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Limewah's Hypnovember 2022

Story VIII

The Heir's Heavy Head

Prompts: Betrayal, All for One, Old vs Young

Commissioned by Circutron and Moxas

With thanks to Hyenaface for the prompts

The war between the Cat-folk and the Dragon-kin had ended in a pyrrhic victory for the felines. The Winged Tyrant, Nyxath, had been defeated, and his tyranny upended. At long last, peace and true kinship between the cats and the dragons could blossom.

But the royal family of Felidae bore great losses; King Callandorus died in single combat with Nyxath, and Queen Scaliatha followed soon after. Feigning acquiescence to him, and offering her hand in marriage, she would draw Nyxath into a final desperate, suicidal gambit that ended the tyrant once and for all in his supposed wedding bed.

That left only a single heir of royal blood.

When he took the throne, Circithean(Circ, to his closest friends and confidants) was not a child, but barely an adult. To be thrust into a situation like this, tasked with rebuilding the world, was not something to be envied. His reign was still young, and much was unknown as to how well he would handle the long process of rebuilding and reconciliation.

The young brown cat had a meek kindness in his bright blue eyes that did not seem to befit someone with such deep, intense responsibility. He wore the crown and mantle awkwardly, belying that he was, after all, wearing his father's clothing.

Every morning, in his private chambers, he would take a great deal of time to simply stare at himself. How the heavy cowl draped around his scrawny body like a bedsheet and dragged behind him, how the heavy crown pushed down on his neck and threatened to incline to one side of his small head if he turned it too quickly.

Eventually, with a melancholy sigh, he would finally turn from his reflection and leave. Unless he was intercepted, that is, on this particular day.

"Little King?" the kindly, sonorous voice came from the other end of the door.

Circ sighed with relief. Anyone else would have raised his hackles. But it was only his old tutor, and his current advisor.

King Scaliatha always dreamed of a true union of the two kingdoms, and caused many raised eyebrows and murmurs of discontent when he welcomed dragons into his court - one of whom became his closest and most trusted advisor.

Circ knew Xanthros well from a very young age, and called him 'Little King' even then. The broad, kind-faced, copper-scaled dragon was a constant fixture in his life, not only as his father's advisor, but as Circ's governor. His eyes were warm and gentle, his jawline was studded with small spines that gave the impression of a beard, and he had two brass-coloured horns that curled in tightly on themselves, like curls of flaky pastry. There was something very sweet and harmless, almost doddering about him, in spite of his size.

Circ learned his reading and writing, and elocution from him, as well as swordsmanship and athletics - it must be said, though, that the boy took far more to cerebral tasks than physical ones.

Xanthros was the only real family Circ had left. He trusted no one else so deeply.

The dragon stepped into the room, his head and wings bowed to get through the door. He stayed low, bringing a hand under Circ's chin to examine him.

"The crown becomes you more and more each day, Little King."

"You don't need to call me that anymore," Circ said, trying to hide how much it still made him feel at ease. "I'm not that little."

"You are to me," Xanthros said, warmly. "But that will pass in time. We've much to do today. Are you prepared?"

Circ looked deep into Xanthros' coal black, yet comforting eyes.

"Of course."

Circ left the throne room before midday, his chest tight, his pupils dilated, and his fur standing on end. Xanthros moved close behind him, enfolding him in his embrace the moment they were out of sight.

"I can't, I can't," Circ whimpered as he clung tightly, choking on his anxieties and fears.

"You are doing wonderfully, I promise you," the dragon reassured him. "Please, breathe. Breathe with me. Follow the rise and fall of my chest."

Circ stared into Xanthros' copper scales. The dragon's robes were falling off one shoulder, revealing long, swirling lines of staining ink along his chest. The ink seemed to move like simmering water, and it seemed to rise and fall with his movements, too.

This was not an unfamiliar sight to Circ. Xanthros had shown him his many tattoos before. Anchor-points to channel and strengthen his draconic power. Only a glance at most, and he refused to elaborate on what they did.

Circ felt a calm descend over him as he followed the rhythms of his advisor's breath. The expansion and contraction of the muscular chest. The scent of his body.

The serenity and tranquillity came upon him so quickly, it almost felt like magic.

