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Mercy	By : Worlds_First_Ghost Category: +G through L > League of Legends Views: 3811 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own League of Legends, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mercy
- 1
There exists a dungeon underneath the towering arched ceilings and oaken halls of the Avarosan palace. One was to be forgiven if they didn’t know of its presence; several of the palace’s own staff had never even seen it before. For as long as the structure itself had stood, its dungeon had been in the service of many past warmothers and its iron plated walls were reminiscent of the callous and backwards age in which it was initially constructed. They were a poor shield from the elements, though it could be argued that this was an intentional design choice. Not only did they amplify the chill of the frozen earth outside, but the lack of insulation ensured that no warmth could be retained within the space. Like leeches, the walls sapped away at any source of heat held inside of them, even the prisoners’ own body heat. Many of the condemned would only have to endure this excruciating cold for a short while before being led above ground for their execution. The other, less fortunate, ones wasted away inside compact cells, each one housing a solid stone mattress and a chamber pot as their only furnishings. In the open space between the rows of cells, several lengths of chain dangled from the ceiling. The wardens used these to bind their unhappy victims in preparation for grueling, torturous interrogation sessions in full view of the other captives. These ominous implements were enough to make the prisoners cling to the safety of their iron-barred havens, lest they be trotted out for pain, death, or both.
Ashe had always hated this section of the palace, which was a major factor in why its existence was kept a secret. She had hoped to one day refurbish and convert this grisly space into a storage room or at least something more pleasant, anything to remove this reminder of her nation’s barbaric past. However, in spite of her reservations toward it, she couldn’t deny that it was actually serving its purpose for first time in many years. There was indeed a prisoner being held in the dungeon, but the only issue was that the prisoner was herself.
Everyone in Runeterra knew that the frozen powder keg that was the Freljord was one spark away from blowing to pieces. Many of those also figured that out of the region’s primary warring tribes, the Winter’s Claw would be the one to wave around a lit match and ignite it. But when the aforementioned tribe finally met everyone’s predictions by mobilizing the entirety of its population into the southern Freljord, many of the inhabitants were ill-prepared to defend it. For as long as this stagnant conflict had persisted in the region, people had been born, lived their lives, and died just as they would anywhere else in Runeterra. A good majority of the population had the mindset that their homeland would forever exist in a perpetually tenuous limbo, and that they’d be long dead if conflict ever did break out. When they saw the columns of soldiers marching towards their towns, all these people found themselves able to do was to seal the doors of their hutches and huddle in a dark corner with their loved ones. Through their windows, the early morning sun was blotted out by row upon row of dark figures tromping down the streets in deafeningly uniform rhythm.
In the length of time it took the sun to travel from the eastern frontier to its apex in the sky, the Winter’s Claw had successfully stormed the palace. Their assault wasn’t entirely without resistance. There was still a contingent of the Avarosan, the soldiers and prescient individuals who knew war could break out at any moment, which was quick to take up arms against the invaders. Their valor was not to be disparaged, but they still couldn’t match the tenacity of their opponents. Yet despite the Winter’s Claw’s notorious brutality, minimal casualties were suffered by the defenders. Sejuani had ordered her troops to refrain from killing unless necessary, opting instead to restrain their fallen opponents in chains. A lengthy procession of these manacled hostages brought up the rear of the regiment as it advanced deeper into the palace’s halls.
Ever since word of the invasion reached her, Ashe had transformed the palace into a personal base of operations to coordinate her own troops and organize relief efforts to aid the civilian population. She was just about to grab her bow and join the fighting herself when the doors to her throne room had been explosively reduced to splinters and sawdust.
In an uncharacteristically diplomatic fashion, Sejuani took a step at the head of her army and dropped her trademark flail at her side. Unarmed, she looked towards her rival and brusquely issued her demands: Ashe was to surrender to her without a fight, or else the previously spared Avarosans would be butchered without quarter.
Ashe clutched her bow tightly, its drawstring vibrating from the pressure of her uncertainty. This whole invasion was solely organized to target her; the Avarosans were just collateral to ensure a victory. To think that Sejuani concocted a strategy that veered from her usual course of indiscriminate destruction stunned her more than the demands themselves. However, she knew that Sejuani was shortsighted enough to relent as long as she got what she wanted, so she readily accepted the terms and placed her bow at her feet.
