suffering soiree

He twitched at the sudden pressure. They trained so many of his instincts out of him, but when roused from sleep, some found their way back. He recoiled as best he could, a soft sound of pained confusion escaping him. But he came to quicker this time, and seemed to realize where he was.

She removed her foot from his head. "Get up."

He stumbled up into a standing position, the effort made harder without the use of his hands. She’d been serious, then. For some reason, when she’d said in the morning, he had not interpreted it as the second he woke up. Maybe he should have. His brain wasn’t even working all the way yet. He tugged idly at the chain, meaning to just wipe at his eyes, but stopped when he realized that would be impossible.

The threat of further kicking hung in the air for a moment, before she fiddled with the padlock and released the chain that kept Delta's cuffs tethered to the bolt in the floor. She looped a finger around the chain-links between his wrists and gave it a sharp tug.

"We've got somewhere to be."

“Where’s that, sir?” he asked, biting back the yawn and following behind her. It might’ve just been better for him to stay quiet at that point, but the question seemed inoffensive enough. He felt oddly cold as she walked him through the metal corridors.

She pulled the chain forward with a grunt. "Upstairs." 

Amira dragged Delta down the hall to the elevators. They ascended to one of the upper decks, a large open control-room like space, with the far wall made entirely of glass, looking out into the starry depths beyond. 

There was some sort of contraption, an apparatus of some kind, erected in the center of the room. It was like a frame, a bit larger than a clothing rack, with bolts at each of its corners. Members of the crew stilled as they entered, filing out to fill the space surrounding the central apparatus. 

His reaction to the sight was intensely negative. It was nice to see the stars again, however briefly. His cell had afforded no view of them — and he missed being able to roam freely. But it was all overshadowed by the room’s centerpiece.

“…Sir?” he addressed Amira nervously, quietly. Not pleased with any metal thing meant to hold him, not pleased with the appearance of other people within the space. He kept his voice low so only she could hear. 

Fear slowed him. The resistance was subtle, but he was definitely dragging his feet. He didn’t like to. He knew it wouldn’t do anything — they could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d have no recourse. But the fear and uncertainty were fully gnawing at him. It was the not knowing that got to him. She could at least give him a warning, some indication of what was about to happen. He’d gone all rigid.

Amira pulled Delta to the center where Marston met her, and together they tethered Delta's hands to the bolts in the top two corners, two more shackles locked around his ankles and held them fast against the bottom two corners. He was pinned like a butterfly inside the metallic frame.

He stopped fighting it just as soon as she moved to shackle him. It was exceptionally obvious that she was going to go through with this. She’d already drawn a crowd. Delta felt he was beginning to understand her better, knew well enough that there was no way she’d be able to back out of this now—even if she wanted to.

Amira said nothing as she chained him in, only responding to his little confused inquiry when she stepped back to take in the sight of him, to make sure all was in place. 

"The problem is clear," she projected her voice, addressing Delta but also the entire room. "You've said it yourself. In fact, you keep saying it over and over again. 'I belong to Empire.'” 

"And I'd thought," she paused, as if for dramatic effect—her voice was different when she addressed the whole room, "that we had settled this. That you understood the terms of your own surrender." 

"But," she paused, letting a half-breath of silence hang in the air alongside her captive. "It seems you are still suffering from that same stubborn delusion. You still don't quite realize your position."

"Well, you're going to learn exactly who you belong to today."

Delta’s assumption was only confirmed by the way her voice changed. She wasn’t even speaking to him anymore. She was just addressing the audience. He’d had enough experience with spectacle to know when a show is being put on—and his role as unwilling participant came as no surprise either.

This felt different though. His stomach dropped a little as he realized he had totally lost his chance to negotiate with her. It had ended as soon as they’d entered the room.

All the effort now was spent on a good performance. He didn’t want to risk her ire by ruining it, did not want to debase himself with any futile attempts to stop it. But just as before, he had no idea what she wanted from him, no idea what was about to happen.

His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. They’d fixed on some odd point on the floor, where he could pretend not to notice the room’s laser focus on him and her. He gave no reply.

Amira was glad he didn't respond. She imagined he'd figured out it was probably the best choice, as any argument would only serve to prove her point. 

Marston walked back over to Amira holding something metal in her hands—a long metal rod with something carved at the end, like some sort of design. 

He recognized the brand for what it was and was fully unable to stop himself from panic. His wrists turned idly in the restraints. There was clearly no hope of actually escaping them, but his own nervousness prevented him from staying still.

