Elswind and The Roman Crucifixion

[Noctavya]

Elswind and The Roman Crucifixion

"Faster!" Elswind barked, her voice sharp as flint against stone. Her breath misted in the chill dawn air. Twelve warriors scrambled up the muddy slope behind her, packs heavy with stolen Roman grain. She paused at the ridge, eyes scanning the valley below—a hawk assessing prey.

At five feet eight, her frame was all whipcord muscle beneath worn leathers, earned from seasons of battle and harsh winters. Wild, wheat-blonde hair escaped its braid, framing a face sharp with concentration and weathered by wind. She was Elswind of the Britanium, and rebellion lived in her bones. Below, the Eighth Legion’s camp sprawled like a spider’s web across the land. She spat. "Look at them. Fat on our harvests." Her second, Gunnar, grunted agreement beside her.

The tribe called her reckless. *Weak*, some muttered behind hands, for daring to defy Rome’s shadow. But in these hills, her word was iron. She’d bled Romans dry in a dozen ambushes—striking at dawn, vanishing like fog. Now, as frost crunched under her boots, she traced the patrol routes with a calloused finger. "Tonight," she decided. "We hit the western granary."

Gunnar’s brow furrowed. "The elders won’t like it. They whisper of... other paths." Elswind’s laugh was brittle. "Let them whisper. While Romans breathe, we fight." She tugged her cloak tighter, the wool rough against her neck. The wind bit through the trees, carrying the distant clang of smiths from the camp. Her gaze lingered on the commander’s tent—a crimson blot on the grey landscape. Soon, she vowed silently. Soon they’d bleed again.

Below, unnoticed by Elswind’s keen eyes, a cloaked figure slipped from the Britanium’s temporary camp. Elder Borin moved like a shadow through the birch grove, clutching a rolled parchment sealed with wax. He met a Roman scout near the frozen creek, amber eyes darting. "Tell your legate," he rasped, breath steaming. "Her next strike is *here*." He thrust the map into gloved hands. "And the terms? Autonomy? Gold?" The scout nodded curtly, melting back into the mist.

Elswind’s war band moved at dusk, shadows among the pines. The western granary stood isolated, torchlight flickering weakly on its high palisade. Elswind crouched behind a thorn thicket, fingers tightening on her axe handle. Something prickled her instincts—too few guards, the unnatural stillness. A raven cawed overhead, sharp and sudden. Gunnar shifted uneasily beside her. "Feels... wrong."

They surged forward anyway. Halfway across the moonlit clearing, a horn shattered the silence—a harsh, Roman blast. Torches flared to life atop the walls, revealing a thicket of pilums. From the flanks, century after century of legionaries emerged, shields locked, a gleaming bronze tide. Elswind froze, ice flooding her veins. Trapped. Her warriors stumbled back, cursing. Borin’s face flashed in her memory—his eyes refusing to meet hers at the council fire. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Betrayal.

The phalanx tightened, a living wall of iron and leather. The crunch-scrape-scrape of hobnailed sandals was deafening, each step shaking the frozen earth. Elswind’s axe felt heavy as lead. Open combat against this? Suicide. The ranks parted briefly, and Legate Drusus strode forward, his crimson cloak swirling. His face was granite under his helmet’s rim. "Surrender, Elswind of the Britanium!" His voice boomed across the clearing, echoing off the trees. "Lay down your arms. Your band lives. Resist... and they fertilize Gaulish fields." His gaze locked onto hers, cold and calculating. Gunnar growled low, knuckles white on his spear.

"You mustn't, Elswind!" Gunnar hissed, stepping closer, his weathered face inches from hers, desperation cracking his voice. "We’ll die with you! Let’s break the encirclement!" He gestured wildly towards a thinner part of the Roman line. Elswind’s eyes swept her surroundings – the terrified faces of her dozen warriors, pale under the torchlight, their breath ragged plumes in the frigid air; the sheer impossibility of breaking through that shield-wall bristling with spears; the gleam of archers positioned high atop the granary walls. This wasn't an ambush route gone wrong. It was a slaughter pen designed solely for her. A cold certainty settled in her gut, colder than the frost beneath her feet. Rushing meant death for all. Nothing gained. She met Gunnar’s frantic eyes, her voice strangely calm, cutting through the Roman drumbeat of shields. "No. Live."

"Live?" Gunnar choked out, disbelief twisting his features. The warriors murmured, panic flaring. "Tell them!" Elswind commanded, her voice sharpening, carrying the weight of a chieftain’s decree. She didn’t look away from Gunnar. "Tell them what happened here. Tell them *why*." The band erupted – pleas, curses, the clatter of a spear dropped in despair. "We stand!" one young warrior yelled hoarsely. Elswind whirled, her eyes blazing. "DO I HAVE YOUR WORD?" The shout ripped from her throat, raw and fierce, silencing them instantly. It wasn't a question. It was an order from a leader facing annihilation. Gunnar flinched, then slowly, painfully, gave a stiff, jerking nod. The others followed, faces grim masks of anguish and shame.

"The Romans kept their words," Legate Drusus announced, his tone almost conversational now.

