by Cooper, R.
Shaking his head ended it, and far too slowly the light returned, but René did not stop to ask either of them what they had done to him. His body throbbed with hurt and the sickness slid along his teeth until his forehead creased and his ears rang with it.
They were still close, knees nearly touching as they both sat frozen in their guilt on the floor, and then René tore at the sky with his hand when his legs would not move, and something—the blanket that had covered him—was thrown up, and René could see his own body underneath before it fell back.
His hand smacked against the blanket, wrapping around the net of the hamaca as it swung wildly back and forth. The muscles in his throat tightened as his body heaved, and René could hear the rush of his blood past his ears and opened his eyes, startled to know that he had closed them.
He would not sleep more. The idea made him frown with awareness that he had fallen to the dark before, that they had made him, that they had told him to do it as though it were nothing.
James was at his side now, standing and staring down at him as he held thehamaca still.
“You are truly awake?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and René struck his hand from the netting, grinding his teeth at the pain this caused but sending his eyes around the room until they found the child.
Ben stood at the far wall. His eyes had already found what they wanted. “You will not!” René demanded instantly and the uncomfortable chill of sweat scratched down his forehead. It stained his body, itching under his arms and along the thin, white lines of his ribs, but he let it. “Fool!” he spat it dryly and tasted the roughness of his teeth, thick and unclean.
The boy flinched, but remained standing, dropping his chin to look up at him with eyes alone, his eyebrows tight together. “You think to woo him with prayer?” René saw from look of confusion that the boy did not understand, and wondered dizzily what language he had spoken. “And what then, when you have taken even that?” Whatever language it found, his tongue went on, flapping against his cheeks like a loose sail, cutting itself to ribbons. “You think I will kill this one too? That he will save you as he takes you?”
He did not shout, but his throat ached as he tore himself free of the arm James held out and he swallowed the scream of pain. “Idiot!” he panted as the breath left him. “Fool! Stupid bastard son of a whore!” One hand curled into the blanket, exposing part of his chest to the cool of the air, and it stung as it hit his shoulder. The other arm lay weak and worthless at his side, twitching hotly when he attempted to move it.
“What more will you profane before you are through?” He could hear a rushing, like wind through trees, and felt his chest empty and begging. Ben jerked away from the wall, opening his mouth, but he was not yet done. “You will rot with every swallow…!”
“You’re nothin’ but a shit-suckin’ Frog sodomite, and you’ve got no right to be tellin’ me what to do!” The child’s face twisted up into an ugly grimace as he shouted, and from the side of his eyes René saw James look to the door as though expecting others to come running. René ignored him, focusing on the son of Lucifer in front of him, feeling the bones of the boy’s face against the back of his hand for one moment.
“You’d be sucking him yourself now if you could get your arse off that bed,” the boy continued, holding his stance for a moment before ducking his head. It was only for a moment, but it weakened him, showed his reluctance to face James, and René sneered at him.
“You are a brave cocksucker,” he remarked, wondering if the words were correct in English; he had only ever heard them in French.
“René!” There was no mistaking the revulsion in James’ voice, and René felt his head fall before he raised his chin, finding James’ eyes for one moment and struggling to see into the muddy depths.
“Be quiet, James!” he snapped with a heat that made James step back. There was no time for childish hurts and slow realizations that would have long since occurred to any other man. Would he run to his prayers, disappear into the arms of his God? “What will you make of him?” he turned back to the boy, and watched his little face grow nearly as white as the body that had been hidden by the blanket. “Are your lips so soft?” he taunted and felt the rawness of his skin where the flames had burned him. Ben was glaring now, odd spots of colour in his face though the rest of his body had been drained.
James studied him, and René wondered if Ben could feel those eyes on him, feel the knowledge in them, the questions now appearing, if the colour in his cheeks was the shame he deserved for acting the whore and turning James into his keeper.
