Here you go, the second chapter! Thank you to all who have reviewed! They mean a lot! :D

Special thanks to Sophie (aka Rainsfriend) for her help on this chapter! I couldn't have written a single word without her! She provided me with companionship and advice, as well as her lovely beta reading! She has definitely helped me move forward!

I hope this chapter is as enjoyed as the last one! I'm still getting back into the hang of writing these characters, so please bear with me. :)

CHAPTER SONG: "No Way Out" by Phil Collins

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just a cat named Meeko.

Shadows Cast

A Pocahontas fanfiction

By doodlegirll

.:Dedicated to Kayla:.

...oOo...

For what seemed like an eternity, no one said a word. Silence permeated the air like a knife, in a deafening scream, and the only sound to be heard was the scrapping of the wooden legs of the King's chair on the marble floor as he leapt to his feet.

"John Smith!" He demanded in a high-pitched voice twinged with shock. "How can this be?!"

Pocahontas found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the man that hung limply between the two guards before her. Every emotion conceivable swam around in her heart and mind all at once, desperately grappling for the dominate spot that would determine where she would proceed from there. Eventually, after a few moments, they settled themselves into a single, clear statement that sent chills of excitement and anxiety throughout her body:

He's alive.

Finally, she turned her attention away from John Smith back to the King as he rounded on Ratcliffe.

"Explain this!" He demanded. "Was it not you that reported to me that he was dead nearly a year ago?!"

Ratcliffe, who looked shocked and devoid of explanation, shook his head slightly and cleared his throat.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he finally stammered, and Pocahontas could not help but notice that he was beginning to look more and more uneasy as his lies began to resurface. "After witnessing his fall into the Thames, no body was ever discovered, so it was assumed that he had drowned and was washed away into the Atlantic."

The King, still red in the face, allowed this to sink in before nodding. "Yes, this is true." He conceded. "However, how is that he is here, now?"

"I do not know." Ratcliffe answered, as his glowering gaze was lowered to John Smith.

"Well, I demand to know!" The King said. He nodded to the three guards that held the prisoner within their firm grasps. "Take him to the Tower! I want him interrogated as soon as he is awake and able to communicate! I want answers!" He looked back at Ratcliffe. "I'm placing you in charge of seeing to it that I get them. Use any means necessary."

Ratcliffe bowed, sweeping his hand outwards towards the King.

"With pleasure, Your Majesty."

The cold tone of his voice turned Pocahontas's blood to ice. She had seen what this man was capable of, of what he was able to convince other people of, and it terrified her to the core. Was he not the one that was acting against her people, the one telling the King of their "savage" ways in an effort to eliminate them all? Was it not him that had stolen the man she loved from her? She had lost John Smith to him once, and she was not going to allow him to take him a second time.

"Take him away!" The King commanded, and the guards bowed before they began to drag John from the room.

Pocahontas saw her only chance, and she seized it.

"Wait!" She said as she stood to her feet, her voice reverberating through the room as whispers arose around her. All eyes turned to her, and she swallowed the lump that had formed at the back of her throat, trying to appear much braver than she felt. "You can't!"

"Pocahontas!" King James said, obviously put off by her sudden outburst against him. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Your Majesty," Pocahontas said, calmly. "Why does this man deserve such a punishment?"

"He is a treasonous traitor." The King informed her. "He is an enemy of the crown and will be treated as such."

"But what if he is innocent?" Pocahontas asked, cautiously. "Would you truly condemn a guiltless man? Would you leave him to rot without a single word of his own say?"

"I am the King!" King James said, slamming his palms against the wood of the table and leaning against them as he glared at her furiously. "What I decide shall be!"

"And if you're wrong?" Pocahontas countered. Many of those in the room gasped at her outright insubordination against the King of England, but she ignored them, the anger boiling deep within her fueling her further forward.

"How dare you!" King James spat vehemently. "I am a gracious host, I invite you to my ball, and this is how you repay me?!"

"Do your kind know nothing of punishment for those who have committed unforgivable crimes?" Ratcliffe sneered, his eyes sparkling with despicable arrogance.

His words sent hot coals of pure, unadulterated abhorrence cascading over her, and she made a silent vow that he would not get away with what he was about to do.

"You—" Pocahontas began, but the King cut her off with the sweep of his hand.