Amira held it in her hand and approached Delta closer, holding it up for him to see. It was a bird, carved out of metal, with its wings spread high, like a halo over its head. 

"You probably won't recognize this. It's an Eastern Xolluvian Thunderbird, known for its call that could sound for miles through the densest forests.” A hint of something almost reverent laced her tone when she said this, although it disappeared just as quickly. "They aren't around anymore, though. Would you care to guess why?"

He did look at her now—because she was close, because she wanted him to. The look in his eyes had turned pleading—it would have even if he wasn’t trying to.

“Sir,” he said, completely ignoring the question. “I know who I belong to. This isn’t necessary. Please.”

His voice was level and low. In fact, his lips had barely moved. He was deliberate in this — no one else would hear the answer he had given. It wasn’t for their benefit. He was trying to speak to her now. Not the Captain, not whoever she was pretending to be in the moment. Amira.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke, piercing like arrows as though trying to see through him—did he mean he belonged to her? Or Empire? She'd heard him say he belonged to Empire more times than she could count—but if he'd meant her— 

In the end, she knew it didn't matter. The stage had been set. The actors to their positions. The scene would proceed as directed. 

She lowered her tone to match his own, a hint of bite mixed with a tinge of regret. "You don't decide what's necessary."

This was actually happening. Delta withered a bit from the rebuke, though truthfully he’d already seen it coming.

He still twisted a bit in the restraints, cursing the anticipation. He’d been biting his lip, but stopped, too nervous he might pierce through it when the time came.

She took a step back, raising the carved metallic bird once more. "This creature, like so many others,” She was addressing the room again. “—fell to the destruction of your Empire. The way they gutted the lands—as they did our people—it drove many species and civilizations to extinction. The planet doesn't look green from orbit these days. The Thunderbird got snuffed out with the rest of its ecosystem.” 

To his credit, he did listen, though he again suspected this was more for the benefit of the audience than any message intended for him. He understood political theater. He recognized this was important to her.

“We wear its image on our flags, our backs, to remember this creature and all the rest taken from us by Empire. And now, it will mark you as well. I want you to remember every life you've taken, every civilization you've helped destroy. Every world you've snuffed out for the sake of your beloved Prince. I want you never to forget, for as long as this marks your chest, that you are my property now."

The speech had turned abruptly personal. He felt a little bit as if she’d just raked her nails across his heart. It had scraped and disrupted the secret he’d kept so tight in his chest.

Every life you’ve taken, every civilization you’ve helped destroy.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said automatically, the only thing he’d said at all today that might be halfway audible to the room. He’d apologized to her so often, over everything, that to say it and mean it felt like an almost alien experience. The wound felt raw. Something deeper and colder than shame pooled within it.

He remembered he used to fantasize about what he might deserve. It had been far worse than this.

Amira blinked at him, eyebrows twitching up just a touch when he said it—he almost sounded sincere—but he was desperate, she was sure, to say anything to end this. No, in the end, if he was learning his lesson now, it was only because she was finally showing him she was serious. To back down now would teach him the opposite—that he could bowl her over with a bat of his eyelashes. Never.

She handed the metal bird off to Marston, who held it still while two other crew members pointed large bright lasers at the metal until it began to glow. 

It grew from a deep red to a bright orange, and the laser guns powered down before Marston passed the metal baton back to Amira. 

“…Can I have something to bite?” he asked, by way of concession. His voice was still low, but not with the same hushed urgency. He’d watched carefully as the metal had changed colors. He knew it would not be the same burns he was used to. He knew just from looking at it that it’d be worse.

She heard Delta's question and considered it. "Fine," she said, deciding the burn itself would be enough and he didn't need to bite his own tongue out in the process. That would cause more problems than it would fix. 

She nodded to Marston, who reached down and unclipped a leather strap around her thigh—one of several that held her various weapons and gadgetry. She held the leather to Delta's lips.

He muttered his thanks from around the leather strap. He really hadn’t expected her to agree to that. He was pretty sure she was committed to making this as unbearable as possible—every other action she’d taken in the past twenty four hours seemed to suggest as much.

Delta wasn’t sure whether to look or not when the iron struck—and he hadn’t made up his mind about it when it abruptly made contact with his chest.

He thrashed. It was the only time in years he could remember actually trying to escape his restraints. It came on no conscious level—just base instinct, some animal consciousness in pure desperation to get away. The scream was muffled by the strap, then half choked off by his own will—he was still trying to take it in silence, though he had so clearly failed at that.

