#cxptainflint

"There he is! Get him!" He is running for his life, sprinting through the forest, fighting through the thick snow as he hears the howling of dogs approaching from behind. This is it. His story ending before it even has the time to begin.

Next thing, he is falling. Falling into the abyss where nothing else awaits him but a certain death

It's so fucking cold. This is the first pinch of reality. The moistness of the pillow which his head rests upon. Then the damn brightness around, even despite the rainy clouds, the world is far too bright. He curls and uncurls his fingers, clawing at the wet dirt under his fingernails. ( what a familiar feeling )

The sound falling from his lips is more towards a whimper than anything, like a wounded animal trying its damndest to will the body into movement. ( you have to move )

He pushes himself up, eyes squinting at the world, then collapses back onto the ground. ' fuck ' is uttered under his breath. Good God, but his head hurt, as if someone decided to send up firework behind his eyes. A sob follows, then a deep breath, once more he makes an attempt to push himself up. Slowly but surely. ( get up )

It takes some time, but several trials and errors later, and he is almost on his feet. Eyes squinting at the world around him, grasping at a tree branch with an iron grip. Victory is short lived, however, for his legs give up under him, and a new sharp pain shoots from his side, as he collapses back to the ground on his knees so hard his teeth clatter. ( pathetic )

Bile rises in his throat, the nausea so strong he has to truly fight against the need to spill his guts all over the ground. "Shitshitshitshit..." He touches his forehead and through his blurry vision, he can see his fingers slick with blood. ( that explains a lot )

He sits for a moment. Tears staining his grime-covered face. Arms hanging uselessly at his sides, as his head tilts back to stare at the falling rain. This pain... he's felt it before... funny how the brain makes you forget such trauma. ( breathe, john )

The Savannah sun had been fierce that day, the guards had told the men as soon as they got the soil plowed and ready to be planted, they would be excused for the day. Thomas, eager to get back to get out of the sun, put his back into it, working as hard as he could to get him and the other men the reprieve they all so desperately needed. The life was so drastically different than his life back in Whitehall, his once soft hands that used to debate politics and philosophy were now calloused, and dry, a testament to how hard the man had worked to survive over the past ten years.

Oglethorpe's plantation wasn't ideal, a prison was still a prison no matter how you wanted to present it. However, considering what he had endured in Bedlam, he would take the plantation any day over a traditional jail. At least he felt like he could breathe at the plantation, that he had at least some form of privacy. He had also garnered favor with Lord Oglethorpe by proving himself not to be the problem that his father and Peter Ashe had painted him when he was brought to their gates, so he even had more freedom than others did. But still, Thomas yearned for his freedom, just like the other men there.

There had been rumors and whispers of a new prisoner being brought to the plantation today. "I hear it's a pirate!" He had overheard one of the men comment, and another added, "Yeah! I wonder which one it is?!" Thomas had kept his thoughts to himself but listened to the men as he had ate breakfast. Wondering himself what poor soul was being brought amongst their ranks?

Focused on his work he could hear the men unshackling what he assumed to be the new prisoner. Back to them, he turned the dirt with his hoe and had taken a moment to stand and wipe the sweat from his brow, but as he took a moment to breathe, something made him take pause. He felt as if he was being watched.

The men were watched 24/7, but this was something different, something new, but also familiar. He could almost hear the air around him telling him to turn around, a familiar voice, a kind one. Slowly he turned around to face what ever happened to be watching him. He first noticed the sheer amount of men that were there just to drop off one prisoner but as the man was uncuffed, and slowly started walking towards him, the heart in Thomas' chest began to beat hard against his ribcage. No. Thomas thought to himself. No he's gone, your mind is playing tricks again.

As the prisoner got closer to him, Thomas was frozen a moment, trying to take in what he was seeing. Those shoulders, the eyes, how often had he dreamt of those blue eyes that seemed to look right into his soul? Thomas stared in disbelief for what felt like an eternity before joy bubbled through his chest and a smile crossed his features, one that he never thought he'd give to anyone ever again.

But James was here, he was alive and he was here, with him.

“ Oh you heard me, Flint. You can either get the fuck out of my fucking sight or I can make you. Your funeral. “