Scars –
babyb26
Disclaimer: In do not own that characters produced by Disney, but play with them from time to time. I make no profit from this work and if I did I am sill a poor PHD student with bills stacked to the ceiling, so please don't sue. ---Smiles----
****Be warned this fic does contain some historical facts from the life of John Smith and will talk about John and a woman from his past. Therefore, all those die hard shippers that this might offend please turn away now. If you flame do so on stylistic or writing merit, not on that I twist history (trust me I know it, so says my degrees). Sorry this plot bunny that just stuck in my head and I had to get it out, so forgive me for writing this at 4:00 in the A.M.***
The summer night had been quite in Jamestown as the barest touch of wind entered the humid bedroom. They barely spoke in the receding waves of ecstasy. But with each passing breeze, her fingertips traced the outline of his stomach in a regularity that spoke volumes. Her hands slowly made there way higher up his torso. Gently they explored the landmine of raised flesh, stopping once to feel the roughness of his newest scar, the one he had gladly taken under that blood red sky. One hand continued on a path and settled on his shoulder. It landed on one of the oldest of marks on his body, a half circle bisected by two lines. To her it was another wound to admire as a warrior, to him it was a mark he wished he could forget. Her breath was cool against the heated skin of his chest, his own hands sought the coolness he found in the silk of her midnight hair.
"What happened?"
His lips pressed fervent kisses to forehead. The question had been simple enough, but the answer complicated and came from another life, another place, that he wished would never enter this new existence with her. Nevertheless, the doorway had been opened and she deserved to know all his heart, including the unhealed wounds of his past.
He woke that morning with the sun beaming down on his golden locks, bleaching the pale yellow hair white in areas. The chains were heavy as his legs fought against the heated sand of the dune. He and those left of his company were crossing the vast wasteland into a world he knew little of and a people that threatened the existence of his own. He had read the works of Ibin Kaldun and others during his journey to his desert land and he was now grateful that from the works and his infidel scouts had an understanding of the language. From the rough dialect of his captors, he had comprehended that he was now a slave, to be released upon a paid ransom. He had lost his freedom. Freedom had been something that he had cherished from his schoolboy days in Lincolnshire, now he stood redden from the sun, lips cracked from lack of water, and chained to be a household slave.
He had never smelled burning flesh before and this first time was his own. When the brand connected with the skin of his shoulder, it popped and sizzled jerking him from the stoic stance he had taken. His purchase had been simple. After three months in the cramped sweltering cell, none of his commanders or fellow countrymen could be found to barter a ransom; he was parceled with three of his company sold to the highest bidder. They were bound and marched northward toward mountains he knew not the names. His master was a man of his own age and just as arrogant, it would be a test of wills and in the end, neither truly won.
John Smith moved into the embrace of his wife. The memories come back in an instant and with it, the smell of jasmine. "How was he to tell his wife, Pocahontas, of her?"
The scent had lingered on his skin long after they had parted. As her tanned body melded to his, the smell of jasmine and frankincense embedded itself along with the light coats of dust blown by the dry desert air. His hands had run through her raven locks as his body moved in a savage rhythm to bring them to competition. Her hennaed hands had lazily traced and clawed his back, slightly irritating his freshest batch of lash marks. She had whispered his name as soft as the night air and he could not pronounce her's, but in that great divide, he had felt love. His heart called her Inama-nushif, she who is eternal. She had saved him. In his own arrogance, he worked hard to show that would not to be broken. His golden locks shaved to give him humility, starved to drive out his defiance, and lashed to break his spirit. He could still feel those marks. He did not know then that conversion could make him free nor could he have known that by understanding this foreign culture he could have strengthened his standing and procured his own freedom. Yet she had saved him, had admired his strength and defiance and emulated this in her own way by choosing him as her night guard. Greatly opposed, his master had offered T'ragabigzada another slave, which she refused. She had said that in his eyes she had seen a freedom of which she would never know, thus she craved his tales of other worlds beyond hers. He had been captured by her simple grace, curiosity, and kindness, nothing he had at all expected; the same would be true with his Pocahontas. In the night, he had seen firelight in her eyes and during the day, his heart was full when she could be by his side.
Afraid yet unabashed he told his wife of their story. In his world, joy did not last long. Perhaps fate would be kinder to them.
He did not know how her brother suspected. Outwardly, he had been a good guard to her brother conceivably too good of one without some incentive. Taken back to the prison of this unknown kingdom he waited. In putrid filth, in starvation, and in torture he prayed for her. Thinking now as he lay in the arms of his wife, it had been more religion than culture that had separated she and he. He had been grief-stricken when they told him he would be sold again. They prepared him for another brand, two lines superimposed over the original. She died less than a year after his resale, the news coming to him late. He had expected the wrath of her brother when he heard the gossip. Death in childbed, self-poising due to that particular condition, or poising by her brother. Which truth he would never know.
"Surly to God they would not have…" His voice trailed off as Pocahontas hugged him closer.
Her brother had approached him alone and arrogant in his own anger, it made him sloppy. John's eyes closed remembering the spray of red as it fell warm against his skin. In his own anger, he had acted unbecoming of a slave and had managed the unthinkable. He had did it for his freedom, for her, and the what if to its existence. He had gained his freedom; it had been hard won with days of aimless wondering, fear, and evasion during daylight. He had made it to the coast and aboard a ship, the first in a five-year journey back to his homeland.
"Perhaps we could….." We, he loved his wife even more for saying that, but there was no hope. That hope of life had faded years ago. He still prayed for her soul and that of the child he hoped was born of gossip. He had been powerless to find or be assured of its safe passage into life.
Afterward, Pocahontas looked at the raised markings again. She had never known nor could have imaged the pain and history behind her simple question. She could not change that past or become the other that he had once loved. As she looked in his pale blue eyes she knew the truth, he loved her; his lover, his soul mate, the only one he freely shared his life and pain with, and the one that now carried his hope for the future. In the moonless night, their lips meet and they found that old wounds could heal.