Amira heard the sizzle before she heard the scream. And then it came, muffled by the leather but still bright with pain, with panic, with the desperation of a trapped creature, cornered and helpless, finally getting what it deserved. 

She watched the way he twitched, bright and seizing—the way he still writhed when she pulled it away, before withering in the chains like a wilting flower. 

It burned hotter and lasted forever, more than he would have ever expected necessary for the image to take. He was in sheer panic as the iron seared into him—and remained in sheer panic for several moments after it was finally pulled away.

Amira passed the metal behind her and stepped closer, speaking only to him. 

"I want you to tell me who you belong to, Delta."

Delta blinked. She’d asked a bit too soon. He needed the time to come back to himself. The look in his eyes was still dazed and wild. But she reached him, somehow. He had to speak around pained breaths. When he spoke, it was like he did not fully understand where the words were coming from.

“Um,” he winced, like even speaking pained him, like there was nothing for him in this moment but pain. “You? I-? You, sir. I belong to you. Um.”

His own breathing distracted him. He seemed like he was having trouble with it.

It wasn't as eloquent as she'd hoped, but all things considered—

"Correct. But you can do better than that. Let's hear it again now, louder this time. Tell us who you belong to, Delta."

There was a soft whine, mostly unrelated to her order.

“I belong to you, sir,” he repeated without hesitation. His eyes were fully squeezed shut; he was only barely conscious of what she was saying to him. It seemed like he was capable of entertaining two fully separate experiences simultaneously. He could tell her what she wanted to hear. Most of his thoughts were still occupied by the burning by the make it fucking stop please. But the iron had been pulled away. They weren’t hurting him anymore. But the burn was still there, still running clean through him, and would be. Forever? He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were still knee-jerk and animalistic. Dazed. It hurt.

“Good,” she said. “If you make any attempt to mar the scarring or the healing process I will do it again on your other side of your chest. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t stand the tone she was still taking with him, like she was still mad, like even this had not been enough. It confirmed something he already knew, something he’d turned over in his head over and over again when he’d first learned what murder meant. That no amount of repentance would ever be enough. That he will never be forgiven. All his thoughts were still clouded with pain, so much that he felt he was dreaming.

It was harder for him to decipher her words than the effect, but when he did manage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no desire to do that, nor even the knowledge of how to. The threat was all that registered. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, quieter. He wanted it to be over. He hoped that was what she was building to.

“You’re to make no attempt to pull away. To resist us. And the attitude is something I should never have to mention again. Am I understood.”

Delta gave a morose nod, and at the snap of her fingers, Amira summoned two crew members to dismantle Delta from the apparatus. He was positioned on his knees, forehead pressed into the ground, his wrists cuffed behind him this time. His ankles were still chained to the sides of the frame, making the position awkward and putting unnecessary pressure on his hips. The horror of his fate settled in when he felt his cuffed wrists being drawn up above his back and attached to a chain that dangled from the top of the apparatus. The position forced his shoulders to strain painfully, trapping him in the forced bow.

It didn’t take him long at all to slip into total misery. It wasn’t hard. He was in pain and given no distraction for it. The position was meant to humiliate him. It succeeded. 

Delta knew nobody viewed him as a person. This kind of treatment should not have registered as a surprise. But it did. It was fucking painful. He was at least granted the option of pretending sometimes, that he did not exist solely for other people, that he was not just an object that constantly needed to be put in its place. It was able to recede into background noise most of the time.

Here, that reality was painful and unavoidable. He wasn’t even allowed to move. They’d done it to hurt him, because they thought he deserved it. They’d done it to remind him of his place, to make the difference between himself and real people so stark that it could never be doubted. He understood. He understood that, so could they please just fucking stop.

He was crying. It started without him meaning to, and persisted beyond his ability to control it. He pressed his forehead tighter to the ground, just trying to brace against it, to have something that could ground him. 

It was hard not to despair when his compliance had not been enough, when every second he stayed here represented a second in which he was not forgiven, in which they were still mad at him, even though he was so fucking sorry. It was hard not to despair that this was what he’d been born to, molded into against his will. He’d never asked for this. He never wanted to be this. 

He brushed up against his own nerve with that thought—and was unable to fully silence the sob that it brought up. Fuck, he was losing it. He took deep breaths to steady himself, to not get completely hysterical. He wanted to.

