Any Port In a Storm
Chapter VI : d o n ' t w a t c h
[ colloquial title : Hammurabi's Code ]
Authors Notes : This is not pretty. I tried my hardest to keep everything eloquently worded; you've already seen examples of how I write a love scene, and you should not expect wording any more graphic than what you have already been part to, on that count. However - there is violence, and lots of it, and a lot of very disturbing content that might not be for everyone. My warning at the end of Chapter Five was not simply for the sake of hearing my own keyboard keys click; I reiterate -- if rape *might* disturb you, please wait for Chapter VII. By the time I choose to post this, it should already be well in the works, and you won't have very long to wait. Get ready for a change of pace; something different, and refreshingly so, in my opinion. But for now, tread with caution.
***
"Strip him down, gents."
I cannot truly put into words the subtle yet drastic change that took place behind Jack's eyes. Something hardened at the same time as it broke. Something confident and confrontational receded, while something grim and determined took it's place. It was the same expression that he had worn when he'd realized that the Black Pearl had not waited for him, and that he had nowhere else to go but to the gallows. He kept his eyes very steady on Spencer - who was still nursing his injured mouth -- as his captors tore his shirt from him, untied his sash with rough, jerky hands.
"NO!" I cried.
"Shut up, Will," said Jack, and I have never heard his voice so cold and final before.
It was too late, however. Perhaps Spencer had not even noticed me until now, but he turned at the sound of my voice.
"Turner. I know you. I knew your father. Bad blood, boy. You deserve same as he's gettin', just for being alive." He spat into the dirt of which the cell floor was comprised, snarled a bloody, tooth deprived snarl at me in the torch light. Jack's eyes had grown very, very wide as he stared at Spencer's back. He made a little lunge forward, but the five soldiers restrained him all too easily.
"The pot calls the kettle black," I spat back, my fingers clenching into fists around the bars of the cell.
"Shut UP, Will," growled Jack through gritted teeth.
"Mighty protective, your little friend there," hissed Spencer to Jack. "Mighty pretty, too. Perhaps when we're finished with you, we'll give him a go, eh?" A few of his cohorts chuckled and threw me sordid looks.
"Keep your bloody hands off of him," Jack snarled, redoubling his efforts and lunging forward again.
Spencer moved too fast for me to see; one second the two were standing squared off -- the next Jack was doubled over in agony, with the soldier's knee still firmly wedged between his legs. "Then keep your bloody mouth shut. Have at him, gents."
Jack did not say another word.
Silent, as his captors deftly undressed him from the waist down. Silent, as the drunken rabble began to touch him -- a slow, disgusting rise of chatter and filthy laughter as the rest of the pack, save for Spencer, began to closed in to run their clumsy hands over his skin. Jack gritted his teeth as one of them pulled him back into a sickeningly animalistic embrace, biting at his neck and running ten thick, dirty, covetous fingers over the planes of his chest and stomach. He wasn't looking at any of them. He wasn't looking at Spencer. He was looking straight at me.
And when my eyes met his, Jack said,
"Don't watch."
But how could I tear my gaze away? Their hands were all over him now; on arms and chest and stomach, on his hips and thighs, between his legs. Jack shut his eyes, now, shuddering as a large, burly hand massaged the most tender parts of him roughly -- as another pulled his arms over his head and held them there by the chain of his shackles. He wasn't fighting them anymore. Jaw clenched and muscles locked, he was only trying to bear it in silence. The fingers clawed at him, left blood tinged trails in their wake; someone bit his ear, another his nipple, and yet a third ran their tongue down his jugular. Head clamped firmly by his hair in their grip, there was nothing he could do but allow it. Still, he did not make a sound.
"Jack..."
He didn't tell me to be silent, this time, for it was doubtful that he even heard me over the awful, filthy things that they leaned close to whisper in his ears. Instead it was Spencer who shot me a mirthless, venomous grin. He stalked 'cross the cell towards me. I hated this man for absolutely everything -- including being a fair side taller than me. Lifting my face to meet his, I maintained firm stance against the bars.
