Do not be кιη∂ to me.
нαтяє∂ I can handle:
кιη∂ηєѕѕ is poison.
do not be кιη∂ to me.
...
The first memories he had were those in bondage. The sound of the lash against bare skin cutting deep enough to erase all that had been there before. Any soft sounds of those who held him dear vanished, all soothing caresses of perhaps a mother stood a haze his mind would soon deem to be a trick, and any memory of a calm presence to hold him close became more and more a fantasy.
His only reality was the looming figure of his Captain, towering and formidable, casting a shadow upon his body, as he wielded the loathsome whip for the hundredth time. Charles Vane never begged, so the absence of screams only served to prolong his suffering until the whip bearer himself would exhaust and break. That was the only victory he knew for a long time.
There was one man in the camp, a stranger. At first, Charles had paid him no heed. An old man of seventy, so scrawny and weak he could see outlines of the rib cage upon his chest as he heaved and carried the meager supply of water to the slaves. Far from being able bodied to either cut or carry the logs, his place was far beneath even him and the rest of the slaves. The only use Albinus put him to was to do errands such as this, until, they all undoubtedly hoped, he would finally give way to his toils and labors and succumb to the afterlife. Men like him were not an investment, but a burden and every time Charles saw him, a rush of pity took over. Perhaps death would be a mercy after all. Nobody would mourn this man the day he passed on, same as him.
His stomach turned. Maybe their fates weren't so different after all.
One night as he lay motionless and in pain after a long cascade of fresh lashings, more so than any he had endured before, he had a visitor. Charles moved in and out of consciousness, but he always felt a presence near. Watching. As the fever grew and days passed, he felt his belly grow fuller and his thirst quenched every time he woke, fresh bandages slick with blood covering his wounds. At times, there would even be another pair of garment to clad his skin with, dirty like all the rest, but with evidence of someone having made desperate attempts to cleanse it.
In the days that followed, he grew stronger and was soon deemed able to rejoin his daily tasks. Every now and then he would notice the man, filling the outstretched palms of the workers with water. Never enough, before he moved on to the next. When he reached Charles, he would keep his eyes downcast, pouring water into his tiny hands as he gulped it down with vigor. Before he could finish, the man poured some more into his palm. Shocked, he looked up but the man never met his gaze. Instinctively, Charles finished the extra portion he was offered and the man went on his way.
It was the same with other needs. Come winter, he would always find himself one of the lucky few to have a warm cloth for cover against the strong, chilling wind. His shoes were always soled so he didn't have to carry around a measly slipper which was no better than walking around the hard bricked ground barefoot. He silently observed as his food ration surpassed its limitation.
Charles was not one to complain if such benevolence sought him out, and apart from the passing thought of wondering when this man would be caught for treating some slaves differently than the others, he would never dwell on the man's intentions much. It was only a matter of time, he thought.
The day it happened, he had involuntarily become familiarized with a lot more information about him as the men talked. His name was Corrick and he had been in bondage under Albinus longer than most, but he had not been captured alone. There was a boy of nine, the man's son who was enslaved as well, years ago. The only reason his life was spared was him voluntarily offering himself up to be in Albinus's bondage, if it meant being near his son. Although nearing an age which brought little recompense and profit to his camp, Albinus agreed if it meant he kept the boy and the other young recruits in line.
But who could imagine life such as one under this ruthless pirate captain? Soon, living like vermin became too high a price for the man to pay and he conceived a plan for his boy and him to escape unnoticed. Escapes, however, are not to be born from whims, as Charles would later learn himself. They have to be carefully concocted, replaying every detail a hundred times in one's head and imagining all scenarios that could go wrong and the course of action to take in such events. It cannot be spontaneous. Hiding in a cart taking the cargo to port, the one plan that cost the man dearly, was far from ideal. With his reputation at stake, as it always was with any slave attempting to escape his hold, Albinus inflicted on this young boy what Vane had suffered countless times. Not everyone, however, sees those marks on their backs as medals or tokens of victory for surpassing the limits of one's oppressor. This boy was not him. Apart from being sickly in countenance, the severity of the lashes had been too much to endure. Days later, he perished as his father was forced to watch, unable to assist him in any way that he could.
