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josephine_marrssummary/preview: Uther knows Arthur's secret, and he is not happy. This is set in the same world/timeline as this story and this story, but hopefully it will make sense if you don't know or care about those.
content notes: noncon, incest, homophobic sentiments are expressed, no other content notes apply.
He had been brought to a cold, remote chamber, high up in one of the far towers. The heavy oak door shut with a dull thud as the guards departed. Arthur did not turn to see them go. He doubted that he even could; the shackles that bound his wrists to the table were fastened flush into the wood, with not so much as a link of chain to afford him movement. He could barely even turn his wrists inside the metal. Furthermore, they were at the far side of the table, forcing him to lean, his weight on his elbows, his hips against its wooden lip.
"What is the meaning of this, Father?" He could hear Uther behind him. The steps of the man were quiet, but the feeling of anger behind him was palpable.
He received no answer. Instead, he felt his father’s hands undoing the buckle of his belt, and roughly tugging it away from him. His breeches were pulled down with the same lack of gentleness. Though a brazier burned nearby, the window had been left open, and the cold winter air drew goosebumps on his flesh.
“So it is true.” Uther murmured at last.
“What is true, Father?” Arthur’s voice was tense. It took all of his effort to keep it from quavering with his growing fear.
“You and that servant boy of yours. You dally with him. You let him mark you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Arthur lied. He immediately remembered the evening that he had told Merlin to let him know what being caned felt like. He had done so solely so he would know what Merlin expected of him, to know the strength of the sensations that such a tool was capable of imparting. Over the months, the welts had healed, and the only reminders of it were several thin lines where the cane had broken the flesh. They were just hints of light brown against the pallor of his backside, so faint that they could be mistaken for a trick of the light. But Uther was obviously not fooled. “If I have a mark on my ass,” he said, drawing on his deep reserves of dignity to keep from stammering, “I probably got it falling off of my horse. I can assure you I get far worse bruises and scratches during the course of practice.”
“Practice. Is that what you call it? You think I don’t see the way you make eyes at each other? The way you let him touch you when he brings you wine at dinner?”
“You are clearly searching for things to suit your own imagination. And I find it astounding that my masculinity is being questioned by someone who has chained me to his table and is scrutinizing my backside.”
“If word of this gets out, we will be the world’s laughingstock. No king will want to marry his daughter to someone who won’t even bed her.”
“I am perfectly capable of bedding women, Father. If you’d be so kind as to lend me Morgana some night after you’re done with her, I’ll be happy to demonstrate.” For that, he received a blow to the back of his head that rammed his nose against the metal cuffs around his wrists.
“I have warred and worked my entire life to build this kingdom. And you will undo it all, for some half-wit catamite from Ealdor!”
“Keep your voice down, Father. After all, we don’t want the word to get out.”
Uther’s gloved hand grabbed him by the balls and yanked, so viciously that Arthur’s feet gave out from under him. Through the throbbing haze of pain, he could feel the prick of a blade against the skin there. Like any good warrior, Uther kept his dagger razor-sharp. All it would take would be a tug with one hand, pressure with the other, and it would slice right through the flesh…
“Father, what are you doing?!” He no longer cared about keeping the fear out of his voice. His only priorities smarted painfully in Uther’s iron grip.
“I should cut these right off. I’d rather have a gelding for a son than a queer.”
“No! Father! I-if you cut me, I will bleed out and I will die. I am your only son!” His hands were open, trembling, beseeching, in front of him.
The blade withdrew. However, the relief that coursed through him quickly turned to ice in his veins, at Uther’s next words. “Have you ever seen what a hot blade can do?” Uther’s voice withdrew toward the brazier that burned halfway between the table and the window. “It burns the flesh even as it cuts. It’s as if the skin melts before it, like wax. I will cut your balls off and cauterize the void in one fell swoop. So, no worries, son. You will live.”
“Father, this is madness! Think about what you’re doing!” He could hear nothing behind him, no clue of where Uther was; in his mind’s eye, he could see the blade getting red-hot in the flames. “I will marry whatever woman you choose! I’ll make an heir, I’ll make a dynasty for you!”
A gloved hand grabbed his sac, twisting. “Father, no! No! No! Please…” White-hot pain seared against his flesh…
The sound of laughter came to Arthur’s ears, over his own sobs. Something white-hot slapped against the asscheek that bore those faint, incriminating scars -- so hot, that it felt cold. It slapped against the back of his thigh, and then against his…his balls. He still had them…
Strain burned in his wrists as his weight sagged. He wept as he felt hot urine running down the inside of his bent legs, pissing himself from fear and shock.
“Heat and cold are funny things,” Uther chuckled. “They feel the same, after a certain point. Isn’t it amazing, how cold a simple slug from the blacksmith’s shop can get, if you’ve left it on the windowsill?” Done with the implement, he tossed the chunk of iron onto the table to land with a clatter beside his weeping son.
“You’re right, Arthur. You are my only son. And you will marry a proper woman, and you will produce your own heir. Until that time comes, I will make sure that you remain immune from temptation.”
Metal settled against Arthur’s hips, and caged his fear-shriveled cock. Uther’s leather-covered fingers threaded his balls through an iron ring, so they dangled beneath the thin metal bars; a reminder of what he had to lose. Leather straps tugged and cinched over his buttocks and around his waist, buckling tight, and at the end of it all, he heard the tiny click of a lock.
“If I ever see you making eyes at your servant again,” Uther said, leaning over his son to unlock the shackles around his wrists, “We will all three of us meet here, and you’ll choke down his cock after I’ve torn it off.”
Arthur dragged himself back up from where he had fallen to hands and knees. As long as he even thought about his father’s gaze boring into him, he could not bring himself to raise his head.
