Author's Note: I just couldn't leave Twenty Scars standing alone without having a look at the other side of the story. So here's Anders' point of view of the lashing Amell listens in on. Thanks again to karebear for allowing me to borrow her Amell for Twenty Scars and in a way, since this is a companion-piece, this one as well. I certainly made some interesting experiences with a headcanon that is not mine.
Endurance
They are leading him out into the courtyard, one templar in front of him, two at his sides, two in his back. Anders is staring at the back of the one leading the way. He is tempted to look at his right hand instead, the hand that is holding the whip, but he doesn't. Acknowledging the whip would mean that he is afraid and so he pretends that it does not exist. Admitting to be afraid is admitting defeat and he will not give them that.
It is still early in the morning. A harsh wind blows and he shivers when he feels its cold bite on his bare chest. He inhales deeply, concentrates on little things to keep his mind from thinking about what is to come: the freshness of the air that smells like rain and earth and freedom, the dirt under his toes, muddy and slippery and riddled with little stones that sting the soles of his feet, the first birds singing their jolly songs in the lonely, gnarled tree close to the tower walls.
Way too soon they reach the pole in the middle of the yard. His hands are grabbed none too gently and shackled to the iron cuffs that hang down from the top of said pole. He catches the eye of the templar with the whip. His face is concealed by the helmet but he knows those eyes, malicious and cruel, and he knows that excited chuckle he gives at the expectation of torture.
He grits his teeth and tells himself that it does not matter, that it can't be any worse than the times before just because they set him on the task. He sets his jaw and returns the templar's gaze, stubborn and calm, a silent dare.
The chuckle becomes a quiet laugh as his soon-to-be-torturer turns away and takes his post in his back. It is about to begin.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, he wraps the chains of his shackles around his hands twice and his eyes are searching the pattern in the wooden pole that looks like a tree. He found fairly early on that when he can focus on that tree it helps with the pain. He straightens to his full height and waits.
One.
The first lash is not so bad anymore. He is used to pain by now, used to the feel of the whip and it is barely more than a stinging sensation.
Two.
But he knows it will get worse. With every stroke of the hard leather string, his skin will become more sensitive, more perceptive to the agony.
Three.
He tightens his hold onto the chains when the stinging slowly turns into burning. He can feel the first trickles of blood running down his back.
Four.
His breathing accelerates and he concentrates harder on the tree-pattern, forcing his breath to remain calm and deep. He will have to endure six more lashes at least because, with him, it is never less than ten.
Five.
This time, it is even more important because he is almost sure that this one will not let him off so easily. No, he will go for the full fifteen lashes and if he wants to leave the pillory on his own two feet, he has to ignore the pain. At least for a little longer.
Six.
His legs begin to tremble but he holds himself straight. Every single nerve in his back becomes alight with fiery pain. The chains cut into his hands but he does not even feel it. His whole concentration is focused on holding himself up, remain standing for as long as possible.
Seven.
He bites at his lip to keep in a moan. They will not get a single sound from him. He has managed in the past and he knows that he can do it now as well. He is stronger than them.
Eight.
He begins to murmur. Soft words, barely audible, praying, pleading. It helps sometimes.
Nine.
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
Ten.
He hopes against hope that it is over, that his tormentor is finished with him. He can't take no more. His world is on fire, the only thing that exists in it is pain. But he knows that he has already sealed his fate when he stared back at the templar in the beginning instead of averting his gaze like a good, faithful chantry-dog.
Eleven.
The tree begins to blur in front of his eyes as tears of anguish and despair gather and fall and he squeezes them shut. He was right. No mercy for him. It is all the way through this time. His fingers claw into his chains. They are all that keeps him from collapsing.
Twelve.
Cold sweat gathers on his forehead and he begins to shiver while at the same time he feels as if he is burning up from within.
Thirteen.
His breath comes in short, hard gasps. He wants them to stop. Just stop! No more! Please, no more! I'll do everything!
Fourteen.
The plea is on the tip of his tongue but he bites down on it until he tastes blood. It is all he can do at this point. There's no fight left in him, just that one, tiny but bright spark that keeps him from giving up, that last bit of iron will that even now screams at him to stay strong.
Fifteen.
The chains slip from his sweaty palms and his chest connects with the wooden pole hard when he breaks down, driving what little air he has left from his lungs. He does not struggle to get back up. He can't. Everything hurts so bad.
He hears heavy footsteps coming closer. His head is snatched back by his hair and his torturer's tall frame comes back into sight. He knows what the bastard is looking for. A broken, whimpering dog, pleading for mercy and the thought infuriates him, triggers his stubborn, unrelenting will to fight back.
An evil grin twists his features into a grimace and his aching, broken body tenses as he gathers every last ounce of strength left in him and spits blood and spittle at the templar's helmeted face.
The iron fist in his hair tightens further and it feels as if the son of a blightwolf rips off his scalp but he refuses to cave.
"So this is how you want it, huh?" the templar growls and he hears the leather hilt of the whip creaking as his torturer grasps it tighter. He knows what will happen next and it is almost too much but he snarls at the bastard anyway, still rebellious, still not willing to admit defeat.
His head is released and the templar vanishes from his blurry line of view. He tries to find the strength to struggle back to his feet before the whip strikes again and somehow he manages, unsteady and shaking but he manages anyway.
Sixteen.
A whimper leaves his throat despite his desperate efforts to hold it back. His knees buckle and he has to lean against the pole for support.
Seventeen.
Raging agony erases every conscious thought. He's burning up. The pain eats him alive.
Eighteen.
His legs give out on him and he's left hanging from the pole like a wet blanket from a clothesline. He can't move, can't think, can't breathe.
Nineteen.
His vision darkens. Red and black circles dance in front of his eyes and suddenly, the pain lessens. It becomes a dull pounding that vibrates through him in waves in sync with his heartbeat.
Twenty.
He barely feels it anymore. He is aware of his skin cracking open but it feels more like the ripping of cloth and not the agonizing, excruciating pain that is his whole world. Everything is strangely detached, out of focus. He is dangerously teetering on the edge between awareness and unconsciousness.
With closed eyes, he waits for the next lash to sound but nothing happens. He hears voices somewhere far away. They are arguing but he does not understand what they say and he doesn't care, either. His body is trembling and aching and he feels hot, like in a fever.
Strong hands wrap around his waist and hold him as the shackles are released. He feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside of him when he collapses on the mud-slick ground. His fingers claw into the dirt in relief. It is over. He did not give in. They tried their utmost to bring him down and it is true that he is on his knees but he didn't give in.
He hears a voice calling his name and with an effort almost too great he lifts his heavy head.
Gregoir is kneeling before him and he looks worried and guilty.
"I'm sorry, lad. This was never supposed to happen," the Knight-Commander says and it sounds honest but he does not care. He is too exhausted, too beaten, too relieved that it is over to care for anything anymore but he can't help a sneer from splitting his bloody lips, anyway.
"Fuck you, bastard," he rasps. Supposed to happen or not, they will still lock him away in a cell and they will still try to break him. But they will not succeed, never, because he knows how to endure.