True to her word, Sejuani ordered her troops to stand down. The hostages were released from their bindings only for their warmother to be shackled in their stead. Two of Sejuani’s soldiers had led Ashe down to the dungeon, which is where she had spent the rest of the night. Inside her cell, she had little else to do but stew in her defeat and wonder why she was left alive rather than be killed on the spot. Perhaps Sejuani was preparing to have her publicly executed, only keeping her down here while she was hard at work ensuring that such an event would be witnessed by as many people as possible.
At one point in the night, a different pair of guards had walked her out of the cell and chained her in the center of the room, arms forced above her head. This brought forth a much darker prospect regarding her fate. There would be no grand spectacle surrounding her death. Sejuani would deny her that in addition to a noble death on the battlefield. She would perish ingloriously down in this pit like countless others before her. Whether or not there would be torture involved was a pointless thing to ponder; a quick and painless death was not a concept that existed in Sejuani’s imagination.
The dungeon’s wooden door knocked against the wall, sending a deep thud tumbling down the stairs to signal Sejuani’s descent. The echoes of her boots striking the stone steps reverberated throughout the vast, empty space. Even though the battle was over and her victory was secured, she still had on her helmet and fur-lined pauldrons and breastplate. Not only did it provide a fitting contrast between her and her much more underdressed captive, but it also served to reinforce her belief that a true warrior should never retire even when there is no fighting to be done. Besides, she couldn’t remove her armor right now; not when her true victory has yet to be achieved. Crushing the Avarosan and consolidating her rule over the Freljord wasn’t as simple as marching some soldiers into enemy territory and deposing its monarch. As long as her rivals were free to foment defiance among the people, not even the strongest armies could help secure her control over the realm. Gaining power over a tribe didn’t mean conquering the people; she needed to conquer their queen.
Her heavy footed lumbering continued toward Ashe once she reached the bottom step. Seeing her strung up and bound made Sejuani want to giggle like a child about to unwrap a long awaited gift. Although she had imagined what Ashe would look like in this position all throughout the night, she would’ve never had thought the reality would be so gratifying. The exposed areas of fair, pale skin on her arms and legs faintly glimmered within the darkness of the room, echoing the virtues of purity and hope she had always extolled to her people. The glint in her glaring eyes similarly radiated a foolish optimism that she had not, in fact, been defeated just yet. Her icy stare attempted to pierce Sejuani with this notion, but the armored warmother would not let her victory be tarnished. She knew that this impudent fire wouldn’t last long within the suffocating cold being generated within these walls.
“Good morning, your highness.” The title filtered through Sejuani’s taunting grin and hung in the air as she approached the bound woman. “Did you rest well?”
Ashe hadn’t, in fact, rested well. The slab that served as her bed did a number on her spine and the dry straw bedding caused her skin to itch. It was preferable to sleeping on the mud-caked ground, but not by much. This discomfort was buried behind a resentful glare that was fixated on her captor. “Spare me the pleasantries. If you came down here to gloat, I’d rather you get it over with and leave me alone.”
Even with the iron shackles uncomfortably lifting her arms over her head, Ashe strove to keep her eyes forward and her posture as straight as possible. The quiet dignity and invisible strength of a Freljordian warmother emanated from her bound form, which only widened Sejuani’s grin. Out of the countless tribal leaders that had fallen to her, the most satisfying victories came from those who refused to submit the longest. She craved to watch their stubborn resolve wither and devolve into impotent squirming in the face of her strength. Once the pleas for reprieve were at last wrung out from their piteous forms, she would grant this final request with a decisive blow from her flail. It was only natural to assume that Ashe, her worthiest and most persistent adversary, would endure longer than any of those who came before her. Where worms would perish under her boot, the Avarosan would endure. The anticipation was enough to make her tremble, but she wouldn’t permit this enthusiasm to cloud her focus.
“Is that any way for a woman in chains to be speaking?” Sejuani circled around the shorter woman, inspecting her like a side of meat suspended from a hook. Her slender, frail body was not one suited for life out in the tundra, especially not with that skimpy outfit she always wore. The fact that she had thrived for so long like this, and as a leader of an entire tribe no less, was something that had always left Sejuani mystified.
“I’m still a warmother.” Ashe continued to face forward, not bothering to look at Sejuani as she galumphed about. “Don’t think for a second that these chains will make me stop acting like it.”
