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peopleofthedas2011-08-23 01:38 pm
msbarrows) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-08-23 01:38 pm
Entry tags:
Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 11
Title: Bonds of Brotherhood - Chapter 11 (Punishment)
Characters: Zevran/Assorted Crows
Rating: M
Word Count: 3,285
Summary: Flashback continues - Zevran returns to his master and is punished for having run away. Whipping, claustrophobic confinement.
Master Edelbach frowned as he left his office and headed down the stairs to the ground floor. Master Kerrel had been pecking away at him in council recently, and from some of the jabs he had made, might have heard that all was not as it should be in Edelbach's domain.
He'd kept the loss of one of his apprentices quiet at first, believing that in Zevran's conditions it would be hours, perhaps a few days at most, before he was recovered. But days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, with nothing more being found of the last apprentice then what might have been the robe he'd been wearing when last seen. The point at which he could have reported a runaway – or worse, stolen – apprentice to the council without issue being made of it had long since passed.
He had certainly begun to wonder if the elf had been stolen by one of the other masters, or even by some private cell belonging to one of the hundred royal houses; the latter would do it as one of the few ways to add a properly trained Crow to their number, though Zevran's training was far from over at this point. The former – had myriad reasons, from blackmail to spite.
If there was any one master he could believe would do it, it was Kerrel. They'd disliked each other as soon as they'd first met as master and apprentice, and that had progressed to outright hatred over the years since. More than once he'd found himself wishing that he'd culled the boy rather then passing him off to another training master. Kerrel had grown into a viper, not particularly skilled as a working Crow but devastating on the political side of things, leveraging his skill in politics into a mastership at a surprisingly young age. Privately, Edelbach suspected Kerrel's fingerprints might have been all over the minor crisis that flared into a major one and took three masters with it before it was resolved, which had created the opening the young Crow had moved into. Of course even if he'd ever had proof of it, it would have been of no real use – that was what the politicals did, and other Masters would have merely seen it as further proof of how skilled Kerrel was.
Edelbach decided to take a walk around the garden before retiring to his quarters. It was at a particularly pretty stage of growth, the wolf's bane and foxglove both in bloom, their beauty as much excuse for growing them as their toxicity. As he slowly paced around the curving brick pathway through the deserted garden, he noted that the snakeweed vine trained up the back wall was overdue for a trimming. He paused to admire its mix of fresh purple blooms, emerald green unripe berries and brilliant red ripe berries, then frowned, looking around alertly.
He was in motion even as a slight figure rose from behind a bed of columbine and belladonna, his robes bellowing out in a confusing swirl of fabric that would help to deflect anything thrown his way. A moment later he had the unresisting figure pinned to the ground, a knife at his throat, a second pressed to his belly. An elf, coppery-blond...
"Zevran!" he gasped in surprise.
"Master," Zevran croaked out.
Edelbach settled back in his chair, frowning at the tired-looking elf seated on the far side of the desk from him, two guards flanking him. He tapped the stack of paper in front of him, which documented the examination and interrogation of the apprentice since his return the night before. It looked like his biggest fear – that the elf was now under the control of some other person – might be dismissed.
"So you were among the Dalish for the last couple of months?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," Zevran said tiredly – he'd been allowed no sleep since his return, and had been awake and on the move for almost a full two days before that; he was nearly falling asleep from exhaustion even as he sat there. "I... had forgotten who I was, until we were attacked by sh... until we were attacked, and I had to fight. Then I remembered. I returned as swiftly as I could, Master."
Edelbach grunted acknowledgement. "I am pleased that you did the right thing and returned, but I must still punish you for having run in the first place."
"Yes, Master," the elf said quietly.
"Thirty lashes," he said sternly. "A week in close confinement, and then a month of menial labour. Then I will consider if you are still worthy of further training. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master," the elf said, voice hoarse from both tiredness and fear. Thirty lashes could cripple a man; he had reason to fear. His punishment could easily reduce him from a promising apprentice to being good for nothing but a menial labourer for the remainder of his life. Or worse; thirty lashes, delivered the right way, could also kill him. Or leave him alive, but unfit for even menial labour. He had to be worrying about which of those fates the master intended him for, even after Edelbach had spoke of the possibility of resuming his training at a later date.
