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nealsneen · 6 months ago

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Omg!!! Best Christmas ever!!! @aneurinallday has been busy writing fanfics!!! You are so brilliant!!

Moon Fever

“Stop,” John groaned, “I have to rest.”

“You can’t rest now. We’re almost there,” Elzevir replied.

He pulled the young man’s arm more firmly around his shoulders, and hauled him along despite his protests. They were working their way along the beach, staying close to the foot of the cliff as it loomed over them, so as not to be seen from above.

John’s heart was still pounding from their narrow escape from the authorities - an escape which had required a reckless jump into the sea. Both of them were soaked to the skin, but Elzevir was unscathed, whereas John - by a stroke of poor luck which seemed befitting for an impoverished orphan - had caught a bullet in the thigh on his way down.

All he’d felt in that moment was a hot flash. It wasn’t until he’d surfaced in the ocean, and seen the blood darkening the water around him, and felt the bullet-hole start to scream, that he’d even realised he’d been shot.

He leaned heavily on Elzevir as he limped along, every inch of progress a labour. His racing pulse sent repetitive throbs of pain through his right leg.

“Look,” Elzevir said.

John Trenchard raised his head weakly, and saw their destination: the mouth of a cave, tucked away amid the rocks. It seemed impossibly far away, and his one good leg was on the verge of giving out.

“I won’t make it,” he said.

“Don’t be a fool. Keep walking.”

Following the contours of the cliff, still hugging its face, they persisted on their path. Against all odds, they made it, but not before John collapsed to his knees. He cried out in agony as his injured leg crumpled beneath him.

“Wait,” he said, “Just give me a minute…”

“We’ll be seen.”

Elzevir grabbed him by the coat and dragged him across the sand. John tried to stifle his scream, but was unable to stop the pain from bubbling up his throat and past his lips. Desperate for the dragging to stop, he struggled upright, clinging to Elzevir’s shoulders, and resumed limping.

“Good lad,” Elzevir grunted. “Almost there.”

They entered the cool dark of the cave, and went as deep as they could before the rock walls closed in around them.

“Here. We can stop here.”

Elzevir lowered him onto the sand, and John slumped backwards in gratitude. As soon as his back met the ground, the relief of being horizontal was overwhelming - finally, he could stop moving and just rest. He closed his eyes.

“Stay awake,” Elzevir commanded, but within seconds, John blacked out.

When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by disorientating darkness, painted with flickering orange firelight. He had no idea how much time had passed - it could’ve been hours or mere moments. He licked his dry lips and swallowed, grimacing. The taste of saltwater lingered in his mouth.

“...Elzevir?” he croaked.

“I’m here,” replied the gruff voice of the smuggler.

“Is it night?”

“No.”

John’s eyes adjusted to the blackness, and he realised they were still in the cave. Looking to the left, he saw a crack in the rock, and pale daylight outside. Looking to the right, he saw Elzevir crouching over a small campfire, prodding the driftwood as it burned, trying to encourage the flames to grow higher.

“Can you feel your foot?” Elzevir asked without looking up.

“Y-Yes.”

“That’s a good sign.”

John stirred, wincing, and realised that he’d been stripped to his shirt and breeches. His wet clothes had been folded and piled nearby, next to his sand-filled shoes.

“Is there…is there any sign of them? The magistrate’s men?”

“Not yet. God willing, they’ll think we drowned.”

“What if they find us?”

“Then we’ll spend ten years in chains, if we’re lucky.”

Satisfied with his work, Elzevir rose from the fire and approached the young man. Crouching down, he drew a knife and began cutting open the right leg of his breeches. At the prospect of cold air on his bare skin, John weakly attempted to push him away.

“Hold still,” Elzevir ordered.

John propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his thigh. He caught a glimpse of his own exposed flesh, raw like meat hanging in a butcher’s shop. Seeing blood leak out, a wave of nausea washed over him, and he slumped back down and closed his eyes. He took deep breaths - in through his nose, out through his mouth - until the urge to vomit passed.

