For when the whump ideas in my head need to LEAVE

Age: 14

Thwack.

Eldwin choked back a sob as the whip struck his bare skin, again, and again, and again. He flinched violently, his hands bound to the pole keeping him in place. His shirt was on the floor beside him, and he wasn't allowed his bindings. His handler never seemed to care, but Eldwin did. His face burned hot, and he tried to curl in to shield himself, to hide. The restraints would not give.

"I don't hear counting."

"Twen- twenty three?" Eldwin's voice was hoarse, and cracked as he spoke. Crap, he'd lost count.

Thwack. "One."

No! "No, I'm sorry, I- twenty two? Twenty- twenty one!" Wrong answer. He clenched his fists tightly, willing himself not to let out a noise and every time, he failed. "I'm sorry-"

"Being sorry doesn't help you." His handler was a strict man, Eldwin had learned. He would accept nothing less than perfection. "You need to push through the pain. Clear your mind. Now, thirty lashes. It's not that hard. Don't lose track again."

* Eldwin sniffled, shrugging his shirt back on over his marred back. Every movement stung, and his wrists too were rubbed raw from the rope. What kind of life was this? Was it going to be like this forever? He couldn't do it forever. How could he survive?

*+*+*

Age: 18

"Shirt off. Hands to the wall." Eldwin pulled his shirt over his head, a scowl etched upon his face. He unwrapped his bindings, letting the bandages drop to the floor. No cushioning allowed. Probably best not to risk them getting torn up anyway.

He placed his palms flat against the wall, his shoulders tight and scarred back taut. There was no warning before the sharp swish cut through the air. "One," Eldwin counted, working on keeping his voice steady to avoid the sting. "Two."

Sixty this time. It was routine, by now, and he'd long since learnt to let the pain fade into the background to deal with later. It proved to be one of most important lessons he'd had.

Nels walked away after, leaving the whip for Eldwin to clean and put away. He winced every time he reached or bent over, tugging on wounds old and new. He slicked back his sweat-soaked hair, and got to work.

*+*

Age: 22

The whip cracked against shoulder blades, already torn apart. Clyde wasn't in the mood for self control today. He'd been wild, erratically, not caring where he was hitting or how hard, how fast. Eldwin's skin was stained with blood, drenched in it, and there was no way of knowing how many blows had landed. He didn't think Clyde knew, either.

Still, he asked. "How many?"

Eldwin grit his teeth, his breathing laboured. He had no fucking idea. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't, because someone's a bit too excit-" He cut off, biting his tongue as another one landed, tearing more flesh from his shredded back. "I mean really, you ought to savour these things."

"Anyone would think you like this." There is a faint amusement buried beneath the warning tone. "Since you enjoy it so much, let's do a few more. If you count all of them, with no reaction - not a single flinch - I won't put you in the iron gag for talking back. How about it?" Clyde didn't even give him a number to guess with. Eldwin glared at the wall, repositioned his hands. There was no avoiding it. He'd already lost a lot of blood. If Clyde didn't want him to pass out, he wouldn't do much more. But then, if he did that meant the worst of it would be healed. It might be smarter to try and push Clyde into going too far. …If Eldwin had a little less pride, he might. But to collapse would be to admit weakness, a weakness he could not afford to have.

"One." Eldwin said, monotone as the whip ran through layers and layers of lashings crossed over each other, old and new. "Two."

His body was a canvas. One carefully decorated and torn down in a fit of rage, painted over and reborn with fresh inspiration. The paint poured from each wound, dragging all feeling along with it. Where an artist brushes careful strokes to share their lives with the world, here those lives were stripped away, layer by layer with a specific goal in mind, a purpose higher than Clyde's fleeting gratification, more than simple punishment.

"Eleven."

"Twelve."

His nerves grew numb while his own words sounded distant. Teetering on the edge of his mind, letting his muscles soak up every lesson. Every motion an instinct, each robotic syllable a symbol of growth, of a strength earned through blood-stained teeth and nails broken clawing out of the ground.

"Twenty-three."

"Twenty-four."

Child of Sin, baptised in flame. Hero of Fate, lifted from light. Cleanse yourself with the waters of spring, bathe yourself in their blood

"Twenty-five."

Ascend, faceless one, that they may fear your name

"Twenty six."

Torn apart. Crafted anew. Built up into something more, something more than man, beyond pain, beyond salvation.

Subject Thirteen.

You will be something great.

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