He wondered if Paris was even looking for him.

༻✧༺

Amira’s voice echoed off the walls of the deck where everyone had gathered, pausing every now and then to let her squad leaders give their reports. 

She was ignoring him. He was meant to stay there for a reason. He was meant to learn his place and have it reinforced until it needed no further reminder. She was sick of having the same argument with him, night after night. About insolence, about attitude, about loyalty. About Empire. Her loathing for everything that had happened—everything they’d done—everything he had done—led her tone, sturdy and unquestioning, through that morning’s all-hands meeting.

It went on as usual until something unexpected happened. Someone spoke out—Maddox—a lower level engineer with glasses, his braided hair pulled back into a ponytail—he’d raised his hand, as though anything about what he was about to say was anything close to polite.

“Sir, Sir?—He’s, he’s crying… Sir.” Maddox lowered his hand, eyeing the ground, as though expecting a scolding. Amira studied him. She turned her gaze to Delta, trembling in his position with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground.

They’d said Delta’s name a few times throughout the meeting — not addressing him, not even acknowledging his presence in the room — just the passing mention of his powers. His utility. His heart had stopped spiking after the first few mentions of it. By then, he’d almost tuned it out.

For this reason, he almost didn’t notice when they were actually talking about him. 

He’s crying.

Shame and fear flooded him in equal measure, with another short burst of energy about how unfair it was. He hadn’t even been making noise. He’d done everything to quiet the sobs. He couldn’t help the shaking, but he knew he’d likely be doing that even if he wasn’t crying. The position put too much strain on him to avoid it.

He forced himself to stop just as soon as it was acknowledged, quieting entirely, nearly holding his breath. He half-expected to be kicked for it. He almost expected Amira to press his head to the ground with her boots again, like she wanted to destroy the most valuable part of him.

“He looks adequately humbled, does he not?” Amira addressed the engineer with narrowed eyes, while her projected tone held the rest of the crowd—the whole room. 

Her response came just as callous and did nothing to calm or disabuse him. She’d wanted this. Something in Delta ached.

“He’s—I’m just saying, Sir, he’s… been through a lot, today, Sir.” 

It was only when Maddox spoke again that Delta could understand what was actually happening. Some human response to the crying—sympathy he was never meant to elicit—it surprised him. That much was rarely extended to real people in Empire, let alone to him. 

Amira was buried for a moment, pupils dilating to tiny, shaking points. How dare he. How dare this nobody—this ignorant foot soldier— But she steadied herself. Caught her rising breath. 

She had realized something much bigger was happening now. She was losing control of the room. 

If it was one man dissenting, it could be more. Not that she’d ever relent to one person’s will, especially one so lowly ranked—no— No. This was going to take tact. Not a complete shut down, but a middle ground. She couldn’t relent entirely. Plus, Delta deserved it. After everything was said and done, he would always deserve it. 

“I assure you, that the next ten minutes will not mean his death. I have one final announcement…”

He still didn’t get his hopes up. All his hope was cautious, but he had already braced himself for hours of this. He tried to be quiet for the remainder of it.

༻✧༺

The next ten minutes dragged into the next fifteen, into the next twenty, as Amira discussed various battle plans and training strategies for the psychic, bowing and shaking at her feet.

He accepted pretty quickly that it'd been a false promise, likely only meant to dismiss the concern. Delta counted up to the ten minute mark, and realizing she was nowhere near done speaking, stopped counting. He'd stopped crying, too, for the time being. Though he hadn't been directly punished for it, the shock of it being acknowledged had scared him badly enough to not want to do it again. 

It was hard to relax into the position. That was the point, of course. He understood how these things worked. It was getting more painful each second, the pressure at his shoulders compounding so severely he feared they might pop out of the sockets. He knew that he would've begged, if he thought it would do any good. 

Amira thought Delta looked properly cowed, kneeling there, cowering like he'd be safer if he just kept his head down. 

Despite her satisfaction at her prisoner’s position, Amira resented that his plea for pity was somewhat working. On her crew members, anyway. Well, on that one, at least. And a few others, from what she could tell from the few concerned expressions passed around the room. Her ranks loathed Empire, unquestionably so, but the sentiment that radiated from her team right now was uncommonly unsettling—it made Amira question things a bit. Back up a step, perhaps. 

At twenty minutes, Amira's topics were getting checked off her list one by one, and her worries with them—save for that pretty blue diamond kneeling in the center of the room.

