Prompt #30: (Bridal) Fireman's Carry

Taking the whip from the big guard, Tony hefted it in his hand as if in casual cruelty, but his mind sought, spun, strained for a way around this nightmarish situation. But there was none—nothing to save them, no way out but through. The bits of metal embedded in the whip's strikers jangled ominously; Andrew looked up. A flash of true terror in his friend's eyes—followed by brave resignation—followed, as proper for a Leaguer pretending to be a spineless prisoner, a manufactured cower and whimper of fright.

There was no time for hesitation when every moment increased the Commandant's suspicion, no choice but this. Tony steeled his heart, turned merciless eyes to his friend, and cracked the whip behind him.

"So, dog—thievery, huh? Knew you were a scoundrel and a pickpocket when I nabbed you, but you've got some nerve trying anything here!"

That, at least, was true. If there was something Andrew had, it was nerve.

"Please, please, sir," Andrew whimpered, his begging seeming to belie Tony's words. "Please, Lieutenant—I've got a family. My wife—she's a maid, citizen, with two children…don't hurt me, I won't be able to keep them safe!"

Clever, clever Andrew, Tony thought. How to respond, 'Message received?'

"Keep them safe? Ha! No, cur, if you give us any more trouble I swear they'll follow you to the guillotine—even if they're spared today!"

Andrew lowered his head, an acknowledgement of the acknowledgement and a move of mock despair. He whimpered again, more pleas falling from his tongue. Tony, as Lieutenant Voclain, paid him no further mind.

"Twenty-five, I think," the Commandant said behind him. Tony turned, startled, at the murmur of approbation that followed this pronouncement—several more guards, he saw, seemed to have wandered nearby to watch the entertainment. Tony felt sick.

"Twenty-five, sir," he said. I've never done this before, he thought, this could kill Andrew. I could kill him. Yet I mustn't seem too lenient, or they'll kill us both… He quashed the thoughts. There was no more time. He reached forward with steady hand to tug on the manacles that bound Andrew to the wall—touched his wrist in a single moment of comfort under the guise of checking security—then stepped aside, pivoted to face his-yet-unmarked skin, swung the whip back—

Crack!

—and forward.

His arm shuddered with the solid thump of metal and leather on muscle and bone. Blood welled up from two spots where shards had caught and torn on fragile flesh. A shout of pain from the prisoner—real? feigned? God help him, Tony couldn't tell—and the commandant, calmly, gleefully, said: "One."

And Tony never, ever wanted to heft that swinging weight again, feel the catch and tear in a friend's skin. But Lord Antony Dewhurst was an Englishman, and a Leaguer, and—above all—a loyal friend.

He raised the whip again.

With each strike, it grew harder. The blood spread. Andrew's shouts grew louder and louder until they could more properly be called screams, and the screams mingled with mocking laughter from the rabble of guards watching. Again and again Tony swung the whip; again and again it ripped into increasingly damaged flesh, shredding muscle and gouging dangerously close to bone.

You cannot stop, Tony told himself sternly as his stomach turned and the mounting guilt threatened to shatter his resolve. It's the only way to save him. You must finish.

"Twenty-three," the Commandant counted, at last, still that appalling mixture of glee and boredom. "Twenty-four…"

Once more, Tony raised the cat-o'-nine-tails. Once more, he swung it with a hideous crack. Once more it embedded and tore in Andrew's back, wringing a last anguished scream that nearly shattered Tony's tenuous composure. But he couldn't break. Not now.

"Well done," congratulated the Commandant, mildly. The he laughed, suddenly, harshly, as Tony turned toward him, still holding the bloodied whip. "But, heavens, man! He must have rattled you good! Haven't seen that vicious of whip-swinging since whats-his-name…" The Commandant turned away toward one of the watching guards, and the rest of his words were drowned by the sudden roaring in Tony's ears.

Vicious? He had…he hadn't…had he?

The big guard slapped him on the shoulder with an obnoxious laugh. "You sure showed him! Should be put on punishment detail, sir, you'd keep any troublemakers in line. Ha! But you've sure got an arm on you." He laughed again. "Brutal!"

Tony's mind continued to spin, helpless, horrified. Not nearly soon enough, yet far too soon, the Commandant called the rowdy, congratulatory rabble of guards to order. "All right, boys, all right, entertainment's over. Back to your posts! You two—" he pointed to the brawny guard and his companion—"stay here for anything the Lieutenant needs."