“I’ve done the same as you!” Ben was still defiant though the full lips that had dared to kiss James were trembling and wet. “I can take pleasure where I want.” “Pleasure!” René barked, and the pain in his arm rolled to his chest, gripping his heart and squeezing the air from him. Lights like the sparks of a pistol filled the edges of his vision, surrounding the boy with smoke and colour, filling his cheeks and making him almost beautiful. “What of that did you receive before? A groping hand on your prick before he forced you down? Don’t deny what you are. Hell will find you,” he added into the silence and heard the wheezing sound of James’ gasp, the horror of his own words leaving his lips open as though he waited for them to crawl back in.
“I have no shame, Maman,” René answered his mother quietly, flinching at the cold air that hit the back of his neck as the door behind him opened, and his father entered the room. He could already feel her leaving, slipping out silently as though she had never been there.
“Damn you, René.” René turned his head from her only to see James, and bent his head forward under the weight of it, suddenly too weak to stop himself from coughing, spitting up a small bit of water onto his chest. It burned, and the smell made him cough again, not surprised that they left him to spew up his guts. The water left his mouth bitter, though it was salt on his lips when his tongue touched them. “Are you still fevered?” James asked him distantly, coldly it seemed though his eyes were fiery enough, limitless as they raged at him. “You must be, to say such things to a child, or a monster else.”
What a fool he was, to complain of James’ thousand questions when he had forgotten what lay behind them. James, when he at last chose to act, would shoot a man without flinching and watch his agonies with a firm heart.
“Such things?” René asked through the narrowing black, his voice dry and breaking. “I’m not a child!” It was Ben’s voice screaming now, volumes of emotion ringing in the air as his feet moved against the wood, and the small door slammed closed.
“As though they are dreams…” The door seemed a long distance away, though the room was not wide. He thought perhaps there were voices beyond it, but he could not understand their words. Those were also denied him and those like him, and he tried to widen his eyes. “I do not dream,” he told James distinctly, nodding slowly, though James was angry with him and would not understand. She never had either, chiding him for being foolish. “It is all real,” he finished, searching for light until he grew dizzy from moving his head, and he wondered at the new sound of the door, softly scraping wood and metal hinges.
James was angry with him, and there was no wine. If he waited, he would grow used to the burn of it, and this would be nothing. But he coughed—a weak, pathetic sound—and he tossed his head away from the light breeze that stroked his face, shutting his already useless eyes and letting out a breath that stirred not one single hair on his white chest. When he inhaled, his mouth was filled with dust, and some fell heavily to his stomach.
His lips moved though he could not hear the voices to answer them, and then he tasted salt again on his tongue, and he made his throat move to swallow every drop, though it scorched like an Englishman’s liquor. Ithurt, and he gasped at the pain, swallowing again when his mouth filled. The burn was greater, and he could not help his weakness; he tossed his head and opened his eyes, blinking to see how the world shimmered. A thousand lights swam before him, shapeless and
voiceless until he sucked in a loud, unsteady breath.
Something solid touched him in the swirling confusion and he grasped it, focusing on just the coolness against his palm. It was not withdrawn, and he felt it pressed to him until he thought that it should have hurt. But though it grew hot, he felt no pain, and opened his eyes once again to look upon on the shimmering lights. They were beautiful, he realized quietly, and thought perhaps that he frowned when something passed before his eyes and some of the lights disappeared for a moment.
“Do not weep.” A feather brushed across his cheek, compelling him to close his eyes, and he shivered when the soft quills dragged in the dampness there.
Chapter Fifteen
“H
e will never hear your prayers!” The rich voice echoed up the small set of stairs, following James as he sought out fresher air. Etienne spoke too quietly to be shouting, but his words carried upward to him regardless.
Even sunlight did not banish the cold sound of despair and James shivered even as he was bathed in heat. He blinked, still felt blind. “You will make no deal!” No amount of the salty, tangy scent would diminish the sense of dirt that crawled along his skin for being in that place, and though he did not deserve it, James wished for a bath, even a cold dip in a stream as he had once done when in the country.
