Well, we've got some tough W/E shippers here. Read on, then, at your own risk.
The black whip slashed across his back like an icy flame, igniting it with pain; he knew its touch all too well. But he would not cry out; not even when he was dead on the stone floor would he even let so much as a whimper escape his lips. They mustn't see his agony; he mustn't give them the pleasure on which they thrived.
It tore through his tensed shoulder blades once more, harder than before, the sharp nails woven throughout it adding to the torture like little claws, digging in the cuts. He arched his back and braced his palms against the dank prison walls even harder, as though he were trying to take in some of their support.
How many times had they done it? He wagered at least twenty…
… It was getting harder to remain standing… 23… 24… Keep standing… let them have a go…
His senses were becoming numb as the whip crisscrossed over another cut… 26… 27… They say it takes forty lashes to kill a man… After strike 30 the snakelike rope did not whistle through the air again, and he let his aching muscles go limp.
Bad mistake. It was then the burly, boar-like man who had held him during his flogging rammed a thick fist into his jaw, sending vibrations like thunder throughout his skull. The prisoner staggered, and the man landed another punch in his thin midsection before shoving him to the floor. Finally the prisoner lay still, his unsteady breath hissing through his teeth, unwilling to gather the strength to even raise himself to a kneeling position.
Dirty black boots were at his face, the end of the whip curled beside them, and he could hear a crisp, satisfied voice talking; he couldn't even try to listen due to the pain hammering in his jaw, back, stomach...
"Still not had enough, I see," the man looming over him said, his tone smooth, collected and even amused; the beaten prisoner gritted his teeth. "Interesting. That will make your fall, when it does come, even harder."
Slowly, achingly, the prisoner raised his bruised chin, locking his brown eyes with the dark gaze and leathery face of his torturer. "…Not… yet…" he seethed through his breath.
"Very well," replied the other man, turning away and signalling to his brawny accomplice. "Hobson will take you to your quarters." He smirked.
The prisoner did nothing, merely allowed himself to be roughly manhandled to his cell, somewhere down the dark, dismal corridors of the prison. Watching him go with interest, the other man paced to talk to a different figure who had witnessed the scene from a shadowy corner of the room.
"The lad is certainly hardy," commented the man in the shadows, "but I've seen a lot stronger; he'll break soon."
"One should hope so," responded the one with the whip, twisting it in his fingers. "but I, for one, rather enjoy the torturing process; inflicting pain is an interesting concept, especially when concerning…. old acquaintances to settle scores with."
"Do not speak to me about your paltry hobbies, Mercer," sneered the man, his voice suddenly colder than the dungeon air around them. "I have far more pressing matters to see to than your own pleasure. And I believe I asked you to personally see to the death of this pirate- and my wishes have not been fulfilled."
Mercer swallowed nervously and tightened his grip on the lash. "The vagabond will die eventually, I can assure you, my lord; but I think what really breaks a man is the process in which he dies, and how viciously it is dealt out."
The man in the dark nodded slightly. "I must agree with you there." As an afterthought he added, "Does he have any specific close companions? A family?"
"Apparently he's got a father out there, but we haven't caught him yet. And… at one point, he was engaged to some lass, but it must not have lasted, seeing as she hasn't come for him."
"So he was in love," rasped the lord, a mocking note in his words. "By now, I'm sure he must have learned that the affairs of the heart can break a man even quicker than the blows of a whip. Torture is an unusual art, as you say." His eyes darted to where the prisoner had been dragged away, "… and perhaps the worse form of it is that he has no love left worth living for."
But they were only partly right. The prisoner did have something to hold onto, something that urged him not to give up.
His dreams.
Sleep was hard to come by on the mouldy floor of his cell, suffering his untreated wounds, but eventually, he would be able to reach it. And what lay behind his closed eyelids and faraway mind was something that he could never hope to find again in the waking world.
That night he curled up, shivering, hugging his knees to his chest, doing his best to ignore the fresh gashes that laced across his back. He had to take his mind away, forget the stone jutting out beneath him, and instead soar to a place where coconuts fell from trees and pale sand was warmed by the Caribbean sun…
In this place there is no suffering. The sky is as blue as a robin's eggshell, the sun like a newly opened flower. He can run, dart through trees, dance in circles- anything is possible here.
Nimbly he picks his way through lush leaves and brushes past rough tree trunks; his feet, able to carry him now, know the path well. His heart knows the trail well.
Finally, the thick flora starts to diminish, and the sand starts to spread out; just ahead is the ocean. And, of course, she is waiting…
This time she walks back to greet him, instead of accepting his usual surprise embrace. They meet midway, and he gathers her up in his arms, strong and muscular in the dream, pushing away the knowledge that she is forbidden to him. Her lips slowly, almost tentatively connect with his, and he lovingly accepts. It seems like so long since they've kissed properly.
But now is not the time to do so. Something is tugging him back, some unwanted force tearing his arms off her slender body. He struggles against it, looking with panic into her brown gaze, trying desperately to reach her.
The darkness is gathering, and he tries to utter her name, but it is too late; the last thing he sees is her longing, confused eyes boring into him as he is twisted away by some iron-like, cruel arm in his conscience. He can hold her no more.
Desperately he tried to return to that blissful haven of sleep, to no avail; consciousness had truly arrived. He opened his eyes, his gaze blurred by the raw pain still felt in his back. Gently shutting them again, he conveyed in his mind the final image he'd lived through before awakening.
Elizabeth…
Here's another thank you to StephCalvino! …By the way, if anyone noticed some references to the Princess Bride, that's intentional. Please review!
