Author's note: As the name implies, this chapter contains a realistic description of a whipping. The author believes it's still appropriate for an older teenage audience, but sensitive readers should take this as a trigger warning.
Pain ruled Athadra's days and nights through the rest of the week. Together with Morrigan, she'd searched through some of the Chantry's books that she'd taken as part of her ransom for defending the village. From their study, the two mages had managed to brew up a healing draught which helped her body to re-knit her exhausted muscles more strongly than her body could do on its own, rather than simply undoing the damage she inflicted upon them. It also caused her to sleep without the horrible nightmares which Duncan's gift had brought. Otherwise, she got her sustenance from water and porridge, and bloody meat in the evenings.
Since the potion worked while she slept and did not use her magic for the strength it helped her acquire, the Sten had no objections. He took every step with her, and offered an encouraging word whenever she fumbled or faltered. By the third day of her odd routine, Alistair and Oghren decided to take up their own exercise across the bailey, though they practiced with the blunted swords and shields that the knights used in their own sparring. Athadra was glad of their presence, though, for they kept any servants or squires from gathering to gape or jeer. Alistair had evidently taken her impassioned plea to heart, for he did not attempt to dissuade her from her course.
The sixth morning came, colder than the last, and Athadra faced the day with grim determination. Only two logs waited for her beside the Sten. The first had reached the top of her head and was nearly as thick as the length of her forearm, whereas her new challenge would crest the Sten's shoulder; she judged herself barely able to clasp her wrists, were she to wrap her arms around it.
"Are you ready?" The Sten greeted her, as he had done every morning for the past week.
The Warden hesitated, long enough to feel the fresh snow burning into the soles of her feet. Finally she nodded and crouched beside her new log in time with her mentor, who still took to his own more massive burden. To her surprise, she heaved the wood onto her scabbed shoulders nearly as easily as she'd managed the day before, and with effort she fought her way back to her feet. Each step she took sunk the fresh splinters just a little bit deeper into her flesh; soon her back was covered in a thin sheen of dark blood. The scent teased her, whispering for her to succumb, more insistently than ever.
Athadra resisted as valiantly as she could, focusing on the Sten's back, keeping it a half-dozen paces in front of her. Thankfully his log had shed enough of its splinters by now that his flesh stood dry, and she thought she might be able to make it to their midday meal once more. On her third circuit of the tree, however, the elf misplaced her foot and slipped on an icy rock. The weight above her took its course, and before she could consciously react, she pulled at her shed blood to lock her legs in place.
The brief burst of energy was enough to let her throw off the log, which had likely saved her leg from being shattered, but her eyes widened as she realized what she'd done. The ground shook a second time and the Sten turned to face her.
"What happened?" His frown said that he knew, or at least suspected.
"I...slipped," Athadra panted, slowly standing upright again. "I didn't mean to do it," she said, unable to meet the Qunari's stony gaze. "It just...came out."
The Sten grunted, his arms folding over his chest. "You remember what we agreed, kadan?"
Athadra swallowed. "Aye."
"Do you wish to continue your training?"
Half of her wanted to say yes, while much of the rest of her wanted to end it. She could learn to cope with draining her mana...she'd had to in the first days of her journey, after all. "If I do not, will you remain to see the Archdemon dead?"
It was the Sten's turn to pause. "No," he said at last. "I will not watch you die, when you could have set yourself to purpose."
That tipped the balance of her decision. "Aye, then. Let's get it over with." When the Sten swept a hand toward the stables, she knew his intent without having to be told. Athadra nodded and turned, marching across the bailey.
"Fancy seeing you here," Alistair called, and then he fell down when the dwarf took advantage of his distraction with a solid shield-bash. When the elf did not answer him, though, the taller Warden regained his feet and jogged closer. "What gives?"
Athadra cast him a withering look and kept walking. "You may want to take a break," she said, curtly, as she made her way into the roofed paddock where Eamon kept his horses.
Alistair followed her in, closely followed by the red-bearded dwarf. "I don't think I like the sound of that," he said. "Or the look of that." He nodded to the long, cowhide whip she pulled from the wall.
"Whoa, now, boss," Oghren butted in. "You sure you know how to handle that thing?"
Athadra looked at the both of them, dressed in padding and borrowed armour to shield themselves against the cold and the blunted edges of one another's swords. She stood nearly naked, fingers and toes still tingling. "You certainly won't like what you're about to see, if you want to stick around. I can't stop you. But no matter what, don't interfere...and don't let anyone else try, either." Her crimson eyes glittered in the low light. "Got it?"
Alistair's brow twitched in concern, but he did not challenge her. "Fine," he said.
Oghren grunted. "Suits me fine, if that's what you're into. Saddle up." He chuckled at himself. "Sorry...been roomin' with the old Antivan too long."
Athadra rolled her eyes, suppressing a chuckle of her own, and she went back out into the bailey to face her choice. The brief levity that Oghren had bought her evaporated as she crossed the grounds, and she noticed a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye; a glance at a high window brought her the distant sight of Morrigan turning away, and the Warden felt guilt stab into her belly. She hoped the Wilds-witch could understand that she had to do this.