Elzevir tossed aside the cut-off leg of John’s breeches, and rifled through his meagre supplies until he found clean white bandages.

“Is it still in there?” John asked, “The…the bullet?”

“No. It carved straight through. You’re lucky - a little to the side and you would’ve bled to death before we reached the shore.”

Feeling decidedly unlucky, John gritted his teeth and readied himself for the fresh wave of hurt. He did his best to keep still, but as Elzevir began to dress his naked thigh, the pain grew in intensity. John sucked in his breath sharply, his whole body tensing. His hands clenched, reflexively gripping the hem of his white shirt - the only thing he had to distract himself with.

“I need a doctor,” he mourned.

“Well, you won’t get one. Not after what we’ve done. You’d be under arrest and in irons before you even knock on the physician’s door. You’ll have to make do with me instead.”

As the bandages tightened, all John could do was lie there, drawing breath after ragged breath, soaking in the pain. Finally, Elzevir finished tying off the knot.

“There. Now you can rest.”

“Thank you.”

Elzevir removed a leather flask from his belt, and upended it over John’s open mouth. From the thin trickle of water that emerged, John knew that it was almost empty. He gulped thirstily.

Elzevir returned to the fire and continued to tend it. John exhaled deeply, and his clenched fists finally began to relax. He stared at the rocky ceiling above him, and considered the possibility that he would never see Grace again - that he would spend the rest of his life on the run.

“What can we do?” he asked, agitated. “What can we do, Elzevir?”

“Nothing until you can walk. Get some rest.”

As evening fell, a bitter wind blew in from the sea, and a fierce cold descended on the cave. The two fugitives began to shiver.

John turned his face towards the heat of the fire, revealing his bloodless pallor.

“Elzevir,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “I’m cold.”

Elzevir fetched the young man’s coat and draped it across his body, careful not to disturb the bandages. John’s arms withdrew beneath the coat, seeking warmth, but it made no difference. It was as if the cold were coming from within as well as without.

“Can’t we - can’t we go further into the cave?”

“We’ve gone as far as we can.”

“Tell me the truth,” he forced out, “Will I lose my leg?”

“No. I can promise you that.”

“But it feels like - it feels like it’s splitting open. It hurts so much.”

“Don’t pay it any heed,” said Elzevir, “Think of something else. That Mohune girl - Grace. Have you kissed her yet?”

“That’s none of your business!” John said, affronted.

“Being a gentleman is all well and good, but don’t drag your feet. She might start wondering if you even fancy her or not.”

“Elzevir!”

“It’s the truth. Women need assurances.”

“Please, don’t speak of this any more.” John’s fingers felt like ice; he drew his arms closer to his body, his hands squirming at his chest for warmth. Lying on the sandy floor of the cave, he shook violently. “I’m freezing.”

“You won’t be for long.”

John was too busy suffering to consider what that meant. But as the evening deepened, Elzevir’s fears were proven true: the phantom cold turned to heat, and the chills turned to fever.

John was no longer pale and shivering, but flushed and sweating. His dark curls wilted into disarray. Febrile perspiration soaked his white shirt, which clung to him in a way that felt indecent. When he tried to turn over, his leg twisted, and a great jagged spike of pain stabbed through him like a knife. He cried out wordlessly, and the cry brought Elzevir to his side.

“You awake, lad?”

“El…Elzevir?” John rasped, “My leg is on fire.”

He felt Elzevir’s calloused hand on his forehead, checking his temperature.

“You’re running a fever.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, to think of anything else besides his burning leg and the inescapable heat. He pushed away the coat covering him, and attempted to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers seemed to have lost their coordination.