The phalanx parted with a metallic groan, shields tilting just enough to create a narrow corridor. Gunnar stumbled first, his breaths ragged sobs as he passed Elswind, unable to meet her gaze. One by one her warriors followed, dropping swords and spears onto the frozen earth with dull clatters – sounds that echoed louder than battle cries in the unnatural silence. Relief warred with shame on their faces; shoulders hunched as they vanished into the shadows beyond the torchlight’s reach. Only Elswind remained, a solitary figure etched against the snow. "Tell them!" she called after them, her voice stripped raw but unwavering. "Tell every hearth-fire! Tell them *whose* hand delivered me!" The gap snapped shut like jaws, iron pressing in on all sides.

Alone now, ringed by a sea of hostile eyes and gleaming metal, Elswind drew her heavy war axe from its harness. The familiar weight felt alien, useless against this wall. For a heartbeat, her knuckles whitened on the ashwood haft – a lifetime of defiance coiled in her grip. Then, with a roar torn from the depths of her being, she hurled it high. It spun end over end, a dark arc against the torch-lit smoke, before landing point-first with a solid *thunk* in the frozen mud ten paces away, quivering upright like a grave marker. Dust motes danced in the sudden stillness. She raised her empty hands, palms outward, staring past the Legate at the indifferent stars. Resignation was a cold stone in her gut, colder than the betrayal.

"Chain her!" Drusus barked, snapping the spell. Two burly legionaries surged forward, iron manacles rattling in their fists. One grabbed her wrists – rough, unyielding fingers digging into the scarred flesh of her forearms – while the other clamped the heavy fetters around her ankles. The metal bit deep, shockingly cold against her skin. She didn't struggle, her eyes fixed on Drusus.

"Kneel!" The command sliced through the frosty air. Elswind remained upright, spine rigid as an oak spear. A legionary behind her – smelling of stale sweat and cheap wine – drove a hobnailed boot savagely into the hollow behind her left knee. Bone crunched sickeningly against tendon; blinding pain lanced up her thigh. She gasped, buckling forward onto her right knee, her hands instinctively bracing against the frozen earth to stop her fall. Instantly, another soldier slammed a shield boss hard into her shoulder blades, pinning her down fully. Her cheek scraped against icy mud, the grit embedding itself beneath her skin. Above her, Drusus loomed, his shadow swallowing the torchlight that flickered weakly on her exposed neck and shoulders. He crouched down, his crimson cloak pooling around him like fresh blood.

"You have given us quite a headache, little hawk," he murmured, his voice oily with false civility. His gaze wasn't on her face. It travelled slowly, deliberately, down her exposed throat, lingering where her worn leather tunic gaped from the rough handling. The torchlight caught the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the defiant arch of her neck, the wild strands of wheat-blonde hair plastered to her temple. Her fierce beauty seemed amplified by the dirt and defiance, radiating a primal, untamed energy that clashed violently with the sterile order of the Roman camp. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "Such spirit... wasted on peasants and rocks."

One hand reached out, thick fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face – a gesture intimate, violating. Elswind flinched back as if seared, snarling a curse in her guttural tongue. Anger surged, hotter than the pain in her leg, momentarily eclipsing the icy chill of betrayal. She spat towards his polished greave, the spittle landing with a small, dark splat. Drusus chuckled, low and dangerous. He straightened, his eyes hardening.

"Strip her," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth now, echoing flatly against the shields. "And drag her back to camp. Let the Eighth Legion see the prize their gold bought." Hands descended upon her like vultures – rough, impersonal. Her worn leather jerkin tore at the seams; her thick woolen trousers yielded to sharp blades. The frigid dawn air struck her bare skin like a thousand needles. She fought instinctively, twisting, snarling, biting at wrists, but the shackles bit deeper, the legionaries' holds were practiced and brutal. Leather straps snapped, wool ripped. In moments, she knelt naked in the frozen mud – exposed, vulnerable, the proud lines of her warrior’s body scarred and strong beneath the grime and bruises inflicted at the trap. The legionaries kept a wary distance now, eyes flickering between her defiance and their Legate.

"Move!" One soldier jabbed her shoulder with the butt of his pilum. Elswind stumbled upright, the heavy iron shackles scraping raw against her ankles with every step. Each link felt like dragging a boulder, limiting her stride to a hobbling gait that jarred her injured knee mercilessly. The legionaries flanked her tightly, their hobnailed sandals crunching rhythmically on the frost-rimed path beside her bare, mud-caked feet. The kilometre stretched endlessly before her. The chill dawn wind whipped across her exposed skin, stealing her warmth, raising gooseflesh. Torchlight from the escort flickered, casting grotesque, dancing shadows on her lean musculature – honed by battle and survival, now displayed as a trophy. The raw scrapes on her cheek and shoulder burned, contrasting sharply with the icy numbness spreading through her limbs. She clenched her jaw, focusing on placing one shackled foot in front of the other, refusing to let her knees buckle, refusing to give them the satisfaction of dragging her limp body. Her breath plumed thickly in the freezing air, each inhalation a rasping effort, her ribs aching beneath the bruises from the shield-boss impact.