It could have been the dragon's natural presence, or the magic of his tattoos.

If the latter... what other powers did they have? What powers might they bestow upon him?

He kept it to himself, saving it for a more natural, less vulnerable period of conversation.

He decided that dinner time would be the ideal time to broach the subject; it would be easy to hide the conversation amongst the usual revelry.

After three bites of his turkey leg, Circ dabbed his face with a napkin and looked up and to his right at his advisor. The dragon was contentedly sipping his tea, not having even touched his own meal.

"Xanthros...?"

"Yes, Little King?"

"I've always wanted to know more about your markings."

"My tattoos? Ah, well..."

"I think I'm old enough to learn more. I'm ready."

"Later, Little King," Xanthros said. "There will be time to tell you about my culture. For now, please, enjoy your meal."

Even as he ate, Circ could not stop stealing glances at the dragon, imagining what other works of beautiful art lay hidden under his garments. As he chewed the flesh, he imagined the texture and taste of Xanthros' mouth. The aromatic scents of his meal made him wonder of the dragon's natural scent, hidden beneath the perfumes he wore. And the tattoos, those beautiful exotic pieces of art. He wanted to learn about every inch, every nook and cranny of them.

King Circ adored Xanthros, and sought his counsel endlessly, just so he could be around him.

He had always looked up to and admired the dragon. Said admiration grew and blossomed until, by the time he came of age, he would have called his feelings 'love'. Lust might have been an equally applicable word, but for a young cat it was often impossible to tell the difference. Such was the case for King Circ.

As the music began to play, heralding the entrance of a troupe of performers, Circ laughed and clapped as he stood. That put him at head-height with the sitting dragon, and he leaned towards him.

"I would like to know more about these tattoos of yours, please," Circ said. "As soon as possible. There's a magic in them, I can feel it... and I want to know more about what powers they hold."

"Please," Xanthros said. "This is not knowledge that I wish for you to be burdened with. Your mind is full enough as is."

Pity and sadness flashed in his eyes, which only aggravated the young cat more.

"I wish to know. I'm the king. I have the right to know everything in your mind, don't I?"

The dragon's scales seemed to shimmer and bristle, a little bubble of frustration flickering in his eyes before it was pushed back below the serene surface.

"I made a promise to your... the previous king." The dragon sighed. "He did not wish for you to deal with any of my... the dragon's magics until you were old enough, and ready enough to handle its power."

"I knew they were magic," Circ said, stabbing a finger in the dragon's direction and forgetting about his audience. "I want to learn more. I need to. You will help me."

The wise old dragon laughed mirthfully and waved his hand.

"Such wit, sire! What a flawless impression of your father!"

He swept his gaze among the rubbernecking congregation, with a very clear signal to ignore what was heard.

He patted Circ on the back, his fingers pinching hard into the back of his neck. The little king yelped and froze, his pupils dilating as he slipped into a primordial docility.

"We'll speak after dinner, sire," Xanthros whispered. "And not a moment earlier."

"Hnh." Circ sulked, even in his placid state. "Fine."

When the dinner concluded, Circ walked ahead of Xantros. The only reason he didn't barge into the dragon's chambers was out of the courtesy and respect he held. Xanthros arrived shortly after, his shoulders sagged and his feet seeming to drag on the floor. He was weighed down with trepidation.

It was almost enough for the King to reconsider.

But not quite enough.

Xanthros silently let Circ into his chambers. There was no bed in the room, merely an intricately laid pile of glimmeringly colourful blankets and quilts - not a dissimilar shape to what a primordial dragon's hoard of gold and jewels might look like. The mammalian concessions consisted of a writing desk and a library, as well as a full length mirror with some weighted tools placed alongside it.

It occurred to Circ that he had never been inside this room before. The dragon had never let him in.

"Well..." Xanthros said, shrugging off his robes. "What do you wish to know? Please, do not feel shy."

Circ stared, long and hard, at the markings. He was aroused; there was no point in denying it to himself, not with the way his breeches were straining just from a glimpse at Xanthros. Every inch of the dragon's upper torso was beautiful. From the pectorals, branded with what appeared to be two curved lines making a heart shape, to his chest with a long spiralling scrawl of draconic text...