"Silence! I will hear no more of this uncivilized behavior! I will hear no more of this tonight! You are to leave immediately! You may return when you have learned your place."

Pocahontas's eyes widened, and she looked back at John Smith, who had begun to stir, a low moan escaping his lips. Panic began to seize her heart, and she fought against the rising feeling of hopelessness. She could feel her resolve slipping away, her bravado failing, the hope she had harbored for peace and safety for her people falling into a deep chasm of despair.

"What could a savage such as yourself have to do with a treasonous tyrant in the first place?" Ratcliffe mocked her.

Something inside of her snapped. Pocahontas raised her right hand, and abandoning all resolve, slapped him across the face.

Ratcliffe reeled backwards as another collective gasp arose. She glared at the large man in front of her, her fists clenched in anger, and she started towards him, only to be blocked by two guards that stepped in front of her, swords drawn. Ratcliffe stared at her for a moment, the shock as plain as the red handprint that was beginning to form on his left cheek, before he frowned and spat at her,

"You'll pay for that, savage."

He turned and looked at the guards holding John Smith.

"Take him to the Tower." He commanded. "I will be there shortly, at the conclusion of the ball. Make sure he does not escape. I want him in one piece…for the time being."

Pocahontas suddenly felt incredibly ill. Her intention had been to stand up for John Smith, to protect him, but instead, she had only condemned him further, allowing him to slip from her fingers into the hands of Ratcliffe, who would assuredly kill him before the sun could rise the next day. She dared a glance at him, and as she did, his eyes opened, just as blue as she remembered them, and his gaze settled on her.

His lips formed her name in a silent whisper, and she felt tears begin to well in her eyes as the guards hauled him to his feet, a grimace of pain settling across his handsome face as they did so. They pushed him back towards the doors, dragging him away from her, and she felt her heart breaking in half at the sight.

I'm so sorry, John.

"Escort her from the premises immediately!" King James commanded. He looked at her and shook his head. "You showed much potential. Such a waste."

With that, he turned away from her.

"Take her away."

"No!" Pocahontas said, her voice breaking as the guards began to push her backwards, away from the King, and away from the doors through which they had taken John Smith away, out of her sight and life forever.

She tried to step around the guards, to run after him, but someone reached out and grabbed her, and pulled her backwards. She fought as hard as she could, kicking and screaming, tears running down her face, washing away the powder from her cheeks, letting words from her native language fly as she did so.

"Pocahontas," she heard a familiar voice penetrate through the haze as she was drug into the hallway outside the ballroom. "Pocahontas, come on. Let's go."

She turned her head to find John Rolfe, whose brown eyes were filled with a sadness Pocahontas could not quite place. Pity? Disappointment?

"Come on. Let's go home." Rolfe repeated. "We'll discuss this there."

Pocahontas, her heart constricted painfully in her chest, hollow and aching, shook her head fervently.

"John Rolfe, we must not let them take him!" She pleaded. "Please, we must stop them!"

"Pocahontas, there is nothing we can do." Rolfe said, gently. "But I promise we'll talk about it, but not here." He put his arm around her shoulder and led her towards the doors. Pocahontas, too overcome with emotion to fight him any further, allowed him to escort her quickly from the palace and into a carriage, where Rolfe told the driver to take them back to his estate at the edge of London.

Not a word was said as they traveled through the lit streets of London. Pocahontas sobbed quietly into her hands as they rode farther and farther away from the palace, King James, and the English nobility she had tried so hard to impress.

Failure settled into her stomach like a stone, and she felt as though she would lose the contents at any moment.

She had failed.

She had failed her people. Surely they would all die now, thanks to her insolence, thanks to her brash and impetuous decisions. Ratcliffe's armada would decimate their very ways of life, bringing death in great numbers in his wake. He would show her people no mercy, of this she was sure.

She had failed John Rolfe. He had been so kind to her, despite their disagreements. He had escorted her across the ocean, provided her with stability and safety on her journey. He had taken her into his home, given her beautiful clothes to wear, had tried to teach her what she would need to learn in order to save her people. John Rolfe had only tried to help her, and she had failed him.

She had failed herself, the spirits that had guided her heart for so long. She had turned her back against them, if only for a night, and she had fallen far from grace. It saddened her deeply to envision Grandmother Willow's face, the look of disappointment she would surely wear. Pocahontas had not listened with her heart, and she was now paying the price.

