips. "That I am not a prince here but a prisoner, that I must abide by Princess Veronica's rule, and that it's my disobedience on this point that has gotten me into trouble." Truthfully, he's sick of abiding by much of anything anymore.

"Good. Do not make me doubt that you are paying attention. I won't always ask you to clarify. Now"-Xander directs his attention to Veronica's corner of the room-"go stand facing that wall with your hands against it and your head bowed between your arms, and we will commence with your punishment."

Feeling hollow in the pit of his stomach, he trudges over to the spot indicated and stands with his palms pressed flat against the cool marble and his head dipped between his shoulder blades.

"Fifteen lashes with the birch," Xander says. "You will take them quietly and without complaint. Do you understand?"

Alfonse can't keep tremors from racking his body as he nods his head. Veronica laughs.

"He's shaking!" she says with obvious relish.

Xander doesn't engage her, just comes up behind Alfonse and runs his hand down his shoulders and back. "Loosen up. This will be easier on you if you don't tense your muscles."

As if it's that simple, Alfonse thinks bitterly. He tries to ease the tension in his shoulders, but the knowledge that he is presently going to be whipped does little to aid in that endeavor. He hears the swish and crack of the birch in the air and flinches. A moment later, with another crack, hot pain sears across the length of his back, and he gasps before he can stop himself.

"One," Xander says. Before Alfonse can recover from the first blow, Xander lays another along the curve of his spine. "Two."

Alfonse grits his teeth, pressing his palms firm against the wall in an attempt to steady himself, but he's shaking so hard that it scarcely makes a difference. The bandages around his upper torso offer little in the way of protection.

"Three."

He has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming, emitting a strange sort of gurgling noise instead. The skin on his back feels bizarrely thin all of a sudden, as if the whip were peeling it back, layer by layer, with each lash.

"Four. Five."

He pushes his head up against the wall between his hands, biting harder on his tongue until he can taste blood. His hands start to slip down, and Xander clicks his tongue.

"Hands back up against the wall."

Alfonse's palms are sweating as he returns them to their spots in line with his head. His arms feel heavy like lead, but Xander just resumes counting.

"Five. Six. Seven."

Alfonse lets out a small squeak and swallows a sob. His back is blazing, and each lash feels like a blade cutting him to the bone. He feels a bit of moisture slinking down his spine, and he can't be certain if it's blood or sweat. Whatever it is, it doesn't give Xander pause.

"Eight. Nine. Ten."

He can't hold back his scream on ten. His nails curl and cut into his palms as he clenches his fists so hard they begin to shake on their own.

"That wasn't very quiet!" Veronica sings out, but Xander, mercifully, makes no mention of it, even as Alfonse continues to shriek for eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. He collapses against the wall midway through the count, and by the time the fifteenth lash meets its mark, he's fully on his knees, chest and hands and head pressed up against the wall. His cheeks are wet with tears as he cries softly, silently begging Xander not to hold it against him.

"You ought to punish him for being a naughty boy and not following the directions," Veronica says, and for the moment, Alfonse has an almost overpowering urge to strangle her.

"Never punish him for such frivolities as that, Princess Veronica," Xander says sternly. "His was not a deliberate disobedience." To Alfonse, he says, rather gently, "You held up better than I expected you would for your first time. Well done."

Alfonse is struck by the dissonance of being praised for enduring punishment, but he makes no comment on it.

"Now, come." Xander directs him to a spot immediately before Veronica's sofa, and with some difficulty, Alfonse manages to pull himself to his feet and stagger there, his back ablaze with pain. "On your knees-good, just like that. I'm going to ask you a few questions. You may answer with your voice. Do you understand?"

Alfonse stares at his knees. "Yes."

Xander pauses. "If you were one of my servants, I would have you address me as your master. However, since you are not and are in fact royalty yourself, then I suppose I can allow it to slide. In any case, let us continue. Tell me, why are you here today?"

Alfonse bites his tongue, swallows his pride; the pain in his back forces him to. "I misbehaved," he says.

"Hm. In what way did you misbehave?"

He hates this. "I disobeyed Princess Veronica." He can't even remember what, specifically, this punishment is for. Soiling himself? No, she told him to do that. Speaking out of turn? Yes-she grew cross with him for speaking as a dog. He restrains a shudder at the memory.

"And do you regret your actions?"

No, he thinks. "Yes."

"Do you understand why you had to be punished for your actions?"