As they neared the sprawling edge of the Eighth Legion's main camp, the sky bled from deep indigo into a bruised grey. The scent of woodsmoke, leather, and unwashed bodies grew overpowering. Legionaries off-duty or forming for dawn muster paused. Eyes widened. Whispers hissed like snakes – "*Britannica...*" "*Rebel queen...*" "*See the hawk clipped...*". Some faces showed grim satisfaction; others held a flicker of something darker, hungrier, as they stared at her nakedness. Elswind kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, chin lifted defiantly despite the tremors wracking her frame. She focused on the rhythmic *clank-scrape* of her shackles, a counterpoint to the legionaries' marching beat. The burning shame warred with a cold, hardening fury. They saw stripped flesh; she saw the map of her defiance etched in scars – the thin white line across her ribs from a Roman gladius, the puckered burn low on her hip from a dropped campfire brand during a raid, the callouses on her palms from wielding axe and shield. Her nudity wasn't vulnerability; it was the unbearable visibility of her defeat, a canvas laid bare for their scorn and Borin’s treachery.

The procession halted abruptly in the vast central forum, a muddy expanse trampled flat by thousands of boots. Legionaries packed the surrounding ramparts and makeshift stands, a silent, expectant audience under the paling sky. Before them stood a crude, imposing structure: a large rectangular wooden frame, stark against the dawn. Two thick timbers, taller than three men, supported a heavy crossbeam. From this beam hung two sets of chains terminating in heavy iron manacles, cold and stark against the wood. Without ceremony, the escorting legionaries shoved her forward. Hands gripped her wrists again, wrenching them painfully upward towards the dangling manacles. The frozen iron seared her already chafed skin. One manacle snapped shut around her left wrist with a sharp, final *clack*. She gasped at the bite of cold metal. As they pulled her right arm high and wide to reach the other manacle, tendons screamed in her shoulders. The second *clack* echoed. She was pinned, arms stretched taut like a captured bird drying in the sun.

"Haul!" a centurion barked. Soldiers stationed at either side of the frame seized thick ropes threaded through pulleys fixed to the top of the vertical beams. They leaned back, heaving simultaneously. The chains rattled taut. Elswind gasped as her feet abruptly left the frozen mud. An inch. Then six. The chains groaned under her weight. Her shoulder joints shrieked agony as they were forced to bear her entire suspended weight. Muscles tore under the unnatural strain; ligaments stretched to snapping. A guttural groan ripped from her throat, raw and involuntary. Her feet dangled uselessly, a foot above the ground. Every breath became a shallow, burning gasp as her stretched ribcage constricted her lungs. Her head lolled back against her straining arms, blonde hair tangling over her face. The cold wind knifed over her exposed body anew, finding every scrape, every bruise, every vulnerable inch of her.

Silence fell heavy over the camp. Only her ragged breaths and the faint creak of the wooden frame pierced the dawn air. Legate Drusus stepped forward, surveying his living trophy. He traced the lines of her suspended body with cold eyes – the taut arch of her back, the straining muscles in her shoulders and arms, the way her ribs pressed starkly against skin flushed with pain and cold.

"Water," Drusus commanded, his voice flat. A legionary grinned, seizing a heavy wooden bucket plunged moments before into the icy camp cistern. He hurled its contents. The frigid deluge slammed into Elswind's chest and stomach, stealing her breath in a shocked gasp. Agony flared anew as the water cascaded over her raw whip marks and seared the scrapes on her face and knees. Her teeth chattered violently, the cold biting deep into her marrow. Laughter erupted from the encircling soldiers, harsh and mocking. She gasped, shuddering violently, water dripping from her nose and chin onto the mud below her dangling toes. The cold amplified every ache, every stretched tendon, locking her muscles in tremors.

Drusus moved closer still, his polished boots stopping inches from where her shadow pooled on the churned mud. His gaze lingered deliberately, travelling over her shivering form. It paused, heavy and intrusive, on the dark patch of unshaven hair between her thighs, then roved upward, slowly tracing the curve of her firm, gooseflesh-covered breasts, peaked tightly against the cold. A predatory satisfaction touched his lips. "Rest tonight, little hawk," he murmured, his breath misting faintly near her ear, the sound intimate and vile. His voice rose, carrying easily to the watching legionaries, thick with contempt. "Tomorrow... we show you the true price for spitting against the Roman Eagle."

He lingered another moment, savoring the tremors racking her frame, the raw vulnerability beneath the defiance, before turning sharply. "Centurion! Double the watch," he snapped. "Let no one touch her. She is the Legion's spectacle until dawn." He strode away through the parting ranks, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind, leaving Elswind suspended, dripping, utterly exposed beneath the indifferent grey sky. The soldiers' eyes remained fixed upon her, a thousand hungry stares pricking her skin like cold needles. Exhaustion warred with hyper-alert terror, the promise of tomorrow a crushing weight heavier than the chains.

The sun clawed its way above the eastern palisade, molten gold searing through the lingering mist. Its rays, initially weak, grew steadily hotter, a brutal counterpoint to the deep chill still radiating from her wet skin and the frozen mud far below her dangling toes. Elswind’s head lolled forward, chin touching her chestbone. Her tangled blonde hair hung limp, plastered wetly to her temples and jaw. Every breath was a shallow, searing gasp, the strain on her shoulders and arms intensifying as the ligaments burned raw, feeling stretched near to tearing. The agony wasn’t sharp; it was a deep, grinding throb that pulsed with each heartbeat, radiating down her spine and into her clenched fists. The cold iron manacles bit deeper into her wrists, rubbing the already raw skin, while the sunrise began to paint her naked back with a fierce, unwelcome heat.

