Yay, and update! After three crashes involving the entire chapter getting deleted twice and having to start from scratch, it's nothing short of a miracle that it's happening so quickly!

For some reason, I find John's character a bit easier to write than most. I have no idea why, but I do...anyway, this chapter is a bit longer than the last, and focuses solely on John and his stay in the Tower, and Ratcliffe's, er...visit. It's violent (Sophie would be so proud! She taught me everything I know in the ways of the epic Pain Scene!), and some language is dealt, just warning you. For reasons unknown, I find some sort of sick enjoyment from placing characters in these kinds of situations. -shrugs-

CHAPTER SONG: "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy (aka John Smith's theme song) and "Dead Inside" by Skillet (favorite band, okay? And this song fits...)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, just a cat named Meeko, but I'm pretty sure he owns me, not the other way around...

Shadows Cast

A Pocahontas fanfiction

By doodlegirll

.:Dedicated to Kayla:.

...oOo...

John was having a hard time retaining the consciousness that he had been so violently flushed back into as the carriage jostled through the quiet streets of London. His head throbbed from where the guard at the palace had hit him with the butt of his gun, and black dots swam in his vision, his eyes refusing focus. He laid still, curled into a ball, on the wood floors of the carriage, and tried to comprehend what, exactly, had happened to land him in the situation in which he currently found himself.

He had only wanted a glimpse of her. Nothing more. Meeting with her, speaking to her, would come later.

How badly his plan had failed.

Initially, the plan had been that he and Thomas would wait until the Hunt Ball had progressed well into the night, and he would sneak over the wall of the palace grounds and gain entry into the palace itself, where he would find his way towards the grand ballroom, after giving the signal - a small mirror's flash - to Thomas below that he was alright.

He hadn't made it that far.

The details leading up to his capture were fuzzy, and the harder he tried to recall all that had happened, the more his head hurt.

John remembered making it into the palace via the door that led from the gardens into the building, and just as he was pulling the mirror from his pocket, he had been spotted. He had made a run for it, but the guards gave chase, and caught up with him easily, grabbing him from behind. Panic had taken over, and he had fought to get away, but one of the guards, in an effort to subdue him, had struck him on the back of the head. The next thing he knew, he was in the ballroom, and there she was, the one woman that he was certain he'd trek the earth a thousand times over to be with.

And even then, she was fighting for him, trying to protect him. Despite the frilly dress, ridiculous hairstyle, and makeup that made her skin a sickly shade of white, she was still just as stunning and beautiful as she had been two years ago. She was still the amazing woman he had fallen in love with.

The look on her face when they locked eyes had told him so much.

The carriage suddenly lurched to a stop, and John, unable to catch himself, slammed into the wall. Nausea suddenly boiled from deep within his stomach, and he groaned as he fought hard to control it, pressing his cheek against the floor, willing it to go away. After a few moments, he heard voices outside, and the door opened, revealing four armed guards standing outside. Two of them leaped inside and grabbed John by the arms, harshly pulling him to his feet. His head spun, and he stumbled dizzily as they pushed him from the wagon into the street below, where two other guards grabbed him and pushed him forward. As everything began to swim into focus, John looked around to gather his bearings. He had known, from the moment he had regain consciousness, that they were bringing him to the Tower; of course, where else would the prison wagon take him but to his death?

He was dragged into the corridors of the Tower from one of the street entrances, and forced to climb a flight of stairs. He kept his eyes trained on the floor below him, making sure each step he took, however forced, were careful and methodical, and his aching body was far too exhausted to put up any sort of fight. Before long, they reached a cell into which he was roughly shoved. The ropes that had acted as a temporary restraint were removed, and in their place, manacles that hung from the ceiling were locked around his wrists.

And there they left him, alone with nothing but his muddled mind for company.

As time passed, the pain in his head slowly subsided, and he was able to see and think much more clearly than before. He began trying to formulate a plan to escape, but after a few good tugs at the chains that tethered him, he found that his chances of succeeding were little to none. They most certainly didn't do things by halves here in the Tower.

He let his mind wander to Thomas back at the palace. Surely he had seem him being taken away? He had looked in the direction of the bush where Thomas had been hiding before they had locked the carriage door, praying that his friend had not abandoned hope when the signal had not come and left. And surely if he had seen John being thrown into the wagon and driven away, he could have worked out why John's signal had failed, and gone for help?

John shook his head. Thomas had been a vital ally to him the past few months, invaluable in resources, loyalty, and camaraderie. He was glad that if he had to fall, his friend did not have to fall with him. Thomas had done so much for him; he did not deserve the fate John knew awaited him when Ratcliffe arrived at the conclusion of the Hunt Ball. He would show him no mercy.

And Pocahontas, was she alright? He had heard her screaming when they had dragged him from the dining room, shouting curses, including a few phrases he knew quite well in her native language. He knew that King James would not take lightly to such behavior, especially from someone who was supposed to be a diplomat and example. Would she be punished for her insubordination against the King? He had heard the King demand she be escorted from the premises immediately, and he assumed that John Rolfe would be the one to do so, taking her back to his estate where she would be safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the English bureaucracy that would do nothing but scorn and gossip about her when they knew nothing of her life, of who she was, of what she stood for.

