Author's note: Callen's Corner Challenge #4

You have heard the expression 'be careful what you wish for'? Being given the permission, no directed to write a story with "No romance, just hurt/comfort, drama and action of Sam saving Callen in some dire situation either on the job, or from a lone wolf scenario involving Callen and his personal life" to a fanfiction writer is like letting an 8-year-old with a sweet tooth loose in a candy store. Some FF writers (i.e. me) love nothing better than to whump their characters, explore their deepest darkest secrets and make it all better by the end of the story; to be given permission to do so and not hold back? Priceless. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. I usually try to constrain myself from beating up my characters too much, but since I was giving permission, I confess I did go a bit over the edge. As usual, I own nothing, just playing with the toys nicely (ok, maybe a little bit roughly this time) and I will put them back on the shelf neatly when I am done.

CHAPTER 1

Callen hung suspended in the hot desert sun by steel manacles that cruelly dug into the tender flesh of his wrists causing thin rivulets of blood to sluggishly run down his forearms. The toes of his scuffed black boots were barely able to brush the dirt so his shackled arms had to bare the entire weight of his body. He swayed back and forth in this painful position but was powerless to do anything to halt it.

Directly behind him stood a statuesque man, covered from head to toe in a nondescript off-white robe. In his sun-browned hand, the man clutched a long, brown, leather whip made stiff by the layers of dried blood that stained its entire length. A crowd of fifty men and woman, dressed similarly to the man, stood in front of the suspended Callen, chanting their leader, brought the cruel whip to bear again and again on the skin of Callen's exposed back.

Callen's head lolled between his shoulders even though he was still conscious and able to feel each brutal, measured blow of the leather on his person. The strokes from the whip were sharp, deliberate and calculated so each new stroke landed on flesh that had not yet been scored, though after three days torture, unmarked flesh on his back was hard to find. If the gathered crowd was hoping to hear him to cry or plead for mercy, they would be sorely disappointed. The agent hadn't made a sound the first day they had tortured him and he wouldn't today either; defying them gave him a minor victory in a war he knew he couldn't win.

Callen mutely counted each stroke; since he had been captured three days ago, the routine hadn't changed. At sunrise each morning he'd been marched from his prison to this dusty, dry courtyard, shackled and suspended from a wooden beam. Out of the shadows of the dawn, a crowd would slowly gather. After all were present, a corridor would form through the worshipers and the unidentifiable robed man, carrying the blood stained flogging device, would solemnly walk down the path. Stopping and standing directly in front of Callen, he asked a single question each day. 'Do you renounce your sins and beg Allah for mercy?'

Callen had no idea which sin he was supposed to be confessing to this man and his followers; in Callen's line of work he had performed numerous actions that these people would find sinful. On the first day of torture, Callen had tried to engage the man in a dialogue but the man remained mute except for asking his single question. Knowing the meaning of futile, Callen gave up and reminded silent too, defiantly glaring at his accuser each morning but confessing nothing. When the man did not receive an answer to his question, he would say 'In the name of Allah', silently move behind Callen and the scourging would commence. The man would recite what Callen thought was a supplication, striking Callen on the back in a rhythmic manner. On the first day, Callen had lifted his head to scan the crowd but found only hatred in their cold eyes; since then he kept his head bowed and endured in silence.

The prayer and the whipping would end simultaneously after exactly nineteen strokes at which point Callen was taken down and hauled back to his cell. The first day he walked somewhat arrogantly to his prison, by day three they were dragging his half-conscious battered body.

Once back in his prison, he was forced to put his shirt back on to cover his bloody, whip-scored back which he could only assume was an affront to these people even though they caused the wounds. By day three, Callen was grateful he had been wearing a button down shirt when he was captured; he had serious doubts he could have pulled anything over his head without passing out. His back was a bleeding mass of welts and moving his arms too vigorously sent waves of agony washing over his exposed nerves. Callen tried his best not to let his shirt get stuck to the raw skin on his back. If his shirt stuck, the agony of his punishment started before he even arrived in the courtyard since he was made to remove his garment each morning in his cell. If the scabs had adhered to his shirt, they ripped open when he took it off.

As with the previous three days, after the morning flailing, he was returned to his cell, ordered to dress and a cup of questionably clean water and a crust of bread were left within his reach. At first the agent had balked at drinking the filthy water but by the third day he had no choice if he wanted to survive long enough for Sam to rescue him. The thing which was keeping him sane was his absolute faith in his partner; he knew Sam would come for him. It was his job was to stay alive until Sam arrived so Callen roused his flagellated body and crawled across the dirt floor of the prison to where the bread and water had been placed. With a dirt-streaked hand, he carefully lifted the metal cup and brought it with a trembling hand to his parched lips. He alternated between tiny sips of water and the dry bread until both were gone. Hoping the food would stay down, he crept back to the filthy scrap of blanket provided and collapsed on to it to wait for the next sunrise and the repeat performance of torture.