Chapter 11 Elior #3
“For the sin of impurity, of lust and filth, the Vessel will receive ten lashings,” Father said loudly.
And as he took his place behind me, no doubt seeing my trembling frame below him, he didn’t whisper reassurances, or touch my shoulder in comfort, or tell me that he loved me. Brother James’s and Paul’s hands held my forearms in a bruising grip, and I silently hoped they’d loosen them.
My arms ached already from the awkward stretch. My knees pressed into the floor.
Father stepped back.
Silence fell so completely that I could hear the shaky breaths of the people sitting in the pews. Someone whispered, “Bless the Vessel,” and someone else sniffled loudly. A child whimpered until their mother hushed them.
And then—
A whistle through the air.
I didn’t have time to brace.
The lash landed.
White-hot pain burst across my back—sharp, startling, immediate. I sucked in a breath so fast it choked in my throat. My entire body jerked, instinctively trying to curl in on itself, but the men held me still.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the congregation.
“One,” Father counted, voice steady, almost bored.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The second came quicker, no warning.
I bit down on my tongue to keep a cry from slipping out. My breath shuddered violently in my chest, trapped behind my ribs, and I couldn’t force it out for several long seconds. Brother James’s grip on my forearm tightened until my fingers tingled.
“Two.”
My vision swam.
My stomach lurched.
I could feel people staring at the back of my head.
The third lash cracked through the air.
This time, a sound escaped me—a soft, wounded gasp I couldn’t swallow fast enough. Heat bloomed across my skin, radiating outward like a spreading fire.
My teeth clenched. My nails dug into my palms.
I felt something slick begin to drip down my back.
“Three.”
Silas sobbed loudly from the first row, ragged and frantic. “Please stop—please, Father, please—this is my fault, not his—please…”
Father ignored him.
The fourth landed across the same general area as the second, and the pain overlapped so suddenly I almost blacked out. My head spun forward, but Brother Paul jerked my arm upward to keep me from pitching onto the floor.
A low murmur of distress moved through the congregation. I couldn’t tell if Jace made a sound, couldn’t turn to find him, couldn’t do anything except kneel and endure and try not to fall apart in front of everyone.
“Four.”
I wanted to be calm and unshakeable—the Vessel they needed.
But with each lash, my chest tightened with something hot and sick and mortifyingly human—fear, yes, but also despair. A deep, sinking sadness that felt like it was drowning me.
The fifth lash hit.
I cried out—soft, but it echoed anyway. The sound of my own voice cracked something open in me, and I shook, trembling uncontrollably.
Behind me, Father inhaled like he was disappointed as if my pain were an inconvenience.
“Five.”
Halfway.
My arms moved involuntarily, not trying to tug free, not trying to escape, but still, James and Paul held firm. Their hands felt like bands of iron.
“Bless him,” someone whispered, voice trembling. “Bless him…”
The sixth lash struck, and this one felt deeper somehow—heavier. I gasped, a broken noise that scraped its way from my throat, and my vision blurred at the edges with tears I refused to let fall.
“Six.”
I waited for breath to return.
It didn’t.
Not really.
I could hear Father shifting behind me, the slight creak of his sandals on the dais. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
I tried to pray again, but the words got tangled, lost in the fog in my mind.
The seventh lash came.
A choked sob escaped me before I could stop it. My shoulders quivered violently.
“Seven.”
More people were crying now—I could hear it.
Silas pleaded again, incoherent with grief. Someone else murmured, “He doesn’t deserve this… he doesn’t deserve…”
But no one moved to stop it.
The eighth lash landed with a force that knocked the wind completely out of me. I doubled forward slightly, but they hauled me upright, setting my spine screaming.
The world tilted, swam, blurred. A high ringing filled my ears.
“Eight.”
Two more.
Just two.
I was shaking so hard my teeth clicked. My breath came in thin, fast gasps that barely reached my lungs. I didn’t want to cry—I didn’t want Father to see that—but the tears kept building, hot behind my eyes.
The ninth lash snapped across my skin.
I cried out again—louder this time, unable to swallow it down. My vision whitened with pain. The room swayed dangerously. Each lash sounded wet as it hit my skin.
“Nine.”
I wanted to see Jace.
I wanted to know if he still looked wild, or if he looked worried, or if he couldn’t bear to watch.
I wanted someone—anyone—to tell me this meant something good.
That the Light heard me.
That I wasn’t suffering for nothing.
But no one touched me. No one comforted me. No one held me except the men restraining me.
Father lifted his arm for the last time.
The tenth lash fell.
A sound tore from my throat—raw and broken—and immediately drowned beneath the congregation’s collective gasp.
“Ten,” Father said calmly.
Brother James and Brother Paul released me at once, and without their grip, I folded forward, unable to catch myself on my palms. My cheek hit the coolness of the floor. My breath shuddered violently out of me. My entire body trembled like a leaf in a storm.
Behind me, Father announced, “The Vessel has done his sacred duty. Let the Light’s mercy be known.”
I didn’t feel sacred.
And as I knelt there, chest heaving, vision swimming, I couldn’t help wondering—
If the Light was so merciful…
Why did it hurt this much?