No. No. "Yes."

"You understand it's for your willful disobedience to the princess?"

No, no, no. "Yes."

"And do you believe that this is a fair punishment for your disobedience?"

No. "Yes-no-I-no!"

Xander pauses. Alfonse sucks in an unsteady breath, flattens his hands against his thighs.

"What was that?" Xander asks dangerously; he's feigning ignorance, giving Alfonse a chance.

"I-I said no," Alfonse repeats, lifting his head to stare Xander in the eye. His teeth are chattering, but he clamps down his jaw to hide it. "This isn't a fair punishment. In fact, I don't think I deserve to be punished at all-and neither do you, Prince Xander." He should stop this; nothing good will come of it, of his indignation. "My only offense is speaking out of turn while under torture. Surely you can't see that as justifying punishment!"

"Oh, what a naughty, naughty boy you are!" Veronica calls from the couch. "Prince Xander, you ought to punish him very severely for his transgression!"

"Be silent," Xander thunders at him. His face is hard and cold as ice, and Alfonse shrinks back under his gaze. "Princess, bring me that leather strap there."

Alfonse starts, tries to scramble to his feet, but Xander catches him round the neck and drags him to the footstool.

"No, no-please!" he sobs. "I can't take any more of this!"

Xander flings him to his knees and lays him across the familiar upholstered surface on his stomach. Veronica approaches from behind and hands off the leather strap to Xander, who uses it to bind Alfonse's wrists together behind his back.

"Thirty blows for your continued insubordination," he declares, and Alfonse cries, squirming from where he's pinned on the footstool. With his free hand, Xander peels his drawers down his backside, and Alfonse desperately squeezes his legs together to hide the cage, trapped uncomfortably between his legs and the footstool.

"Hopefully, this shall be enough to convince you to behave."

Without further warning, Xander brings his hand down hard against Alfonse's bare backside with a brutal force far surpassing Veronica's. Alfonse shouts, the sting pulsing outward through his body, but Xander continues on methodically, beating him rapidly but steadily as if he were engaged in a task no more noteworthy than peeling potatoes. The thick, fleshy noises make Alfonse sick almost as much as the pain that floods his senses. He starts to feel raw after only a few hits, but Xander doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge his desperate, distressed cries, not until he's gone and administered all thirty blows. At least, Alfonse assumes he's given them all; in his hazy, delirious state, he can't be certain of the number.

It doesn't take more than half a minute for Xander to deal pain that will last for days, if not weeks. Alfonse groans and cries as Xander sits back to catch his breath. Once he has, he rests his hands on his bound wrists.

"Let's try again. Was this a fair punishment for your disobedience?"

This time, Alfonse has no problem ardently nodding his head. He feels Xander remove his grip on him, and then the bindings come lose. He stays where he is, however, until Xander gives him the order to stand and pull his drawers back up. He manages the latter before the former, and thankfully, Xander doesn't question it. Once he gets back to his feet, pain shoots from his backside and down to the tops of his thighs, and he struggles to keep his footing.

Xander brings over a wooden stool from the princess's writing-desk, removes its cushion, and sets it in front of him. "Have a seat." Alfonse collapses onto it on his backside and whimpers. "Straighten your back. Stay still. Princess Veronica, I see you have some rope there. Bring it here, if you would be so kind."

Alfonse flinches as his wrists are bound in front of him, then tethered to one leg of the stool, preventing his hands from traveling any higher than his navel and forcing him to stay seated. The seat is hard and uncompromising to his aching bottom, and he tears up from the pain, biting his lower lip to keep himself quiet.

"You are to sit there silently until you're ordered to do otherwise," Xander tells him. "Do you understand?"

Trembling, Alfonse nods his head.

"Good. Princess Veronica, with me. I'll set a servant to watching him to ensure he does not disobey."

Veronica looks reluctant to leave but eventually sits up on the sofa and follows after Xander. "Do not set him with one of his favorites-he has two in particular he's quite fond of, and I know they will help facilitate his disobedience!"

"I will send one of my own servants. Both of my personal retainers have been captured by Askran forces, but I still have a good many men under me whose loyalty is unquestionable."

Alfonse hears the doors close behind him, and their voices fade. Alone, he slumps his shoulders and finally lets his tears fall.

I wonder why Alfonse is thinking about Zacharias so much lately? ;3

This chapter marks the halfway point of this story! The next chapter is one I've wanted to write for a long time, so please look forward to it! =)