Warnings: this chapter be disturbin' an' a bit more, so ye be forewarned…
She stood in front of the door, staring down at his face, in case he should look up at her and divulge the purpose for this sudden move.
Beckett looked up at her from his lowly position, his face expressionless but eyes defiant. Suddenly, he leaned back onto his haunches, and using the cell door to steady himself, rose shakily to his feet. He stood proudly and straight-backed on the opposite side of the door, face-to-face with Elizabeth.
Though he was dressed foolishly, only in his long billowy white shirt, tall shiny black boots, and backwards powdered wig infused with kelp, he still looked formidable. His stony countenance was beginning to unnerve her. Where had she put her sword?
Beckett had noticed that Elizabeth was defenseless, but for the cat o'nine tails. If I can will myself to stand, I'll be able to easily wrest it from her if need be. Once he was able to get onto his knees, the rest of the process was simple. Try to come in here now, he mused, standing eye-to-eye with her, feeling strength build within him once again.
Her expression at first was that of shock, fading into one of moderate annoyance at his rebellious actions. He just stared at her from the other side of the door, daring her to enter.
Suddenly she remembered. She reached into one of her boots and pulled out a dainty yet functioning pistol. In no time, it was aimed directly between Beckett's eyes.
He didn't even blink at the new threat to his life. He just stood there, a small crooked smile playing on his face. Without averting his eyes, he reached up and straightened his wig so that it was on correctly.
"I fail to see what's so funny, Beckett."
His smile expanded over the entirety of his mouth.
"Weapons such as those no longer faze me," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I am well-aware that you're not going to end my life in the near future, that is, until I have learned my lesson. You do realize it's quite the hollow threat."
"Is it, now?" Elizabeth retorted, robotically aiming instead at his feet. He immediately looked down at the gun's new position to see that perhaps she was capable of causing a non-fatal gunshot wound.
"But what if you miss?" he said, looking again at her face. "There could be crew lurking below us in the hold. Either you shoot a crewmember, or you'll shoot a hole in the ship and doom Sparrow's dear Black Pearl to the depths once again."
"Don't worry; I won't miss," she said, cocking the weapon, her aim true and unwavering. He thought about shifting his feet, but it wouldn't make a difference at the moment. It would only confirm his fear that she was capable of shooting him.
There'd be no chance to get out of the way once she fired the weapon. The gun was far too close to the target for it to stand a chance. Both were aware of the fact.
As Elizabeth looked at Beckett's foot before she would be blowing it to pieces, he spoke up.
"Alright. You win," he said softly, looking at his foot, which was thankfully still intact.
"What was that again?"
"You heard me."
She seethed. "I'm not much of a good shot from a distance, but I can assure you I will not miss my target from here."
"I'll have to remember your admission of bad marksmanship, in case it should prove useful at some point."
"You won't have to remember that if I cripple you now. You'll be unable to travel any distance away."
"Alright, alright," he snapped, holding his hands up in surrender. "You win. You do pose a very real threat. I am aware that you are capable of shooting me without a second thought."
"If this is indeed true, then walk over to the opposite wall and place your hands on the grating."
His face held a look of confusion and suspicion, and his mouth opened slightly.
"And why would I do that, pray tell?"
"As a form of repentance for your continued defiance of everything I've said to you."
"And what if I choose not to do so?"
She scoffed.
"Again you defy me! Well, that's simple. You'll be reduced to having only one intact foot."
Beckett let out a loud, annoyed sigh.
"Haven't we played this asinine game before? I agreed to comply with Jack in order to keep my clothes intact, and yet they were taken from me anyway."
"Well, I don't think your foot is in danger of being taken whilst it is in your possession," Elizabeth replied, smirking. "It's just the question of whether or not you wish it to remain functional."
He looked crestfallen. "So are you telling me that I have to comply or else—
"Or else I will shoot you where you stand. Literally." She enjoyed her own remark. "It's the least you could do as an act of penance for your unending insolence."
"Then what was the purpose of the earlier—"
"It apparently meant nothing, by the way you're acting now."
"Are there any other options?"
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I cannot think of anything else at the moment, so this will have to do for now."
He continued to stay put, looking at her for a sign that perhaps she'd give up the fight to do this… humiliating thing to him. He had to clarify some things before he was prepared to just get it over with. The heat seemed to rush to his face as well as other odd places, as he diverted his gaze from her.
"I refuse to be made indecent again," he mumbled, agitated and face flushed, staring at the floor.
Something squirmed deep within her at the picture that immediately flashed into her head. "Of course I would not expect you to lift or to remove your shirt."
How awful could it be? She's just going to harass me until I comply. He hesitated for a second more, and then begrudgingly turned around and headed for the opposite wall. Upon reaching it, he placed his hands upon it, gripping the grating between his fingers.
"Move your feet away from the grating more, so that you are at an angle," she said, unlocking the cell door and stepping inside.
He looked so foolish! Though his wig was now righted on his head, the combination of his black knee-high boots and white knee-length linen shirt, dotted along the bottom with spatters of blood from earlier, was actually quite humorous. Besides the bubbling of laughter that barely remained inside of her, she quite enjoyed the feeling of dominating over her enemy.