Burned. Branded with her insignia. 

She needed to finish this, properly, before anything blew over. 

"Good," she said, to no one in particular, when the latest officer had finished his statement. 

"I'm finished with this for today, you all know your assignments. We make way for the Serraphial Cluster. The NeuWong system isn't far from there, and our next contact is close. New guns. New mechs, if we play our cards right. I expect everyone to their positions immediately following commissary hour. Dismissed."

She mumbled orders to Jackie and Jimenez, who stood obediently behind her. "Escort him back."

Delta wasn't expecting it when she finally agreed to let him down. He almost didn't hear it. He collapsed entirely when his wrists were unshackled from the chain overhead, arms having gone completely numb with the effort. Luckily, he didn't have far to fall.

Jackie's arm shot downwards as soon as she released the chain that held his cuffed wrists aloft and Delta went down—her hand caught his shoulder, hoisting him back up the second the burned flesh on his chest was about to hit the ground. 

Amira had said not to fuck up the scarring. Surely, releasing him straight onto the fresh burn was a bad start to that. With a relieved breath, she maneuvered him around with Jimenez' help. Delta moved like a limp puppet on strings, lifted only by the forces that held him afloat—no resistance to gravity if left to his own. 

The sensation was not new, but it never stopped feeling odd. What was disappointing was that release did not even register as relief. It was just a different kind of pain. It would feel better, eventually. He knew it would recede some in the following minutes.

His disappointment was intensified by the fact they'd left his wrists restrained behind him, so the full range of motion would still not be afforded to him. He thought he understood why. They didn't want him to touch the burn. It wasn't like he was all that inclined to do that in the first place, even if he hadn't been threatened.

He had to lean on them slightly just to walk upright, his legs also numbed from disuse. He said nothing. He did cast one final look at Amira, just to see if she was even looking, if she'd even speak to him again after this.

Delta was dragged down back to the lower levels of the ship, back to the room that held his cell, that held his chains. But something changed this time. 

It was clear he’d peaked past exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Though he gave them no struggle, he also gave them zero help. He all but collapsed in the handlers’ grip. He knew it was kind of a rude thing to do, to make someone bear all his weight like that, but it wasn’t like there was much of it to begin with. He wasn’t capable of holding his own anymore.

Jackie, the handler to his right, handed Delta entirely over to Jimenez, the tall handler to his left, until Delta was held back by the man at his biceps while he watched Jackie cross the room towards a small storage closet. She wrenched a small, dense parcel from the shelving unit inside, which, upon unwrapping it from its outer canvass, appeared to be a foldable camping cot. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as the cot was unfolded, too tired to think much about it. 

Jackie adjusted the cot to take up the meager floor space in the back of the cell, before gesturing to Jimenez to deposit Delta atop it. Delta was kind of uncomfortable being maneuvered onto it—but the medical scene was at least familiar. He knew how to be a good patient. It was somewhat gentle, better than a full on throw. It still hurt when he moved. Any dramatic motion made him almost blackout with pain. They’d tried. They had the burn to worry about.

"The burn," Jimenez muttered to Jackie when Delta was settled on the cot. 

"Yeah, so? Get your ass in the cabinets and find something. It's gotta heal correctly," Jackie hissed, voice low, as though Delta were a sleeping child not to be disturbed. 

She stood over him, watching him, waiting for any reaction, while Jimenez stomped off to rummage through the medical supplies in the adjacent cabinets. 

"Burn salve?" His voice carried across the room despite his posture, crouched down, his head still buried in a lower cabinet. 

"Should do it!" Jackie called back, suddenly abandoning any commitment to whispered silence. 

"Gauze," Jackie called after a few seconds, and Jimenez rummaged for a few more seconds before he called out, "Got it," and approached the cell once more.

Delta looked back, but the stare was impassive. Even now, there was a kind of distance forming between them. It did not feel as though he was really seeing her. 

They’re broke, he thought again, bitterly. But he corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure they had better medical treatment available, some sterile room. They must have. It just wasn’t being afforded to him at the moment. The thought made him mildly nervous. That the people he belonged to would risk everything to keep him healthy was a constant he had never had to fear would be taken away.

Luckily, there were the bare essentials in the room—a sink, Jackie washed her hands, put on gloves, and began to apply the salve to his chest carefully. 

Delta’s eyes snapped shut again at the contact. Though the motion was careful and the salve was meant to soothe, the wound was still raw and burning. The only thing that kept him from crying out was some well-trained reflex to be quiet. He stopped breathing instead.

