#anyways i guess another fun fact for the story: 'scarlet merry' is kinda a play on 'jolly roger' aka captain hooks ship in the classic

[whumpflash]

Never: X Marks the Spot

cw: torture, graphic descriptions, talk of death

previous part

James was bound again, arms and legs wrapped in thick vines, curled up in the middle of Peter's camp. Not tied to anything, not yet. He didn't need to be. Peter had too many eyes on him to have to worry about that.

The camp was in a mossy clearing, the trees that stood around the open area taller than any he'd ever seen, vines decorating their many branches like lace. And in the center of it all, there was a little pool. Its water was clear, swirling like a lazy river, as if being filled by something unseen, though it didn't spill over.

Peter's fountain.

A reminder of the undeath he'd witnessed on the Merry. A reminder of the impossible situation he was now trapped in.

His tormenter hadn't made a move yet, hadn't held the knife to his flesh, hadn't even touched him after the initial flight here.

Peter liked him weak, he'd figured that out by now. Give it a few days with no food, let the feeling of dread build with each passing minute. Wait until he was desperate, hungry, nearly mad with fear. Then he'd act.

When one of the sailors—a man known only as Green—brought him water on the first night, James tried to refuse it. He was past caring about survival now, all he wanted to do was escape, even if the only escape was dying of thirst. But he couldn't quite fight away when they forced his head back, pried his jaw open, poured it in.

With that option taken from him, he started taunting the other sailors, calling them turncoats, cowards, anything that might goad one of them into an attack. It wasn't long before someone tore off his sleeve and gagged him with it.

For days, all he could do was lay miserable on the ground and watch the goings-on of Peter's camp, the strength he'd worked so hard to recover sapping away slowly.

There only ever seemed to be a few men around at any given time, the others coming and going constantly. Peter himself was hardly seen at all.

With nothing else to do, James spent a lot of time thinking. He hoped against hope that Jeddy and the two others were still alive, unharmed. Maybe even sailing away, back to familiarity. Manning a ship such as the Merry would be a challenge with only three, but he was sure they could manage it.

He'd made peace with his own death by now. It was either that or sink into despair completely. After all, what could he do? Even if he were to escape now, Peter couldn't die anymore. He could never rest. All he had left was the hope that it would be something swift in the end, though he knew that was too much to ask of Peter.

But at least it would end.

As the hours passed, he found himself daydreaming of ways to kill his captor. Cut off his head, stab through the heart, cleave him in two. As morbid as it was, it did something to curb the fear that ate at him every waking moment.

If he were to cut Peter apart and scatter the pieces, could he still reform? James wished he could find out, but it was too late now.

He hoped Jeddy and Fiver and Scrap were safe, a small crew, but a crew nonetheless.

He hoped Peter never left the island to inflict his games on anyone else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eventually, the time came. The camp was nearly empty, with everyone off exploring, or gathering food, or whatever it was they did during the day. Everyone except Peter.

He had an easy time tying James down—the latter hardly had the strength to move, let alone fight—and the new position left him almost completely immobilized. James willed himself to breathe steady.

This was inevitable. It would end, it was only a matter of when. It would hurt, but it would end. Still, he couldn't calm his racing heart, couldn't quell the rising fear.

Let it happen, he told himself. Scream and weep if you must. It will end.

Peter reached up to untie the gag, the fabric dry in James' mouth, pulling at his tongue.

He couldn't hold back a whimper as Peter unsheathed the little knife.

Inevitable.

He tried to imagine breaking free, sinking the blade into its master's throat, but all he could picture was the way the flesh would bind itself back together, the way Peter would smile. He clenched his jaw as the other man sliced his shirt open, tracing the scars on his chest with the blade that had formed them.

"You thought it was all just a myth," he murmured. "But look where we are now. Did you ever dream it could be real?"

James didn't dignify that with an answer, but Peter didn't seem to care. 

"X marks the spot," he said, knifepoint resting over James' heart. "Do you wish you could've joined me? I suppose it was never really a choice, but do you wish it were different?"

Did he? If Peter had entered the brig all those weeks ago with a proposition instead of a knife, would he have listened?

To chase a fantasy and live forever aside a traitor didn't sound like him, and even the fear of what was to come wouldn't change that.

"No," he said, and winced as Peter applied just a bit of pressure to the knife, just enough to break skin.

"Even if I offered it now?" he asked.

Only for the chance to rip out Peter's throat.

"Never," James spat. "I'd never follow someone so…" Cruel. "Dull," he finished, and the word had the intended effect of Peter.

"Dull?" An incredulous expression quickly took the place of Peter's smile. "Dull?"

So it was possible to get the upper hand while bound after all.

"You won't even finish our game," James continued. "And I hate to admit it, but I find myself getting rather bored—" Peter's hand closed around his throat, cutting off his words and his air.