"Here," she said, holding out the bullwhip. Behind her, she heard Alistair step forward and start to speak, but Oghren gave him a restraining word, and he stayed back. The Sten took the proffered implement with a nod.
"Remove your strap and lean against the tree." The Qunari did not waver, but he did not seem to relish the task at hand. "Five should do."
"Ten," Athadra said flatly, her mouth drying around the word. When the Sten grudgingly nodded, she limped up to the old oak tree. Garahel padded closer, looking distressed, his eyes darting from the Warden to the Qunari. Athadra knelt beside him and buried her face in his thick neck. "Stay close," she whispered to him, "and protect the Sten. He is going to hurt me, even though he doesn't want to." The mabari growled low in his chest, but Athadra shook her head. "No, boy. I want him to." She shifted and held the dog's gaze. "Keep him safe." Finally he gruffed a small bark and slinked off, equidistant from the both of them.
Athadra stood up. Her fingers fumbled at the knot in the fabric across her chest, but after a moment it came loose, and she looped it about the base of a thick bough high above her head. She gripped the cloth tightly and lay flush against the cold, wrinkled bark of the tree. Goose pimples tightened the skin of her torso.
"Count them out," the Sten called from further behind her than she'd expected.
The Warden pulled in a lungful of bitter air and held it for three heartbeats before driving most of it away. "One," she whispered with the last of the breath. An instant later, fire kissed diagonally from her left shoulder across her spine, and her empty lungs wrenched more tightly, managing a pained squeal.
After a few jagged breaths, Athadra judged herself ready. "Two," she pushed through her gritted teeth, and she couldn't hold back the scream which tore from her breast. Her feet momentarily left the ground as her arms tightened, dragging her abdomen against the rough bark. That low sting helped to balance the crosscut at her back. The third and fourth blows came in their turn, and her body jerked at the fifth, when the end of the whip curled around her ribs to lick the side of her belly.
"Six," she called, weakly, after a long moment. It was a small comfort to know that her ordeal was half over...though she couldn't imagine lasting through it. When the sixth strike failed to materialize, Athadra chanced a look over her shoulder, and she saw that her screams had drawn an audience. Her host and the rest of her company had been politely ignoring her strange antics for the last week, but now Eamon, Ser Perth and a few other of the arl's knights, Leliana, and Zevran all stood at the foot of the stairs. Even Morrigan and Shale observed from the shadows.
Alistair and Oghren spoke with them all, and though she should have been able to, Athadra couldn't make out their words. "Let them watch," she growled to herself, and turned to catch sight of the Sten in the corner of her vision. "Six, I said," she called as loudly as her ragged vocal chords could allow. She turned back into the tree, and after a heartbeat, she felt the whip's kiss once more. Blood ran freely down her back and thighs, but she used the pain to overcome the urge to draw upon it.
The Warden's flesh hummed dully even in between the last three blows, each of which narrowed her senses even further. Touch was the only sense that mattered...she could barely see the bark before her, and she hardly heard herself call for the tenth impact, but she felt the whip's caress as excruciatingly as though it were the first time.
It took the Sten himself to pry her fingers from around the knotted cloth that she'd used to hold herself up, and Athadra fell against his bare chest. Tears had visited her cheeks during the ordeal, but now a sob took her, and she wrapped her arms as far around the Qunari as they would go. He held her up by her hips, but there was no hint lust in his touch. He merely stood, letting the storm of her tears break against him, without faltering.
When she finally emerged from the safety of his belly, Athadra saw that her audience had reduced to Alistair and Morrigan, who stood mute close by. Garahel leaned lightly against her leg, whining softly, but he quieted when the elf ran her fingers over his neck.
"That is enough, for today," the Sten said at last. "We will add another day at the end of the week to make up for it. Can you stand?" He held her gaze for a long moment, until she nodded. He slowly released her and turned to resume his own training.
Morrigan pulled Athadra's arm over her shoulders, and bore as much of the elf's weight as she could manage. Alistair fell into step on her other side; she didn't have the strength to bridle when his grip pulled at her arm to help her up the stairs. Neither of them spoke to her on the long trek back to her room. The other Warden left them at the door, and Athadra fell face-first onto her bed, the pain of her wounds slowly leeching into the rest of her body.
"Am I to watch you kill yourself?" Morrigan muttered to herself in Tevene, still in the habit of practicing the tongue in their shared hours. Athadra did not move, but her ears pricked at the sound of clinking glass, and she hissed at the salve that the Wilds-witch spread across her back. "It will not speed your healing, beyond the draughts we've made," Morrigan assured her. "But your wounds shall not fester."
"Gratitude," the Warden breathed, looking back over her shoulder at her companion. "...I had no choice," she grunted through her teeth.
"I know," Morrigan replied. "Heart was set, and body could but follow." The elf could not read her expression, but in her exhaustion, Athadra thought she saw a glisten of tears upon the other woman's cheek. "Now take drink," Morrigan insisted, producing another flask of their potion. "And leave dream behind." Athadra could only obey, and soon enough she welcomed the darkness.