She had failed John Smith. She was sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that the only reason he had been inside the palace walls was because of her, though his motives she did not know. For the second time, she had condemned him to death, and this time, there was nothing she could do to stop it, to save him.

Suddenly, all the pain that had been building since his departure two years previous, began to culminate rapidly, and the dam burst, sending the waves of sorrow and loss washing over her, drowning her, slowly suffocating her. She choked back the sobs that shook her small body violently, crushing her soul with each breath she took.

Pocahontas felt weak, felt every ounce of strength leaving her the farther they drew from the palace where she had hoped she would find peace and hope for all those she held dear.

Despair settled itself over her like a dark cloud, trapping her within its confines. And there she allowed it to remain.

She was broken.

...oOo...

Something was very wrong. Thomas could feel it, deep in his bones.

John had been gone for a good half an hour now, and he was supposed to let Thomas know that he was alright via the signal they had agreed upon after he gained access to the palace.

As he crouched behind the large bush against the wall of the palace where the Hunt Ball was occurring, huddled in the dark, a cloak concealing his identity, twenty different scenarios continuously played themselves in his mind simultaneously. It was not like John to do this, to go so long without some sort of indication he was okay. He had made it over the wall into the gardens fine, and had told Thomas to wait and watch for his signal, but it had never come.

Thomas sighed as he carefully stood to peer up at the palace windows that rose above the walls, hoping beyond hope for John's signal to appear, but alas, it didn't. Thomas slowly lowered himself back into a crouching position, rubbing his gloved hands together in an effort of add a bit of warmth to them. It was not yet the middle of summer, and while the days were fine, the nights could become quite cold quite fast. He was grateful, however, that his breath could not be detected against the dark air before him.

There was the abrupt sound of doors being thrown open, and the grunts and heaves of men as they walked closer to where Thomas huddled in his hiding spot. Thomas pushed away a few of the small branches of the bush to gain a better view as light spilled into the road near the locked gate that led to the palace grounds, a good twenty feet from where he was concealed.

A carriage pulled up alongside the curb, the exterior devoid of décor, the windows barred and inescapable. With a start, Thomas realized it was the prison carriage that transported criminals to and from the Tower of London. He watched, stunned, as three guards exited through the gate, two of them holding tightly to a tall figure shrouded in a dark cloak that slumped between them, walking with some difficulty, his arms pinioned behind him with shackles. Blond hair fell across his face as the guards hauled him into a standing, more upright position, but Thomas didn't need to see his face to know who it was.

John.

The guards opened the back of the wagon, and roughly pushed John into it, where he fell to the floor limply, before raising his head. Thomas was too far away to see his eyes, but he could feel them burning into his skin through the leaves and branches of his hiding place. The guards slammed the door to the prison wagon shut and locked it in place.

"John Smith alive!" He heard one of the guards mutter as he slapped the wood of the carriage just before it pulled away from them. "Who woulda thunk it? Alive and well, prolly hidin' out in the country somewheres."

"What about that savage girl back there? Whatcha think got into 'er?" The other guard said as they walked back through the gate, locking it behind them. Thomas could still hear their voices as they drew farther and farther away from him, and he listened carefully.

"Dunno. But I'll tell ya one thing, ol' Smith is in for it." The first guard replied. "Ratcliffe'll have his head on a stake on the London Bridge before the sunset 'morrow, you mark my words!"

Chills ran down Thomas's spin as cold fear settled in his stomach.

No. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

After a few moments, he heard the door to the palace shut, and he waited a few extra minutes before he carefully extracted himself from the bush where he had been hiding for close to an hour. He watched as the prison carriage drove farther and farther away from him, receding into the inky darkness of the London night.

Thomas breathed deeply, weighing his options before he shook his head.

He had to get help. And fast.

Thomas waited until the prison carriage carrying his best friend and comrade was completely out of view before he turned on his heel and sprinted in the other direction.

Something had gone terribly wrong in there, and now, it was up to him to make sure that John lived to see the light of day. Everything had been shifted to his shoulders, and he'd be damned if he let his friend down.

He had to get to John Rolfe, and to Pocahontas, as soon as possible. They were John's only hope.

EDIT: I found a few grammar errors here after rereading, and they were driving me absolutely mad. So I corrected them. Sorry!