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The work room was undoubtedly the worst few days of Patrick’s life, and he would grow to wish he could forget them, though the suffering he experienced at the hands of the Templar would forever be drilled into his memory.
It was blasphemy he was being punished for. Just one little ‘Fuck God’ he has uttered while under extreme pressure and feeling incredible terror. He had felt that in the wake of losing his entire family to one accident, he had the right to curse such a God who could let that happen, if he even existed. The Templar had other ideas.
Patrick wasn’t being tortured for information. Finger screws and witch chairs and the rack weren’t employed here. Punishment and purification for blasphemers had been set out in the Papal Bull known as Ad Exstirpanda which required that those heretics who sullied the Lord’s name be hung from a strappado for an amount of time the judge saw fit. What Patrick didn’t know, was that the judge who had laid down his sentence had seen that he had hatred for God in his heart. His sentence was to be hung with his arms stretched over his head for a period of three days.
Patrick would never be able to properly describe the agony. When his punishment was read out, he didn’t even know what a strappado was, but he soon learned. His arms were bound then fastened to a rope which was attached to a pulley. As his arms were raised behind him he began to feel uneasy, and about the time they were stretched as far as they could easily go and Patrick realised the pulley that was hoisting him up wasn’t stopping. Yet his arms couldn’t bend the way they were being pulled. He yelled out for help, sure that a mistake had been made, but no one moved to help him. He yelled again, in panic, and his fevered shouting soon turned to screams for it to stop as his arms were lifted up over his head and his shoulder joints painfully popped out of their sockets.
Patrick could still touch the floor with his tiptoes, as he was saved the further pain of having weights attached to his feet. It did little to help, however. He couldn’t keep the weight off his tortured joints for long, and for three days he screamed and cried and begged for mercy. The pain caused Patrick to faint on several occasions, but always he awoke again, that same ever-present pain pulling him back to consciousness.
His own weight, which was not all that great, was what caused him such terrific agony. He was being punished for being human and for daring to curse God, and so it was right that his body be tormented by nothing more than that very body. The Templar believed God had given Patrick his body and he had used it to curse God. Now it was being used to curse Patrick.
When Patrick was finally let down on the 9th of November, the pain of movement was enough to send him rushing into the blackness of unconsciousness and he remained there until November 12th. When he woke up, he was in a white room and to his shock (and only a little agony from eyes which had become unaccustomed to the light) there was sun streaming through the window.
His shoulders ached, but Patrick realised that there was a certain dullness there that meant he had at least been given something to lessen the pain. It was either wearing off, or not very strong and he assumed the latter.
A beautiful face blocked his view of the sunny window before Patrick really even had much of a chance to wonder where he was. He never would have recognised her as the cold, masked, female Templar because when she spoke, her voice was now sunny and kind. “You’re awake,” she said, her accent unplaceable, but clearly not Irish. Patrick still foolishly believed he was in Dublin.
“Mmm,” Patrick replied, though he had attempted to say something much more intelligent. He was still exhausted and traumatised and his entire body hurt. His mouth was dry and uncooperative, but he still managed to add, “-where?”
“You’re in the infirmary,” she replied, and Patrick decided, rather guiltily since he was still in love with his ex-wife, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “You completed your purification and then you were brought here. You’ve been sleeping for two days.”
“Infirmary?” Patrick asked, shocked.
“You weren’t brought here to die, Patrick. You were brought here to change. Your suffering is over and now you’re being patched up so you can return to your life, a repentant man. You fell unconscious before they could hold your mass and you could ask forgiveness for your sins, but they’ll do so soon. And then when you’re feeling stronger you’ll go back to the tribunal to make sure there aren’t any other issues to deal with. Then you’ll be sent home.” The woman then fetched a glass of water and she held it to Patrick’s lips so he could drink deeply, quenching his thirst.