But Tony interrupted—one more effort. "No need of that, sir," he said, offhandedly, clasping his hands behind his back with a show of carelessness after returning the whip to the big guard to hide their now uncontrollable shaking. "I can finish up here well enough. The guards—well done, citizens, I won't forget it," he added turning toward the two men and fighting through the revulsion he felt, whether at them more or himself he did not know—"can return to their duties. They've spent quite enough time dealing with my prisoner!"

"Very well," the Commandant replied dismissively. And then he was gone, and the guards were gone, and the cell was empty except for Tony's increasingly panicked breathing and Andrew's continuous sounds of pain.

Tony crouched down. "Andrew?" he whispered, mindful of their location yet unable to wait. But there was no answer from the injured man.

Hesitantly, Tony reached out a hand, needing to determine just how bad it was, needing to impart some comfort.

But sharply, fearfully, eyes wide and unseeing, the lines of his face stark with terror, Andrew flinched sideways toward the wall, trying to turn to face the threat—

—wrenching his torn back, letting out a shout of anguish—

Tony froze.

"Andrew?" he whispered again, hoping for a flash of recognition, a relaxation from the wide-eyed fear.

Nothing.

Yet there was no help for it. Tony had to continue. He moved forward, whispering his first desperate apology, and Andrew shrunk from him again with another pained groan. As gently as possible he reached to palpate his friend's ribs, finding nothing immediately out of place. But Andrew's thrashing grew too strong, and, relieved at the lack of obvious breaks but horrified at everything else, the blood and the mangled skin and the animalistic panic, Tony withdrew, first from the prisoner and then out of the cell entirely, for time was moving quickly and the original plan was still their best chance.

But Andrew's eyes, glazed and fearful still, followed him without recognition until he was out of sight.

Tony met Hastings at the planned place, only a few minutes late, hands shaking and breath uneven in his throat.

"Tony!" the man exclaimed, his voice low but intense. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Andrew's hurt," said Tony shortly.

"Hurt! How?"

"Whipped. Cat-o'-nine-tails." His hand clenched in a shaking fist at his side.

Hastings swore angrily. "So, we abort and get him out. I'll…"

"No!"

Hastings froze at Tony's adamant exclamation. "What?"

"No…we continue the mission. Andrew chose our targets and told me of them before…before…" He turned away, voice caught in his throat, unable to force out the next words.

Hastings gripped him by the shoulder, turning him back around. His face was etched with concern. "Tony…what happened?"

"I did it," Tony whispered, almost hoping Hastings did not hear, could not understand. "I whipped him. I…I had to. I had to. But he…he passed on the information in the last moments before that cursed whip touched his skin. He would want us to rescue them, Hastings! It…it has to be worth it…"

Throughout this confession, Hastings' face had cycled through shock, fear, resignation, and worry; but it finally settled on determination. He nodded sharply. "Who are we rescuing?"

"A mother…and her two children. She was a maid. That's…that's all I know…"

"We'll find them. Keep everything else as planned. Can you get Andrew to the rendezvous point yourself?"

"I…yes…I think so." The world had contracted around Tony; its edges seemed blurry, somehow.

"Very well. Tony! Tony, listen to me." Hastings gave his shoulder a bracing shake. "You did what you had to do. Now finish it. Listen to me!"

He focused. "I'm…I'm listening."

"I'm with you, brother. It'll come out all right. But you must finish the mission first, yes? You must get Andrew to the extraction point. You must."

Tony inhaled sharply through his teeth, clenching his jaw, then slowly breathed out, precise, controlled. He looked at Hastings seriously. "See you there."

Hastings clapped him on the shoulder again, hard and grounding, then left without another word. Releasing his clenched fists, Tony slowly but surely pulled back on the persona of Lieutenant Voclain, casting his face in arrogant and gleeful lines. Then he re-entered the Temple Prison, found a secluded corner, and settled in to wait.

Finally, finally, midday had come. It was time. He made his way back to the cell, excuses ready on his tongue, a casual sneer of command and implied gloating over the prisoner he had, apparently, punished so thoroughly. But the drums had started rolling outside; everyone not assigned to a specific post was headed outside to take in the daily spectacle, and Tony knew the least-populated routes through the building like the back of his hand. So he reached Andrew's cell uncontested, unlocked the door, and, once again, knelt by his friend.