To one that started where his navel might have been and travelled down, beneath his belt. He could only see a few lines, but he knew what was beneath it. It was a draconic symbol of fertility, a slit with a subtly phallic pillar splitting it open.

He'd looked up some of these shapes in the past.

"That one at the bottom," Circ said, instantly. "Why do you have a fertility symbol?"

"It's... one from my youth," Xanthros said with a little, nervous laugh. "When I was young, it was the first one I chose, for, well, obvious reasons. I would not recommend it being your first, though."

Circ was impatient. But not that impatient. He took him at his word, and nodded. Though his eyes kept lingering there even as Xanthros explained the other symbols - the one on his collarbone that warded off heat, the one on the back of his neck that improved his mental acuity... all useful, but not quite on his mind.

"For you, though, I don't think any of these will be suitable. Particularly for your first. You should start very small."

"Fair." Circ said. "So what's first?"

"Sit," Xanthros bade Circ, gesturing towards the table at the desk.

The tone of voice reminded him of when he was a prince, and almost brought out the automatic response of "Yes, Sir." But he resisted that urge and sat with an attempt at a regal posture.

"I will be able to tattoo you. Please remain still."

Circ heard the snip of shears just behind his ear, and stiffened. Xanthros squeezed him with a thick, reassuring hand.

"Don't panic. But I will have to shear your fur from the flesh I brand."

"Will it grow back?" Circ asked.

"I'm afraid not," Xanthros said. "So I suggest you keep them hidden away. At least for now."

"Alright."

"There's a small life-sigil that I can place at the nape of your neck. It will give you better focus, and confidence - well, so they say."

"I've always been lacking in that, for sure," The cat mused with a nod. He was a little weedy. Perhaps it would help him focus.

Xanthros' claw rested on his shoulder.

"Hold ssstill for me, if you please," he said.

The hiss.... It reminded him of the dragons' lullabies that even now could lull him to sleep. Circ closed his eyes, and held still. The cold air of the castle at night pockmarked his exposed skin with goosepimples.

The sharp pricking of a needle of some sort into his neck briefly braced him, made him yelp... before a sensation like warm honey settled over him. Warmth far greater than any winter coat he'd ever felt.

He was surprised by how quickly, and how deeply he began to purr.

"Good," Xanthros cooed. "Jusssst keep your eyes closed... and the time will passs right by..."

Xanthros' sweet, finely aged voice made Circ feel vague and relaxed, and his purring soon overpowered the subtle snip of shears, and the crackle of prickly magic that came after it.

-

Circ traced his fingers along the tattoo. Xanthros stood behind him, holding a hand mirror, allowing him to see the handiwork.

"What do those lines stand for?" he asked. The symbol appeared to be a series of concentric circles, but not quite perfect ones. Resembling the rings of the inside of a tree trunk.

"Is it supposed to be a little... off like that?"

"Why, my king!" Xanthros put on a deeper tone, feigning pompous indignation. "Are you attempting to bismirch my artisan skills?"

"No!" Circ laughed; that voice had a way of making him giggle. "Of course not, it is beautiful! I'm just curious."

"Believe it or not, they are not merely lines - it is an old, early form of text that dragons used to use to direct travellers and mark territory. It is too small for you to read, perhaps, but it is there. A little prayer, really, one that will keep your reserves of strength from ever running dry."

"That sounds... good."

Circ reached behind his neck to feel at the tattoo, hissing slightly as he touched the flesh. His skin felt oddly tight, and wet, even though when he touched it there wasn't a hint of a stain on his fingers. It was welted just enough for him to trace the script, but Xanthros was right. It was far too small and delicate to read. Though he recognized a few little characters, or at least, he thought he did. Boundless... Font of... Focus? Serenity? Docility? It was easy to get them mixed up. He put it out of his head.

"I don't... feel any different," Circ murmured. "Am I supposed to?"

"In time, you will." Xanthros said gently. "The tattoos do have a cumulative effect. Over time they reinforce and enhance each other's powers. But it has to be done gradually. For now... lift your head up. Let me place the crown on again."

"I don't want to wear it right now," Circ said, almost petulantly. "It's always straining my neck."

"Please, do. Jussst for a moment."