“And pull your trousers up,” Uther said, as he strode from the room. “You look ridiculous.”
content notes: noncon, incest, homophobic sentiments are expressed, no other content notes apply.
He had been brought to a cold, remote chamber, high up in one of the far towers. The heavy oak door shut with a dull thud as the guards departed. Arthur did not turn to see them go. He doubted that he even could; the shackles that bound his wrists to the table were fastened flush into the wood, with not so much as a link of chain to afford him movement. He could barely even turn his wrists inside the metal. Furthermore, they were at the far side of the table, forcing him to lean, his weight on his elbows, his hips against its wooden lip.
"What is the meaning of this, Father?" He could hear Uther behind him. The steps of the man were quiet, but the feeling of anger behind him was palpable.
He received no answer. Instead, he felt his father’s hands undoing the buckle of his belt, and roughly tugging it away from him. His breeches were pulled down with the same lack of gentleness. Though a brazier burned nearby, the window had been left open, and the cold winter air drew goosebumps on his flesh.
“So it is true.” Uther murmured at last.
“What is true, Father?” Arthur’s voice was tense. It took all of his effort to keep it from quavering with his growing fear.
“You and that servant boy of yours. You dally with him. You let him mark you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Arthur lied. He immediately remembered the evening that he had told Merlin to let him know what being caned felt like. He had done so solely so he would know what Merlin expected of him, to know the strength of the sensations that such a tool was capable of imparting. Over the months, the welts had healed, and the only reminders of it were several thin lines where the cane had broken the flesh. They were just hints of light brown against the pallor of his backside, so faint that they could be mistaken for a trick of the light. But Uther was obviously not fooled. “If I have a mark on my ass,” he said, drawing on his deep reserves of dignity to keep from stammering, “I probably got it falling off of my horse. I can assure you I get far worse bruises and scratches during the course of practice.”
“Practice. Is that what you call it? You think I don’t see the way you make eyes at each other? The way you let him touch you when he brings you wine at dinner?”
“You are clearly searching for things to suit your own imagination. And I find it astounding that my masculinity is being questioned by someone who has chained me to his table and is scrutinizing my backside.”
“If word of this gets out, we will be the world’s laughingstock. No king will want to marry his daughter to someone who won’t even bed her.”
“I am perfectly capable of bedding women, Father. If you’d be so kind as to lend me Morgana some night after you’re done with her, I’ll be happy to demonstrate.” For that, he received a blow to the back of his head that rammed his nose against the metal cuffs around his wrists.
“I have warred and worked my entire life to build this kingdom. And you will undo it all, for some half-wit catamite from Ealdor!”
“Keep your voice down, Father. After all, we don’t want the word to get out.”
Uther’s gloved hand grabbed him by the balls and yanked, so viciously that Arthur’s feet gave out from under him. Through the throbbing haze of pain, he could feel the prick of a blade against the skin there. Like any good warrior, Uther kept his dagger razor-sharp. All it would take would be a tug with one hand, pressure with the other, and it would slice right through the flesh…
“Father, what are you doing?!” He no longer cared about keeping the fear out of his voice. His only priorities smarted painfully in Uther’s iron grip.
“I should cut these right off. I’d rather have a gelding for a son than a queer.”
“No! Father! I-if you cut me, I will bleed out and I will die. I am your only son!” His hands were open, trembling, beseeching, in front of him.
The blade withdrew. However, the relief that coursed through him quickly turned to ice in his veins, at Uther’s next words. “Have you ever seen what a hot blade can do?” Uther’s voice withdrew toward the brazier that burned halfway between the table and the window. “It burns the flesh even as it cuts. It’s as if the skin melts before it, like wax. I will cut your balls off and cauterize the void in one fell swoop. So, no worries, son. You will live.”
“Father, this is madness! Think about what you’re doing!” He could hear nothing behind him, no clue of where Uther was; in his mind’s eye, he could see the blade getting red-hot in the flames. “I will marry whatever woman you choose! I’ll make an heir, I’ll make a dynasty for you!”
A gloved hand grabbed his sac, twisting. “Father, no! No! No! Please…” White-hot pain seared against his flesh…
The sound of laughter came to Arthur’s ears, over his own sobs. Something white-hot slapped against the asscheek that bore those faint, incriminating scars -- so hot, that it felt cold. It slapped against the back of his thigh, and then against his…his balls. He still had them…
Strain burned in his wrists as his weight sagged. He wept as he felt hot urine running down the inside of his bent legs, pissing himself from fear and shock.
“Heat and cold are funny things,” Uther chuckled. “They feel the same, after a certain point. Isn’t it amazing, how cold a simple slug from the blacksmith’s shop can get, if you’ve left it on the windowsill?” Done with the implement, he tossed the chunk of iron onto the table to land with a clatter beside his weeping son.
“You’re right, Arthur. You are my only son. And you will marry a proper woman, and you will produce your own heir. Until that time comes, I will make sure that you remain immune from temptation.”
Metal settled against Arthur’s hips, and caged his fear-shriveled cock. Uther’s leather-covered fingers threaded his balls through an iron ring, so they dangled beneath the thin metal bars; a reminder of what he had to lose. Leather straps tugged and cinched over his buttocks and around his waist, buckling tight, and at the end of it all, he heard the tiny click of a lock.
“If I ever see you making eyes at your servant again,” Uther said, leaning over his son to unlock the shackles around his wrists, “We will all three of us meet here, and you’ll choke down his cock after I’ve torn it off.”
Arthur dragged himself back up from where he had fallen to hands and knees. As long as he even thought about his father’s gaze boring into him, he could not bring himself to raise his head.
“And pull your trousers up,” Uther said, as he strode from the room. “You look ridiculous.”