"You would do well, lad, to mind this lesson well, 'afore you find yourself obliged to learn it by experience."
I had a thousand and one things to spit back at him right on the tip of my tongue; but in the split second that it took me to settle on the best of them, Jack let out a sickening gasp. One of the soldiers had drawn the blade of their dirk across his ribs, leaving a thin trail of blood in it's wake. Once again, Spencer seemed to have forgotten all about my presence; he'd grabbed the knife in a second, tossed it away from him across the cell.
"You leave that to me, understood? Don't cut him. And don't touch his mouth."
"But D--"
"DON'T ... touch his mouth, Randolph. You can have his filthy arse -- fuck it, cut him to pieces -- but don't you dare touch his mouth." And with that, Spencer took up lean against the cell door -- one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand still stifling the blood flow from his mouth. His eyes drank up the scene with obvious satisfaction, as the rest of the soldiers flipped coins to determine who 'got 'im first'.
... Frozen moments; suspended like dead men from nooses in my memory. The fibers of every nightmare that I have ever had would not be enough to weave Horrors akin to these. Horror it was, indeed; sheer horror, driving rivets through my eyes so that I could not look away. Every moment remains, to this day, etched in vivid detail on the inside of my skull; ghastly images burn against my inner eyes when I reach the threshold of the dreamscape -- flickering torchlight and ugly shadows cast across sneering, drunken faces ... his fingers, curled into the dirt of the cell like claws ... the gasping, the cursing, and the blood.
Oh, the blood.
They traded him off; half a dozen of them held him down, while each one took him in turn -- and it seemed that every one of them was bigger, rougher, and crueler than the last. Some of them wanted him on all fours, and some wanted him on his back. Still others wanted him thrown up against the wall of the dungeon; digging their fingernails into his hips and slamming his face against the cold, dirty stone. They groped him, bit him, slapped him, cut him. They stole from him what I doubted that he had ever willingly given another man, save for me. They took the body I so cherished and laid waste to it, tearing him apart from the inside out as they laughed and cursed and called him a whore. This was not hate; these men did not hate him. They simply did not care. Driven only by lust and rum-stoked aggression, they took the man I loved, and they raped him one by one.
Jack barely made a sound.
He shuddered, and cringed, and gasped through gritted teeth -- whimpering only when any normal man would have passed out in agony. The repeated, violent torment that he bore in virtual silence was incomprehensible. And when it was over ... when the last one had left him spent and bleeding on the floor of the cell, Spencer said,
"Perhaps now you -- and your pretty friend as well -- have seen my point."
"But now it's my turn, Sparrow."
As if they had planned it -- and I'm not entirely sure that they hadn't -- two of the soldiers hauled a now exhausted Jack to his knees. Spencer stepped forward, a scabbed and ugly smile twisting his entire face into a mask of demented satisfaction. Chest heaving, Jack gritted his teeth and met his eyes boldly.
"Open your mouth, whore, and taste revenge."
"Fuck you," gasped Jack, his voice nothing but a hoarse rasp in the back of his throat.
"And fuck Jane."
The smile on Spencer's face morphed into a hideous snarl; with a growl that did not sound human, took hold of Jack's hair and wrenched his head forward, while one of the soldiers pried his jaw open with the hilt of their dagger.
The final horror; and oh, what a Horror it was.
The rest of them laughed, and resumed their cruel and clumsy groping. They held his head stock still as Spencer defiled him, their laughter rising to a roar as Jack choked and struggled to breathe--
--only now could I look away; and it seemed not a choice, but sheer instinct.