They made him sit up for the bandages, unlocking the cuffs around his wrists so they could wrap the gauze in a long ribbon around his torso. Delta let himself be manipulated, having now been thoroughly dissuaded from the idea of putting up any resistance at all. The layers wound around his chest like a constricting blanket, soft yet pressing against the fresh burn. 

He didn’t thank them. It was not out of impoliteness, just habit. His old medics didn’t like it when he spoke.

They laid him down afterwards. "There. He'll be fine like this," came Jackie's voice.

“His hands,” Jimenez commented. “Shouldn’t he be… you know, restrained?”

“We can do the one,” Jackie responded, lifting the closest of Delta’s wrists and snapping it into one of the cuffs that sat chained into the bolt in the floor. 

“Keep him from rolling over,” Jackie confirmed, knowing Delta had enough leeway to shift around a bit but not enough to ruin the burn. 

Without much more than another word, they left the cell and locked it, closing the heavy sliding door behind them.

༻✧༺

Next chapter is already written! Coming soon!

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“Go to hell!” he heard the bloody man—Sawyer—shout, though Jonah could hear the pain in his voice. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this man, to be mouthing off and cursing his torturer in his position. Jonah knew from personal experience that he would’ve been begging for mercy long before this point, had it been him at the business end of the tall man’s whip. 

Another lash, even harsher than the ones before, and it finally drew a long pained scream from the restrained man. 

“There we go,” the whip-wielding man sneered. “‘Bout time I get some pretty noises outta you for my efforts.”

“Fu—fuck y-you,” Sawyer’s voice was wavering now, catching on his every sharp, pained inhale.

“Still as shameless as ever aren’t you, mutt,” the wielder hissed, “All these years and we still haven’t managed to beat that shitty attitude out of you, ‘ave we?” 

Sawyer said nothing, only panting in his restraints, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath in the brief respite before the lashes started up again. 

“Whip him harder!” someone in the crowd called, to the furious cheers of the onlookers. 

“Mutt fuckin’ deserves it!” Another yelled. Then the crowd descended into mad shouts and jeers, swirling together in a symphony of thrilled, angry voices as the weilder brought the whip down on Sawyer’s back again and again. The crowd’s cheers served as an orchestral backdrop against the thunder-claps of the whip and the screams of the one at its mercy.

Jonah looked to his sides, terrified. He locked eyes with Crowe, who gave him a fierce grin.

“Stop!” Jonah cried, “What did he— What did he even do?”

“Oh, you should learn quickly that that stupid mutt can never keep his damn mouth shut,” Crowe said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Jonah had thought Carlisle to be the cruelest man he’d ever met, but it was clear he was in just as much danger here, on the ship he thought would be his mercy. 

Jonah wanted to cry out to them, to scream at them to fucking stop hurting the poor man, but his voice failed him, fear took over and froze him in place. He cursed the way fear always seemed to grip him in ice until he couldn’t move at all, but the self-preserving part of Jonah knew that to call out for mercy on the man’s behalf would only cause the whip to be turned on himself instead. So he stood there, Graves and Crowe’s grip tight on either of his biceps, and watched with horrified tears streaking down his cheeks. He felt awful for the man, Sawyer, but knew he didn’t want to face the same fate. Maybe if he was good, if he obeyed and didn’t talk out of turn, he wouldn’t face the brunt of that tall man’s whip. 

“Oh,” Graves leaned in, pointing to the wielder. “That there’s Voss, our fine ship’s first mate. Bit of a right terror he is, an’ awfully good with that whip, though don’t tell him I said that..” Graves paused a moment, “Just.. uh, try not to get on his bad side, eh?” 

Jonah gazed in terror at Voss, who wielded the whip with such confidence, such ease, he could give Carlisle himself a run for his money. He watched the man pause his relentless onslaught for a moment to work the soreness out of his shoulder, rolling it in circles in the joint. Voss must have been working up a sweat, for he slipped his leather coat off to reveal a simple low-cut burgundy tunic below it, the fabric was unbuttoned most of the way to expose his chest and the top half of his torso. Jonah could see the tattooed tentacles of a kraken winding up his chest and neck, he saw them spreading down his arms where the sleeves had been rolled up. 

Working the tension from his shoulder, Voss took up the whip again, and lashed Sawyer over and over, who only continued to curse him out between blood-curdling screams. 

