A/N: A little late on this one again…apologies to all of you. Some things have come up with the family. At any rate, there are some points of inspiration woven within this chapter which deserve proper mention.

First, many of you who followed the Pirates saga will recognize the first part of this chapter as directly inspired by a scene in "Dead Man's Chest". The ultimate outcome is different, but the events leading up to said outcome come from the aforementioned scene. Credit goes to Jerry Bruckheimer.

Second, being as Lena and Maccus' relationship holds some similar themes to one of my absolutely favorite Disney movies, "Beauty and the Beast", those who have seen the movie will also recognize the last part of this chapter as inspired by a scene from "Beauty and the Beast". Credit goes to Disney.

And as always, I own nothing about Pirates. I promise.

Chapter 10: Gratitude

Lena had been fine until the first crack of thunder ripped across the sky, violent and distinct even against the cacophony of waves crashing upon the ship and urgent calls of the crew echoing all around her. And then she'd faltered.

The lightning was tolerable; the sudden burst of illumination against the inky canvas of clouds was unnerving, yes, but at least it was silent. In its own right, really, lightning was almost beautiful with its spidery tendrils extending out from darkness, lingering close, so close…as though within her reach. Perhaps she would have tried to touch them and learn their composition if not for the thunder: an initial rumble followed by a horrid crack that threatened her eardrums and broke her courage into worthless shambles.

She'd tried to pull herself together with the first burst of thunder, prove that she was still strong and not so weak as to falter with something as insignificant as Nature's fury. She'd tried. She'd failed.

The rain struck hard and fast, stinging against her cheeks as she huddled back against the rail. Tears threatened, but she would not allow them to fall. She was done with tears! All they had ever done was compromise her dignity and destroy any illusion of confidence she might have had. Now if only she could be done with fear. Fear alone was proving worse in this moment than tears had ever been.

"Secure the mast tackle!"

A voice—the Bosun, perhaps?—broke through the storm and interrupted her panic-stricken confusion. There were still tasks to be done, and she was still a part of this crew—whether they thought so or not! …but how could she be of any use now? She felt more like a helpless child than ever before in her life, and it sickened her to be so useless!

"Step to it!" the command was louder this time, and whether it was directed at her or another didn't matter anymore. She had to prove herself…had to…had to…

Her entire body shook violently as the thunder roared across the skies, again and again, a merciless repetition that assaulted her mind as much—if not more—than it did her body. The memories…dear God, why the memories? Had they not done enough to her already?

"On your belly, little whore." A shove to her shoulder, a pained gasp as unyielding wood met her arms and chest. "You know better—well, perhaps not. But you soon will." A deadly promise, and outside the rain fell furiously upon the foundations of private chambers, now emptied of all save herself and the monster looming behind her with cruel eagerness dripping from every word.

The rope was slick against her palms, and it was a struggle to maintain any kind of grip. Her arms, already lacking the strength of the others, rapidly began to fail her, just when it was needed most! And the rain continued to fall, coming down against her exposed back, slick and cold, biting with the sharpness of nails…of fingernails…

…digging into her skin—her back with one hand, her neck with the other. The hand at her neck was the worst, pinning her face down while filthy hands and rotted nails clutched down into her flesh. She felt the sting of new wounds opening up…

…oh God, her back…! The strange flesh felt stiff, as though she were wearing a suit of a corpse's design. The indigo skin was unwilling to cooperate, to work muscles as they needed to be. Her arms ached, burning from the inside out with exhaustion. And her hands…her hands were bleeding…

…the blood slicked across the wooden planks as she scrambled to find purchase in them and received none. Anything to grab onto…anything at all…anything to block out the pain, the laughter ringing in her ears like a thousand gongs, the chill of night as it met skin which had previously been protected. The cloth lay perhaps nearby or maybe tossed to the far corner without regard, ripped away without care or concern. She was exposed…bare…humiliated…and he was laughing…such a pretty little whore…

Stay strong, stay strong…but even such a mantra in her mind was useless now. She couldn't fail. She couldn't fail! They would laugh at her, punish her for her failure…

"This is what happens when you fail, little girl. Now, learn!" a sharp pain, blossoming up violently from what should be sacred and was instead violated and exploited for carnal delights. She was screaming, or someone was…all she knew was the sound of wordless cries and sobbing pleas punctuated by laughter—always laughing—and the pain. She was bleeding…she had to be bleeding now…and he didn't care. No one ever cared. Oh God, make it stop…!