It angered him to think about, that here she was, being paraded about like an exotic animal on display, as though she were less of a human being than the rest of them. How proud the King must be, that he had plucked her from the wilderness of Virginia and turned her into the shining glory of English society. Pocahontas was nothing more to the King than a trophy, a prize.

He supposed he could not hold the King to such contempt as he did. It was not the King's fault that he did not know Pocahontas as John knew her; in fact, it was by mere chance, nothing short of a miracle,that John himself had been granted the privilege of experiencing her and her world. But he could not help it. She was so much more than they thought they knew, so much more than the lies Ratcliffe told of her.

He had never loved another human being as fiercely as he loved her.

And he prayed, that if he had to die, for real this time, she would be able to be safe.

Eventually, his exhausted mind could take no more, and John allowed himself to nod off into sleep.

...oOo...

He was awakened to the sound of voices outside his cell door. John was not sure how much time had passed between the time he had nodded off and now, but he was scarcely granted any time to care. He heard the door of his cell being opened, and the clicks of boots as they walked across the cobblestones to where he still stood, his legs achy and numb from standing for so long. He swallowed, refusing to look at the owner of the shoes that appeared before him, knowing full and well who it was they belonged to.

Something cold was placed beneath his chin, and with a swift motion, his face was lifted to meet the eyes of the one man he hated most in the world, the one man that had taken everything from him, the one man that planned on murdering his beloved's people, completely wiping them off the face of the earth, that had tried twice now to do away with him and had failed. He knew that now he was completely at Ratcliffe's mercy, and if he saw it fit to make sure John did not see another sunrise, so it would be. John gritted his teeth as the bottom of the cane remained planed firmly against his lower jaw, glaring furiously as Ratcliffe chuckled darkly, his fists clenched in the chains that bound him.

"We meet again, Smith." Ratcliffe said. "Funny, I had not expected to run into you like this."

John pulled back, away from Ratcliffe's cane, and continued to glare at the governor before him, refusing to open his mouth to speak. He had nothing to say to this man, and he knew that anything he said could be used against him, his words skewed and misappropriated to Ratcliffe's will.

Don't say anything he can use against Pocahontas.

Ratcliffe's eyebrows rose, and he placed his hands behind his back as he began to walk around John, eyeing him like cattle at auction.

"The King has placed me in charge of getting the answers he desires from you." He informed John. "By any means necessary. He wants to know, just as I'm sure the rest of us do, how, exactly, it is that you're alive, after nearly a year of believing you to be dead. Legally, you no longer exist. How is it that you have managed to elude being seen all this time? Have you got someone that's been helping you?"

John swallowed, still refusing to speak. Ratcliffe could do whatever he wanted to him; John was not about to give Thomas up to the gallows for assisting a fugitive.

Ratcliffe, sensing John's stubborn opposition, stopped before him, and using his cane once more, lifted the hem of John's shirt, which had come untucked, to reveal the long, jagged scar that donned John's left side from where Ratcliffe's bullet had nearly brought his life to an end. John winced involuntarily, remembering the excruciating pain that had accompanied the injury, and the many long months it had taken for him to recover.

"I see that you've recovered from our little...accident." Ratcliffe said, allowing John's shirt to fall back. He shook his head, and tsked. "What a pity. It would have saved me the trouble of interrogating you now had you died as you were supposed to a year ago."

John's only response was further glaring.

Ratcliffe cocked an eyebrow. "Not going to speak, are we?" He asked. "Well, then. I suppose we'll be forced to resort to more, shall we say, drastic measures?"

He lifted the cane in his right hand, and before John could blink, struck him - hard - in the middle of the back. John grunted in pain, and his footing stumbled, the chains on his wrists catching him from falling.

"We can do this one of two ways, Smith." Ratcliffe said smoothly, as though trying to sell a bargain. "The easy way, or the hard way. Believe me, the easy way would be much less painful for you, andyour pretty little savage, being you tell me everything I want to know, and maybe, maybe, you'll live to see the gallows."

John's heart beat against his ribcage like a drum. He didn't have to be told what "the hard way" meant. He swallowed, but still refused to speak. He knew that Ratcliffe would try anything to get some sort of rile from him, and he would not offer the vile tyrant such pleasure.

"No?" Ratcliffe inquired.

John shot him daggers.

"As you wish."

Ratcliffe looked over John's shoulder towards the door, and nodded his head. The door rattled open, and a guard appeared, a long, thick whip at his left hip above the hilt of his sword. He unwound it carefully, and before John had any time to react, a sharp crack reverberated through the air, and John felt the sting of the whip as it sliced through his cotton shirt to the skin underneath, igniting every nerve in his body. He bit his lip, trying to keep himself from giving any sort of sound, but as the whip cracked again, he couldn't contain it, and cried out.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Three more times the whip connected with the flesh of his exposed back. John screamed in pain as the marks began to intersect; he could feel the blood, warm and sticky, running in rivers down his torso, the tattered remains of what was once his shirt clinging to the liquid like an seal. His back arched with every lash that was given, his knees growing more and more weak. He gasped for breath, each gulp of air he took more agonizing than the one before. He could feel his body shaking, trying to fight away the pain.

