As I promised, Crest
Yes, this chapter is a little longer than the others, but that doesn't mean it's full of fluff! I hope you all get the chance to enjoy it, so, without further adiue....
Lion Heart
John rocked back and forth in his hammock below the deck in the empty hull, sobbing on and on as he cradled himself. The visions of the deaths of all of his friends and family still haunted his mind - he continuously thought of their cold bodies left behind, so ruthlessly disposed of without care. He had been crying for so long that he could feel the muscles in his face straining themselves, making it more painful to show emotion as he went on. But he did it anyway - he intended to keep crying until his tear ducts dried themselves, and beyond that, until he cried all the blood left in his body. He didn't care what anybody else thought, because everyone that ever mattered to him was gone.
Captain Rutherford paced back and forth in his quarters, skidding his feet along the wooden floor. He rubbed his hands through his sweated hair, as he contemplated what he had gotten himself in to. He was recollecting back to his youth, when he wanted to be a blacksmith. But he gave in to his father's pressure, and joined the Navy, a choice he knew he could never undo. He felt angry, as though he had thrown away his life to feed somebody else's cause.
"GOD DAMN IT!" Rutherford shouted sporadically. "JONES, tell that rat to shut his trap or we'll drop him off in the waters.
Two soldiers stood erect in his room, at attention as the shaggy man battled with himself. The taller of the two tilted his head and winced at the order. "Aw, Cap'n, but 'e's just a lad. Can't ya have any m-"
Rutherford spun around at the soldier. "Either you or him, make your choice." he growled.
Jones quaked in his boots. The two soldiers saluted the Captain, ushering an affirmation, and then turning on their heels to walk out the door.
Rutherford let out a heavy sigh as he walked back to behind his desk, where his chair sat. He plopped down in it, and leaned it back, rubbing his forehead in agony as he tried to rid of his headache. He could feel all the pressure he was under floating straight up to his forehead, nearly suffocating him. He felt like he was finally at peace, when it was shattered by a call for his name out on the deck. "Oh, what now..." he sighed.
1
John rubbed his hands viciously at his eye sockets, drenched from the constant flow of tears. It wasn't so much the fact of death that got to him, as how she died - alone. He could have only wished his mother's last few moments could have been with him by her side. It sent a shiver down his spine, the thought of ever dying such a cruel and laughable death.
And on top of that, was the feeling of loneliness. The only people he had known in his life were either gone, or missing - his mother dead, and his father likely off somewhere to be left for dead. It was a scary thing, having the mercy of your fate in the hands of somebody you hardly knew. But even scarier, was the fact you couldn't escape it; nobody that you could run away to, to help you. He was alone in the world, for the first time in his life.
His ears perked up to the sound of a loud racket coming from the deck of the ship, like the pounding of a few dozen men running about for no reason. He could hear the sound of two men exchanging conversation back and forth, though it was casual - no screaming or yelling out of place. Intrigued, John got up from his hammock, and slowly crept towards the small staircase at the end of the room that led in to the world above.
As he slowly crept up the staircase stealthily, on both hands and feet, he was able to poke out his vision across the deck of the Galleon. He saw double the size of men he did as before - two large crews of Navy soldiers, each standing opposite one another in groups. To the right, Rutherford stood, back straight, hands folded sternly behind his back. And at the forefront of the other group, was a man about a few inches taller, but nearly identical in size. He was decorated in thick, heavy clothing - a long, black long coat, a Navy uniform seized under an assortment of medals, and at the top of his head, a ridiculous looking Commodore's hat, which looked more of a tall white mow-hawk than it did a hat.
Rutherford stepped forward, an intimidated look on his face. He saluted the man. "Ahoy, Edward..." he gulped.
The man opposite him scoffed a little bit. "That's Commodore to you, Howard. What's the matter, too ashamed?"
Rutherford tilted his head down a little bit. "Not ashamed, sir.."
"Please. Show yourself a little respect for once." The Commodore chuckled as he looked around the ship. "...At least, more than your crew does to this ship. What say you? Still enjoy your time gallivanting around the Channel?"
Rutherford looked up. "Much less of gallivanting, I'll tell you that. One of the ports - St. Joseph's - was attacked yesterday, by a group of Spanish pirates."
The Commodore's eyes widened a little bit, but his face still looked as though he didn't believe him. "Attacked, you say? Why would a group of Spaniards attack such a small po- hell, why were YOU heading to that port?"
"We were sending back a prisoner aboard a ship of the same group. He was abducted from St. Joseph's a few days before the attacks, and I assure you I'm not lying about that."
The Commodore raised his brow a little. "A prisoner aboard a pirate ship? Nonsense - if you have such an exploit, than prove yourself!"
Rutherford nodded, and turned to the small group of soldiers behind him. The two of them closest to him instinctively walked past him, heading straight towards where John was hiding. The boy became alert, and tried to flee back down the stairs, but before he knew it, he felt two sets of large hands grabbing each of his arms, and pulling him up out in to the sunlight. John kicked his legs, ordering the men to let go of him, but they paid no heed - they simply tossed him in the direction of the Commodore.
John caught himself before he toppled over, and almost straightened himself before he remembered where he was. He slowly turned around, to face the boasting Commodore. The man scanned his vision up and down the bruised and cut boy, trying to make sense of it all. The Commodore flicked his arms out, to push his sleeves up his arm, and then crossed them before his chest. "And what is your name, boy?"
John was still in too much of shock to talk properly. He sheepishly petered out "John.. B-Balnette..."
"Hmpf." The Commodore turned to Rutherford. "And how do I know you simply didn't take one of your own crew mates and simply rough him up a bit? Come now, brother, I know better of your techniques than this."
