This is Story 2 of a 5 part anthology series of what I call fluff-smex stories, yes stories that are one part fluff and light sexiness, revolving around our best leading man- John Smith, Pocahontas, and lots of character from the movie and history! Some stories may come in multiple installments. So, hang onto your hats ladies and gents.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any original characters that may or may not show up in this anthology of fluff-smex stories.

Empire of Shadows

By

Babyb26

This particular story installment is an AU inspired by ancient Rome but set in an Jacobean New World (yeah I get crazy plot bunnies but just stick with me, it works out! Warning this story line will have multiple installments.

Chapter 1- Ad Ignotum= Toward the Unknown

Music: Hagia Sophia by Irfan

Circassia Border, Armenia -1605

Cerulean skies painted the land in the warm colors of summer. The harsh brightness across the landscape lay in harsh contrast, against the gray shadows that dotted the barren wilderness, on the other side of the mountain. As he stood watching the ominous clouds over take the brightly lit boundary of the Sultan Mountains, he knew this journey would ultimately lead to his disaster. As he sat on his sable colored mount dressed in a multitude of fine Asian silks and Venetian velvets, sweat in stinging rivets rolled down his back. Although, He knew the journey would be long and his mission in no terms a suggestion, he had not accounted for the blasted heat. He had heard tales of this land from the various captains he had met on his the trek, but never once did he bother asking about the bloody climate. A clap of thunder in the distance brought his attention back to his guide, a swarthy colored Turk, who sat handsome in his saddle. Although the brut was a heathen, he could not fathom a more arresting specimen of man in this godforsaken land. Covered in light cloth, his brown smooth skin lay in total contrast. His guide had tried to persuade him to dress in the Bedouin style, one common in this area of Anatolia, but he had declined, his understanding being what could a heathen know about travel fashion? Now sitting in his chafing saddle and boiling in London's latest wares he thought better of the savage. Moving along paths surely traversed since the formation of the ancient Silk Road, the self-proclaimed merchant, newly minted slave trader for the Virginia Company-John Ratcliff- followed his guide to a destination most assuredly unknown.

Central Crimea, winter,-1606

The whip snapped across his back as he stood bent, frozen, in his work. The rock was heavy in his hands and the silence around him was defining. Deep in static concentration, mind heavily focused on the memory of his native Lincolnshire, the man had not heard the warning his men and fellow slaves made. Another slash opened up his back and he felt fast rivers of scarlet racing down the curves of his body. The third strike landed a stinging gash to his left arm and tumbled the five-stone rock from his hands. Each day he had silently prayed and perhaps today, he would have its fulfillment. Pivoting away from his whip wielding captor, the fourth strike would have hit him dead center to the chest, he caught ends of the leather throng in his calloused hand. The claws of the nine tail dung into his palm and crimson pools welled in its center. He refused to let got. In frustration his captor pulled hoping to further lacerate and destroy the use of the slave's hand. To no avail, the hide and metal cord did not move. The slave, it seems, was a glutton for punishment. Covered in light whip marks, branded shoulders, and most recently- healing ribs; the tall well-formed man refused in kind, to release the weapon of his reprimand. Releasing the braided scourger the guard moved on to his scimitar, it being his weapon of choice.

Charging at the slave at full speed, the guard had forgot one thing, that as the heavens had brought needed water to the parched earth, it had also made the ground heavily, saturated, and cumbersome to traverse. In his water weighted boots and tunic the guard stumbled toward his charge. Catching the guard unbalanced, the un-humble slave used his muscle bound body to angle away from the charging man and drawn sword. Snatching the falling guard with his long arms, the taller man used his momentum, twisting in an upward motion, to send the guard's body sailing it toward the ground feet way. The scimitar, like its handler, lay fallen upon the soft ground. The man's fist found their place into the guards face and upper body. As rage took over from detached compliance, spittle - as red as rubies-few from the prone man's mouth. A glimmer of silver caught in the slave's eye, the scimitar calling to him. In answer, he reached for the weapon, the weight of the cold metal felt at home in his hands. With arms raised skyward the slave swung downward, the force catching a hiss upon the breeze. Bringing the sword downward, it found its home in awaiting flesh over and over again. Crimson rivers stained the supple earth, as a roar proclaiming victory reached skyward. In the distance, horse hooves pounded the sodden terrain in fast approach. Yes, it seemed the man's pleas for death would be answered.

Warm rain drops trickled down the already moistened neck of John Ratcliff. Nearly delirious with heat he raised his face skyward letting the wayward hot drops hit his face. "Damn it to hell, even the rain's hellish!" the words erupted harshly from his cavernous mouth, breaking the stark silence of the arid landscape. Turning in his saddle, the chestnut colored eyes of Radcliff's Turk went to the hunched form of the New World's next Lanista. The white infidel looked close to death, but the guide would offer no words of caution, they were not headed any way. Turning from the weighty white savage, the guide, Adskhan, focused his energy on guiding his horse over the next ridge. Ratcliff's parched throat felt ever dryer since his brash proclamation to no one, sensing the urge to gather the decorum of a man of his station, he lowered his eyes back to the rugged landscape and in the distance he saw salvation.

His approach was swift, abet his great bulk weighing down his horse, and they would reach the clay and stone structure of the fortress within the hour. In the passage of time Ratcliff debated the decree of his king. Ordered to bring back fighting men, of preferably English stock, to entertain the masses of the New Word; Ratcliff, as he sat upon his stallion, came to the conclusion that he would rather, rule in hell- than loose his head in the Old Word. Disgraced, broke, and banished, the New World offered Ratcliff what he could no longer gain by title alone. With the aid of blood and death-much death- a whole new world would be in his clutches. Good English men will die for my rise, Ratcliff thought after searching his soul and concluded that what was life, if one could not profit from death? He would find his fighter, his foundation stallion, his Attilus of old, his slave to die upon England's newest shores and with that death- glory and power would be his. Yes, he thought. If Ratcliff survived this journey, deserters and captives would be hisor at least he'd have died trying.

A distinct burning sensation brought the slave back to his surroundings. The feel of hot metal meeting flesh was unmistakable and his face lowered to his chest as he fell to his knees. What sounded like thunder in the distance rang in his ear, but the unequivocal scalding feeling in his side let him know that he had been shot a second time. Jolts of pain coursed through his body as thick black blood began to seeping from his wounded shoulder and side. His right arm fell limply and his body jerked forward toward the ground. Unable to right himself, his blood pooling beneath him, and the mud stealing his breath; the captive, soldier, captain, the man named John Smith gave into the embrace of death and he was glad to see it.

In his weakness, the gun's kickback nearly knocked him from his horse, twice. Ratcliff's heavily built frame struggled to stay is his saddle, as he grabbed the rains of his horse and dashed toward the blond beast he had just shot, twice. Later as the light of his consciousness dimmed in agony and the memories of his mortal depravities lay recollected for review, Ratcliff would remember, I should have killed the brawny bastard! However, in the moment of first recognition, perhaps it was dehydration; he was stilled by terrible beauty and terror. From a top his weathered white stallion the slaver beheld the wretched vestige of his countryman. The man stood six foot plus and the berth of his wide shoulders was measured by the rain and sanguine drops. Ratcliff was for lack of a better word, awe struck at the striking barbarity of the Englishman's appearance. Where the dark beauty of his guide had inspired desperate thoughts of tangled limbs in the spiced rooms of west Asia, this golden man was surely worthy of worship by himself and the thundering crowds of a New World. Yes, the captive would have a glorious death in his arena and fill his pocket with coin. If only, the damn slave could be persuaded to stay in this life awhile longer, perhaps one shot would have sufficed?