Sejuani chuckled. “Of what tribe? The Avarosan belongs to me now. Your power is lost.”
Faint jingles ran up the length of the shackles as impotent rage welled up in Ashe’s body, but her composure remained rock solid. “As long as I’m still alive, I beg you to reconsider, Sejuani. We can rule together and usher in an era of peace. Continuing this cycle of violence will only lead to the Freljord’s demise.”
“The Freljord was already on the way to ruin under your weak guidance. All I’m doing is cleaning up your mess.”
Ashe grimaced. “I knew it’d be pointless to reason with you. You always were too pigheaded for your own good.”
“What you call pigheadedness is what I call resoluteness. It’s one of many virtues you’ve always lacked.” Leaning her face to an inch away from Ashe’s, her lips curled in a disdainful sneer. “Do you know why I’m still a warmother and you’re chained down here like a common hooligan? Because my conviction has always been stronger than yours. Your inability to rule has always been a fact of nature. It’s only now that it has finally been laid bare for everyone else to witness.”
The chains weakly rattled as Ashe flexed her fingers, trying to get some blood circulating into her hands. “Okay, I admit it. You’ve won, so what now? I suppose you’re going to kill me, right?”
Sejuani leaned away from Ashe and rubbed her chin in mock thought, as if she hadn’t already spent all night planning on what she was about to do to her. The tantalizing image of crushing Ashe’s skull on the battlefield had long been a faraway dream for Sejuani. But they weren’t battling each other now. She’d gain no glory or satisfaction from stealing her life away in this dreary crypt with no one present to witness her achievement. No, it would be much more satisfying to leave Ashe alive. Sejuani’s greatness was absolute and incontestable. It was not something contingent on Ashe’s death; it would be able to stand no matter how long she lived, as well as long after she finally perished. And so, she would be forced to live. While Sejuani would prosper in her Freljord, Ashe would wallow in her weakness, isolated from a world she had no more influence on.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to kill you, but I spent last night contemplating my victory. Although you possess several weak qualities, there’s still one virtue of yours that I’ve been curious about. It’s your… mercy.” The word oozed off of Sejuani’s tongue as she savored the unfamiliar sound of each syllable. It wasn’t something she said very often, let alone a concept she ever practiced, but it was something she could get accustomed to.
A curt laugh burst out of Ashe’s mouth. “Mercy? What do you know about mercy?”
Sejuani’s placid expression didn’t crack under Ashe’s jab. Instead she pulled a length of cord that had been fastened to her belt. “For starters, I think we can both agree that sparing your life is very merciful. In addition, what I have planned for you is more merciful than any execution.”
With a flick of her wrist, the cord unfurled in a sickening crack, as the air itself shattered from the blow. Its leathery body coiled around her feet and dragged along the floor as she stepped backwards, attempting to find a good distance between herself and Ashe before she began. On the surface, a whipping appeared to be a standard and unremarkable form of torture. She had utilized more grueling, sadistic methods to extract subjugation from her past foes, but none of those would suffice for Ashe. The whip was able to cause enough pain to last for an extended period of time; it was not her intention to end the experience prematurely with Ashe’s death. In addition, there was a psychological aspect that couldn’t be replicated by other means. As a warmother, Ashe and everyone else she ruled over were essentially her children. When any of them stepped out of line, it was her responsibility to discipline them.
The whip whistled as it sliced through the air. It hit Ashe’s behind with an explosive strike, causing the former queen to cry out in pain. Turning her head as far back as she could, she shot an icy glare toward her torturer. “If this is your definition of mercy, you’re more of a brute than I ever could’ve imagined.”
Sejuani’s thumb stroked the grip of her whip. “Believe me, if you knew of all the things I’ve done, you’d agree with me that I’m being very, deliberately merciful.”
The thong shot out like a snake’s tongue, lapping at both buttocks in an instant before repeating the motion seconds later. It handled much like her preferred flail, but the reduced weight allowed her to be much livelier in her strikes. A simple twist of her wrist could redirect a botched swing and still hit her target. With brutal accuracy she landed multiple wallops all focused on Ashe’s backside, her noises of pain inaudible over the thunderous volleys that slashed her flesh. Eventually, Sejuani started taking longer pauses in between her strikes to savor the haggard breaths that frothed from Ashe’s trembling body. There was no telling when the next lash would come next other than the swift, warbling gust of air that preceded a vicious bite. Even then, Sejuani would sometimes intentionally miss just to watch Ashe flinch at every crack going off around her. This alone was amusing, but it was even more so when, after several of these false swipes, an actual lash connected with her behind. Those hits would always dredge up the most miserable whines from the depths of her lungs.