Slowly Beckett edged his feet away from the grating so that he was now leaning into the grating with his arms bent at the elbows. He was too disgusted to look at her now, and instead focused on a particularly poorly repaired breach in the hull a distance away. He heard her shoes approaching him steadily, and let out a sigh.
"How many strokes do you think you deserve for your insolence?" she said from somewhere close behind him.
He merely scoffed.
"I've done what you've told me. You did not mention me needing to do anything else."
He began to right himself, but his motion was cut short by a sharp licking of the tails on his calf.
"I believe I asked you a question," she said more loudly, flicking the cat so as to cause a crisp snapping sound. He flinched slightly at the sound, but otherwise remained silent. It took several more seconds before he responded with a noisy outtake of air, still refusing to look at her.
"I would have to say, the minimal amount of strokes sufficient to prevent my being shot."
"I want you to give me a number."
Another extended pause.
"Well?"
"I don't know. What about five."
"Five?" Her tone was scornful, mocking.
He sighed. "Alright. Ten."
"Ten." She sounded unimpressed.
"Isn't that what I just said? I can't read your mind, you know."
"Ten it is then. Prepare yourself. Space your hands wider apart."
After placing his hands further apart on the grating, he soon heard the sound of the cat swishing rather loudly. She's actually going to do it… but where will the stroke land?
The question was answered only milliseconds later, as the blow landed sharply across his shoulders, temporarily overpowering the pain in his backside. The presence of his shirt dampened the sting of the stroke, but it had still smarted quite a bit. He hadn't made a sound in the process.
Before he had fully recovered from the unexpectedness of the first stroke, another landed expertly in the exact region of the first, causing him to arch his back and shut his eyes, thankful that she could not see his face. He fidgeted his feet around a bit to get a less painful angle.
Four more strokes fell upon his back, and he uttered not a grunt in the process, only a change in the preference of the foot on which to apply more weight. Thankfully he still had a choice in the matter.
When it came time for the seventh stroke, he awaited with jaw set, imagining her holding the gun to his back before each hit. That's probably why she's not putting her full weight into it, not that there's much weight to contribute. This is laughable. I rather prefer this to the captain's treatment above deck. Much less painful and much more… oh, what's the word for it….
This time, however, the blow landed squarely across his backside, causing him to hiss as he sucked air through his teeth, his feet doing an involuntarily little dance all the while he squirmed uneasily against the grating, mind-numbing pain flooding his body. I certainly can't read her mind, but perhaps she is able to read mine. I need to stop thinking.
The next stroke cut him across the upper back, the tips of the tails licking the sensitive flesh underneath his armpit. He involuntarily emitted another pained hiss, and condemned himself for acknowledging the pain.
Elizabeth watched Beckett's reactions with great interest, watching the motion of his back muscles under his shirt as he winced from the various lashes. His shoulders, though not very broad, tapered down to a narrow waist and hips, the sticky sweat drenching his back, at least, making his shirt cling to his skin. In the region of his shoulders, his white shirt was almost rendered transparent. Strands of dark hair poked out from under the white wig, and the back of his neck glistened with perspiration. Watching the back of Beckett squirm and writhe about as he took the lashes that she gave was disconcerting to her, to say the least. Am I enjoying this? she found herself wondering, almost aloud. The fact that the thought had even occurred, and that she had mulled over it, confirmed her opinion of the rather intimate flogging.
The following stroke landed on his backside, resulting in a grunt, an arching of the back and a lifting then dropping of Beckett's head as he struggled to again open his eyes. Chills had begun to run up and down his spine. Which one is this? he mused, fearful that soon his eyes would be watering. It was actually worse to have full range of motion rather than being tied securely, for every single minute reaction to every nuance of pain shooting through his body could be seen.
He glanced behind him, shooting a fleeting glance of disbelief at Elizabeth, who was standing behind him, gripping the cat o' nine tails, her chest heaving with exertion. That last stroke had really smarted. The feeling he had when being flogged by Elizabeth, even now that she was really laying on the blows, was very different than with Barbossa. There was another element there that made him feel scandalous in a way, not that that was an entirely bad thing….
Elizabeth immediately noticed him looking in her direction, though he had tried very hard not to make it seem so. His eyes were wide and face was shiny, most likely with sweat. This wide-eyed gaze from her captive made him look quite boyish –at this moment, he looked younger than Will!— which quite unnerved Elizabeth, who suddenly found herself grasping for words.
"That's number nine," she said, positioning the tails in her hand once again, the pistol in her left hand quickly resuming its aim at Beckett. He whipped his head around wordlessly, face feeling hot, embarrassed that she had most likely saw the way he had looked at her.
Elizabeth had to make this last stroke memorable for Beckett. She stepped back quietly almost to the other side of the cell, tucked her pistol into her breeches, and ran towards the awaiting Beckett to gain ample momentum for the last stroke. Upon reaching her target, her feet did a skip and then she struck Beckett's backside with her entire weight behind her, as well as the momentum she had gained from the run.
