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No words could protect David from the invaders. He was a man of peace, a man of god, a man of still waters running deep, but they cared not for his words, or the words of his ancestors.
They tied him first, to the door of the manger, and made him watch as the slaughtered the other men of the village, and any boys old enough to show some fight, then raped the women and committed unspeakable acts upon the children that remained.
Throughout he pleaded with the invaders, prayed to the spirits of his ancestors to intervene, begged his gods to save their people.
For naught.
When he alone remained, they cut him from the door, leaving the ropes about his wrists, and tore his clothing to expose his flesh before the eyes of his ancestors and his dead people. They whipped him until his skin was raw, and ran their rough hands over him, laughing and leering at him, then they used him. They used him like they had the women, forcing themselves into his mouth and ass repeatedly until tears flowed from his eyes and their seed ran from his other holes.
When they finished, they left him in the manger, lying in the hay, confused by mixed feelings of horror and pleasure, wondering when they would return.