"Take him to the cells for now," Edelbach told the guards. "I will administer the punishment myself, after lunch." He turned his attention back to Zevran. "Consider your folly while you wait."
At least he hadn't had to wait very long, Zevran thought to himself as the guards returned to the cell and led him away again. He'd been there only a couple of hours, long enough to consider all the futures he might have after this point, and even doze off briefly, sprawled out on the hard wooden bench. Not long enough to rest him, only long enough to make him feel even more tired, his head buzzing with exhaustion, eyes dry and gritty.
They led him out into the training yard. A post had been erected in the middle of it, using a socket usually used for training dummies. This post was tall and bare, save for a set of shackles attached to a ring at the top. The yard itself was filled with a silent gathering of apprentices, of every age from new intake to those who'd graduated but were still waiting for their first assignment. Everyone was there; apprentices, teachers, trainers, torturers, the lesser masters that assisted Edelbach in his work. And Edelbach, standing near a small table on which the whips waited, neat coils of black or brown leather.
He was brought to a stop near the post, and the reason for his punishment, and the terms of it, read out by one of the lesser masters. As he spoke, Edelbach shrugged out of his voluminous robes, stripping down to just leggings and soft leather buskins. He was impressively fit, shoulders wide and muscular, stomach still as flat and taunt as a man half his age, his upper arms as big around as Zevran's thighs. He'd clearly never allowed himself to go soft just because he didn't do assignments. Zevran shuddered, imagining what he could do with a whip if he was angry enough; strip the flesh right off Zevran's bones, if he had a mind to.
He forced himself to meet his master's eyes. Edelbach still had his usual calm expression. "Put him up," he said in a carrying voice, nodding to the post.
The shackles were at a height better suited to humans than elves; Zevran had to stand on his toes once his hands had been drawn over his head and locked into them. He was starting to feel truly frightened now, knew that if he was left this way for long he was going to start trembling, between the fear and the muscle strain, and felt shamed at the thought of so many witnessing him in a moment of weakness.
Footsteps scuffed softly across the pavement behind him. Edelbach, approaching with a whip, he thought. But they came closer, right up behind him, until he could feel the heat of the man's body, smell the faint musk of his sweat. Fingers tangled in his hair, tipped his head back and turned it, so he was looking at his master.
"Open your mouth," Edelbach said neutrally, holding up a folded strip of leather in his other hand. Zevran obediently did as told. Edelbach positioned it in his mouth, draping across his tongue and out both sides. "Bite down, hard."
Zevran did so, wanting to grimace at the sour taste of the leather. A rush of saliva filled his mouth, and he had to swallow around the obstruction.
Edelbach pushed his head back forward again, between his two up-stretched arms, before releasing his hair. He felt the master's fingers lightly touch his back as the man's arm dropped, heard him whisper "courage" in a voice so quiet none but Zevran could possibly hear it, before he walked away again. Zevran drew a deep, slow breath through his nose, abruptly feeling oddly calm, even as he awaited his punishment. He found himself remembering the sure feel of his master's hands in the dungeon. There would be pain when he was whipped, of that he was certain, but he realized that he trusted that Edelbach would do nothing worse, would not intentionally injure or cripple him with the whip. He would survive this, as he'd survived the training in pain. And he'd get through the confinement and punishment afterwards, and prove that he was worthy of finishing his training. Worthy of his master.
The first stroke of the whip was still a startling thing to feel; bound as he was he couldn't see what was happening, not even to know which of the whips Edelbach had selected. The sudden strike of a narrow leather whip cutting across his back from left shoulder down to right waist made him jerk in his chains. He was glad for the leather in his mouth, even more so when the first blow was followed by a second, cutting across his back barely an inch below the first. Five stripes done left to right, then a brief pause and five more cut down his back, right to left, crossing the welts of the original set. His back felt on fire, every welt a distinct line of pain, worse at the points where line crossed line or skin had torn. His back stung as sweat and blood trickled down it.