One last, desperate tug…and her arms surrendered to pain and bone-deep weariness. The rope slid fast from her grip, and though her mind screamed out, her body was no longer willing to save her. Before wide, horrified eyes, the rope slithered up and out of reach, and a cannon—the one always mounted above the deck for reasons she neither knew nor had time to consider—fell in a rapid descent to the lower decks. The crash was overpowered only by the next clap of thunder, and the sounds of an unsuspecting crew as the heavy weapon came to an abrupt halt before them rang violently in her ears. It was the sound of her own death sentence.

Her knees buckled under the weight of shame, and she fell pathetic and despairing to the deck, head in hands as she awaited the sound of the Bosun—or worse yet, the captain—coming to collect her and remind her of the price of failure aboard this ship…and then, moments later, she heard it: the hiss of a whip being drawn from a belt, and she simply remained in place, waiting without protest. How could she protest or plead for mercy and forgiveness? She had failed, and failure had a punishment to take.

"Get her on her feet!" The Bosun barked, and there was the shuffling of at least two crewmen approaching from behind, "We'll see if five more lashes don't serve as a fine reminder!"

She bit down on her lower lip slightly. Five more on top of what she'd already endured…she didn't know if she could survive it. Some part of her hoped she wouldn't. She was useless to this crew; the dark depths below were practically calling her name…she almost believed the waves had voices of their own, already beckoning her.

There were two pairs of hands on her bare arms, but then another voice sharply cut through the crowd's mutterings before she could be properly lifted. "Leave her be, all of you!"

Her ears barely able to comprehend such a thing—that anyone would come to her aid now—she dared to lift her head and seek out her rescuer's identity even when she already knew his voice. A soft gasp escaped unbidden, and she quickly covered her mouth with a shaking hand to muffle the pained whisper that followed.

"Oh, God…" she doubted any heard, but didn't care even if they did. All she cared about—all she could see—was the gash torn thick and deep into the first mate's shoulder, dark in the lightless sky, the blood illuminated by faltering candlelight and the ever-present lightning. His face was tight with the pain he was—had to be—feeling, but his gaze was steady as it found her terrified expression. Idly, she wondered if he was pleased, knowing he had finally managed to earn such a look from her. He wanted her fear, didn't he? Well, he finally had it…and yet he didn't look satisfied.

Ignoring the curious gazes and mutters around him, Maccus swallowed back churning bile produced by his injury and added, eyes ever upon her, "I'll deal with the girl myself."

Silence had always been repulsive to Lena. Silence followed every humiliating ordeal. Silence was her enemy in those moments when she knew he was coming for her, but never able to determine when would be the precise second he would walk through the door and seize her for inspection and all other manner of unmentionable acts. And now silence was the only witness to accompany the tension circulating throughout the room—the first mate's cabin, with the door closed but not locked—as she sat on her knees before his scrutiny, waiting for the blow to fall.

Finally, after a thick and heavy eternity, Maccus' voice cut through her muddled thoughts with the chilled subtly of a twig cracking under a boot, "You abandoned your post."

She thought to protest, but stayed silent. She had no desire to make this worse for herself than it already was, and as much as she wanted to deny it, being completely unaware of his particular brand of punishment left her fearful and uncertain. The fact he had pulled her aside without allowing for any witnesses stirred all manner of unpleasant memories to the surface, moments when she had been thrown into this very set of circumstances, and always with the same end result…

…but no, he wouldn't do that to her. Against better judgment and reason declaring her a fool, she believed in such a conviction and held it tightly. He wouldn't be like them…he's nothing like them…

Her silence was somewhat unexpected, but he continued on with little pause, "You may have been physically present, but you offered nothing to the crew when you were called upon. You caused damage to both the ship and your crewmates. You failed to be a sailor, but instead became a weak link, breaking the necessary chain of success and accomplishment."