Minutes bled into hours measured only by the slow crawl of her shadow across the trampled earth. The camp buzzed with activity – shouts of centurions drilling cohorts, the rhythmic thud of marching feet, the clang of the smithy – sounds that felt distant, muffled, irrelevant behind the constant, agonizing hum of her own body’s suffering. The initial cold retreated before the mounting heat, transforming the water droplets clinging to her body into trails of stinging salt that drew lines through the grime. Sweat joined the mix, trickling down her ribs, stinging the myriad scrapes and abrasions. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably now, a maddening vibration that intensified the joint pain. The relentless sun baked the mud beneath her, sending up wafts of damp earth and decayed straw, mingling with the sharp tang of her own fear-sweat and the metallic scent of drying blood from her scraped knees and cheek. Thirst became a ravening beast clawing at her throat, her tongue thick and cottony.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, the waking moments a haze of pain and humiliation. Faces blurred below – soldiers leering, pointing, laughing; others looking away quickly, their expressions unreadable. Once, a young legionary, barely more than a boy, approached cautiously under the watchful eye of a centurion. He hesitated, then tossed a small piece of hardtack onto the mud near her shadow. Before she could react, a swift kick from the centurion sent it skittering away. "Orders, pup. She gets nothing." The boy scurried off. Elswind closed her eyes again, shutting out the sight, focusing only on the excruciating pull in her shoulders and the way the sun felt like hot coals pressed against the tender stripes on her back. The promise more pain tomorrow echoed Drusus’s words, a dread weight settling deeper than any physical torment. She held onto one thought, sharp as flint against despair: Gunnar lived. He carried the truth. *Whose hand?* The question burned brighter than the sun.

The sun climbed higher, transforming from molten gold into a merciless furnace. By midday, it hung directly overhead, a blinding white disc searing the camp into silence. Shadows pooled directly beneath her dangling feet. Elswind’s skin, once flushed with cold, now drenched in sweat. Sweat poured freely down her temples, stinging her eyes, tracing rivers through the dirt and dried blood on her face. It ran in rivulets down her straining neck, pooled in the hollows of her collarbones, and dripped steadily onto the cracked earth below. Dehydration gripped her throat like iron claws; her tongue felt swollen, leathery, utterly useless. Each shallow gasp scraped raw inside her chest, sucking in air thick with dust and the stink of the camp. The relentless heat amplified every agony – the stretched tendons screamed, the sun-baked whip marks pulsed with a fiery throb, and the chains felt like brands searing her wrists. Flies, drawn by the sweat and grime, buzzed incessantly around her head and body, landing on her lips, her eyelids, maddening torturers she lacked the strength to shake off.

The rhythmic crunch of hobnailed sandals on dry earth cut through the haze. Legate Drusus strode into the circle, flanked by two impassive Praetorian guards clutching polished shields. He carried a coiled whip – not the dreaded multi-thonged flagellum, but a single, thick bullwhip of braided leather, its knotted tip heavy and cruel. His eyes, shielded from the glare beneath his helmet’s brim, scanned her suspended form with cold appraisal. "Wake up, hawk!" he barked, his voice sharp, slicing through her delirium. A bucket sloshed nearby, thick with the pungent scent of salt dissolved in water. Without ceremony, Drusus uncoiled the whip, its length slithering like a serpent onto the parched ground. He plunged it deep into the bucket, letting the brine soak into the leather. The salty stink mingled violently with the scent of hot dust and sweat.

He withdrew the whip, dripping wet brine onto the mud. A dark stain spread where it landed. Drusus gave it a practiced flick, the soaked leather cracking the air like a bolt of lightning, scattering flies. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across her exposed torso. "Normally," he began, his voice almost conversational, yet laden with icy malice, "we favor the flagellum for traitors. It flays skin from bone... efficiently." He paused, letting the ghastly image hang. A predatory grin touched his lips as he watched her flinch. "But not today, hawk. Oh, no." He shook the wet whip, droplets spraying her scorched thighs, making her gasp. "You won't die that fast. This?" He lifted the thick, salt-soaked braid. "This is for endurance. To teach you the *depth* of Roman displeasure. To make every breath... exquisite." He raised the whip high, the sun glinting off the wet leather.

The first lash struck with the force of a falling timber. The thick, salt-drenched leather carved a fiery path diagonally across her upper back and shoulder blade. Pain exploded – white-hot, blinding – far deeper and heavier than any blade wound. The salt burned like acid poured into the fresh wound. Elswind’s spine arched violently against the chains, a choked scream tearing from her cracked lips. Before she could draw breath, Drusus struck again, lower this time, across her ribs. The sheer impact slammed her suspended body sideways, wrenching her tortured shoulders. Another ragged cry escaped. He worked with brutal, measured rhythm: upper back, ribs, flank, the heavy lash landing with wet, meaty thuds. Each stroke ignited a fresh inferno; each snap of the whip sent sprays of brine and blood onto the dusty ground. Sweat, tears, and blood mingled on her face as she twisted helplessly in her chains, the sun beating down, the salt searing deeper with every agonizing breath.