"Do you not realize that you are completely within my absolution?" Ratcliffe said as the guard paused for a moment. "I can make all of this stop. All you have to do is give me the answers I want."

When he refused to answer, Ratcliffe nodded again, and the guard flicked the whip.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

John could feel, with the blood that splattered against the cobblestones below his feet and on the walls around him, his strength, his resolve, flowing from his body. Every ounce of it slowly left him, leaving waves of nausea and blinking consciousness in its wake.

Crack! Crack!

Tears coursed down his face; the pain was agonizing, burning, blinding…

Crack!

He didn't know how many times the whip struck him – he lost count at fourteen. Eventually his legs gave out, and he fell, hanging by the chains, his knees just barely touching the ground. Sweat poured from his forehead down his tear-stained face, dripping from the tip of his nose, his blond hair soaked as though he had just resurfaced from a swim. For a few moments, he heaved for breath, awaited the crack of the whip and the sting that would undoubtedly accompany it, but the pain never came. Instead, Ratcliffe's cane once again found itself beneath his chin. Ratcliffe lowered himself, albeit awkwardly, down to John's level, making sure the young captain's eyes were level with his. John fought back the urge to give into the splotches of darkness in the corners of his vision, gritting his teeth against the waves of nausea.

"Look at you," Ratcliffe sneered nastily. "The mighty John Smith, defeated, condemned to death. And for what? For a tryst with a filthy savage whore?"

John could take no more.

"Her name," he rasped. "Is Pocahontas."

Ratcliffe smirked, and rose once more to his feet. He clicked his cane against the ground as he paced before John's slumped form.

"Ah, yes." He said. "This…Pocahontas," The way he spat her name only fueled John's hatred towards the man further. "This is her fault you know."

"Shut up." John seethed.

"And tell me, Smith," Ratcliffe continued, ignoring him. "Is she worth it? Is she really worth everything that you've ever had, everything you ever could have had? Is she worth this?" He gestured to the walls around them.

John looked him dead in the eye.

"Every drop of blood." He answered.

Ratcliffe's eyebrows rose, and his eyes narrowed as he smiled deviously.

"You are aware that I set sail for the New World in three days time, under the order of King James himself, in the quest to conquer what is rightfully mine?" Ratcliffe informed him casually, and John felt his blood – that what was still in his body – run cold. "And when I arrive, I think I'll pay the savages a little visit."

"No." John shook his head, unable to say anything further, lest he fall deeper into the trap Ratcliffe had laid before him. "You can't do that."

"Oh, and can't I?" Ratcliffe chuckled. "I don't believe you're in any sort of situation to be making demands here, Smith." He pressed the end of his cane to one of John's lashes, and the man gasped in anguish. He removed his cane and once again came to John's eye level. "And when I attack those filthy heathens, do you know what I'll do? I think I'll take your precious Pocahontas with me. But don't worry, I won't kill her; no, instead, I'll force her to stand to the side, to watch, as every single one of her uncivilized savage brethren are murdered, their homes burned, their gold stolen. I'll let her watch them writhe, right before her, as they breathe their last!" He lashed out and grabbed a handful of John's blond hair, and pulled his head up to look at him. "And then, after I've got the gold that is rightfully mine, I'll kill her, but not before I look her in the eye, and tell her how you wished you had never met her, how you cursed her name as you betrayed her."

John's fists clenched, and he gathered what little strength he had left, willing the chains to break, to bend to his will, so that he could strangle the bastard before him with his own hands. He felt his resolve, his will to live, coming back to him despite the agony he waded through as the lashes on his back pulled taut. He struggled against all that held him back, against the pain and blinding, heart wrenching fear that clenched at his soul, and he glared viciously at Ratcliffe.

"Ratcliffe, I swear to God, I'll –"

"Do what?" Ratcliffe cut him off with a swift kick to the gut. "If you agree to act civilly, and answer my questions, tell me what the King wishes to know, perhaps we can reach an agreement regarding the welfare of your beloved savage."

John swallowed, and fought against the vomit he could taste mingling with the blood at the back of his throat. His exhausted mind was hazy, his body ready to give way any moment. Despite his location kneeling at the floor, he squared his shoulders, and looked Ratcliffe in the face as he answered, "Never."

"So be it."

Ratcliffe flicked his wrist as he walked by the young captain, towards the door. He passed a small bag of jingling coins to the guard.

"Whip him until he's ready to talk." He commanded. "I'll be waiting in the courtyard."

With that, he left, as door behind him closed, the crack of the whip could be heard, followed by John's cries as they echoed through the halls of the Tower, into the silent London night.