The last stroke was so powerful and painful upon hitting Beckett's backside that it caused his hips to arch forward far enough that he lost his balance and fell to his knees, pulling his hands painfully from the grating in the process, for they had been holding onto the grate with an ironclad grip. In addition to his crumpling to floor he had also inadvertently let out a prolonged groan of pain.
As Elizabeth glared at the back of her captive triumphantly, noting the tattering of his shirt in the regions of his backside and shoulders, he leaned his forehead against the grating, hands placed on the grating on either side of his head.
She had caused him humiliation not once, but twice. How embarrassing it was to be reduced to kneeling in front of a grate like a slave begging for table scraps! He wanted very much to stand up again, but upon feeling the sharp ache emanating from his kneecaps striking the solid boards, he reconsidered. I'll probably just collapse again, adding to my utter anguish. I think I shall just remain here until I am left alone. His eyes had involuntarily teared up upon the last stroke, yet he was holding them at bay quite successfully under his tightly shut lids.
Without saying a word, Elizabeth left the cell, locking the door behind her and watching Beckett still remaining on the opposite side of the cell, no doubt too embarrassed to think.
I can't believe I just did that. What came over me? Well, if I say anything, it'll only anger him into defiance again. I'll just leave him to his thoughts. I must say, he took that with not so much as an insult. Maybe something's finally gotten through to him.
Retiring the cat to the nail again, Elizabeth wordlessly left the brig, leaving Beckett on his knees in the wake of the flogging.
Upon exiting the brig, breathing a little heavier than possible, Elizabeth walked right into Jack, who had been making his way down there himself.
"I was beginnin' to think that somethin' had happened t' you, Lizzie, an' was comin' t' check up on things." He noticed her slightly labored breathing. "Wot's wrong? Did he rough you up or somethin'? You're breathin' wiv such… exertion."
"No, that is not the case."
"Then wot is it? You do look quite pleased wiv yourself. Did Will return for a bit o'—"
"No, he did not," she interrupted. "If it had been Will, I'd be a great deal more pleased with myself at the moment."
"Then wot is it? It mus' be somethin'. Did you an' Beckett—"
"Why don't you go and see for yourself, Jack?" she told him teasingly. Frenzied thoughts ran through his head. Could they have…? Nah, she loathes him far too much… But…then what happened down there? That was quite a while. The temptation to see what she had done to Beckett was too great to bear. Besides, he had caught the tail end of Elizabeth's comment about Beckett above deck and realized that devoted to Will or not, her eye was still roving. I figured the eunuch to be rather unimpressive, he mused.
"I think I shall traverse to th' brig an' uncover for meself wot your earlier proceedings wiv Beckett consisted of, exactly."
She grabbed his arm with her slender pale hand. "Wait a few minutes before going down there. I don't want him to think that I sent you down right away."
He stood there, sort of gawking at her for about a minute, and then wrested out of her grip and proceeded to the brig. He did not have a sliver of willpower, in this case.
Oh, bugger. There was Beckett, on his knees, clinging to the grating of the cell, his head hanging. His white linen shirt was torn to tatters in several places, notably the backside and shoulders, but there was also a tear across his upper back. Some of the tatters were stained with blood. Beckett was breathing heavily, still trying to regain his composure. Although he was generally quite tolerant of pain and impervious to negativity during his life as a lord, the quantity and intensity of the strokes he had unexpectedly received today were just too much to bear. He had tried in vain to move from this position, but his backside would have no part of it and would sear inexplicably whenever he tried to move any part of the lower half of his body.
Jack elected to stay quiet for the time being and just to observe Beckett in his all his pitiful glory. Lizzie probably didn' even let him finish his job cleanin', he mused. Eh, it's all for the better that he's been reduced to shambles. Then again, it doesn't smell anymore. That's two members of th' ship that have successfully humiliated him. Next will be my turn. But not now, of course…. I think I'm actually feelin' sorry for the bloke….
Cutler Beckett let out a long sigh from his position against the grating. He had not heard Jack descend into the brig, and was still weighing out exactly how to move out of this piteous position with the least amount of pain.
Jack wanted to get a sneakier angle on the inaction of Beckett in his cell, an angle where he'd be better hidden by the darkness. He started to move towards a dark corner of the dank room, forgetting about a particular perpetually squeaky floorboard, and then he was upon it, and Beckett was made aware of another presence in the room.
I hate to admit it, but I really liked writing this chapter... I guess imagining that sort of scenario does it for me, or else why would I bother writing it? Hehehe, well, hopefully more of you like it (whether admittingly or not).
Hey! Many thanks to the two reviewers of the last chapter! If it weren't for you guys, I wasn't going to update for another 12 hours! Do you guys like the pre-chapter warnings, or do you think they reveal too much? What do you guys think of characterizations? It's up to you guys to make sure I stay on the right track with keeping characters in-character as well as making the chapters readable/able to be visualized. Please let me know, everyone! Good or bad thoughts!