The crowd roared its approval. Legionaries packed tighter around the frame, faces flushed with excitement, voices rising into a deafening chant – "*Roma! Roma!*" Their cheers spiked sharply with every explosive crack of the whip. Drusus paused after the sixth blow, letting the anticipation build. He dipped the whip back into the salt bucket, the leather slithering obscenely. Elswind sagged, trembling uncontrollably, her back already a tapestry of overlapping, angry red welts swelling rapidly against the grime and sweat. Blood trickled thinly from where the knotted tip had bitten deepest. He raised the whip again, his eyes fixed on her shuddering form. The seventh stroke landed precisely across her shoulder blades. Her groan this time was louder, raw, dragging itself from a place beyond conscious thought. The eighth caught her lower back, forcing another choked cry. The ninth ripped diagonally across her thighs; her gasp became a ragged sob. The tenth blow, heavier still, slammed across her mid-back. A different sound escaped her – a loud, primal groan ripped from the root of her being, echoing strangely against the triumphant roar of the crowd.

He paused again, allowing her ragged gasps and the whispers of the crowd to fill the space. Drusus walked slowly around her suspended form, surveying his handiwork like a sculptor inspecting marble. Her back was a landscape of ruin now, welts darkening to livid purple where the leather had bitten deepest, angry red ridges swelling everywhere else. Sweat poured down her sides, stinging the raw flesh. Her head hung low, blonde hair matted with sweat and dust. He stopped before her, dipping the whip deliberately into the salt solution once more. Raising it slowly, he savored the tremor that ran through her frame. The eleventh lash landed high, across her shoulders again. Her groan deepened, cracking. The twelfth struck low on her ribs. A shuddering gasp. The thirteenth tore across her flank, scraping bone. Her moan broke into a low, animalistic keen. Drusus waited, breathing slowly, letting the agony crystallize. The fourteenth blow landed squarely across her spine. Her body convulsed violently. Before the fifteenth, her breath hitched… and then erupted in a raw, guttural roar, "ARGH!" – a sound ripped from the deepest pit of defiance and pain.

Drusus lowered the whip, its knotted tip dripping pinkish brine onto the trampled earth. He stepped close, his shadow falling over her bowed head. Her entire body trembled violently now, muscles spasming uncontrollably beneath the ruined skin. Each shallow, ragged breath rasped like sandpaper in her throat. He studied the raw map of suffering he’d etched – the way the welts pulsed with her heartbeat, the thin streaks of blood mingling with sweat, the helpless tremor that spoke of nerves pushed beyond endurance. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Endurance," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the crowd's fading cheers but sharp against her exposed ear. He raised the wet whip once more, the leather glistening in the cruel midday sun. "This is just the intermission, hawk." His voice hardened, loud enough for the nearest ranks. "Twenty more before sunset. Let her truly comprehend Roman mercy." The promise hung heavy, thicker than any chain. The crowd's murmurs swelled again, hungry and expectant.

He paused, eyes narrowed as he assessed her shuddering form. Her head hung low, tangled blonde hair obscuring her face, her neck muscles straining against the unnatural angle. The sun beat down relentlessly, baking the bloody sweat onto her skin. Her lips were cracked, greyish-white against the dirt. "Legionary!" Drusus barked suddenly, snapping his fingers without looking away from Elswind. "Water. Now. We want her lucid... for the rest." A soldier near the salt bucket scrambled, dipping a grimy leather flask into the cistern beside it. He approached cautiously, eyeing her suspended form. Rough hands grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back sharply. Pain exploded through her neck and shoulders. The flask was jammed brutally against her cracked lips. Cold water flooded her parched mouth. She choked violently, water spraying from her nose, but instinct overrode suffocation. She gulped desperately, greedily, the liquid stinging her raw throat yet quenching a deeper, primal agony. The legionary emptied the flask, water sluicing down her chin, neck, and chest, tracing cleaner paths through the grime and blood. He stepped back, wiping his hand on his tunic. Elswind gasped, sputtering, her chest heaving. The brief relief was a cruel trick against the backdrop of her pulverized back.

Drusus moved deliberately around her suspended frame, the coiled whip dragging slightly in the dirt. He stopped directly in front of her now. His polished greaves were inches from her face, the intricate bronze gleaming. Her vision swam, blurred by tears, sweat, and sheer fatigue. She forced her head back, straining her neck, defiance flickering weakly through the haze of agony. She met his hard, assessing gaze. A predatory stillness settled over him. He raised the whip slowly, deliberately, the wet leather leaving a faint trail in the dust-clogged air. His eyes weren't on hers anymore. They travelled downwards, lingering with cold appraisal on the ruin he'd made of her torso, then lower still. "Resilient," he conceded, tone devoid of warmth. "Perhaps... we explore your endurance elsewhere." He flicked the whip handle lightly against the inside of her bruised knee. Elswind flinched violently, a small cry escaping her lips. He shifted his stance slightly. "

***Twack!***" The thick, salt-soaked leather slammed diagonally across her abdomen. Pain detonated, white-hot and visceral, stealing her breath in a choked gasp. Before she could inhale, Drusus struck again, lower this time. "***Twack!***" The heavy knotted tip landed squarely on her right breast. Fiery agony lanced through her chest, searing nerves already screaming. She arched violently against her chains, a ragged scream tearing from her throat as the salt burned into tender flesh. Her nipple throbbed as if stabbed. He gave her no respite. The third lash followed instantly, a swift upward stroke. The tip curled cruelly, striking her left cheekbone beside her mouth. Skin split instantly. A spray of blood and sweat flecked the air. She tasted copper, her scream cut short by a violent gasp, choked on her own blood and terror. Her head snapped sideways from the impact, blonde hair whipping across her face.

