Silently he watched as the buckets flowed into the bath. The clear frigid waters rushed in, crashing against the wrought iron surface. It stands out in the office. Not that the space is overly opulent, but it bears its luxuries, finely made trappings, rich alcohols that now remain untouched. The bath, its tub is dark and imposing, a monolith that is as cold and uncaring as the waters that now fill it.
It’s not cold enough. A quiet nod is given to the waiting servants as they begin to pour another two buckets in, these filled with ice and snow, freshly brought down from the mountains. The water, already frigid and fresh from the Bren melts the snow, absorbing its cold eagerly, sucking it up and in to wrap the ice in its chilly embrace.
A servant moves towards him, years of service in the households of the great and the ‘good’ prompting them to aid with his clothing. Clothing that bares only the barest trappings of his station. A waistcoat for presentability, a golden pin a reminder from… (a friend?). Cotton dark and drab, just a faint bit of stripes to break up the solid dark colors. Cotton that is sturdy, more fit for what he once was, not what he has become. Or perhaps more suited to him now than anything else he might wear.
He waves the servants off, a dismissive shake of his head and a wave of his hand. Silently they file out of the office. His hand comes up to slip free his coat, tossing it over the back of one of the chairs. His buttons are undone slowly, dragging out the process as his mind wanders over the things that have led him here, what he has done.
His body is bared, old scars of battles long past cross his figure. He would trade twice as many more just to be rid of the ones that cannot be seen. Stepping from his pants he looks down at himself, disgust washes over him. The root of man, the root of so much evil. His teeth grit in frustration and he pushes himself forward into the bath.
The cold, icy fingers claw over his body, shocking him and making him shudder. He forces himself through it forcing his body to still and not fight against the painful cold. He sinks further down into the waters, feeling them rise up his chest, his neck until he is completely submerged in the frigid embrace of the icy Bren water.
Floating in the cold and in the dark, the shocking, cleansing pain of it he prays, silently for forgiveness, reliving his past mistakes, searching for the better bath. Liar, betrayer, hypocrite. Charges that he couldn’t deny. He could give reasons that might dull the sharpness of them, each thing had a reason, a cause that led to what happened, but he knew them for truth. Others had leveled worse upon him, building off the truth, building it to something greater than it was, trying to make him suffer. They didn’t know the truth of what was going on within.
Minutes drag out, the ice slowly begins to give way under the heat of the body. It isn’t until the cold has begun to lose its edge that he rises from the waters, cleansed for another day, until the process is repeated on the morrow.
His knees sink to the ground beside the bath, the cold water running in rivulets down his skin, dripping to the rugs below him. His body remains tense, his ablutions are not finished yet. One more final penance for the day.
His hand gripped the leather handle, studying the tight braid closely, his features solemn. He closes his eyes, as if that could hide him from himself. His arm, well practiced, toned from a lifetime in war and service. The leather snaps and cracks across his own back, sharp and painful. Red welts, angry with the bite of the wrongs that he has done rise up on his fair skin.
His body shudders through the process, his forehead rests against the wrought iron surface as he swallows the pain. A growl, angry at his own weakness, his own failings wells up within him. the leather snaps again and blood begins to trickle down his back. Again and again the leather meets flesh, angry and hard. As viciously as he fought his greatest enemies he goes to the task. He is as unforgiving as the leather, pushing harder the more his skin raises, the more it breaks.
Fifteen minutes, that had been the price he had asked for. He had gotten off too light. He deserved this pain, he deserved more than it. “Do you think I should step down?“ He was ready to do that, though he had been told no. Even after asking for the pains to go with everything else. Nothing will feel like it was enough as long as those he cares for hurt because of him.
Fifteen minutes, he had set an hourglass up to time it. He forgot to turn it over before he began. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Thirty? Who knows, he lost track of the time. It wasn’t over until he was exhausted, until he couldn’t swing anymore. His body collapsed on the floor.
The room is silent save for his breathing for a long time. Eventually curiosity and concern overwhelm his guardian. She comes in and sees him there on the floor, bleeding. through the good times and bad she has been there beside him. Not always agreeing, but always supporting, caring for him.
She produces bandages from her bags and carefully wraps them over the wounds. She knows enough to not treat them, just enough to make sure the blood doesn’t seep through. The servants need not suffer for his penance. She checks to make sure he is well, but doesn’t urge him further and leaves the room.
Exhausted, weary and spirit broken, he pushes himself up carefully and dresses once more. Buttons slowly working over the clothing. So used to wearing silks, cotton might as well be wool. Wool. Perhaps that should be what he wears next. It would sting his body more. But isn’t that the point?
He looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the figure he saw within its stark reflection. Slowly he straightens his clothes. He still had a job to do, fences to mend, friendships to salvage and rebuild.
One day down…
…Fifty nine to go…