"Andrew?" he asked hesitantly, gently patting the wounded man's face.

Andrew groaned and blinked blearily, then suddenly jerked back, startled. The manacles rattled.

"Shh! It's all right, Andrew. It's…" Tony swallowed, forcing the next words from his throat, for all they felt like a lie. "It's just Tony. You're safe."

Bleary eyes blinked at Tony warily.

"Here—let me get these shackles off." He pulled out the key. Andrew sat silently as one then the other restraint clicked open and fell from his wrist.

Then, moving faster than he had any right to, the prisoner threw a hard right hook at his captor's face.

Tony reared back just in time; knuckles just barely grazed his jaw. Andrew, still caught in the nightmare of waking to a red uniform and the hands that had caused him so much pain, tried to spring forward off the foot he had braced against the cell wall. But Tony, quicker, uninjured, arrested his friends panicked, dangerous escape, wrapping his arms around the other man and bringing them both to the ground.

And Sir Andrew Ffoulkes let out the most pained, animalistic, heart-wrenching cry that Tony never, ever wanted to hear from a friend's lips again.

Especially when drawn by his own hand.

Tears sprang to his eyes, useless but unstoppable. He choked, dropping his forehead down to touch Andrew's, and sobbed in remorse.

"I'm sorry…oh, Andrew, I'm so sorry…"

They stayed there for longer than advisable, the clock ticking inexorably in Tony's head as he tried to get a hold of himself. In his arms, the wounded man shuddered in agony.

"I'm sorry," Tony whispered yet again.

Then—

"Tony?" The name was croaked, barely audible, but Tony heard it.

"Andrew," he breathed, slumping in relief and freeing one of the hands he had been using to restrain his friend to dash the tears from his eyes.

At this confirmation, Andrew, too, relaxed from the pain- and fear-stricken clench his body had been in—prompting another anguished noise as his lacerations protested once again against Tony's hold.

The guilt twisted further in his heart, but he pushed it aside. Time was running out—they had to get to the extraction point.

I oughtn't have told Hastings I could manage on my own, he thought. But no help for it now.

"Andrew," he said again, infusing more urgency into his voice, "I hate to ask it of you—but can you stand?"

Andrew's eyes had closed again. He blinked them open, grimaced, and ground out harshly, "Let's…try."

Slowly, painfully, Tony levered the wounded man to his feet. He swayed and his knees threatened to buckle underneath him, but with Tony's hand firmly hooked under his arm—another arrangement made with much agony on Andrew's part and bitten-back apologies on Tony's, for now was not the time—they were upright and, God willing, ambulatory.

So, with constant urgency and many a muttered curse, the two men made their way to the rendezvous point. Luck was with them, or else his muttered prayers worked, because Tony's safe route was, in fact, still deserted. Yet throughout the journey each step, it seemed, was for Andrew more and more painful—until his shuffling feet caught an uneven flagstone and his weight pitched sideways. Tony cursed again and caught him; but at that one, final aggravation of his injuries Andrew gave a choked-off yell, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his full weight slumped into Tony's side.

Tony felt a surge of fear—that cry had not been quiet. He knelt down, braced himself, and heaved his friend's dead weight over his shoulders. With a stagger he was back upright; with another he was off, as quickly as he could, sparing no more breath for encouraging comments or muttered prayers.

Time blurred. Tony's breaths came harder and harder; Andrew's weight lay heavier and heavier on his shoulders.

Until, finally, he turned the last corner and the extraction point was in sight.

Another moment. Hastings was now at his side, reaching for the injured man.

"No…I've…got him…" Tony panted, stumbling the last hundred or so feet as Hastings redirected to prop him up and propel him forward.

Then they were at the hay cart and Andrew was gently lifted from him. Tony collapsed to one knee, hands braced against the ground, panting heavily. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he had no more energy to fight them.

A figure knelt down next to him. Hastings.

"Andrew?" Tony asked.

"We've got him," Hastings assured him, "and the quarry. Come—" he reached for Tony's shoulder and gave him another shake, voice brusque and eyes worried, then slid the hand down to his elbow and heaved him back to his feet—"in you get."

Hastings—Hastings was here. Tony didn't need to hold it together any longer; Hastings had them. He allowed himself to be pulled up and led, surrounded by the well-known voices of his comrades-in-arms. He climbed into the wagon unseeing, grasped Andrew's limp hand, and, between one sob and the next, remembered no more.