Drusus paused, letting the echoes of her agony resonate through the rapt crowd. He adjusted his grip, the whip dripping pink brine. His gaze remained fixed, utterly detached. He took a half-step closer, ensuring precise placement. The fourth stroke was a brutal downward strike. It caught her across the abdomen again, lower this time. The knotted tip snapped viciously at its terminus. Elswind’s body jerked, her scream ripped raw and desperate, a sound of pure animal terror. The tip had bitten deep into her pubic mound. Instinctively, she tried to clamp her thighs together, muscles straining against iron. The fifth lash landed precisely where he intended. "***Twack!***" The thick braid slammed horizontally across her exposed pubis. The knotted tip impacted her vulva with devastating force.

Agony exploded, deeper and more violating than anything before. It wasn't just pain; it was a white-hot annihilation of self, centered in her most vulnerable core. Her entire body convulsed against the chains, spine arching impossibly backwards. Her head wrenched up, tendons standing rigid in her neck, eyes wide and staring blindly into the sun. The sound that erupted wasn't human. It was a deafening, piercing shriek ripped from the depths of her being – a gutted animal's death scream, raw, primal, and utterly devoid of anything resembling humanity. It echoed across the suddenly silent forum, louder than the crowd, louder than the wind. Saliva frothed at her lips, her screams dissolving into ragged, agonized gasps as she sagged violently against her bonds, trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed unchecked down her bloody cheeks, mingling with sweat and dripping onto her collarbones. The welts on her torso pulsed crimson; a thin trickle of blood seeped from her pubic mound where the leather tip had bitten deep. The legionaries watched, frozen momentarily, some faces paling beneath their helmets, others hardening further. Drusus lowered the whip slowly, his expression impassive. Only a slight tightening around his eyes betrayed any reaction to the inhuman sound she had made.

Silence settled heavily, thick with the scent of blood, sweat, salt, and dust. Elswind hung limp, breathing in shallow, frantic hitches. Every tremor sent fresh waves of agony radiating from her ruined front, echoing the fire on her back. Her skin felt flayed, every nerve ending exposed. Drusus circled her slowly once more, the wet whip trailing behind him, leaving a faint dark smear on the baked earth. He stopped behind her, surveying the overlapping welts carved across her shoulder blades and spine. "Fifteen," he stated flatly, the number echoing in the stillness. He dipped the whip once more into the salt bucket with deliberate slowness. The leather hissed as it soaked. He raised it again, the heavy braid dripping. "Five more," he announced, his voice carrying cold authority. He took his position. The crowd drew a collective, anticipatory breath. The whip hissed through the air again. The first of the final five strokes sliced across her upper back, reopening raw wounds. Elswind groaned, a low, broken sound devoid of the fury that had fueled her earlier screams. Her body jerked weakly against the chains. The promise of twenty more hung in the scorching afternoon air, heavier than iron.

The blows fell with relentless precision: sixteenth across her ribs, seventeenth high on her flank, eighteenth low across her buttocks. Elswind lost count, the distinction between strokes blurring into one endless crescendo of torment. Each impact was a hammer blow, jarring her suspended frame, tearing ragged gasps from her ravaged throat. The wet leather slapped against raw flesh, spraying droplets of brine and blood. Her vision swam, grey at the edges, then faded entirely into a pulsing darkness lit only by pain. Her head lolled forward heavily, chin pressing into her sternum, blonde hair plastered across her face like a wet shroud. Her breathing was shallow, barely perceptible; only the faint, erratic rise and fall of her now cruelly whipped breasts indicated life remained. Sweat, blood, and tears mixed freely on her skin, drying into a gritty, stinging paste. The legionaries watched, their earlier fervor muted now by the sheer brutality of the spectacle unfolding, the raw, broken thing suspended before them bearing little resemblance to the defiant hawk they had dragged in at dawn.

Drusus struck again. *Twack!* The nineteenth blow landed squarely across her shoulders. Her body barely moved, absorbing the shock like a sack of wet grain. He paused, breathing slightly harder himself now, sweat beading on his own brow beneath the helmet. He flexed his grip on the whip handle, shifting his stance slightly. His eyes narrowed, assessing the profound stillness of her form. He raised the whip high, muscles tensed for the twentieth stroke. The heavy, salt-soaked leather whistled through the dusty air… and cracked against her upper back once more. Elswind didn't groan. She didn't flinch. She hung utterly still, suspended only by the chains digging into her wrists. Drusus watched her for a long moment, the silence stretching taut. Then, with a flick of disgust, he finally threw his whip aside. It landed in the dirt with a wet thud, uncoiling like a dead snake. Her body was a horrifying canvas: a mess of angry, swollen red streaks crisscrossing her torso, back, and thighs, overlaying bruises from her capture. Several deeper cuts wept thin trickles of blood onto the stained earth beneath her dangling toes. Her face was a mask of dirt, dried blood from her split lip and cheekbone, and exhaustion beyond measure. Only the shallow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest betrayed the faint spark clinging on.