After about an hour of this treatment, Ashe still refused to buckle. Her body stiffened and leaned forward whenever the scourge lashed at her ass, but other than the occasional whimper or suckling inhale, she made no indication that she was ready to surrender. With a commending huff, Sejuani tossed the implement aside before stomping over to her captive. One hand cupped her chin while the other seized her stinging bottom. Ashe groaned at the sudden contact, but made no further movement.
“Perhaps the message isn’t getting through to you.” Sejuani lifted up Ashe’s skirt and bunched it up into the waistband of her cotton panties. The scourge’s handiwork was made evident in the form of ugly red stripes of raised flesh that crisscrossed up her thighs and poked out from the edges of the underwear. She traced her fingers along these hash marks, the raw skin pulsing in agony under her feather touch. The underlying nerves flared and shot pulsing pain signals through Ashe’s body, causing her to lean her hips away from Sejuani’s hand. The hand under her chin tightened in response, its fingernails digging against her jawbone.
“Typical Southerner.” Sejuani yanked the undergarments upward, wedging them tightly between Ashe’s cheeks. More welts were uncovered, marring her cheeks in a brutally intricate patchwork. “Using fancy foreign materials for your clothes. Your will is as flimsy as this fabric.”
A shuddering groan dribbled from Ashe’s mouth. “Oh, Avarosa above. Get with the times, already. I mean, if you like your undies made out of fur and hide, that’s on you. But some of us like wearing comfortable clothes.”
“I see you’re still spirited enough to make wisecracks. That will soon change.”
Rearing her arm over her head, Sejuani brought it down in an open-palmed swat against one of Ashe’s slashed up butt cheeks. The bulbous layer of fat jiggled from the impact. She squeezed a handful of tender, brutalized flesh for a few seconds before releasing it and swatting the other cheek in a similarly fierce manner. This cheek, its muscles tensed and anxious to escape any further groping, produced a much less visceral reaction upon getting slapped. Whether it was atop her mount or behind the impressive range of her flail, Sejuani had always engaged from a distance. Now, she would achieve her victory up close. Her raw physical strength would be exhibited without restraint.
Ashe gasped and her futile struggles against her chains intensified. She had mentally fortified herself for the whipping during her time alone, along with any other possible forms of common torture methods Sejuani might have trotted out. But a spanking by hand was not only just something done to children, it was also highly unorthodox.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ashe’s throat tightened as she struggled to prevent her voice from reaching a higher register.
“I’m punishing you, child. Your defiance towards your warmother demands a special kind of correction.”
“I’m not a kid, Sejuani! Enough with this indignity!”
“What nerve!” Another particularly forceful smack landed right on the center of her butt. “You should be thanking me for not doing this in public sight. My mercy is being wasted on you.”
“This isn’t mercy!” Ashe shouted, her voice cracking in anguish. “This you enacting some sick, twisted fantasy of yours! Death is almost preferable to being subjected to this depravity.”
“Almost, eh?” Sejuani hummed while clapping Ashe’s cheeks in a contemplative rhythm. “Until your conviction is firm enough to make a definite conclusion on that matter, this punishment shall continue.”
Swat after swat assaulted Ashe’s rear in a metronomic tempo. Sejuani alternated between each cheek, taking note of the rosy color each one started to take on and ensuring that they were both the same shade. Her hands were able to hit much more skin than the thin cord of the whip, resulting in large circles of flesh splotching and discoloring all at once after several strikes. The existing lashes began to bruise and deepen in color almost immediately upon being hit, releasing hot waves of pain across the entire tortured area. Sometimes Ashe would buck and twist her hips in a useless attempt to escape this torment. This disobedience would be met by a thumb jabbing underneath her jawbone until her squirming ceased.
“Whelp,” Sejuani spat as her palm delivered another round of swats on the burning bottom. The color of Ashe’s skin at this point was a consistent bright ruby red. She wondered if she could make it darker. “You were always weak, like a child. Now you’re finally being treated the way you deserve.”