Circ relented. Xanthros had a nice voice. And, even now, though their power dynamic had flipped, he still felt a fondness and a desire for the dragon's approval.

Xanthros' shimmering scales gingerly placed the crown over Circ's head. He was expecting to feel its weight pressing down, sliding ungainly into a slight slant.

It did tilt, but Circ couldn't help but notice that it felt a tad snugger. Neither it, nor his head, had changed to his knowledge, but it seemed to suit him just a tad more.

"Mm?" Xanthros had a strange smile on his face, like he was preparing for the punch-line of a prank. "Do you notice anything different?"

"Not... really?" Circ said. "I mean, the crown feels..." he reached up to tilt it.

"More right?"

"Kind of? I don't... hate how I look in it, quite as much." Circ murmured. "It looks alright on me. Almost."

"Perhaps that's the tattoo's prayer taking effect?" Xanthros asked, his claws resting on the king's shoulders.

"Maybe so," Circ murmured.

"It's said that a mantra can help enhance the strength of these tattoos, as well, I might add. It doesn't have to be a particular tongue or incantation... just an affirmation. Anything will work."

"Hm." Circ looked into his eyes in his reflection, and nodded.

"What do you want to tell yourself?" Xanthros asked, stooping and holding him close.

"I am... I'm the king." Circ said. "That's something I need to remind myself."

"You are the king, yes. What else?"

"I am... stronger than I know. I am the king. I am a... a good king. I'm going to rule fairly, and justly, and I'm going to get stronger, and fairer, and m...more just..."

As he spoke, his stammering and stumbling grew less and less pronounced as he found himself settling into a rhythm.

"You are more than a king," Xanthros urged. "A king is his implements. A king is his instruments. What are you?"

"I am the king. I am the... sword. I'm the sword. I'm the sceptre. I'm the cape and cowl. I'm the throne."

"Yes. Yes! Continue!"

Circ was beaming. The tight chill was bracing, growing stronger. Circ did not know if it was a true enchantment, or just a placebo.

But the crown was fitting him better and better with each passing moment.

Xanthros embraced him from behind, enfolding him, his wizened, calming voice continuing to guide and goad him on.

"You are the sword. You are the sceptre. You are the throne. You are the instrument!"

Circ wanted Xanthros' hand to slide down between his legs. A feeling was consuming him; a feeling of ecstasy that was usually followed by shame.

"I am your King!" Circ gasped. "I am your King...!"

"Yes, you are," Xanthros affirmed. "My king. My ruler. My protector..."

"Your ruler! Your protector...!" Circ cried out, his heart fluttering. "Your sword... your sceptre!" That was as close as he'd come to a profession of his deep, abiding attraction for the chaste advisor. And he wanted to continue to teeter on the edge.

"I act for you... f-for all my subjects!"

"And all your subjects act for you."

"For me... yes, for me!"

The crown was snug. More comfortably so.

The next time Circ said he was the king, it was the first time he truly believed it.

-

King Circ stood nude, erect in every sense of the word.

The feline king's muscular body was covered with tattoos. They pulsed and rippled like disturbed bonds, growing further along his partially shaven body. The latest one, still fresh, circumnavigated the crown of his head, going just under his flattened ears. It resembled a thorny halo, seeming to constrict with each pulse and each repetition of his unchanging mantra. Squeezing and juicing his mind, dulling his thoughts and his independent will.

Xanthros surveyed his handiwork, still looming over the cat -though Circ was catching up in height and stature, at least somewhat. The concentric brandings on each bicep and tricep saw to that, as did the long serpentine lines that helixed up Circ's spine. He was growing far burlier and broader than one would have thought possible for a feline. The blessings of the cursed markings had changed him so profoundly over the preceding month.

The same could be said for his demeanour and character. After all, hidden amidst the 'prayers' branded into each and every curve of the tattoos was some very specific wording. Possessive adjectives that bound Circ to his advisor, adverbs like 'loyal' and 'compliant' that put Circ's soul in thrall to his advisor. The initial tattoo had been very subtle, with just a few little references to docility and attentiveness. But as its effect compounded with the subsequent tattoos, Xanthros allowed himself to be more bold in laying claim.