She bit her lip again, forcing back the shameful sting of tears once more. A weak link…there was no greater insult, especially from him. She wished he'd struck her instead; it would have been more tolerable.

His pacing stopped, and then he was standing in front of her, "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Slow, her head suddenly heavy and uncooperative, Lena lifted her gaze to meet his with no small reluctance. Disappointment saturated his expression as he surveyed her at his feet, and she felt disgust and guilt swirl into a potent mixture that all at once burned her core and made her blood run cold. She felt sick at its presence, even when such emotion was unfamiliar to her heart. Never before had she been so affected by a man's disappointment. There had always been moments when she'd failed to meet certain expectations, but she'd never cared. Knowing only anger and hatred for men had left her incapable of caring, and now here she was on both knees and barely containing tears of shame for her failure. Had he been any other man, she would have been disgusted with herself.

But…he is different.

Her eyes subconsciously drifted to his wound, taking in the terrible gash that was still there for her to behold…and still bleeding. He was in considerable pain, that much she could see, but he was the first mate and his duties came first. It was admirable, really, to see such control and composure when she'd known plenty of other men to be lacking such things. No doubt he was determined to carry out her punishment—whatever it may be—and then tend to it himself, if he would even bother.

But such an injury needed tending to; the blood was leaking out in a steady stream that stained his skin and pooled at the waist of his trousers. Something had to be done. And he was in pain…surely there was something she could do.

"You…you're still bleeding." She managed to whisper, eyes lingering on his shoulder while silently terrified that her comment would be returned with a sharp reprimand, perhaps even a strike from his hand as a reminder to keep attention where it needed to be.

But no blow fell upon her; instead, as though he only just recalled the wound, he grimaced and turned away with a low growl. "Leave it be." He stated in chilled tones, "Now get out."

The dismissal stung, but for reasons that far exceeded humiliation. He wasn't allowed to get away with that, not after everything he'd shared with her in weeks past. He wasn't allowed to pretend the threads woven between them—however fragile and tenuous they were—never existed; to act as though the bridge which lingered between them wasn't in the early stages of construction, with shaky foundations but nevertheless intact. And he certainly wouldn't treat her like a child!

Summoning every ounce of courage left within her, Lena found strength and stood. "You need to take care of that...it could become infected."

"I said, leave it be." He hissed, and she felt herself bristle at his tone. Did he think he was the only one who could play this ridiculous game? If so, she was determined to show him otherwise, even if it was for no other reason than to prove him wrong. He may hold greater standing over the others, herself included, but that didn't make him invulnerable, and it certainly didn't make him some god to be revered and obeyed without question.

Tearing a small piece from her skirt, she swallowed back fearful anticipation and extended her hand to his shoulder with full knowledge of just how foolish she was behaving. "Hold still, and it won't take—"

She made contact with the open wound, and he immediately recoiled with a loud and thoroughly pained growl. She was lucky enough to avoid the lashing of his arm as he made to throw her off, and it was with dry amusement that she contemplated the usefulness of her reflexes. A child should not be so skilled at avoiding a blow from anyone…but then again, she was no child, and she would not be treated like one.

"Damn it all, girl, I said leave it be!" he snarled viciously, baring that deadly mouth without care. She returned his glare without pause; thank God the novelty of his mutated features had worn off some time ago, else she might have been scared senseless.

"If you'd hold still, I could be done with it sooner!" she returned sharply, unwavering even under his searing gaze. She wasn't about to be intimidated by a grown man acting like a spoiled child. Really…she'd expected better of him than this.

"If you had done as you were supposed to, this," he gestured briefly to his shoulder, "wouldn't have happened!"

"If you hadn't left me there alone when you know I can't handle the rope myself," she snapped, "I could have done as I was supposed to!"

He barely blinked at her accusation, "Then maybe you should learn how to hold your own and not be tended to like a child!"