Crimson blood dispersed throughout the former warmother’s searing flesh, which burned with an intensity only rivaled with that emanating from between Sejuani’s legs. It hadn’t even registered with her until this moment, but this was the fulfillment she sought all along. Ashe was subjugated, debased, and brought down to the level of a child. She, conversely, was the conqueror, the dominant. Not only did she own Ashe’s tribe, she owned all of her body, too. A peculiar dampness clung to her loins as fluids soaked into her sturdy leather underwear. They may not be as soft as Ashe’s, but their absorbency was a much more useful benefit in this case.
Ashe’s ragged gasps burst out of her mouth in small clouds. Thin trails of steam wafted off her simmering flesh. It didn’t help that the previous thrashing made each slap hurt much worse than they would normally. Dark maroon flushed every inch of her ass while the areas bordering the whip’s welts muddied into purple blotches.
“What happened to that quick wit of yours?” Sejuani crowed. “Did I beat it out of you so quickly?”
Each violent connection of skin against skin echoed within the dungeon. Its cramped confines made each smack sound ten times louder. They pounded Ashe’s ears, drowning out Sejuani’s taunts, her own haggard breathing, and the miserable whimpers of pain that she hated herself for making. Even in her direst of moments, she would never grant an adversary the pleasure of seeing her in a state of weakness. But now, suspended from the ceiling and vulnerable to everything that Sejuani could do to her, all agency was stripped from her; even her choice to conceal her emotional state.
Ashe was so focused on trying not to cry that she didn’t even notice Sejuani pulling her panties down. Once it became apparent that the palm was hitting exposed skin without any form of shielding, the tears broke free in a singular deluge. She hadn’t cried this hard since she was a very small child. Out in the northern wastes, nothing was more contemptible than crying. Not only was it a waste of energy better spent doing something productive, it was also an admission of weakness. Weak creatures did not survive long in the cold. Yet here she was, in chains with tears streaming down her face and her ass painted with searing red pain. Never before had she felt so small, so powerless, and so defeated. She allowed her whole body weight to dangle from the chains, her legs weakened from pain. The cuffs dug into her wrists, but it was nothing compared to the screaming that was her ass.
“Baby.” Sejuani clapped Ashe’s left cheek before quickly smacking her right. “Cry away, little one. You should’ve stayed in your crib and left leadership to the true warriors.” Mocking venom dripped off of every word.
Sejuani paused in her onslaught to savor in the hiccups and sobs that shook her captive’s body. They started to subside after a few moments, but a single slap let loose a particularly loud wail, renewing the forceful sobbing as if it had never slowed. The armored warmother took a deep inhale, taking in the subtle hints of salty tears as well as the coppery blood that started to ooze from the welts of Ashe’s raw behind. When warriors talked of the supposed smell of victory, she had often wondered what they meant by that. Dismissing it as merely a figure of speech, she knew now that victory had a very real scent. It was one she’d hope to experience many more times during her reign.
Sejuani pulled the panties up Ashe’s legs and smoothed out her skirt. The mewling whimpers brought on by her constant strokes across the wounded area brought a smirk to her face. “You may be a prisoner, but you can still look presentable.”
The indignant fury in Ashe’s eyes had dissolved into shame that was currently streaming from her eyes. Never before had Sejuani seen such a pitiable expression. Her smile softened as she brushed aside some of the former queen’s snow white hair and gently kissed her forehead.
“You may not be a warmother, or even my sister, but you’ll still have a special role in my new kingdom. I will allow you to live the rest of your life in this dungeon. You will not grow hungry, and I will even have my guards bring you some pelts so that you won’t freeze. However, I’ll also come down here to spank you whenever I feel the need to be amused. Don’t worry, I’ll tell your subjects that you were executed to spare them the knowledge of your perpetual disgrace.”
Ashe made no reply, but Sejuani didn’t expect one. She took one last look at her limp adversary before treading towards the stairs. She’d leave her strung up for a few more minutes before sending down a guard to lead her back to her cell. Ideally she’d be rested in time for their next session together.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy…” The word echoed off the stone walls as Sejuani ascended the stairs. She licked her buzzing lips with a childlike giddiness every time she repeated it. A concept that took her much too long to adopt, but one that she’d readily admit was noble. She’d have to put it into action more often.
- 1
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Mercy