"I'll finish our game when I want to finish our game," he said, leaning in close. James' head spun with the pressure, his mouth open, fruitlessly trying to draw in a breath. The terror at not being able to do so was instinctive, but with it came a sort of relief. Would this be it?

No. Peter released him just as his vision began to darken, and he lay there gasping.

"You want me to finish it?" Peter was saying, his words dulled by the pounding in James' skull. "Fine." The little knife was in his hand. "But first, I have one more question." He seized James' chin, forced him to look him in the eye.

James resolved not to plead for any mercies, though he knew he was lying to himself. Only terrible things were to come when Peter was smiling like that.

"Can I cut out your heart?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

James didn't delude himself with the hope it would be anything but slow.

Sharp lines were drawn into his chest one-by-one, scarlet ribbons etched over each rib, the scarred map recarved in red.

He had hoped that at least the shock of the wounds would put him under, but he knew Peter was determined to make it last as long as he could.

A scream was dragged from James as the other man began to peel away the strips of skin, one at a time, like picking the petals off some grotesque flower. And when that was done, when the pain from the individual wounds had blurred into a continuous fire, the knifepoint dug into a rib, sending waves of agony through him as Peter began to saw through the bone.

James writhed against his bonds, his body shaking uncontrollably as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

To hell with trying to beg, he couldn't even think, much less form words. He could no longer feel his limbs, couldn't see, couldn't hear— There was nothing left but the torturous white heat of the knife, steadily burrowing deeper and deeper into his chest.

But then…

But then it stopped.

Did it?

Or was he just too far gone to tell what was happening?

He couldn't even tell if he was still screaming or not.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe it was finally over.

He hoped to God it was finally over.

Dying as nothing more than a sick source of amusement wasn't the kind of end he'd wanted, not in a million years, but it was an end, and it was better than suffering under Peter any longer.

He only wished he could've dragged the son of a bitch down with him.

He was vaguely aware of a voice, of someone kneeling at his side… Jeddy.

Was he dead then? Were they both dead? 

The despair that washed over him was almost enough to rival the pain, the agony that grew with every ragged breath.

He'd hoped it had at least been for something. That she'd be okay, back on the Merry where she belonged.

"James," she said, from somewhere far away.

"I'm sorry," he tried to reply, but his voice wasn't working. What good was it to be dead if everything still hurt so much?

Something bitterly cold splashed across his exposed ribcage, and he was almost certain he screamed again at the contact.

 "James," Jeddy said again, and her voice was clearer this time. "James, please…"

"We need to go." Another voice, somewhere further back, low and urgent. "He won't stay dead forever."

Stay dead?

Jeddy's face was coming more into focus, and behind her, near the edge of the clearing, stood Scrap and Fiver. And behind them…

"What..?" he croaked out, found he could breathe again, that the pain was steadily ebbing away. He knew what he would see before he looked down. The fibers of bone reforming, the ruined flesh repairing itself, everything settling back into place on his bloodied chest.

Jeddy cut him free, then tucked an arm under his back, easing him up. Even the dizziness and hunger pangs were fading. He stood with Jeddy's help, looking toward the others.

Peter lay on the ground by the treeline, body spasming, hands uselessly clawing at the wooden spear that went right through his throat and into the earth, pinning him there.

"Can you walk?"

He tore his gaze away from his downed enemy. "I… I think…" his fingers grazed his stomach, the scars there still present, but fully healed. "What did you do?"

Jeddy's eyes went to the ground. "I–I took some water from the fountain. I tried askin', but you were too bad off to answer. I didn't know what else to do, I—" she looked up at him. "I'm sorry–"

"No. No, I'm not angry," James said quickly. "I just…" he swallowed. "You came after me. I didn't think…"

"You're the captain," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Can't sail off without the captain."

"Jeddy…" He wasn't sure which of them it was that initiated the embrace, but suddenly their arms were around each other, holding on like it was the only thing anchoring them to the earth.

"Y'promised you'd come back aboard and I'll hold you to it," she said, voice muffled by his shoulder.

"That I did," he replied, unable to keep the waver out of his voice. "But I couldn't have kept that promise without the best first mate I could ask for."

It felt as if a great deal of strength had been returned to him as they pulled back from each other and made for the treeline. He couldn't tell if it was an effect of the healing water, or if it was something more.

"We'd best hurry," Fiver said, taking the lead. "Peter's boys could be back at any minute."

"Onwards then," James replied. "The Merry's waiting for us."

Tag list: (<3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next part

@hold-back-on-the-comfort , @i-can-even-burn-salad , @whumpsday , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @rabbitdrabbles , @cyberneticwhump , @dream-whump , @whumpyzombie , @kixngiggles , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @chibichibivale , @itsdappleagain , @lelly-belly , @whumpy-catfish , @enteredin2eternity ,