He perceived a coolness on his forehead, which drew from him a wordless gasp. Something soft - a damp, cold cloth - was being pressed to his face, bringing a blessed relief to his feverish head. His eyes flickered half-open, but his blurred vision took a while to focus. Elzevir had fetched seawater and was mopping his brow.

“It’ll pass,” said Elzevir as he mopped John’s forehead. “You just have to endure.”

“I want…I want to go home,” he moaned, “I should never…I should never have…”

“No point dwelling on regrets,” said Elzevir as he dabbed John’s neck and collarbone, trying to cool his throat. “You’re here, I’m here - that’s all there is.”

The rag was growing warm, and the relief it brought lasted only a few seconds before dissipating.

“The treasure…Blackbeard…the diamond…What was the point of it all?” John lamented, “It was a foolish dream…A boy’s dream.”

Grains of sand caught in his dry throat, and he was seized by a violent coughing fit which left his stomach muscles aching.

The cooling cloth disappeared, and this time, it didn’t return. Elzevir was gathering his things.

“Wait,” John wheezed, “Where…where are you going?”

“Inland, to find fresh water. You’re thirsty, and the salt out there is useless to us.”

“Don’t go. I’ll be fine. Just stay with me.”

“Lad, lie still. You need water and that’s what I’m going to fetch.”

“What if you don’t come back? What if they catch you?

“They won’t.”

John heard his footsteps crunching away across the rocks and sand, heading towards the mouth of the cave.

“Come back,” he wheezed, “Don’t leave me alone. Stay.”

But there was no reply.

The smuggler was gone. John was alone.

With difficulty, the young man lifted his head and looked down. When his lower body came into focus, he didn’t recognise it - his right thigh had swollen in size and turned an alarming shade of red. Horror washed over him. His head wobbled on his weakened neck, and he slumped back onto the sand with a gasp.

“Please. Stay,” he said to the empty cave.

The night passed restlessly, spent writhing and groaning in the dirt. John’s condition worsened until he found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, unsure of where he was or how he’d come to be there.

By midnight, the fire was burning low and the cold was seeping back in, but John was beyond caring. Delirium had taken hold, and his fevered brain began to play tricks on him. He was no longer sure if it was the rocky ceiling of the cave over his head, or the wooden rafters of the tavern, or the open sky.

He dreamed of the cold ocean washing over him, the white spume breaking over his head, but no matter how much he swam upward, he couldn’t reach the sunlight above.

He dreamed of the bottomless blue, and barnacle-coated rocks, and handfuls of sand slipping between his fingers as he searched for long-lost treasure - a boy’s dream of adventure which had turned to sorrow in the cold light of adulthood.

He dreamed of a storm-lashed sea beneath a thundering night sky, and a ship tossing up and down before being dashed upon the rocks, at the cost of every soul onboard.

He dreamed of Grace Mohune swimming at his side, her long hair streaming in the water, and for the first time, finally, there was no pain. But when he reached for her hand, she dissipated like the foam.

“Grace,” he uttered deliriously, “Grace…”

As the fever reached its peak, John descended into incoherence. His confused ravings lost all semblance of clarity, and he lay crying out for help that wasn’t there. Finally, as dawn lightened the sky, the agitation left him, his aching muscles went limp, and he lay motionless upon the sand.

Elzevir returned with the sunrise, carrying a refilled flask and a stolen leather skin of fresh water - only to find that the fire had burned out and John wasn’t moving. Crouching beside him, he checked the bandages on his upper leg, noting that the swelling had receded. He felt John’s neck for a pulse, but discovered only a faint flutter.

“John?” said Elzevir roughly, “Open your eyes, lad.”

He brushed the matted hair aside and checked his temperature. As he did so, John stirred and mumbled faintly. The old smuggler breathed a sigh of relief.

The miraculous had happened. A new day had broken, and with it, John Trenchard’s fever.

For @nealsneen

#aneurin barnard #fanfic #moonfleet #john trenchard #whump #fangirl #fanfiction #he is so pretty

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