The captives are sorted and assigned based on the soldiers’ hierarchy. Higher-ranking men claim the most desirable captives, while lower-ranking soldiers either share captives or wait their turn for selection. The transactional and impersonal nature of the process highlights the captives' reduced status. The soldiers’ camaraderie and casual cruelty contrasts with the captives’ growing despair.
Chapter 2: "Distribution of Spoils"
The morning sun cast a harsh light over the encampment, its warmth doing little to thaw the icy dread in the hearts of the captives. They stood in a ragged line, a vivid display of men now reduced to mere spoils of war. Their varied backgrounds and appearances were starkly evident, each man's fate about to be decided by the soldiers who had bested them in battle.
Sergeant Rashid, his voice a thunderclap, began the distribution process. "Form up!" he shouted, and with reluctant steps, the captives shuffled into a semblance of order. Their appearances and origins were as varied as the stories etched into their faces:
Aldric, his muscular frame testament to years of combat, bore scars like medals, his dark hair and stern gaze a beacon of his lost pride.
Eadric, the once-proud prince, his youthful face framed by golden locks, his blue eyes wide with the shock of his new reality, his slender build more suited to court than camp.
Leif, the farm boy, whose broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin spoke of hours under the open sky, his simple features now clouded with confusion. His strength about to be redirected for a different kind of labor.
Finn, a very young, naive man, barely out of adolescence, his beauty almost ethereal with soft features, green eyes, and a body not yet hardened by life's trials, his innocence making him a peculiar prize.
Hakon, despite his rugged exterior, had eyes that spoke of a gentle soul, a father's care now to be perverted into service for his captors. Poor but handsome, his rough hands and weather-beaten face hinting at a life of toil.
Sven, a once-wealthy merchant's son, his well-kept appearance and sharp attire now in disarray, his dark hair and piercing gaze still holding a hint of his former status, though his arrogance was now a liability. His pride was now a target for breaking.
Bjorn, a burly, muscular man whose life as a woodsman had given him a wild, unkempt look, his beard long and his eyes fierce, his physique now to be harnessed for the soldiers' benefit. Now to be tamed for the soldiers' use.
The officers took their pick first. Captain Qasim laid eyes on Aldric, his warrior's physique and defiant glare catching his interest. "This one will serve in my quarters," he declared, his voice leaving no room for objection, his hand gripping Aldric's arm to assert dominance.
Rashid, with a smirk, chose Eadric. "A prince for my tent, how fitting," he murmured, his fingers tracing the prince's jawline in a mockery of affection. A mock gesture that made the prince recoil inwardly.
The common soldiers were less subtle, their hands eager to assess the flesh before them, their physical assessments blatant.
Finn was seized by a group of younger soldiers, their laughter cruel as they squeezed his arms, their leers making their intentions clear. "Look at this one, like a lamb to slaughter," one laughed, squeezing Finn's arm, testing the softness of his skin, his intentions clear in his leering eyes.
Basim laid claim to Hakon, his hand on the man's shoulder more possessive than comforting. "You'll take care of us like you did your own, won't you?" Basim asked, his hand resting on Hakon's shoulder, a gesture that felt more like claiming than comforting.
A sergeant eyed Sven, seeing not just the man but the challenge of breaking him. "You'll learn manners here," he said, pushing back Sven's hair, inspecting him with the scrutiny one might give to prized livestock.
Bjorn's strength was what caught the attention of several soldiers, their hands clapping his back, their crude remarks celebrating his suitability for hard labor.
Leif was directed towards the kitchens, his muscles prodded like cattle. Due to his strength and simplicity his body would be put to work in the most grueling of tasks. "He'll work hard, his butt is strong", they said, their words a prelude to the grueling tasks ahead.
The captives were not just given tasks; they were being refashioned into roles that parodied femininity. Aldric served meals, each movement a dance of humiliation under Qasim's watchful eye. Eadric, now a domestic servant, mended and washed, his elegance now a mockery, his hands unaccustomed to such work, his dignity eroded with each stitch. Finn was paraded around, he entertained, his innocence exploited as a tool for their games. Hakon's care was redirected to his captors, his gentle nature now twisted to serve not as a father and husband, but as a wife. Sven was taught the art of serving, his every movement scrutinized for signs of his former haughtiness, his appearance now a tool for the soldiers' amusement. Bjorn labored, his wildness chained by his new duties. Leif toiled in the kitchen, his body a machine for their sustenance, far from his simple and free life on the farm.
The soldiers reveled in this control and their masculine camaraderie, their laughter and crude remarks a soundtrack to the captives' degradation. Their touches, their commands, were not just about assigning work but about reshaping these men into something subservient, into substitutes for the wives they lacked. Each act of servitude was another reminder of the captives' former lives, of their new existence in the harsh reality of Al-Nur.
Each movement of the sergeant's fingers was a lesson in submission, in understanding that here, in Al-Nur, he was nothing more than property to be used, shaped, and controlled. The sergeant had made sure the lesson was clear.
Chapter 2.1: "An Invasive Journey"
Sven stood under the harsh scrutiny of the sergeant, his once-proud posture now humbled by the weight of his new reality. The sergeant, a man with eyes like daggers, circled Sven, his gaze dissecting every inch of the former merchant's son.
"You'll learn manners here," the sergeant growled, his voice a mix of promise and threat. With a rough hand, he pushed back Sven's dark hair, examining him as one would appraise livestock. His fingers lingered on Sven's neck, tracing down to his collarbone, a clear sign of ownership.
The sergeant then led Sven to a secluded part of the camp, where the crowd of soldiers thinned to a few who watched with eager, cruel eyes. "Strip," he commanded, and Sven, with a mixture of defiance and resignation, complied, his fine clothes falling away to reveal his body, once adorned with the trappings of wealth, now exposed to the elements and the soldiers' lust.
Once naked, Sven was pushed against a rough wooden table. The sergeant, eager to assert his dominance, positioned himself behind Sven. His hands roaming over the man's body with a possessive grip, his fingers beginning their invasive journey.
Without warning, the sergeant forced his fingers inside Sven, the intrusion sharp and unyielding. Sven's body tensed, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to suppress any sound that might betray his discomfort or pain. "Look at you," the sergeant whispered harshly, his breath hot against Sven's ear. "You'll learn your place here." The soldiers around laughed, their jeers adding to the sounds of Sven's degradation.
Each strike was not just physical but a stark message of his subjugation.
Chapter 2.2: "Focus of Their Taunts"
Leif was directed to the kitchens, his strong, youthful butt the focus of their taunts.
Encircled by soldiers, their eyes fixed on his large, appetizing buttocks, they began their game. One soldier stepped forward, his boot connecting with a resounding thud against Leif's rear. "Look at that bounce," he leered, encouraging others.
Another soldier, laughing, took his turn, his kick harder, making Leif stagger. They formed a circle around him, each man eager to feel the firmness of his muscles under their feet. Kicks came from all sides, some cheerful, others vicious, but always impactful.
Leif's buttocks, once a symbol of his farm labor's strength, now served as a target for their amusement. They mocked his resilience, how his body recoiled yet stood firm under their assault. "He's built for this," one chuckled, landing another kick of this focused celebration.