Her blood ran hot, and with a furious glare, she quickly retorted, "And maybe you should learn to shelve your pride and accept help instead of acting like a child!"

Finally, the response she'd wanted: he paused and faltered. It was a small victory, but she would take it without objection. Some things were to be cherished more than others, and this was one of them.

Silence fell once more, punctuated only by the sound of her heavy breathing as she attempted to control herself and collect some semblance of dignity once more. Slowly, swallowing back the last of her anger, Lena extended the cloth to his shoulder once more, "Now," she said quietly, "hold still and let me do this…please."

He didn't look happy, to say the least, but after only a moment's hesitation, he lowered himself down onto the nearby bed and shifted accordingly to allow her better access. Somewhat pleased by his compliance, Lena quickly followed, lowering onto her knees, pressing the fabric to his wound and watching with detached interest as the blood soaked through. This was a serious injury…likely caused by direct contact with some part of the cannon in the last moments of its descent. Her lower lip disappeared within her teeth's hold once more; dear God, what had she done to him?

Her attention was all for his wound, but his was elsewhere, watching from the corner of his eye as she diligently tended to him. She was skilled in the ways of healing, never faltering at the sight of blood or the grotesque image that his wound had to be. Her gaze was steady and calm, continually using scraps of her skirt until she was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped. Then, suddenly without care, she grabbed the hem and tore three large strips from her already-tattered skirt and began ripping them into smaller ones for makeshift bandages. Deliberate and careful…admirable…

He released a quiet sigh, a sound she likely attributed to the feel of soft fabric upon the stinging wound and thus never questioned. Thankful for the distraction, unfortunate and painful as it was, he indulged himself a little while longer with the view of her kneeling beside him. Her rain-soaked curls hung heavy around her shoulders and down her back, with a few strands smeared across her cheeks and throat, framing those golden irises and dark lashes; her mouth was set in a firm, concentrated line as she dragged each strip around his shoulder and beneath his arm, being sure to apply necessary pressure while keeping it comfortable—how often had she done this, and to whom? Others…or herself?

As though determined to answer his own question, Maccus shifted his gaze to her neck, carefully seeing through and around her hair to find hints of what appeared to be scars. Old scars…and strange in shape—a distorted crescent of sorts, like a fingernail…

A thoroughly unpleasant suspicion grabbed him, and he swallowed back the questions that teased his tongue. That was for another day, and his own curiosity was not in need of immediate satisfaction.

"There," she finally said, securing the last one around his shoulder and interrupting his thoughts. Her hands fell away from him, and he almost shivered. Her touch had been so warm…his skin protested of its own will to lose such warmth. How was it possible for her body to still hold heat? How was it possible for her to be so warm?

As though abruptly remembering their situation, one that called for distance, if not for the sake of propriety and modesty, she stepped away with hands hastily brushing her hair aside and eyes abruptly downcast, and—if he wasn't mistaken—the slightest hint of a soft pink flush creeping across her cheeks, "That…that should do for now…you will need to clean it at least—"

"Lena,"

She swallowed, forcing herself to look at him again. Some part of her didn't want to, but how could she not? He was the only one who called her by name, and she felt ridiculous knowing that simple word could make her comply with any demand he would make of her. But…no one had ever called her by name, not until now…and it sounded natural when upon his tongue…almost beautiful. Could she be blamed for being so eager to hear it?

The corners of his mouth lifted briefly, and she dared to think it a smile. A smile…yes, even for a foolish moment, let her think he was smiling at her…for her. What had she ever done to deserve a smile from anyone, let alone someone like him? And pride be damned if it meant she could grasp this moment with both hands and hold it desperately, like a child clinging to its most beloved treasure.

"Thank you." He said, so softly that she almost thought it a dream. But his mouth had moved and the words had been heard, so she could only conclude, with the most absurd flutter of delight spreading warmth throughout her entire being, that it was real. As real as this moment, a moment short-lived and perhaps the only one of its kind she would ever witness in her life aboard the Dutchman…and she would cherish it without regret.

"You're welcome."