Chapter Text
You arrive at the castle doors in chains. The guards don't even glance at you. Maybe this is Deiran. Why else would the guards glance at the changeling, and promptly let it in, no questioning whatsoever. The guards are mad, much like everyone else in this realm, yet you'd think they'd maybe steal a quick look at the poor, poor human getting dragged by the neck and wrists in chains.
But, alas, no. You are dragged further into the halls the mad king so gleefully claimed that were yours. He'd also giddily promised that the kingdom belonged to you, and that no one would harm you. look where that got you. You are reminded how foolishly extravagant Deiran is. How royally stupid the man you love is. If this isn't him, would he even care you were brought to his feet in chains? You sincerely hope so, as your suspicion of the changeling being Deiran in a rather convincing disguise was becoming less and less plausible by the second. You hoped Deiran would never growl at you. You could only hope...
But, a small glimmer of hope ignites in your chest when you reach Deiran's ridiculous throne room. The mad king himself lounges on his throne, back to an armrest, feet kicked over the other. He was listening to the court ramble on endlessly, seemingly not enjoying madness when it evoked long, boring conversations. Well, was it really a conversation if Deiran mindlessly stared around his room, ignoring his subjects? He seems used to it, as if he did it a lot. Which he does.
It seems that the changeling was never Deiran. How could you be so dumb?
Fortunately, when the changeling entered the room, Deiran was suddenly very interested. Delighted to finally have a excuse to get the court to shut up (which he had either way..), Deiran gleefully sat up. "What have we here, hmm?" Thank god he wasn't wearing his jester costume. The changeling would have been delighted to find two jesters. So would have Deiran. It seemed Deiran only donned the jester outfit to seduce you. And boy, did it work. But you're perfectly fine with Deiran wearing his flamboyant doublet, red and orange diamonds and all, as long as he still loves you. Though, those gold accents and dark cape are ridiculous. But then there's the fact you're wearing a matching version.
The changeling rasps something about a jester and points to you. Finally, Deiran noticed you. He is a bit of an airhead sometimes. Mostly, when he wants to be. You did feel more than a bit stupid, on your knees in chains, especially in front of Deiran. But, for once, there was nothing mocking and playful in his expression. Only concern. Concern for you. "And this lovely gentlemen, I presume, is said jester?" Deiran snarls. The changeling nods. Deiran rises from his throne and makes his way toward you. Completely ignoring the changeling, Deiran crouches to your level, and whispers in your ear, "Are you alright, my dear?" You glance at him and shake your head. Obviously not. But that seems to be everything Deiran needs. He reaches toward you to wipe the blood off your face, but more keeps coming. He looks at you mischievously and sticks a finger in his mouth to taste the blood. Of course he does. "Delicious.."
Deiran rises to his full height, which is considerably taller than you, and takes your hand. He pulls you up with him and then seems to notice you're still in chains. "Allow me.." He snaps and the chains detach themselves from your wrists and neck and slither toward the changeling. It tries to run but two guards clamp their hands down on it. For soldiers who are only fed small rations, they move incredibly quick. Maybe out of fear that Deiran will subject them to even smaller rations. The changeling struggles, thrashes, and shrieks, but the guards won't let go. In fact, even more soldiers rush forward to restrain the changeling. Rations cannot be that small. The chains finally latch onto the changeling, after sliding along the floor painfully slowly, probably courtesy of Deiran. Speaking of, the mad king smiles and sweeps up your hands to pull you into a dance around the changeling. It's shrieks still won't quiet down.
The ground rumbles and the guards retreat back from the changeling. It thrashes, yet the chains still bind it. The floor it stands under gives way, and the chains grapple onto the walls of the pit. There the changeling hangs, suspended mid-air, while Deiran guides you through a lively jig. He really is a strange man. Yet here you are, embracing the madness, letting yourself be pulled into every direction. Deiran seems proud of you, despite what just happened.
The dance finally comes to a stop right at the edge of the deep canyon right in the middle of the throne room. Quite inconvenient, really. Deiran leans you back over the edge. You don't look back. You trust him. Deiran seems satisfied. He pulls you back to rest against his chest, his arms holding your waist, his head on your shoulder. "Now, my king, what should we do with this wretched beast?" He whispers it in your ear, but the whole court seems to hear. Including the changeling. It rasps something about injustice. Deiran snaps his fingers and you see the changeling's tongue slide out of it's mouth and into the void. The changeling tries to grab it, but it seems to remember it's arms are restrained. Deiran giggles, "Much better, wouldn't you agree?" You laugh, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because of the madness steadily seeping it's way into your mind. Deiran seems delighted. "Well said, my liege. Why don't we leave this creature to rot in the dungeon while we decide it's fate?" You'd think it is a rhetorical question, but no, Deiran is asking you.
For the first time since entering the throne room, you finally form a sentence. "I think that would be perfect, my dear." With that, the chains rip themselves off the wall and pull the changeling down into the void below. The floor closes up and now all you can hear is the muffled gurgles coming from below, and Deiran's giddy laughter as he sweeps you around the room. The courtiers, who've unfortunately been watching this whole time, take this as a sign to leave.
Deiran takes you in many twists and turns and spins and dips around the throne room, savouring your airy laughter. Finally, though, he notices how tired you are and pulls you to a halt. He walks up to the dais, his cloak billowing out behind him. You follow, seemingly in a trance. this bizarre man seats himself upon the throne and is now turned to face you. You walk closer and Deiran leans down to scoop you up in his arms. Like a child, he lifts you into the air, his hands under your arms. It hurts slightly, but you that he can and will do much worse, if he's given the chance. But, right now, he seems intent on not hurting you.
Deiran crosses his legs and sets you down gently in his lap. You practically melt into his embrace, lying back against his chest, as his arms wrap around your collarbone. He gently massages your shoulders, as if trying to make up for the slight pain he caused you. Very unlike him. Perhaps he saw how distraught you were. But, for such a sadist man, he really seems to hate when he hurts you. At least, when it's not on purpose.. He leans forward, so his lips are almost kissing your ear and whispers, "We'll make sure that doesn't happen again, I assure you, my king." he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Too bad you're not actually wearing a crown.
Deiran starts to ramble about the endless possibilities of punishments for the changeling, but when he sees your tired eyes, he stops. It seems you're both content to just sit here. For now. Yet, you can't help but feel guilty for believing that that disgusting creature was Deiran. As unpredictable as Deiran is, you, of all people, should be able to tell your king apart from others. A silent tear rolls down your cheek. you hope Deiran doesn't notice. He does.
He wipes the tear from your cheek and kisses it instead. It reminds you of when you burst into tears in front of him, that night at the gas station. He acted the same way he did now. Maybe he does really love you. "Come now, my liege. what bothers you?" You remain silent, heavy tears rolling down your cheeks. Deiran shifts you so you're facing him and holds your chin up to look at him. "You can tell me, my king. You know that." His voice is quieter, less theatrical. He really does care.
You confess your mistake, shame burning on your cheeks. Deiran listens, though he doesn't seem mad. He cups your cheeks, much like how and changeling did earlier, and pulls you into a kiss. You lean into his affection, letting yourself be lost in his madness. His lust. His desire for you. When he finally pulls away, he shifts you again so your back is against his chest. You expect a witty joke, but he remains silent. You lean back against him and he secures his arms around your waist. You slowly drift off, on the mad king's throne. Though, perhaps more importantly, the mad king.