That seemed a long time ago, and he wondered if he had stared too long at his first sight of gently rolling hills and trees where he had somehow thought there would be buildings. He would stare the same at the shores of France no doubt, though he knew he would not find there what he had once sought in Jamaica. That was not to be found in any place, at least not for him, though he could see the lights in the eyes of some of the men around him as they drew closer to France, the growing hum of constant conversation.
He own eyes he shielded from the bright light sun as he came out of the darkness—habit now and done without thinking—welcoming how the sun’s heat felt on the back of hand, against his neck as he moved.
None of them deserved to bathe in the sun’s shine, not as an innocent man sat bound in the dark and the stink below decks, betraying themselves as men for allowing it to happen even if it was not their doing. His own betrayal all the worse for the small comforts he offered, the brief visits before he returned to the clean air.
Dark eyes in a pale face haunted him even here, and James knew he flinched from the memory of the rough, unshaven jaw smeared with dirt. He could not quite bring himself to offer to clean Etienne’s face, not with the surprising sneer that often curved the other man’s lips and the coolness in his voice when he chose to speak.
He had done nothing the first two times James had risked going down to see him, pausing only to laugh at the surprise in James’ expression to see him. It must have been obvious; despite Thierry’s words, James had not expected to actually see Etienne Saint-Cyr a prisoner on René’s ship.
“I never wanted you to learn what it is to suffer,” he had told Etienne during that first visit, offering the other man water. He had turned away when Etienne had taken his first sip, because the statement was both lies and truth. He had never once wished Etienne pain, but when Etienne’s distant mockery had seemed almost beyond bearing, a part of him had once wished to see to see Etienne Saint-Cyr stripped of all his finery and privilege, as just a man. Though he was, as James saw now, not even a man but a boy.
But he had never imagined his skin to be so pale, his arms naked and thin, marked again and again with bruises, red with lines from his bonds. He had no fine coat, and without his wig his hair was short. The circles beneath his eyes were another addition, or should have been, face paint could have obscured them.
He had seemed just as surprised to see James there, free on a ship of pirates. It was the only feeling James had been allowed to see, before Etienne had sank back onto his simple chair and made it a throne.
The chair had been the Lady Aranha’s doing, he had learned. In the two days since Etienne’s name had crossed the navigator’s lips, James had been occupied with René and the hellish wait for his first attack of fever to subside. Worry for his friend had not been strong in his mind, but perhaps the lady had remembered sharing a table with Etienne Saint-Cyr. She was not soft-hearted or slow-witted, for Etienne had remained René’s prisoner, but she had ordered the chair, Thierry had told him, and arranged for food. He was René’s prisoner to kill or release, she had said, though Thierry had offered nothing else beyond that.
It was likely the same navigator who fed Etienne when James did not, though James could scarcely credit it. He would never have assumed a noble capable of allowing himself to be fed like an infant, certainly not Sir Marvell, or Lord Cavendish when in his right mind. Etienne had taken the humiliation without a word, as quiet as he had ever been in the face of Sir Marvell’s strange, private words for him.
Outrage was what James had expected to see, fear even of James for his treatment had clearly been rough. James who had been his friend now lived with his captors. James, a former servant, had chosen to offer him food and water, even if he did not free him. His guilt was a sickening thing, but only one more among many, and James found it easier to ignore it than he would have months ago. He let his mind churn instead, debating actions, biding his time until René woke from his sickbed.
But he had not been given anything, and his words of defense had had to go unspoken. Etienne had instead been a quiet doll, waiting and silent until James had at last given up and turned to leave the dark space that had served as his gaol cell.