Drusus stepped forward, his shadow draping over her bowed head. He reached out, not to touch her, but to grasp her chin roughly with thumb and forefinger, lifting her face. Her eyes remained closed, lashes dark against bloodless cheeks. He released her chin, letting her head drop again. He scanned the watching ranks, his expression cold, triumphant, utterly devoid of mercy. "Enough," he declared, his voice cutting through the heavy stillness. "She has felt the Eagle's displeasure." He gestured towards the crude timber frame suspending her. "Cut her down." Then, his gaze swept towards the camp's smithy and the timber stockpile nearby. His voice hardened, ringing with finality. "Prepare the cross!"

The word hit Elswind like the lash itself. *Cross*. It penetrated the thick fog of agony, sharper and colder than the wind flaying her wounds. The Roman punishment feared by all barbarians – a slow, agonizing death by suffocation under the burning sun, nailed to timber. Images flashed through her shattered mind: rebels seen in her childhood, left to rot outside Roman forts, their bodies grotesque monuments to imperial power. Panic, sharp and primal, clawed through the numbness. She couldn't endure that. Not after this. Her cracked lips moved silently, forming the ancient names – Wōdenaz, Thunraz, Freyja. She prayed not for salvation, but for oblivion. *Swift mercy. Let it be swift.* Her spirit, the fierce hawk, felt broken, ready to flee. Her body, already pushed beyond bearing, sagged against the chains like a sodden rag. The legionaries approached with axes, not ropes this time. One strong blow shattered the chain link above her left wrist. Her arm plummeted, heavy as stone, striking her bare hip with a dull thud. She crumpled instantly, unable to hold herself upright. She fell heavily onto her side into the mud and trampled filth beneath the frame, the impact jolting her raw wounds and drawing a faint whimper. She lay unmoving, a pale, bloodied ruin sprawled in the dirt, half-conscious, her breath shallow rasps against the fetid earth. The cold mud pressed against her flayed back, a fresh agony. Legionaries moved with practiced efficiency around her inert form, hauling heavy timbers from the stockpile – thick beams of rough-hewn oak destined for her final torment.

Legionaries lifted her limp body with impersonal hands, hauling her towards the laid-out horizontal beam. Her arms flopped uselessly. They stretched her right arm out along the rough wood. Elswind’s eyes fluttered open, bleary, unfocused. She saw the smith approaching, his leather apron stained dark. He carried a heavy hammer in one hand. In the other, gripped tightly, were long, thick iron spikes – crude, heavy, gleaming dully in the harsh afternoon light. The points looked terrifyingly sharp. Terror, pure and paralyzing, surged through her exhaustion. Fear struck her deeper than any whip. Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat. She tried to pull her arm back, a feeble instinctive jerk, but the legionaries' holds were iron. Her eyes widened, fixed on the glinting point of the spike hovering above her wrist. Nearby, Legate Drusus stood watching, arms crossed, his crimson cloak stark against the dusty camp backdrop. A cruel smirk played on his lips. "See the prize, rebels?" he called out, his voice loud, mocking, aimed not just at her, but at the watching ranks and perhaps the unseen Britannium traitors beyond the palisade. "This," he gestured towards the spike about to pierce her flesh, "This is the price of your men's lives... and their cowardice."

The smith positioned the spike over her wrist, finding the gap between the small bones. He raised the heavy hammer high. Elswind closed her eyes tightly, bracing for the agony. Yet, beneath the terror, beneath the pulsing agony radiating from every inch of her ruined body, a strange, cold stillness settled deep within her core. Borin's betrayal, her warriors' survival, Drusus's cruel triumph… it hadn't been futile. They knew the truth now. Her tribe knew the cost of Roman promises. Gunnar lived. He carried the story. Her suffering, her death… it would echo. It would be a spark, not ash. A profound, weary peace washed over her, starkly at odds with the imminent horror. The heavy hammer began its downward arc. Elswind found her peace in the certainty of her defiance's legacy. The sacrifice wasn't vain. *It wasn't vain.* The hammer struck the spike head. *Thunk.* The sound was sickeningly solid, muffled by leather gripping the iron. A jolt of pure force slammed through her bones. Elswind gasped, eyes flying wide, her breath catching in a strangled choke. Pain? Not yet. Shock reverberated through her arm. She saw the spike embed deep into the wood beneath her wrist.

Then, the agony detonated. White-hot fire exploded through her wrist joint. It wasn't a piercing sting; it was a crushing, grinding annihilation. Bone screamed against unforgiving iron. Nerves flared into incandescent agony.

