Prompt #18 "Hit them harder."
A/N: Hey y'all...so, yes, it is now November, and this chapter story based on Whumptober prompts (which ballooned beyond the two chapters I expected, haha) has been silently judging me from its unfinished state in my notebook for the past month. I now expect it to be...four chapters, maybe? No telling when they will be written or published, but I do intend to finish. Sorry for the delay, and thanks for reading! :D
The world had contracted around Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Gone were the leering faces of his captors, one friend among enemies; gone were thoughts of heroism and rescue and the plan that had put him here; gone, even, was the last thought of his dignity, the last bit of pride that held his cries of pain to be only show, a character for guards' benefit.
And in its place: pain, a wash of it, interrupted only by incandescent pinpricks of agony; the taste and smell of blood—his own blood—in his nostrils and on his tongue; and the metronomic hiss of the cat-o'-nine-tails blending with shouts and drumrolls outside, mocking laughter around him, and the screams that issued from Andrew's own throat.
By the time the snap-hiss ceased, and the mocking laughter grew bored and wandered away, and the sparks of pain settled into one long continuous throb, he was nearly insensate.
Yet not insensate enough.
For as Lord Antony Dewhurst's shaking hand finally reached toward his friend in hesitant comfort—unsure what to touch that he had not flayed, knowing shackles must stay on until backup was at the gate and it was time to all escape together—the beaten man, whether recognizing the hand that had tormented him or merely shying from all touch, flinched.
What had happened was this:
Percy being safely returned—all in one piece, at least, if not uninjured—to England and Marguerite via the Day Dream, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was the acknowledged leader of the League.
"I'll take the Chief's role," he decided, as he, Lord Antony Dewhurst, and Sir Timothy Hastings stood around the spread-out maps and supplies in a ramshackle hut long devoid of any other tenants. "And Tony, you'd better take mine. Voclain looks similar enough to either of us as no difference. Here—" he handed him the precious letter—"Hastings' role with the rest doesn't change, and I know the Chief's plans to get the information we need. All you have to do is play the cocky, capable, bloodthirsty young French lieutenant."
Tony grinned. "A role we can all play with our eyes closed!"
"So, as I said," continued Andrew, "I'll be a prisoner. You bring me in—good distraction and demonstration for you as Voclain, and of course I'll have lockpicks. Then tonight—this needs to happen today," he added, "there's no time to lose—tonight I'll choose our quarry for tomorrow. You come get me to lock me back up—you may have to rough me up a bit, if anyone's watching—and I'll pass on what I've found. You tell Hastings. In the morning you run the rescue as planned with everyone else, then signal me when it's done. I'll shout some abuse or other at you, and you drag me outside to teach me a lesson. And then we're off!"
The others agreed, and communicated the plan to the rest of the League members who were there making up the rest of the rescue party. The details were set, the costume changes made, and in short order they were scattering all to their designated places and roles for the next day's rescue.
For a time, the plan ran smoothly—or as smoothly as any such operation can run, with no method of communication aside from previously-established rendezvous times. Tony drug Andrew before the Commandant of the Temple Prison and played a very convincing Lieutenant Voclain while handing over the letter of recommendation; the Commandant gave one look at the signature, another at Tony's blond hair and the arrogant cast of his eyes that he had been expecting, and they were in. Andrew successfully snuck from his cell. He identified a young mother and her two children as their targets to rescue the following day—she had been a maid on a marquis's estate and was accused of plotting with him.
But it was then that things went wrong.
"You there!"
Andrew froze; the sudden shout was not Tony. He spun around and shrank backward, the picture of a cringing prisoner.
"What are you doing, wandering around here!"
"I'm sorry, citizen…" Andrew whimpered, "I'm just…"
"Hey!" Another guard, brawnier than the first, came up behind him. "Isn't that the pet prisoner that what's-his-name—Voclain—the new high-and-mighty Lieutenant, that he brought in?"
