Fear

It takes falling to the ground, Nate blotting out the night sky above him, to remember. But once Jerry does it all comes back in a flood: The punches. The kicks. And the face, sneering at him now just as it had then.

"It was you," he says, and something else, something hot and burning overpowers the rabbit-like pace of his heart. "It was you!"

Before he knows it he runs at him, hands clenched, swinging at Nate's face and–

Pain blossoms across his jaw, turns the world off-kelter as he falls. Shattering into a haze when he hits the ground, teeth rattling at the impact.

Dunlop's voice, distant but loud and angry, pounds in time with the blood rushing through Jerry's head and he faintly wonders what has him so worked up. Nate doesn't seem to know either, tries to talk him down but he keeps yelling. Until something clicks, sharp like metal against metal, and the fight turns from words to fists.

Then Dunlop screams, sounding so different from just a moment before… cut off by a thud.

And silence.

Jerry has always enjoyed the quiet, but this quiet… this quiet is terrifying.

He rolls to one side, lifts himself up on one elbow and his head swims and his arms shake and he thinks he might throw up but he needs to leave–

Then Nate is on him, pinning him to the ground with ease. One leg on either side of his body, full weight on his stomach and those wild, cold eyes all he can see.

His breath hitches and he struggles, kicks, swings but it doesn't help and Nate jams his wrist under one knee, a bruising grip pinning the other next to his head and–

And Jerry can't move.

He can't move.

He can only watch, air stuttering in his chest, as Nate cocks his head to one side.

"What am I going to do with you, huh?"

Nate shifts and Jerry winces as the wrist caught under Nate's knee grinds against the dirt.

"You know, in the town I grew up there was this kid who collected frogs. He'd leave early in morning, when the sun barely made it through the trees, and wait by the pond. Wait for the frogs dumb enough to get close."

Nate leans in, his breath heavy and foul with alcohol. Free hand grabbing Jerry's jaw when he tries to turn away.

"He used to put them in jars. Watch them jump around inside the glass and croak their pathetic croaks… and then he would screw the lid tight." His hand lowers, brushes against Jerry's throat. "How long can you hold your breath, little frog?"

Jerry doesn't answer. Can't get an answer over his lips. His mind gives him one anyway.

More than a minute. But never longer than his older brothers.

A huff of cruel amusement leaves Nate's lips and Jerry hates himself for the relief that courses through him when Nate draws his hand back. Because he is toying with him, just like he has done all this time at Green Gables. Trying to make him upset. Uncomfortable. Scared.

"Maybe that's what the princess should have done instead. Has dear Anne told you that story yet?"

The problem is, Jerry knows it could just as quickly become real. That with Nate a threat could just be a threat, but also–

Black exploding before his eyes.

Snow, burning cold against the pain on his face.

Rough hands searching his coat, taking everything he has.

Nate's voice pulls him back to the present.

"Might be a little hard now though, considering she and Marilla are tied up," and he smiles, "with other things at the moment."

That winter can't be further away now, but Jerry swears his insides fill with ice.

"What did you do to them?" His voice is sharp, brittle, and it breaks into shards when he is met with silence. "What did you do?!"

Nate's teeth gleam in the lantern light, an answer on his lips… when his head snaps to the side. Listening. And Jerry hears it too.

Hoofbeats.

Jerry isn't aware of his decision until he has already wrenched his arm from under Nate's knee. Only he suddenly has a fistful of Nate's shirt and pulls.

A flash of alarm on the man's face, too late as he plummets to the ground elbows first and Jerry scrambles backwards hands scraping over mud and rocks and something round and cold like metal–

When Nate comes for him again, he swings.

"Whoa!"

Jerry doesn't know if he should be relieved or horrified when the metal rod misses Nate's face with an inch. Doesn't know what to make of the vaguely impressed look that crosses the man's face before it fades to– to– He can't think of Anne's word, but he feels small and–

"Reste loin!" He's on his feet now and he thrusts the rod out in front of him – which he only now realizes is a broken piece of the machine used to lift things from the mine shaft – as Nate makes to move closer. "Stay," he repeats, the angry, desperate edge inside him thickening the French around his words, "away."

Nate only huffs, as if he knows Jerry can't make him, as if he sees him trying as a joke… and as Jerry's heart hammers, his hands shake, believing Nate is wrong gets harder with every second.

His fingers whiten as he tightens his grip, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he readies himself for a fight he doesn't know if he can win and–

And Nate curses and runs.

For a moment all Jerry can do is stare after him, uncomprehending. Then it is as if all the sounds around him come crashing back in: the thunder of horses behind him and the thud of boots against grass and–

"Jerry?" The voice is familiar and so is the face filling his view, but it isn't until hands land on his shoulders – big and warm and rough from years of farming – that he connects the person and the name.

"Mr. Cuthbert," he breathes.

"You can let that go now," Mr. Cuthbert says gently, nodding towards the rod still in Jerry's hands.

Jerry lowers it, but can't make himself let go. His eyes finding the forest, where several riders are galloping in through the trees after Nate. His ears catching the group of voices beside them as yet others try to get Dunlop out of the mine shaft.

"Are you hurt?" he hears Mr. Cuthbert say, sounding worried now, and he sees Mr. Cuthbert frown when he catches sight of the mark Jerry knows is already starting to darken on his cheek because it hurts–

"Anne," he remembers suddenly, and his free hand clutches Mr. Cuthbert's sleeve, "and Ms. Cuthbert. He… He said–"

"They're alright," and Mr. Cuthbert squeezes his shoulders tighter. "A little shaken, but alright."

Jerry understands what the words mean but it is as if his body doesn't, as if he's still on the ground and not able to move, as if he's still seeing Nate's smile and feeling his hand against his throat–

"You're alright," Mr. Cuthbert says this time, and as he shifts he blocks the forest from view. His gaze uncertain, but voice steady. Sure.

"I…"

"You're alright."

Jerry closes his eyes. Takes a shuddering breath. Two.

Anne is okay. So is Ms. Cuthbert. And so is he.

So is he.

The tension drains from him all at once then, a thud filling his ears as the rod finally falls from his grasp and he throws himself forward, the fabric of Mr. Cuthbert's jacket scratchy against his face and hands. He clings to him anyway, breathes in the familiar scent of hay and dust and sweat as he lets himself feel everything he hasn't allowed himself to feel.

And Mr. Cuthbert pats his back, stays there with him. Lets him hold on until his eyes stop burning and his body doesn't shake quite as much.

Then and only then does he pull back and say, "Come now, Jerry. Time to get you home."

I was rewatching the gold mine arc a while ago and wow, some of Nate's scenes - especially the ones with Jerry - are very unsettling. And so it got me thinking: What if Jerry wasn't knocked out by Nate's blow? which eventually grew so much it became a real fic.

It's been some time since I've written something centred around fear like this, which might be why I've been putting off posting it, but when I read through it today it felt like it was time!