In fact, that tattoo circumnavigating his head bore two sets of runes, repeated over and again. It would be best translated as 'My Property.'

Circ's voice was a far cry from what it had been before, dropping so deeply as though he'd aged a decade in barely a month. Circ's affirmative mantra was dull and even, as the tattoo swirls pulsed and took deeper root. The excitement and passion had long drained away and turned to a monastic drone.

Xanthros could not help but gloat, even though his audience no longer was able to appreciate it. That only made him savour this betrayal all the more, really.

"Poor, stupid little child. Your father did, indeed, make me promise not to let you take the tattoos upon your soft, fragile soul. You should have considered that, and followed my advice."

There were faint hints of awareness in King Circ's eyes, a slight twitch of his brow, a hint of despair, before the pleasure overwhelmed him and turned them glassy again.

"Of course, no matter how long you waited to receive these gifts, the outcome would be the same. I would have rather had a more experienced king under my thrall, but... you will do nicely. And you've grown into such a comely young man... You have become too handsome for me to resist claiming. Of courssse... that's what you always desired, isn't it?

"You've always been under my spell, Little King. And now, all that remains for you to do is spread that spell to the rest of the world. You are my mouthpiece, my tool, the avatar of my rule."

The cat nodded his heavy head. The crown no longer tipped forward. It remained firm on his broad head, held in place by the binding sigils on the cat's scalp.

"As you say," Circ said. "I am Your Mouthpiece."

Xanthros smiled. Not a trace of the mask of kindness remained on the dragon's face, now. Just the gleam of a greedy, draconic ambition, finally realised.

His claws raked into the firming muscles of Circ's flesh. Soon he would resemble the dragon in stature. But with a mere fraction of his intelligence, and not a drop of his own will.

Circ continued to drone along, his voice only quavering a little when the dragon's paw slid between his legs.

"How long I've waited for this," Xanthros growled into the Little King's ear, breathing heavily like a base lech - a lech that no longer needed to hide his desire. The cat's rump was still plush and comely, and parting his cheeks to claim his body was almost as easy as claiming his soul had been.

"I am... the... I am your King..." Circ groaned, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. "I am your sceptre. I am your sword. I am your tool..."

"Yes you are, Little Ssslut."

As Xanthros fucked the king against his reflection, he wondered if his cousin was watching from the underworld.

Where Nyxath had failed, he had succeeded.

-

King Circithian the first's successful unification of the kingdoms was, at the time, the talk of the known world. The deceptively brutish-seeming feline fostered and fomented an era of rich cultural exchange and new-found commonalities between the furred and scaled folk. No one showed this better than the king himself, with his body covered with traditional draconic tattoos, his whole body a work of art. The King and his faithful advisor encouraged his fellow felines to be similar canvases; any cat-folk of any note or standing was given a branding of their choosing, in order to better find peace and harmony with the dragons. Those who were branded eagerly welcomed dragons into their homes - even offering their homes on occasion.

Upon the advice of Xanthros, King Circithian welcomed many fine dignitaries into his court, giving them positions of power within his kingdom.

Decades passed. Most every feline bore a mark of the dragons somewhere on their persons. With it came a strange demeanour. Travellers from other kingdoms noted a strange sort of docility and deference to the felines, particularly towards their dragon peers.

Dragons took more and more precedent in the power structures of the Felidae kingdom until the only furred being with any power was the king himself.

When King Circithian 'stepped down' from the throne abruptly at the age of 40, he left no heir. He did, however, immediately give the throne and all of his powers to his life-long advisor. By then, no feline spoke out against King Xanthros' dictatorial rule; they no longer had the inclination to do so, the binding charms so deeply ingrained into their minds and bodies that becoming the dragons' indentured servants for generations to come was a foregone conclusion.

The cats welcomed their new position as a subservient slave-race; none more so than the former king. More like a kept pet than a former king, Circithian remained by King Xanthros' side - or more accurately, at his feet- for the rest of his days. He watched the kingdom his family had built vanish with a docile, lazy smile.

The war between the Cat-folk and the Dragon-kin had ended in a pyrrhic victory for the felines. Not the least because it ultimately left them open for a different takeover, one that was almost entirely bloodless, but absolute.

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