"Shut your mouth," said the first guard, even as he moved closer to secure Andrew's wrists, "you keep your opinions to yourself. I'm gonna take this schmuk back to the lieutenant." He gave Andrew's shoulder a rough shake.
"What's he doin' here, though?" asked the other. "How'd you get out?" He began pawing roughly at Andrew's pockets. Andrew, who had been holding his lockpicks and had to quickly stash them, whimpered again and moved away from the touch, hoping the first guard would continue to insist he be taken directly back to Tony. But no such luck.
"Find anything?"
"Hhn…no—wait! Here's sommat!"
Andrew's heart fell as he felt the guard's hand close on the lockpicks.
"What's this, huh? Lockpicks, looks like. What're you up to, huh?!" The man grabbed Andrew by his collar, dragging him forward and up into his face. "Straight back to the Lieutenant with you, prisoner. He'll deal with you."
Andrew, as the prisoner, shuddered again, but inside he sighed in relief. The plan seemed to be getting back on track.
Lord Antony Dewhurst, trapped in the Commandant's office all that morning for what was supposed to be a briefing on his (or, rather Voclain's) new position here but was turning out to be mostly the Commandant boasting of his dubious achievements, was impatiently feeling the time pass. He ought to be capturing Andrew to take him back to his cell and learn what he had to pass on. He needed to get out of here now.
He opened his mouth—
But before he could get a word out, the Commandant spoke again, starting on another story. Tony's grip around his armrest grew a bit tighter.
Suddenly the office door burst open.
Thank goodness, Tony thought first, grateful for the interruption. But…
Oh no.
Two guards had entered; the second, a big, burly fellow, threw Tony's friend to the ground.
"Sir! Lieutenant!" said the first guard, saluting sharply. "We found the prisoner wandering around—with lockpicks in his pocket!" The second guard brandished the find.
"What?" said the Commandant, Tony's voice echoing the word, if not the sentiment, a moment later. "Lockpicks? Who are you, sirrah, hmm?" He moved, quicker than might be expected from a man his size, and got up in Andrew's face. "A royalist? A malcontent? Or, maybe—a foreign spy, here to interfere in our affairs?"
Andrew was silent except for a convincing cringe-and-whimper. Tony stepped forward, determined to stop that line of questioning from this rightly suspicious official and retain control of the situation.
He crossed the distance, pushed past the Commandant as if in righteous indignation, and gave Andrew a good box to his ear.
Sorry, old chap.
"You little thief!" he snarled. "I bet that's how you stole my pocketbook, huh?!"
"Your pocketbook?" asked the Commandant. "You sure he wasn't after that letter?"
Damn, thought Tony. That was a blunder.
"I don't know, sir," he said, "but he sure didn't get it if he was."
"Hmm…Well, Voclain, he's your prisoner. Give him a good thrashing for it in the courtyard. In fact—" he turned to Tony with a sadistic grin—"I'll come watch. Gotta see how good your stomach is, hmm?" His look at Tony was at once calculating and slightly mistrustful.
And Tony knew, with the icy grip of certainty around his heart, that to make any excuse, come up with any reason to stop this sudden horror, was to doom both himself and Andrew as guilty—and, probably, send them to the guillotine that very morning.
His heart rabbited in his throat. They cocky smirk that curled his lips was nearly automatic, ingrained by much practice into adrenaline-filled situations like this; his hands, where the were crossed over his chest, did not shake, because he told them not to.
"Would be my pleasure, citizen," he said briskly, marching toward the door. For a moment he caught Andrew's eye.
And his friend gave a long blink, a learned habit from Percy, an acknowledgement and signal to proceed when all other communication was impossible.
The knowledge that Andrew was with him, would endure this as they all endured what they must, propelled Tony through the hallways and out to the courtyard where the two guards secured the prisoner to a whipping post—until his nerve abruptly deserted him when faced with the whip the big guard was holding out to him almost challengingly.
The cat-o'-nine-tails.
I can't use that! Tony thought, aghast. But at the same time, staring into the guard's eyes, hearing the Commandant clear his throat over his shoulder—
I must. God help me, I must.