Author's Note: For this one I've been borrowing a character from my friend karebear because Rhyanon is such a strong figure and she intrigued me. I suddenly had this story in my head and it just wouldn't go away. karebear has been so nice to let me play with her girl and I have the permission to post this story here. So, thanks for the trust you put in me to handle Rhyanon with care. You're awesome!
Disclaimer: In this case, absolutely nothing belongs to me. Dragon Age is Bioware's and Rhyanon belongs to karebear. No profit is made with this, it only serves to entertain.
Enjoy!
Twenty Scars
He tells her not to watch – never – and she listens. Rhyanon does not know why but she heeds his words. Maybe because she's afraid to see him in the pillory. Maybe because she knows it will break her heart to see the whip cracking down, splitting his skin, hurting him so much, again and again.
So she doesn't watch. But she listens. Every time, for as long as it takes.
There is an alcove behind a statue in the hallway of the second floor. The barred window goes out onto the courtyard and its colored glass is cracked and broken in a corner, letting in light and air and sound. Rhyanon crouches behind the statue when she knows they will punish Anders again and listens. She counts the lashes – no less than ten, no more than fifteen – and it makes her feel closer to him.
They brought him back yesterday evening and she's sitting in her alcove again, waiting for the torture to begin. She hates waiting. It makes her fidgety. It tears at her nerves because it means the worst is yet to come…
One.
The first lash always makes her flinch. It echoes off the walls around the courtyard, sharp and loud and terrible in its intensity. She knows it comes eventually, that first lash, but it shocks her anyway.
Two.
She sits very still, eyes trained on the gray wall in front of her, listening to the rhythm of the whip. It is a slow rhythm. They make you feel every lash to the fullest, every last bit of the pain. Sometimes she can even hear them laugh.
Three.
A shiver runs down her spine and she wraps her arms around herself. Nobody's laughing today but the mere thought of it makes her want to scream out the hate she feels right now for all to hear but she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. She would only get herself caught and punished because she hides in a dirty alcove that smells of cold stone and mildew instead of participating in the morning mass.
Four.
Her nails dig into her palms in helpless anger and angry helplessness. She inwardly curses the templars for what they do to him. She also curses Anders for his stubbornness and defiant resistance. Damn you, Anders! Why do you keep running? Why don't you just accept the inevitable?
Five.
She knows why he doesn't, though – why he can't – and she does not really blame him. It just feels better to be angry with Anders instead of being so afraid for him, so afraid that one day they will go too far and kill him.
Six.
Tears start to sting her eyes and she huddles into a ball. Her nails dig deeper into her skin. It hurts but the pain is welcome. It distracts her from the need to cry. Crying is a weakness. As is screaming. And just as Anders never screams when they punish him, she never cries.
Seven.
She knows he wouldn't want her to. He always tells her that it is not so bad, that it's just pain and pain is good because it means they did not kill him yet. It means they did not break him. Sometimes, when the memories are not as prominent anymore, she can almost believe that.
Eight.
But not now. Now she just hurts and every lash feels like it is tearing right at her heart. Her heartbeat accelerates, as does her breathing. The adrenalin coursing through her system for quite a while now makes her feel lightheaded.
Nine.
Sitting still becomes difficult. She's getting fidgety again because she does not know what will happen. Ten or fifteen? What will it be this time?
Ten.
She holds her breath. Will they end it here? The seconds tick by as she waits; anxious, nervous.
Eleven.
No, they go all the way. Maximum penalty. She was afraid they would. He's run one too many times and it was only a matter of time until the gloves would come off, anyway. She is just glad he is already harrowed so that they can't make him tranquil anymore. The lashes will heal, at least on the surface but losing him to tranquility… the thought alone makes her sick.
Twelve.
The sound of the whip hurts her ears. She just wants it to stop. Maker, please let it be over quickly now! She can't stand it anymore.
Thirteen.
She tries to concentrate solely on her breathing. In and out. It's easier to count her breaths in between the lashes. Sometimes time passes more quickly when she does that. In and out. Just two more.
Fourteen.
In and out. In and out. In and…
Fifteen.
Her eyes close in relief and her body relaxes somewhat. She falls back against the cold stone wall at her back. Her heart is still pounding like a sledgehammer in her chest but that's alright as long as she knows it's finally over. Her stomach hurts and she tastes bile in her mouth. Her hands are bloody where her nails tore the skin open but all that will go away in due time.
Sixteen.
She freezes, shocked, eyes wide. No, that can't be true. Her ears are playing tricks on her. She has imagined hearing that horrible sound because she's been concentrating on it for too long. They never hand down more than fifteen.
But her fragile hope is shattered when
seventeen
the next crack filters through that tiny hole in the window pane. Her hand covers a mouth that is wide open in a silent scream. It is only due to her brain denying to process the inconceivable that she remains calm and rooted to the spot.
Eighteen.
She can't breathe anymore. A giant fist crushes her chest and squeezes the air from her lungs. Her fear for Anders reaches never known heights. It crawls through every fiber of her body, malevolent and deadly like poison.
Nineteen.
She feels as if the whip comes down on her own back. A whimper tears from her aching, too tight throat. Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked but she does not even notice. She's shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Twenty.
She doubles over and throws up what little her stomach could take for breakfast. Tears mix with spittle as she retches and coughs. Her body is covered in cold sweat and for a moment she thinks she's going to faint. There is so much anguish inside of her that she almost wishes she would, so much pain that she almost does not notice the silence.
It only slowly registers in her muddled mind but when it does, Rhyanon strains her ears, praying that this time it's over for real. Everything remains quiet. They have stopped. They really have stopped!
Relief washes over her like a tidal wave. She wipes at her mouth and once again leans back against the wall. She allows herself a few moments to regain her composure before she reaches into a small opening at the foot of the statue and retrieves the small, sharp stone she had hidden there a long time ago.
Her fingers slide over its surface as she turns her head and looks at the wall to her left where a row of numbers is carved into the stone. There are not too many of them but at the same time way too many. They should not even be there.
Rhyanon raises her hand and listens to the scratching sound the stone in her hand gives when she starts to carve the number 20.
Twenty more scars on his back. Twenty more cuts in her heart. Twenty more reasons to hate the templars. And twenty more reasons for Anders to try to escape again.
And when they bring him back, she will sit here once again, counting the lashes and carving them into stone.
When she's done, she stares at the number, imprinting it on her memory. It will not be the last time she has carved it, she knows.