Chapter 2 – Roger and Crocus

LOVING

"Leave me alone!"

I duck as our latest pillage is thrown at my face and I can feel blood rushing in my ears, not from fear but from pure, long suppressed anger. Anger at the man I admire. The man in front of me, behaving like a stupid, egocentric, egoistic, unruly child so much unlike the person that I came to respect and that I wished to follow down to the ends of hell itself.

"I shall not, Roger!", I scream, having lost all of my calm by now. He infuriates me, a little more each day and I loathe myself for it since I know it is not his fault. It never was. It was no ones.

His dark eyes glare at me. It is so unlike him but I have gotten used to that image, of those fierce eyes looking at me as though I was his personal tormentor who did it out of pleasure, who just wanted to see him scream and cry until his voice is hoarse and his dignity shattered.

I do not want that. I never wanted that. Not for him, for the man who is my captain.

He pants and gasps until his chest hurts so much he can't keep his balance anymore and tumbles to the ground, obviously in pain.

Instantly hot fury is replaced by a sense of dread, by heavy guilt, by choking concern.

I kneel at his side ready to help him get up but he swats away my hand, shuts me out as though I were a stranger, not his doctor, his nakama, taking care of him.

"Go away…", he pleads and it is not the first time he does so. It always tears at my heart.

He is so brave and strong even during those days when he is barely able to walk, when he can barely breath without feeling like he is being stabbed in the chest multiple times.

But his bravado does not help me in his treatment for he comes to me only when he is at his lowest, at his rawest, at his most vicious. And even those visits grow rarer and it is now up to me to regularly check on him and he despises it for it gives him a feeling of having lost control, of having lost his privileges as a free man of the sea.

He hates it and I know it but sadly I cannot change it. I can only support him, if only he'd let me.

Despite the glower in his eyes, despite his protests and his curses I heave him up and drag him to his bed to examine him.

And he becomes unresponsive, not because he is unconscious but by choice. He thinks he is so clever. That by ignoring me, he will win this game, will get me to grow bored and leave him alone.

He never once won. It is not a question of growing bored, it is a question of what will happen if I do not take care of him, check on him and make sure he is still functioning.

He makes it as hard as possible and it makes me want to punch him, holler at him for being such a stupid, ungrateful ass.

There is nothing to lose anymore – no pride, no image to be upheld (in front of me at least). Nothing but his life. A life which I try to save but which grows to become an increasingly aggravating task with each day he gives me the same treatment.

I hate him for it at times. But the one I hate most is myself.

Because I know what is hurting him, how much I am hurting him and his pride and because there is nothing that I can do to change that.

Finally we are done and I turn to leave him, let the medication work and bid him a good night. He does not respond, he never does but come morning he will be looking for me, then stand by my side for a moment and give me that look.

That one look conveying how very ashamed, how very sorry he is, yet can't promise that it won't happen again for he is so very, very tired.

And I just look back, because I am too.