“Fuck— Fuck you— Y-you f-fucking bastard—AAAHH!”

Eventually, the cursing stopped, and Sawyer only cried out at the fire of each hit, groaning in pain in the seconds between them.

Sawyer was clearly in too much pain to speak, and Jonah’s vision was getting blurry with the amount of tears welling up behind his eyelids. At some point, Voss gave one furious crack of the whip and Sawyer collapsed, limp in his bindings, hanging from his wrists.

He’d passed out. 

Voss signed, wiping the blood from the whip with a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Well, seems that’s all the fun we’re going to get out of him for now, men,” Voss called, to the disappointed groans and boos of the crowd. The first mate’s voice sent chills up Jonah’s spine—it was sharp and menacing, though there was a slight breathlessness to it, as he’d no doubt just had a decent workout shredding up Sawyer’s back. 

“Cut him loose, boys,” Voss ordered, and two men rushed forward to untie the ropes at Sawyer’s wrists. Without the bindings to hold him up, Sawyer crumpled to the floor, and the men hauled him up and dragged him off to the side. 

“As you were, gentleman!” Voss called, and the crew gave a chorus of “Aye!” before the men rushed in all directions back to their stations. 

Now, with the central entertainment over and done with, the men started to take notice of Jonah, casting him hungry looks and eyeing him up. 

“Oi, Graves, Crowe,” Voss called, crossing the deck to where they stood, holding a tied up Jonah. 

“What’s this pretty thing you’ve caught me?” Voss sneered as he approached Jonah, who flinched and tried to crane his head away, only for Voss to reach out and grab his jaw in a firm grip once he was close enough to reach him.

“We found this little rat stowing away in a barrel in the hold!” Graves said triumphantly. 

“I see..” said Voss, his voice a low hiss when he leaned down ever closer to Jonah until they were face to face. Jonah stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, shaking in the first mate’s grasp. 

“And what, pray tell, were ya’ doin’ scuttling around down there?”

Jonah swallowed, willing his tongue to move, but it felt so heavy in his mouth it was hard to speak at all.

“P-passage, S-sir,” he stammered, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. “J-just wanted p-passage, Sir.”

Jonah winced when Voss gave a low, amused laugh, just as smug, if not all the more sinister than Graves and Crowe had mere minutes earlier. 

“Ohh, you poor, stupid thing,” Voss grinned like a serpent. “Ain’t you lucky you stumbled upon our little vessel.” Little was hardly the operative word, the ship felt huge to Jonah. “I’m afraid you’ll not be goin’ anywhere now. Not without my say so.”

Jonah gulped, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He feared his voice would crack into tears if he tried. 

“What’s your name, pretty thing?” Voss asked, forcing Jonah’s chin up, tilting his face from side to side and studying him. It made the hairs on the back of Jonah’s neck stand on end, as if this could be any more terrifying.

“Um.. J-Jonah,” he squeaked. He’d do anything to keep this man happy, it was Carlisle all over again. Voss was fucking terrifying.

“Well, dear Jonah,” Voss’ voice sank into a sickly mocking tone when he addressed the boy by his name. “Let’s have you come meet the Captain then, shall we?”

Jonah said nothing at first, but when Voss’ fingers gave his jaw a harsh squeeze, he forced out the “Yes, Sir,” he was supposed to say. 

“Good boy,” Voss smiled, patting Jonah’s face condescendingly before he released him.  

Obedient. Just be obedient, and they won’t torture you. Just be good, Just obey. Jonah repeated the mantra in his head as he was dragged over to the other side of the ship, presumably near the captain’s quarters. 

Voss ducked inside the chamber, and a few moments later he exited again, this time being followed by a beautiful, important looking man. The man had a large black tricorn cap atop his long silken hair—brown with streaks of warm honey and tied loosely behind him with a cream-colored ribbon. His boots were freshly shined, and he had an excessive amount of gold jewelry hanging from his neck, his ears, around his wrists. He looked like he was absolutely dripping in treasure. 

“Now, boy,” Voss ordered sharply, and Jonah snapped out of his trance from staring at the captain to blink back into reality. “This here’s your new master, Captain Sebástian Vale. Show some respect.” 

The moment he uttered those words, Jonah was shoved down to his knees, and Crowe pressed his boot between Jonah’s shoulder blades until his face hit the floor for a second time that day. Crowe’s boot rested heavily on his back, forcing Jonah down in the deep bow as the Captain eyed him over.