Patrick couldn’t believe it. He was just being sent home? After all of that? He had been tortured and starved and he had suffered unspeakably and now he was being treated as a patient? And kindly too. It simply didn’t make sense, but Patrick was too tired to fight. “I...I’m hungry,” he said to the nurse, though he said it more as an apology than a demand. He didn’t want to be shoved in his cell without food again.
“Of course, just a moment.” The blonde woman disappeared and when she reappeared carrying a bowl of porridge, Patrick had the strange feeling that he could trust her with anything he wanted to say. He firmly believed that she was on his side and no other. She handed him the porridge and, had she offered it, then and there he would have sworn his undying devotion to her.
“Here you go, then. If you need help, I can feed you. It might take a few days yet for your arms to heal up enough so you can feed yourself.”
Determined not to require feeding by a beautiful woman, Patrick tried to lift his right arm and he let out a startled cry. His arm was not going to lift and the attempt had caused him agony.
“Heh-“
“No matter,” she soothed him. She sat by his side and spooned a bite of porridge into Patrick’s mouth. “It all seems a lot of bother to me, but people do come out of it on the other side, stronger in their faith.”
Despite feeling like he could trust her, Patrick didn’t say a word in response to her assertions that torture in the name of God was ‘a lot of bother’. He simply opened his mouth and accepted the food she offered, glad that he was eating at all.
“I see a lot of people injured just like you. Some worse. It’s never a nice thing to see.”
“But it brings them closer to God,” Patrick parroted because he had had it drilled into him. He was too terrified not to say it, even here with this woman he felt he could trust with his life.
The woman smiled and nodded to him and then when she had fed the rest of the bowl of porridge to him, she left the room and did not return.
On the other side of the door, Miranda took off her nurse’s hat and she handed it to her Templar comrade. “He won’t be any trouble,” she said, pleased with her work. As an angel, she could always get the heretics to trust that she could be told anything. That she would never betray them. Of course she was just trying to see if the torture had worked and when it had not, the heretics were thrown back to once again have their free-will tortured out of them. Patrick had been broken. He wouldn’t be a problem. It was likely he would be too terrified by his ordeal to tell anyone and even if he did, no one would believe him.
It was blasphemy he was being punished for. Just one little ‘Fuck God’ he has uttered while under extreme pressure and feeling incredible terror. He had felt that in the wake of losing his entire family to one accident, he had the right to curse such a God who could let that happen, if he even existed. The Templar had other ideas.
Patrick wasn’t being tortured for information. Finger screws and witch chairs and the rack weren’t employed here. Punishment and purification for blasphemers had been set out in the Papal Bull known as Ad Exstirpanda which required that those heretics who sullied the Lord’s name be hung from a strappado for an amount of time the judge saw fit. What Patrick didn’t know, was that the judge who had laid down his sentence had seen that he had hatred for God in his heart. His sentence was to be hung with his arms stretched over his head for a period of three days.
Patrick would never be able to properly describe the agony. When his punishment was read out, he didn’t even know what a strappado was, but he soon learned. His arms were bound then fastened to a rope which was attached to a pulley. As his arms were raised behind him he began to feel uneasy, and about the time they were stretched as far as they could easily go and Patrick realised the pulley that was hoisting him up wasn’t stopping. Yet his arms couldn’t bend the way they were being pulled. He yelled out for help, sure that a mistake had been made, but no one moved to help him. He yelled again, in panic, and his fevered shouting soon turned to screams for it to stop as his arms were lifted up over his head and his shoulder joints painfully popped out of their sockets.
Patrick could still touch the floor with his tiptoes, as he was saved the further pain of having weights attached to his feet. It did little to help, however. He couldn’t keep the weight off his tortured joints for long, and for three days he screamed and cried and begged for mercy. The pain caused Patrick to faint on several occasions, but always he awoke again, that same ever-present pain pulling him back to consciousness.
His own weight, which was not all that great, was what caused him such terrific agony. He was being punished for being human and for daring to curse God, and so it was right that his body be tormented by nothing more than that very body. The Templar believed God had given Patrick his body and he had used it to curse God. Now it was being used to curse Patrick.
