Pain

Island of Mulayo 1914

"Here my love, this is a symbol of my promise to return." He unfolded a ribbon encrusted with seed pearls. As the man's hands fastened the ribbon necklace around her slender neck, a fizzling tingling smote both of them leaving them startled and breathless. They backed away looking into each other's eyes. Then he enfolded her in his arms. The sailor was leaving, duty called him away, but he would be back to claim her as his bride. The new Panama Canal would make it easier to get back, once the fledgling war was won.

The couple embraced not wanting to ever let go but knowing their time was not yet. He released her and stepped back. He smiled slightly to hide the pain of the leave-taking then turned away toward the dock blinking his brimming eyes before walking away from her to board his vessel.

The lovely woman fingered the necklace with her right hand smiling sadly through her tears. She didn't want his last glance back to be the sight of her crying. He turned to look at her just before disappearing into his vessel and she lifted her right hand in farewell. He turned away. Her hand dropped slightly to cradle her cheek. That's how he touched her sometimes, his open hand cupping her cheek. As she felt her palm on her jaw and fingertips on her cheekbone she brought her left hand softly to her belly. She glanced down at her slight form. She thought, but wasn't yet sure, that he was leaving her with more than one gift.

Present day

The man sat at a small table in the barren stark compartment. He sat with his head down, his neck and shoulders stiff with tension. His hands on the table in front of him were tightly clenched as if desperately clinging to something in some mortal struggle. No one else was in the room. He looked at his white knuckled hands. He tried to unclench his jaw. His neck ached with tension and he felt the muscles tight in his temples; they were rigid even up the back of his neck and at the base of his skull. His head was starting to pound as well.

He had to do this. He sat waiting and told himself he had no choice. It was his duty. He fought the compelling urge to cry off, refuse. He was angry. He wanted to pound the table with his fists, or throw something. It was too much. No one should have to face what was coming. He would prefer to never deal with it, slink away, crawl into a hole to cover his misery and shame, never see anyone ever again, but he knew he had to.

He hurt so much. Not just the headache, the clenched muscles, the squeezing ache in his chest, the fire in his belly. His heart hurt, not the pumping muscle working overtime in his chest spreading the tension all through his body. That heart was apparently actually working just fine. His other heart hurt, the heart that held things dear, the one that … loved. That heart hurt beyond consolation. That part of him had thrilled to be a part of something. Thrilled to a pat on the back, a fleeting smile, a rich voice in greeting. That heart … that soul perhaps … that self … had unreservedly given respect, friendship, and deep affection in return.

Now that heart hurt with indescribable emptiness at the broken trust, that ultimate betrayal. His heart, or whatever part of him that made him who he was, had been ripped out as if in some gory human sacrifice when he looked into the eyes of perfidy. Then as if squeezed in a pitiless fist it was mangled and crushed. His inner self was left cold, alone, and empty. He hurt.

He schooled his face. Let no expression show. He put on the guarded, reticent face of an officer, the face that let no one see what he really thought or felt. Taciturn. Aloof. But oh, dear god, he hurt.

They were being very cautious. They didn't want anyone hurt. Well at least they didn't want any more hurt. They were kidding themselves though; nothing would get better without it getting much, much worse first. They all knew that it wasn't possible but they could wish, could tell themselves that. There was already enough hurt all around to last them all a very, very long time.

The prisoner stood out in the passageway offering his wrists for the cuffs. He looked up at the three men there and nodded slightly, grimly. This meeting was his last chance before heading to port, before reports were made, duty done. He had this last chance. He no longer hoped for forgiveness, that had never really been a hope, but he hoped at least to explain. None of them knew if the man he shot would ultimately listen to the story. That man only knew of betrayal, pain and a brush with something far, far worse than death, he had every right to not listen but the intermediaries had convinced him to try.

Once the prisoner's wrists were restrained he was afraid. Not of being cuffed, not of his inevitable court martial, or a lifetime of prison. He was afraid he couldn't explain. Not that he hadn't thought about the words to say, but that the man in the compartment behind that door would turn away, refuse to listen, be too angry to let him speak. He didn't know how he could live with not being able to explain. That terrified him. He grabbed hold of his terror and stepped toward the door.

The man in the compartment at the table sat tense, waiting.

The door opened. He looked up.

He watched warily not making eye contact. His eyes behind the long dark shielding lashes were unrevealing, protective of his thoughts. He didn't stand up. Did not acknowledge the superior rank of the prisoner with the military courtesies usually due him. He had no respect to give. No strength to stand up either but that was beside the point.

This meeting was just the two of them. Private. For his own protection there was a buzzer on the table between his hands. He had been reassured, over and over, that the Master at Arms was out in the passageway, would rush in at the slightest touch on the button, at any cry. He believed them but he still had broken out in a sweat as soon as they had left the compartment. The prisoner had come in alone. Sweating and trembling he sat afraid of a handcuffed prisoner. He turned his head away.

He had looked away from the prisoner and now he had to swallow, revealing his nervousness, insecurity and fear. Dammit, he thought, why can't I be cool, calm and brave? Revulsion swept over him. He felt such distain that he intentionally turned his whole body slightly away presenting his left shoulder to the other man. The tension in his body made the move stiff and as a result even more of a rejection than turning his head away had been.

The prisoner nearly wept at that spurning but compressed his lips, blinked his eyes and stood stock still not stepping forward. He did not want to threaten. He tried to look meek and harmless. Enough harm had already been done.

Crane jolted to the brutal thud of the bullet as it tore into his abdomen, the force of the impact almost lifting him off the deck at the same moment the crack of the gunshot assaulted his hearing. His legs buckled and he grabbed the railing of the periscope island. What? That was a bullet, he thought. He'd been shot before, three or more times since taking command, and recognized instantly the jolt of searing hot metal ripping into his body but this was worse, this felt life-stoppingly severe.

Bracing himself, holding on tightly to the railing he tried to steady himself and take stock but the burning, shredding invasion left him unable to do anything other than just hang on for dear life. In the stunned silence that followed the gunshot he weakly glanced in the direction the report had come from trying not to jar his body. His eyes moving left toward the spiral stairs and then up slightly saw the gun clasped in a shaking hand. In disbelief his gaze moved up past the four shining stars and trembling chin to meet the eyes of his assailant. In the fleeting moments left to him disbelief flooded through his mind as he looked into the eyes of betrayal. But just as swiftly belief followed as his bleeding body bore testimony to the broken trust.

Darkness crept around the edges of vision, as dark as his thoughts. What he had done to his friend? There must be some despicable offence on his part to deserve this. Then the catastrophic injury claimed him. The world went as black as his thoughts and he crashed to the deck.

The prisoner stood hesitantly by the closed door not advancing, trying to appear meek and as unintimidating as possible. That was quite a feat for a man of his rank. He was pale, weak, exhausted and shaky looking. The two of them matched in that regard.

"Lee?" The prisoner wasn't sure if Crane heard him. He was sitting half turned away from Nelson, tense and trembling but trying to hide both. "Lee? May I sit?" Nelson's voice was at his most paternal, gentle and calm. He waited and was willing to stand if Crane didn't agree to him taking the chair on the opposite side of the table. For this conversation Lee was in charge even if he declined to listen or to speak a word.

Crane eventually gave a silent tip of his head toward the chair without looking at the Admiral.

"Thank you, Lee." Nelson slowly and quietly took the seat. He didn't want to jar Lee in anyway. Wanted to keep this calm all the while knowing that nothing he was about to say would be calming. The shattered pieces of their lives were embedded in each other like shards of glass. The story waiting to be told would tug on those razor sharp pieces slicing, and piercing each man in the process.