I only raised my head when it was over -- opening my eyes as Jack's body slammed to the dirt for the final time. He landed on his back, and -- free of torment for the first moment in the better part of two hours or more -- instantly rolled onto his side. I could see the struggle in him; the war he waged with his own instincts to keep from curling into a ball, and the way he set his jaw to keep silent. Spencer moved in for the kill once more -- placing one boot sole roughly against the side of Jack's head and forcing his face into the dirt.
"What do you think of your dashing pirate friend now, eh Turner?"
Jack was looking at me.
Spencer held his entire, wasted body prone with the boot against his head. Now that he was still, I could see the shudders that wracked him to the very bone. Fingers limp and bloody against the dirt, he was staring at me with the most desperate mixture of sorrow and fear.
I looked straight into Jack's eyes, and said to Spencer.
"I think that he's perfect."
The roar of laughter from the soldiers drown out Jack's whimper of pain as Spencer dealt him one swift and final kick to the back.
"You're both fools."
"You're all cowards," I snarled. "It took nine of you to rape a man in chains?"
"Hammurabi's code, lad," sneered Spencer. "Eye for an eye."
And before I could respond, he and his cohorts were departing; filing through the cell gate and kicking it shut behind them. Spencer himself turned the key in the lock.
"Sleep well, Jackie," were his departing words.
Only when their voices had faded away completely, did Jack allow himself to breathe again.
I don't know how he managed to drag himself across the floor of the cell, but he did -- collapsing in utter exhaustion against the bars that separated us and reaching through them with five trembling fingers for my hand. I hadn't expected him to come to me. I had expected him to curl up in the furthest corner of his cell, mute and shivering, but now he whispered, "I'm sorry, Will..."
I reached through the bars and drew him to me as best I could, stroking his hair softly and kissing his forehead. "Shhh. Don't force your voice, love."
He cried silently, and only a little -- his face pressed to my chest through the bars -- before he lost consciousness. I cannot say that he fell asleep, because sleep would have been impossible for any functional human being; rather he was simply so drained that his body gave up on him, and until sunrise he was spared the torture of his wounds.
I did not let go of him.
***
- to be continued -
Chapter VI : d o n ' t w a t c h
[ colloquial title : Hammurabi's Code ]
Authors Notes : This is not pretty. I tried my hardest to keep everything eloquently worded; you've already seen examples of how I write a love scene, and you should not expect wording any more graphic than what you have already been part to, on that count. However - there is violence, and lots of it, and a lot of very disturbing content that might not be for everyone. My warning at the end of Chapter Five was not simply for the sake of hearing my own keyboard keys click; I reiterate -- if rape *might* disturb you, please wait for Chapter VII. By the time I choose to post this, it should already be well in the works, and you won't have very long to wait. Get ready for a change of pace; something different, and refreshingly so, in my opinion. But for now, tread with caution.
***
"Strip him down, gents."
I cannot truly put into words the subtle yet drastic change that took place behind Jack's eyes. Something hardened at the same time as it broke. Something confident and confrontational receded, while something grim and determined took it's place. It was the same expression that he had worn when he'd realized that the Black Pearl had not waited for him, and that he had nowhere else to go but to the gallows. He kept his eyes very steady on Spencer - who was still nursing his injured mouth -- as his captors tore his shirt from him, untied his sash with rough, jerky hands.
"NO!" I cried.
"Shut up, Will," said Jack, and I have never heard his voice so cold and final before.
It was too late, however. Perhaps Spencer had not even noticed me until now, but he turned at the sound of my voice.
"Turner. I know you. I knew your father. Bad blood, boy. You deserve same as he's gettin', just for being alive." He spat into the dirt of which the cell floor was comprised, snarled a bloody, tooth deprived snarl at me in the torch light. Jack's eyes had grown very, very wide as he stared at Spencer's back. He made a little lunge forward, but the five soldiers restrained him all too easily.
"The pot calls the kettle black," I spat back, my fingers clenching into fists around the bars of the cell.
"Shut UP, Will," growled Jack through gritted teeth.