Rutherford protested. "I would never do such a thing! Can't you tell that he's much too young to even know how to handle a sword!"
The Commodore took that as a challenge, laughing. "Oh really now? Then I guess we'll just have to prove that." The Commodore walked in a circle, waving his hand at all of the soldiers across the ship's deck, instructing them, "Back, the lot of you, back!" As all the soldiers lined the outskirts of the deck, the Commodore turned back around and walked in between Rutherford and John, who stood in the center of the ship. He reached at his side, and pulled out a long, shimmering saber, plunging the point of it to stand it straight up in the wooden floor. He then walked backwards, smiling. "Have fun, gentlemen."
The two of them just stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. They looked back at the sword, and then back at one another, deciphering the match in their own way. Rutherford knew that he would end up killing a boy - and John knew that if he fought, he would be killed.
Suddenly, Rutherford became enraged. The anger that he manifested towards his brother slowly began to exhilarate towards John, like a raging bull pounding to be released from its cage. His muscles became tense as he gritted his teeth, pushing his legs forward in a tremendously intimidating pound. He reached out his arm and plucked the saber right out of the deck, clenching his grip around it, and advancing on the boy.
John started to stagger backward, overcome with fear. He tried to put his hands out, to mean he meant no harm, but he was afraid the man would simply cut them off with the smooth cut of a sword. He contemplated just letting Rutherford take the blade to him, to end the miserable existence his life had become. He wanted all of the pain to go away - a life of sorrow surely must be worse than death itself, he thought.
Yet as Rutherford brought back the sword to prepare to stab the boy, all of John's mindsets switched away from that. He felt as though surviving his mother was now his mission in life, one which he planned not to fail. He quickly side-stepped the blow, just barely dodging it as Rutherford plunged the sword forward, almost impaling the pale soldier before him. John back-pedaled away from the Captain, as the man pulled back his blade and set his sights back on the boy.
As John continued thinking of ways to get himself out of this situation, he felt his back walk in to one of the Navy soldiers behind him. He whirled around in shock, but felt the man roughly push him in the chest, throttling him back to the center of the little arena they had formed. The soldiers that watched all laughed in unison, as though it was an amusing show to them - John felt as though they were laughing at his suffering.
John spun around yet again, to keep his eyes back on his opponent, but his eyes became overpoweringly watered as he felt a dull, yet thundering pain right in his stomach. He clutched at his body and crumpled down to the ground, trying to coax away the pain that the Captain's blunt punch had caused. He rolled on to his side for a brief moment, but Rutherford delivered a stern kick to him, rolling him over on to his back.
John ended up looking straight up at the man, who stood right over him. He still had the long sword in his hand, that gently brushed against John's side as he laid there, motionless. John tried to escape, but he could barely move - the pain had numbed his limbs.
The Captain let out another dream, and tossed the blade out of his hands, across the deck. He then nearly jumped down to the boy, sitting down on his chest and nailing his fists down in to any region of John's body he could manage to reach. John let out shrieks and cries of pain, begging the man to stop, as each fist pounded away at his face and chest. He tried to squirm free, but he felt prisoner to the world, as though it had forsaken him to be its rag doll. Each blow was a drilling thud, which made him slowly lose the feeling in his body. He could slowly feel himself dying, and he was angry at the world, because it was watching.
Finally, Rutherford knocked out a final haymaker, an upper cut straight to John's jaw. As his teeth pounded against one another in a streak of pain, John could fill his mouth filling with his own warm, flowing blood. He spit out on the deck in coughs, as Rutherford got up from the boy, feeling victorious even after brutalizing a child. He tapped John with his boot again, rolling him on to his side, so John could face the deck.
John's hearing and sight became a blur, a slow-motioned painting with no defined edges or endings. He could only just make out the panels of the wood floor, the boots of the soldiers opposite to him. But along with that, was a large pair of blue boots, that slowly walked itself over towards the shimmer of a saber that sat on the deck. When he reached it, the man put his boot behind it, and kicked it, sending it sliding across the deck, right towards John.
John could feel the hilt of the blade perfectly stop right at his outreached hand, at the tip of his left arm that rested down on the deck. His eyes widened as far as they could go, though it wasn't much, in excitement. With any remnants of strength remaining, John pushed his body with a hop off the ground, and landed his palm right around the hilt of the blade. And as he rolled over, the sword heavy in his pain-ridden arm, he saw the flurry of a figure trying to rush at him once more - and with little time to lose, he acted.
He pushed his arm with all of his might upward, the blade's path stiffening and stopping only a few seconds later. John let out a heavy breath of relief, as the blurred lines of his vision slowly began to sharpen. All but a few blinks was it took to see what he had done, and he gasped at the sight.
John had run the saber right up through Captain Rutherford's stomach and diaphragm, spilling blood down in an easy stream as it pattered on the deck. The Navy man's body swayed back and forth, his eyes unmoving and his arms slunked downward. He let out a soft breath, before his knees gave in, and he fell backwards, hitting his head down on the deck with a loud clamber.
The entire ship broke out in gasps and whispers, before the Commodore raised his hand for silence. He walked slowly past John, towards the fallen body of his younger brother, soaked in its own blood. He stopped, to let his eyes run over the sight. He was at a loss for words for a moment, but solemnly nodded at the end of it. "A lion-hearted warrior we have among us.... men... help Mr. Balnette back down the stairs. The rest of you... get rid of it."
As John was helped up slowly by a group of soldiers, his numb body being helped back down the stairs, he heard the splash of a heavy, lifeless corpse being tossed overboard, to be hidden in the waters of the British Channel.
~~~~~~~~~~
Even more death and destruction!
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