Another pause, and then more strokes, with a different whip. Something wider and flatter, laying another series of five strokes down each side, beneath the first sets, each of those stokes just slightly overlapping the previous one. It left his skin feeling hot and tight, the fire spread out instead of concentrated in welts. He was dizzy now, exhausted and tired and in pain, blood roaring in his ears. He sagged as much as he could in his chains, in the pause while the master switched to another whip.
Blows, eight of them in rapid succession, four down the back of each thigh, a sharp cutting pain. He could feel moisture dripping down his legs afterwards; whatever had been used had been enough to break the skin, not just raise welts. There was a final, longer pause, while the master switched whips one last time. He heard a faint murmur from those watching, knew Edelbach had selected something especially nasty, the only warning he had before the final two strokes lashed across his back, cutting a deep X in his skin, from left shoulder to right thigh, from right to left. He'd have screamed if he could, but the leather clenched in his mouth effectively gagged him.
He heard the watching audience filing away, silent save for their footsteps on the stone. Only once they were gone did he hear Edelbach move, walking up close behind him again.
"Bucket," the master said. Zevran braced himself, knowing what was coming next, but still jerked and hissed through his nose as cold salted water was poured over him, washing away the blood. It served a duel purpose, he knew – additional pain, and cleansing the wounds so they wouldn't fester. The master's fingers tangled in his hair a second time, pulling his head back, working the leather loose from his mouth; his teeth had pierced right through the outermost layers of it.
Then the two guards, faces impassive, released him from the shackles. They supported him upright, each holding onto an arm on opposite sides of him, while Edelbach himself gently cleaned and bandaged his wrists, torn from their contact with the shackles. That gentleness undid him where the whipping itself hadn't; he found himself trembling uncontrollably, tears running down his face. Edelbach gave him an probing look, then the slightest of smiles. "Well done," he murmured, voice warm with approval.
Edelbach stepped away then, pulling his robes back on, his usual imperturbable expression settling on his face. "This way," he commanded, and led the way into the building and down to the dungeon level, to a hallway with a series of small metal trapdoors set in the floor. He selected one, bent down and lifted the heavy metal door with ease, revealing a round chimney-like hole in the floor. "Arms down, I think," he said calmly, eyeing Zevran thoughtfully.
The two guardsmen lifted Zevran, pinning his arms against his sides, and lowered him feet-first into the hole. Of necessity their movements brushed across the welts and broken skin of his back, drawing a hiss of pain from him. He forced himself not to struggle as he was lowered into the tight-fitting dark hole, to continue trusting that Edelbach meant for him to survive this, too.
The guards had to drop him the last little bit into the hole, his feet coming down bruisingly hard on a metal grate at the lower end of it. Looking up, he judged it was perhaps a foot or so taller then he was, big enough to take a full grown man if needed. He could see Edelbach standing beside the hole, looking calmly down at him, before the metal door was swung shut. He could hear the scrape of it being locked shut, the footsteps of the three receding, and then he was alone in the absolute darkness of the narrow stone chimney.
He could hear a faint sound of running water from somewhere below him, feel a mild chill rising from that direction. A week. He had to get through a week of standing in this confined space, unable to sit, unable even to raise his arms from his sides, so close was the confinement. That would become torturous in time, he knew. He had survived torture already, he reminded himself. He would endure this too. He braced himself face-forward against one side of the shaft, closed his eyes, and let his exhaustion claim him, dropping him into uneasy sleep.
Zevran lost his sense of how much time had passed in the hole very quickly. At seemingly random intervals the door above him would be opened. He quickly learned to close his eyes tightly at the first scrape of the lock being undone; trapped in the darkness as he was, even the faintest light hurt his eyes. Moreover, each opening of the door heralded a bucket or two of salted water being poured over him, cleansing him of any wastes that hadn't made it to the grate, but leaving him with an itchy coating of salt on his skin that was a mild torture in its own right.