"Mighty protective, your little friend there," hissed Spencer to Jack. "Mighty pretty, too. Perhaps when we're finished with you, we'll give him a go, eh?" A few of his cohorts chuckled and threw me sordid looks.
"Keep your bloody hands off of him," Jack snarled, redoubling his efforts and lunging forward again.
Spencer moved too fast for me to see; one second the two were standing squared off -- the next Jack was doubled over in agony, with the soldier's knee still firmly wedged between his legs. "Then keep your bloody mouth shut. Have at him, gents."
Jack did not say another word.
Silent, as his captors deftly undressed him from the waist down. Silent, as the drunken rabble began to touch him -- a slow, disgusting rise of chatter and filthy laughter as the rest of the pack, save for Spencer, began to closed in to run their clumsy hands over his skin. Jack gritted his teeth as one of them pulled him back into a sickeningly animalistic embrace, biting at his neck and running ten thick, dirty, covetous fingers over the planes of his chest and stomach. He wasn't looking at any of them. He wasn't looking at Spencer. He was looking straight at me.
And when my eyes met his, Jack said,
"Don't watch."
But how could I tear my gaze away? Their hands were all over him now; on arms and chest and stomach, on his hips and thighs, between his legs. Jack shut his eyes, now, shuddering as a large, burly hand massaged the most tender parts of him roughly -- as another pulled his arms over his head and held them there by the chain of his shackles. He wasn't fighting them anymore. Jaw clenched and muscles locked, he was only trying to bear it in silence. The fingers clawed at him, left blood tinged trails in their wake; someone bit his ear, another his nipple, and yet a third ran their tongue down his jugular. Head clamped firmly by his hair in their grip, there was nothing he could do but allow it. Still, he did not make a sound.
"Jack..."
He didn't tell me to be silent, this time, for it was doubtful that he even heard me over the awful, filthy things that they leaned close to whisper in his ears. Instead it was Spencer who shot me a mirthless, venomous grin. He stalked 'cross the cell towards me. I hated this man for absolutely everything -- including being a fair side taller than me. Lifting my face to meet his, I maintained firm stance against the bars.
"You would do well, lad, to mind this lesson well, 'afore you find yourself obliged to learn it by experience."
I had a thousand and one things to spit back at him right on the tip of my tongue; but in the split second that it took me to settle on the best of them, Jack let out a sickening gasp. One of the soldiers had drawn the blade of their dirk across his ribs, leaving a thin trail of blood in it's wake. Once again, Spencer seemed to have forgotten all about my presence; he'd grabbed the knife in a second, tossed it away from him across the cell.
"You leave that to me, understood? Don't cut him. And don't touch his mouth."
"But D--"
"DON'T ... touch his mouth, Randolph. You can have his filthy arse -- fuck it, cut him to pieces -- but don't you dare touch his mouth." And with that, Spencer took up lean against the cell door -- one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand still stifling the blood flow from his mouth. His eyes drank up the scene with obvious satisfaction, as the rest of the soldiers flipped coins to determine who 'got 'im first'.
... Frozen moments; suspended like dead men from nooses in my memory. The fibers of every nightmare that I have ever had would not be enough to weave Horrors akin to these. Horror it was, indeed; sheer horror, driving rivets through my eyes so that I could not look away. Every moment remains, to this day, etched in vivid detail on the inside of my skull; ghastly images burn against my inner eyes when I reach the threshold of the dreamscape -- flickering torchlight and ugly shadows cast across sneering, drunken faces ... his fingers, curled into the dirt of the cell like claws ... the gasping, the cursing, and the blood.
Oh, the blood.