“If you feel nothing, then you will not suffer,” Etienne had offered with his gaze focused on the wooden walls around him. James had jerked back around, taken aback by the calm tone. With only a small pause, Etienne had made a soft noise of irritation and glanced at him, eyebrow raised. As though he had known such an obvious thing all along.
Etiennehad felt, James had once thought, though he was no longer certain. In those back alleys and taverns, he had glimpsed—or only imagined—longings. Perhaps he had only seen what he had hoped to see, and soon his guilt would bury him.
Not once had he dreamed that Etienne Saint-Cyr had known pain. Lord Cavendish, who had not, had insisted a man would fight. He had died a whimpering madman. Etienne did not beg or strain at his ropes, and though James did not know him any longer, though James could no longer see into the shadowed depths of his eyes, if he ever had, he yet lived.
It was only for James to still feel surprise at this, even in his visits since, when Etienne’s bitterly amused mask had returned, or remained, he could not longer be sure. Above or below, the past weeks had been full of imposters, a dizzying array of masks to blind James more than the sunlight ever could.
He had never seen what ought to have been clear. That others had never wished him to see did not ease his tormented conscience. René had thrust him from the room upon waking. Ben remained apart. Etienne laughed at him. With his new distance, there was much to see. It pained, but he would not blink, not until he understood all.
In the dark, always in the dark, Etienne had good reason to mock his stupidity, to gaze at him with appraisal before curving his mouth upward.
Etienne had had fresh bruises today. A prisoner forgotten by most, possibly even by René, yet always new bruises. Not once had he accused James of anything. It was not faith in him; James was no longer that much a fool. He suspected Etienne simply saw no point. One does not pray if there is never an answer, if one believes there will never be an answer. There is no God, René had once told him, and James had thought him jesting.
An attempt to argue that had been met with another smile, and James thought their smiles both dagger-sharp and identical in their scorn. These men had saved themselves, and saw no shame in their survival.
Etienne was here on René’s orders, though not a word of Saint-Cyr had passed René’s lips since he had woken from his fever. Like Saint-Cyr, René had remained silent. James wondered, if he were free, whether Etienne would fight, if he had learned to, o
r if he had learned another lesson.
“Why am I here?” In a voice nearly as dry as René’s, Etienne had greeted him today, his head leaning elegantly to one side as though he had only the mildest curiosity as to James’ answer. There were signs of new bruising on his cheeks, as though someone had struck him once or twice, but Etienne seemed almost to have forgotten them. “They will kill me when we reach France,” he had added, his ease of manner so like René Villon that James had found himself snapping back.
“Do you welcome death too, then? We can slit your throat now if you don’t wish to bother.” The words burst from him and he recognized them with a heat that left his eyes dry. Etienne had barely blinked.
“You are harder than I thought,” Etienne slowed briefly to say the words, and then shrugged and let his eyes fall to floor, his posture subdued even if James doubted his thoughts were as obedient. He would never learn them without asking, and Etienne had no reason to trust him now, or indeed ever again if James allowed it all to continue.
His gaze back on James, Etienne’s carved expression seemed to confirm that fear. “Or was there something else you wanted?” Etienne had wondered, his voice distant and his eyes so knowing that James had felt himself burn. But his anger remained, hot beneath the surface, and James had glared down at him, refusing to turn away as Etienne had sipped at his water.
James had thought the nobleman would have perished long ago from the heat and ill treatment aboard this ship, and yet he still sat quietly down in the hold, no longer surprised that James would stand alongside these pirates. James even looked one now, with a borrowed shirt and pantaloons, feet bare for the moment.
With a rough exclamation, James shoved his sleeves back to his elbows, annoyed with himself for taking the shirt at all. He would need something until he could purchase better in Paris, but the shirt was a gift from the lady Mirena, taken from one of her crew that had died, and James was near certain it had belonged to Gabriel. Another one he claimed as friend that had been killed in the Caribbean, and it was only Pym, alive and well though on board the lady’s ship now, that kept James from thinking himself cursed.