When Patrick was finally let down on the 9th of November, the pain of movement was enough to send him rushing into the blackness of unconsciousness and he remained there until November 12th. When he woke up, he was in a white room and to his shock (and only a little agony from eyes which had become unaccustomed to the light) there was sun streaming through the window.
His shoulders ached, but Patrick realised that there was a certain dullness there that meant he had at least been given something to lessen the pain. It was either wearing off, or not very strong and he assumed the latter.
A beautiful face blocked his view of the sunny window before Patrick really even had much of a chance to wonder where he was. He never would have recognised her as the cold, masked, female Templar because when she spoke, her voice was now sunny and kind. “You’re awake,” she said, her accent unplaceable, but clearly not Irish. Patrick still foolishly believed he was in Dublin.
“Mmm,” Patrick replied, though he had attempted to say something much more intelligent. He was still exhausted and traumatised and his entire body hurt. His mouth was dry and uncooperative, but he still managed to add, “-where?”
“You’re in the infirmary,” she replied, and Patrick decided, rather guiltily since he was still in love with his ex-wife, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “You completed your purification and then you were brought here. You’ve been sleeping for two days.”
“Infirmary?” Patrick asked, shocked.
“You weren’t brought here to die, Patrick. You were brought here to change. Your suffering is over and now you’re being patched up so you can return to your life, a repentant man. You fell unconscious before they could hold your mass and you could ask forgiveness for your sins, but they’ll do so soon. And then when you’re feeling stronger you’ll go back to the tribunal to make sure there aren’t any other issues to deal with. Then you’ll be sent home.” The woman then fetched a glass of water and she held it to Patrick’s lips so he could drink deeply, quenching his thirst.
Patrick couldn’t believe it. He was just being sent home? After all of that? He had been tortured and starved and he had suffered unspeakably and now he was being treated as a patient? And kindly too. It simply didn’t make sense, but Patrick was too tired to fight. “I...I’m hungry,” he said to the nurse, though he said it more as an apology than a demand. He didn’t want to be shoved in his cell without food again.
“Of course, just a moment.” The blonde woman disappeared and when she reappeared carrying a bowl of porridge, Patrick had the strange feeling that he could trust her with anything he wanted to say. He firmly believed that she was on his side and no other. She handed him the porridge and, had she offered it, then and there he would have sworn his undying devotion to her.
“Here you go, then. If you need help, I can feed you. It might take a few days yet for your arms to heal up enough so you can feed yourself.”
Determined not to require feeding by a beautiful woman, Patrick tried to lift his right arm and he let out a startled cry. His arm was not going to lift and the attempt had caused him agony.
“Heh-“
“No matter,” she soothed him. She sat by his side and spooned a bite of porridge into Patrick’s mouth. “It all seems a lot of bother to me, but people do come out of it on the other side, stronger in their faith.”
Despite feeling like he could trust her, Patrick didn’t say a word in response to her assertions that torture in the name of God was ‘a lot of bother’. He simply opened his mouth and accepted the food she offered, glad that he was eating at all.
“I see a lot of people injured just like you. Some worse. It’s never a nice thing to see.”
“But it brings them closer to God,” Patrick parroted because he had had it drilled into him. He was too terrified not to say it, even here with this woman he felt he could trust with his life.
The woman smiled and nodded to him and then when she had fed the rest of the bowl of porridge to him, she left the room and did not return.
On the other side of the door, Miranda took off her nurse’s hat and she handed it to her Templar comrade. “He won’t be any trouble,” she said, pleased with her work. As an angel, she could always get the heretics to trust that she could be told anything. That she would never betray them. Of course she was just trying to see if the torture had worked and when it had not, the heretics were thrown back to once again have their free-will tortured out of them. Patrick had been broken. He wouldn’t be a problem. It was likely he would be too terrified by his ordeal to tell anyone and even if he did, no one would believe him.
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