They traded him off; half a dozen of them held him down, while each one took him in turn -- and it seemed that every one of them was bigger, rougher, and crueler than the last. Some of them wanted him on all fours, and some wanted him on his back. Still others wanted him thrown up against the wall of the dungeon; digging their fingernails into his hips and slamming his face against the cold, dirty stone. They groped him, bit him, slapped him, cut him. They stole from him what I doubted that he had ever willingly given another man, save for me. They took the body I so cherished and laid waste to it, tearing him apart from the inside out as they laughed and cursed and called him a whore. This was not hate; these men did not hate him. They simply did not care. Driven only by lust and rum-stoked aggression, they took the man I loved, and they raped him one by one.
Jack barely made a sound.
He shuddered, and cringed, and gasped through gritted teeth -- whimpering only when any normal man would have passed out in agony. The repeated, violent torment that he bore in virtual silence was incomprehensible. And when it was over ... when the last one had left him spent and bleeding on the floor of the cell, Spencer said,
"Perhaps now you -- and your pretty friend as well -- have seen my point."
"But now it's my turn, Sparrow."
As if they had planned it -- and I'm not entirely sure that they hadn't -- two of the soldiers hauled a now exhausted Jack to his knees. Spencer stepped forward, a scabbed and ugly smile twisting his entire face into a mask of demented satisfaction. Chest heaving, Jack gritted his teeth and met his eyes boldly.
"Open your mouth, whore, and taste revenge."
"Fuck you," gasped Jack, his voice nothing but a hoarse rasp in the back of his throat.
"And fuck Jane."
The smile on Spencer's face morphed into a hideous snarl; with a growl that did not sound human, took hold of Jack's hair and wrenched his head forward, while one of the soldiers pried his jaw open with the hilt of their dagger.
The final horror; and oh, what a Horror it was.
The rest of them laughed, and resumed their cruel and clumsy groping. They held his head stock still as Spencer defiled him, their laughter rising to a roar as Jack choked and struggled to breathe--
--only now could I look away; and it seemed not a choice, but sheer instinct.
I only raised my head when it was over -- opening my eyes as Jack's body slammed to the dirt for the final time. He landed on his back, and -- free of torment for the first moment in the better part of two hours or more -- instantly rolled onto his side. I could see the struggle in him; the war he waged with his own instincts to keep from curling into a ball, and the way he set his jaw to keep silent. Spencer moved in for the kill once more -- placing one boot sole roughly against the side of Jack's head and forcing his face into the dirt.
"What do you think of your dashing pirate friend now, eh Turner?"
Jack was looking at me.
Spencer held his entire, wasted body prone with the boot against his head. Now that he was still, I could see the shudders that wracked him to the very bone. Fingers limp and bloody against the dirt, he was staring at me with the most desperate mixture of sorrow and fear.
I looked straight into Jack's eyes, and said to Spencer.
"I think that he's perfect."
The roar of laughter from the soldiers drown out Jack's whimper of pain as Spencer dealt him one swift and final kick to the back.
"You're both fools."
"You're all cowards," I snarled. "It took nine of you to rape a man in chains?"
"Hammurabi's code, lad," sneered Spencer. "Eye for an eye."
And before I could respond, he and his cohorts were departing; filing through the cell gate and kicking it shut behind them. Spencer himself turned the key in the lock.
"Sleep well, Jackie," were his departing words.
Only when their voices had faded away completely, did Jack allow himself to breathe again.
I don't know how he managed to drag himself across the floor of the cell, but he did -- collapsing in utter exhaustion against the bars that separated us and reaching through them with five trembling fingers for my hand. I hadn't expected him to come to me. I had expected him to curl up in the furthest corner of his cell, mute and shivering, but now he whispered, "I'm sorry, Will..."
I reached through the bars and drew him to me as best I could, stroking his hair softly and kissing his forehead. "Shhh. Don't force your voice, love."
He cried silently, and only a little -- his face pressed to my chest through the bars -- before he lost consciousness. I cannot say that he fell asleep, because sleep would have been impossible for any functional human being; rather he was simply so drained that his body gave up on him, and until sunrise he was spared the torture of his wounds.
I did not let go of him.
***
- to be continued -