Ten: Whipping

A/N: A darker version of this scene from 'The Crab with the Golden Claws'.

It seemed as though the pain would never stop.

"YEOWWW! BLISTERING BARNACLES!"

Haddock felt his body slump as he gasped for air. He wondered for a brief moment if something in his back had broken. "JELLYFISH!…P-PARASITES!"

The wind was forced out of his lungs, his back spasming in agony. His head fell so far forward that he felt the bristles on his chin brush against his chest. Stinging continued to reverberate down his back, spreading into every square inch of skin. Whatever was left of his sweater hung in tatters down his back; he could feel the trails of blood snaking along the crevices in his skin, the warm sensation a sharp contrast to the chill spreading across the rest of his body. Whatever pain he'd originally experienced from tugging on his bonds had disappeared long ago.

How long had it been? Ten minutes? An hour? He'd lost his watch some time ago, which he now realised was ironic. But time had no meaning when you were being beaten within an inch of your life.

They had started with a thick piece of wood, which hadn't been so bad at first.

Even when the splinters had started appearing, it wasn't as painful as he'd expected.

But then Allan motioned to one of his henchmen, who had left the room to fetch his new weapon of choice.

He'd never used a whip before, let alone been assaulted with one. He'd only ever seen riding crops, and his father had used the paddle on him and his brothers when they were children. Upon first seeing it, he'd assumed Allan had stolen it from a museum, for it looked too old and weather-beaten to be of any use. The cat o' nine tails that dangled from the handle reminded him of the types of medieval torture he once heard about as a boy, and instantly found himself panicking.

The first strike landed haphazardly across his shoulders, with the tails wrapping around his chest and smacking into his collarbone. A raw scream erupted from his very soul as it drowned out Allan's curses at the incompetence of his henchman.

After a few 'practice tests', the chosen henchman settled into a pattern very rapidly. They would strike his back three times; the first across his shoulder blades, the second halfway down his spine, and the third at his coccyx. With each strike the knots would fly around to his chest, gradually wearing holes through the front of his sweater. After each round Allan would take a long draw from his cigar, and ask him of Tintin's whereabouts.

And every time, he simply spat in his face.

The pain was indescribable. It was as though his entire body had been set alight, with the flames of agony rippling down his spine, and every strike only added fuel to the fire. The blood that dripped from his wounds did little to soothe the blaze radiating across his back, with some of his blood pooling in collections as each blow deepened the perforations.

And despite the torment and suffering, he continually found he could only think of one thing: Where the bloody hell is Tintin?

Even though he'd only known the boy for a few days, he felt as though he'd known him for years. The way he carried himself, and how he displayed maturity that was far beyond his years. The youthful enthusiasm and kindness he displayed in his interactions; it was hard to believe he was so young, and here he was, begging for this teenager to save him. Tintin, lad, please.

Even though his throat was raw from screaming, Haddock couldn't help but throw out another slew of insults. "BANDITS! BRUTES!"

"Yell as loud as you like, Captain," Allan smirked proudly. Hands clasped behind his back, he puffed on his cigar as he circled his captive. "No one can hear you."

It took Haddock a moment to find his breath. "…Well I'll make sure you can! You ECTOPLASMS! GANGSTERS! HOOLIGANS!"

"That's enough!" Allan grabbed him by the collar, yanking him upright. He gritted his teeth and bared them at Haddock, a malicious light sparkling in his eyes. "Now why don't you be sensible?"

Pieces of tobacco fell from Allan's cigar onto the Captain's skin, with some nestling themselves in his wounds. Hissing in pain, Haddock cleared his throat. "Fat chance."

He was surprised he could still feel anything down his back; he thought for sure that they had cut through every layer of skin by now. Yet when they struck him for the fiftieth time, it generated as much pain as the very first strike.

Haddock didn't trust his voice, so he settled for a glare that he hoped pierced through Alan's soul.

"I grow tired of asking this, old man. For the last time," Alan's voice growled in his ear, as if it were travelling into his very soul, "WHERE is Tintin?!"

"HERE!"

Although he lacked the strength to raise his head any higher than his shoulders, Haddock's eyes widened and his body relaxed at the sound of his rescuer. Tintin!

He didn't remember losing consciousness, but was startled to find his head being lifted upright. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he realised Tintin was holding his cheek, his eyes flickering across the injured man. "Oh, merde! Captain, are you with me? Captain?!"

Haddock's mouth felt dry, his vocal cords ragged. He fought to stop his eyes from fluttering closed. "…Tin..tin…" Why are you wearing a blue bedsheet, lad?

"It's me, Captain, it's Tintin. I've come to get you out of here, okay?" Tintin's voice sounded hazy in his ears. "…ptain?…ain?…"

Why are you getting quieter, lad?…

Oh.

Guess I'm going then.

Am I dead?

It took an enormous amount of effort, but he opened his eyes wearily, only to be surprised with a sterile, white room. Did I die? Is this the afterlife?

It took his brain a minute to process what his eyes were seeing; that he was alive, with no missing limbs, and safely tucked up in a hospital bed. Beams of sunlight poured through the curtains, bouncing off of the stethoscope perched on his bedside table. He lifted his hands, observing the thick gauze that was secured around each wrist. Didn't realise I'd caused that much damage to myself.

A faint snuffling noise caught his attention. Suppressing the urge to fall asleep once more, Haddock stiffly turned his neck, and smiled. Tintin…

The faithful young man had seemingly startled awake, for his eyelids fluttered briefly as he returned to consciousness. He pulled himself off of his chair and pulled himself closer to Haddock's bed, an exhausted grin stretching across his face. "Captain…"

"…Good to see ya, lad," Haddock whispered. He extended his arm as far as the intravenous line would allow, clasping Tintin's hand in his own. "…What-"

"Not now, Captain. You lost a large amount of blood, and probably won't remember much for a few days," Tintin interrupted. He inhaled deeply, an uncontrollable shudder rippling through his body. "The amount of stitches they had to put in your back…t-there's be some scarring, I'm sorry…I should've gotten there sooner."

Haddock shook his head slowly. He squeezed the young man's hand as he gave him a grateful smile, noticing how heavy the burden of rescuing him was resting on Tintin's shoulders. "…You saved me…Tintin…" And I'm grateful to be alive. We'll have to have a drink to celebrate.

"Allan's been arrested as well. The police…they were right behind me," Tintin spoke quietly. He stared off next to the Captain, his eyes betraying his demeanour as he was obviously remembering what had happened. He sat silently for a minute before returning his gaze to Haddock, straightening his shoulders. "But, the main thing is that you're safe, and you're going to follow all of the doctor's orders, okay?"

Haddock gave a weak smile, nodding his head gently. He had barely opened his mouth before Tintin interrupted again: "And that means no alcohol!"