Then he'd be fed and watered, someone leaning down into the hole to hold a waterskin to his lips, feed him scraps of bread, meat, cheese and fruit. Once, to his surprise, it was Edelbach himself, reaching in to feel what he could reach of Zevran's back and make sure he was healing cleanly from the whipping.
He endured the between-times as best he could, sleeping when he grew exhausted enough to overcome the discomfort. When he was awake he regularly changed position as much as the tight space allowed, spent hours rhythmically flexing his muscles to fend off the cramping and weakness that standing near-motionless for so long would otherwise induce.
And then it was over, ropes being fastened around his chest to draw him out with. He kept his eyes tightly shut as he was helped to the infirmary upstairs from the dungeons, waiting for them to adjust to the presence of light again. He was given a warm bath, then his scabbed welts were checked to be sure they were all healing cleanly. A couple places required some attention where small pockets of pus had formed despite the salt water treatment, then once he'd been salved and wrapped in a soft robe and fed, he was returned to the very room he'd fled so foolishly months before. The window was still invitingly open, unbarred, but he felt not the least interested in climbing out of it a second time; he still couldn't understand what had caused him to do something so stupid to begin with.
"You're to have two days of rest and mild exercise before you begin your month of labour," one of the attendants told him. "You're confined to the building until it's over, unless you're specifically ordered to perform a task outside. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he said.
The month passed quickly, spent in hard work. He wore the same coarse grey tunic as the rest of the compound's servants, slept in the same rooms as they, ate the same cheap but filling food at the same hours. He stayed silent, speaking only when spoken to, doing his work as efficiently and as well as he could manage, no matter what the task he'd been set was. He suspected he was purposefully being given many of the more noisome or strenuous tasks, but accepted that – this was punishment, after all, not a holiday. His hands roughened from the work, his shoulders filling out with additional muscle from all the heavy lifting. In the little free time he had each day, he sought out spaces where he could run through his exercises, making sure he kept in as best condition and practise as he could. He had failed his master once; he was determined not to ever fail him again.
Finally, finally, came the day that a lesser master came and fetched him away from his tasks, saw him bathed – he'd been in the middle of cleaning the catchment pit of a garderobe at the time – and dressed in clothes suitable to an apprentice, then brought before Edelbach.
"Good, we can move on with your training," Edelbach said, looking him over. "Your schedule will be divided into two halves. In the mornings you will resume the usual martial training. In the afternoons, you will be reporting to the west wing for training in the arts of pleasure. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master," he said, the only acceptable answer.
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You may have my quota of internets for today as a reward for not flinching from the subject matter. Antiva deserves to be brought into the harsh light of day.
Please don't be offended but there are quite a few tiny errors spoiling the reading of this. For eg, on a couple of occasions you used 'quite' for 'quiet' and 'then' for 'than'. Do you have a copy beta? I can offer my services, if you like, as several projects I was beta-ing have come to an end.
no subject
I think I'd have flinched big-time if I'd been attempting to write a sexy-times whipping scene, like you so deliciously have in Secret Service, but this is definitely non-sexy-times stuff. Speaking of flinching, I'm finally trying my hand at writing a moderately explicit "what DID happen in that carriage..." scene for Taliesen and Zevran, and will post it if it doesn't make me want to go hide in bed with the sheets over my head all day once it's done. Writing explicit is *tough* when you're used to using hints and allusions.
Correction and feedback never offends me! I need to put "checking then/than" on my pre-posting to-do list, it's one thing I still regularly fail at getting right on the first draft, though at least I finally have the mental rule for it straight - "then" is one-thing-after-another and "than" is comparing-one-to-another. Bad me on missing the quite/quiet, I usually do catch those. Thanks for the offer to beta read, I may end up taking you up on that.