Charles was working the fields when he saw it. One of Albinus's men caught Corrick slipping food to one of the other boys. Such acts where punishable to no less than stealing, and soon enough, he saw the man dragged by his slender, meatless arm to the wooden post, which had, over the years, grown a deep rusty red as it took on the color of one slave's blood after the next. His shirt was torn open, and not for the first time, Charles witnessed a sight that was forever etched into his soul, which always left a boiling rage, even years after his own escape.
Albinus himself came to carry out the verdict on this man. With each lash, the skin gave way and the bones that had always marked the man from afar became even more evident. Blood, not that there was much left in him, coated his back and dribbled onto the post and ground. He heard nothing, neither wails nor cries for mercy. Initially he could make out suppressed grunts, but as he drew closer to the scene, even those stopped.
But the lashes never did.
It was only several minutes later, when someone put an arm on Albinus's shoulder to halt his wrath, that he paused. Fingers pointed to the post and mouths whispered what Charles already knew.
He remembered how Corrick's lifeless body was unchained and dragged towards the corner of the forest, where the rest of the camp's garbage and disposal lay; to be carried away by the next cart, no doubt. Charles had no clue where to, but if he could venture a guess, it was probably to be burned with the rest of the useless materials.
And so it was that he suffered through the most restlessness nights he had had in ages. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss that day's occurrences, Charles couldn't sleep. He felt a burden on his chest, a nagging feeling clawing at his insides prompting him to do something. Anything. He felt a sense of apprehension, as if there was some unfinished business he had to attend to, a debt he had to pay. And Charles was not one to view debts lightly. Finally, decision springing to mind, he got up, silent and quick as a panther, and stole his way towards the end of the camp.
He didn't know how long he carried Corrick's body deep into the forest. Certainly a long time well into the night; after all, his arms were not as strong as they would be in a few years. When he reached an opening, he quickly worked the ground, shovel moving expertly against the soft soil until there was a considerable heap. Glancing down into the pit, Charles thought it would do and with much muster, he pushed Corrick's body in. Without stopping for breath, he covered the grave with soil, patting the slightly raised ground when he finished. Only then did he pause and sit down in silence.
Charles did not believe in a life after death. Life itself was hardly any better to even contemplate that death would offer some sort of solace or reprieve. They were equally cursed. This was not done because he believed in it, he did it out of instinct believing it to be something Corrick would have wanted. Without a spoken word ever having passed between the two, he knew deep in his heart that he would have done this for him, had it been Charles in his place. Even if there was no life after death, this seemed a more dignified end than one next to a pile of burning remnants from the camp.
Wary of dawn approaching, Charles decided it was time to head back. When he arrived, he discovered that his absence had not gone unnoticed, two guards standing next to the forest opening to greet him.
Soon enough, he found himself back upon the post with his back bare for a fresh round of lashing, Corrick's blood still glazing the ground he stepped on. No sound escaped him as the whip came down, tearing flesh concerned hands had healed not long ago. The lash pierced through the quiet night relentlessly. Again and again. This time, however, he felt a hot tear string its way down his cheek. Born out of rage or mourning he didn't know.
What he did know was that there was no one left to tend to these wounds once the lashes stopped.
...
Years later when he would return to this ignoble place, he would truly understand the sentiment Corrick harbored for him.
It would be his turn to see a boy, young as he used to be carrying the same brand upon chest, back sore with scars, and voice so meek following the commands of Albinus, that he had to strain to understand a single uttered word. The boy walked but there was no feeling in his steps, no purpose; just aimless placing of one foot after the other as he took him to the Captain himself.
He looked again at the child as Albinus issued orders to his men. The boy's eyes stood blank, devoid of hope and any spark of dreams he might have had, not even a cry of help escaping the emptiness of his stare. He was nothing more than a functioning corpse to do with as the Captain willed.
A voice called out to Charles in encouragement. A familiar voice from the past, belonging to the only man who had been his savior. He had no doubt had Corrick been stronger and more able, he would have done far more for him. But he could. He was everything Corrick was not, and there in front of him stood what would have been his future had he not escaped.
So it was that all those years of harbored wrath and vengeance took over, every sound of lash echoing in his head with every punch he inflicted upon the towering man. The boy looked intently at him as he rose from the dead, reborn, and he witnessed the first flicker of emotion run across the child's features. Uncertainty. Triumph. Gratitude.
The night before he was to leave for Nassau, he ventured back into the forest. The ground at the opening held no trace of the man he had buried fifteen years ago. The grass stood tall around him as he sat down, marking the dirt with the blood yet upon him.
And for the first time in this wretched place, Charles Vane smiled.