"**ARGH!**" The scream ripped from her throat. She hadn't known she possessed such a sound – a raw, primal, deafening roar. It tore through her cracked lips, echoing off the palisade walls, drowning the legionaries' murmurs. It wasn't just pain; it was the violation of self made audible. Her entire body convulsed violently against the legionaries' pinning grips. Her spine arched off the beam, legs thrashing wildly in the mud. Tears streamed hotly down her dusty cheeks. The sound shattered the tense silence, a brutal testament to the violation unfolding. It echoed, raw and terrifying, bouncing off the timber stockpile and the grim faces of the watching soldiers. Some averted their eyes; others leaned forward, fascinated by the extremity of her reaction. The scream wasn't a plea; it was the sound of her spirit being forcibly anchored to the instrument of her destruction.

Drusus watched intently, his smirk widening fractionally at her visceral reaction. The smith worked swiftly. He positioned another spike over her left wrist, holding it steady despite her violent tremors. The hammer rose again. Elswind saw the descending blur, heard the grunt of effort. The hammer struck. *Thunk.* Another wave of bone-shattering force. The agony in her right wrist was instantly doubled. Her scream choked off into a ragged, breathless gasp, her body spasming uncontrollably. Tears blurred her vision. The world narrowed to the brutal fusion of wood, iron, and her own screaming flesh. Her arms were now crucified agony, pinned wide. She felt the rough wood grain against her bare shoulders, the iron spikes a monstrous anchor point radiating pure fire. Below, the legionaries grabbed her ankles, forcing them sideways onto the footrest carved into the upright beam. Her legs kicked feebly, scraping bloody trails in the mud. The smith positioned spikes above each ankle. The hammer rose yet again. Elswind squeezed her eyes shut, biting her cracked lip until she tasted fresh blood. The hammer fell. Twice. *Thunk-Thunk.* Concussive agony exploded through her ankles, merging with the fire in her wrists into one overwhelming inferno. Her body arched violently one final time, a silent scream trapped in her throat, then slumped, utterly pinned. Weight settled onto the spikes, intensifying the agony exponentially.

Legionaries gathered around the foot of the crosspiece. At a centurion's barked command, they seized ropes slung over the top of the upright beam. They leaned back, straining, hauling ropes taut. The heavy wooden assembly groaned against the friction. With agonizing slowness, the crosspiece and its crucified burden began to rise. Elswind gasped as her body was lifted, the shift in angle causing the spikes in her wrists and ankles to grind against bone and tendon. Agony, sharper than any blade, lanced through her suspended frame. The rough wood scraped her flayed back raw. Inch by torturous inch, the beam ascended. She saw the trampled mud recede, the faces of legionaries tilt upwards. The cross scraped against the edges of the pre-dug hole dug deep in the forum's center. Soldiers shoved thick wooden wedges into the gaps, hammering them tight with mallets. Each blow jarred her entire body, sending fresh waves of torment radiating from the spike wounds. Finally, with a final, sickening jolt, the cross settled firmly into the earth, wedged upright. Elswind hung suspended, her entire weight borne solely by the four iron spikes driven through her limbs. Her head slumped forward, chin touching her bloodied chestbone. The sheer exhaustion of prolonged agony, blood loss, and dehydration finally overwhelmed her defiance. She hung limp, a broken doll pinned against the sky, her breathing shallow rasps through parted lips.

Her world became a narrow tunnel focused on unendurable sensation. Each shallow, agonized breath pulled against the spikes, grinding bone against iron. Her arms felt wrenched from their sockets, her shoulders screaming under the unbearable strain. Fire consumed her wrists and ankles, radiating up her limbs and down her spine. The sun beat down mercilessly on her exposed, whip-slashed skin, baking the drying blood and sweat into a stinging crust. Flies descended in a buzzing cloud, clustering on her wounds, crawling over her lips and eyelids. She lacked even the strength to twitch them away. Below, the muted sounds of the camp resumed – distant shouts, marching feet – a world impossibly remote. The crude iron nails were the horrific axis upon which her entire existence now pivoted. Agony wasn't waves anymore; it was the constant, defining state of her being. Her vision swam, grey fading into pulsing blackness at the edges. The cold core of defiance she'd clung to felt distant, buried under mountains of suffering. Her head remained dropped, her tangled blonde hair a damp curtain shielding her face from the indifferent sky and the watching eyes. Consciousness flickered precariously.

Drusus stepped forward again, surveying his handiwork etched against the sky. He walked slowly around the base of the cross, boots crunching on the packed earth. He stopped directly in front of her slumped form, his shadow barely reaching her dangling, blood-streaked feet. "Behold," he announced, his voice loud and cold, cutting through the thick air. "Elswind of the Britanium! Rebel. Traitor. Broken!" He gestured upwards with a contemptuous flick of his hand. "Let her hang until the ravens feast! Let every tribe beyond these walls see the price of defiance!" His gaze lingered on her limp form, satisfaction etched on his face. "Guard her," he snapped at the centurion beside him. "Let no one relieve her suffering. Not water. Not mercy." He turned sharply, his crimson cloak swirling. "The Eagle watches." He strode away, leaving Elswind crucified beneath the scorching sun, a grotesque monument to Roman power. The weight of the spikes intensified with each shallow breath, the buzzing flies a maddening counterpoint to the profound, isolating silence that descended upon her suspended agony. The promise of dawn felt like an eternity away.