Captain Vale approached closer, until his boots were directly in front of Jonah’s head. Jonah shook horribly, terrified of what this Captain would do. 

“Well, hello there,” the Captain cooed, as if Jonah were a little bird he’d trapped in a cage. “My first mate here says the men found you stowing away on my ship?” 

Crowe stepped off of his back only to yank Jonah’s head up by his hair just enough so he could crane his neck to look up at the Captain. 

“Answer him!” Crowe ordered, with a fierce kick to his ribs. 

“Y-yes, Sir!” Came Jonah’s panicked response.

“Aww, not quite, little pet,” the Captain clicked his tongue down at Jonah, who cringed back when he realized he’d already done something wrong. 

“It’s Master to you, slave.” 

All the blood drained from Jonah’s face when he realized the full reality of his position. They weren’t just going to ransom him or try to rob him, they were taking him captive—permanently. He had effectively gone from one cruel master to another in less than the span of 24 hours. Tears spilled down his face as Crowe tugged his hair again, a wordless demand for him to fucking answer already.

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah’s breath caught in his throat as a sob threatened to work its way up. 

“And??” Crowe shook Jonah’s head roughly back and forth. 

“I—I’m s-sorry, Master,” Jonah cried, his voice breaking as he looked down at the captain’s freshly shined shoes. 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” Sebástian Vale reached out to swipe away a tear on Jonah’s cheek. “It’s rare we get one that’s pretty when it cries,” he smiled down at Jonah. 

“Fucking pathetic…” Voss scoffed from behind him. It was evident the first mate wasn’t quite so enamored with Jonah’s little terrified performance as Captain Vale seemed to be. 

“Yes, quite pathetic, isn’t he?” The smile never left the Captain’s face. “I think this one will do nicely here. I’ve been needing a new cabin boy ever since the…. Well, never mind.  You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it, sweetheart,” the Captain pinched Jonah’s cheek and he bit back a wince. 

“Good work, gentleman,” Voss said, strict and businesslike. 

“There’s just something I’d like to see,” Captain Vale said, voice alight with amusement. “I want to see the little thing kiss my boot.” 

“Do it, if you know what’s good for you, mutt,” growled Voss, his arms crossed and all his weight leaned on one hip. 

Jonah bit his lip to hold back the sob that wanted out so badly, and thought of Sawyer, and the whip that now dangled in a coil from Voss’ waist. 

Slowly, when Crowe released his hair, Jonah lowered himself to the Captain’s shoes. Fresh tears fell and splashed against the smooth leather before Jonah’s face even reached it, but once he was close enough, Jonah pressed his lips to the Captain’s shoe, shuddering in place as he tried not to sob against them. 

“Aww, very good, little boy,” the Captain sounded beyond pleased, smug and delighted at his new slave boy’s obedience. 

Jonah stayed down, completely still save for the tremor in his shoulders. He didn’t want to move without permission, the fear froze him in place. He didn’t want to know what might happen if he angered the Captain so quickly.

It seemed to be the right call.

“Up,” ordered the Captain, and Jonah rose once more to blink up at him, his eyes red and wet as more tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“We’re going to train you so well, dear boy. You’ll be pleasing my every need in no time,” the Captain said it like it was an encouraging promise, but the words stabbed Jonah’s chest with icy dread. He couldn’t get out of this. There was nothing surrounding them but miles and miles of water. 

“Now, I trust these boys here to help you get… acquainted. I’m pleased you already seem to understand your place here. Were you a slave before this?”

Jonah sniffled. “Y-yes, Master.” Now he really did feel like he was back with Carlisle again, sniveling and dutifully agreeing, saying ‘Yes, Master,’ over and over to the man who ran his life, who decided whether he ate or slept or lived or died.

“Good boy,” the Captain gave Jonah’s hair a ruffle with his hand. “In that case, I’ll let my men get you oriented here.”

Sebástian Vale towered over his crying slave, and flashed him a wide, beaming smile. 

“Welcome aboard La Sirena de Sangre.”

༻✦༺ 

Two chapters in one day??? Honestly this story is just falling out of my brain this is so much fun to write

TAGLIST (just ask to be added!)

However, it wasn’t even a day after he’d been brought to Carlisle in exchange for a hefty sum that he realized he’d be far worse off here. At least his father only hit him when he was drunk and angry. Carlisle seemed to do it for the sheer fun of it—for some kind of a sick thrill. He loved to chain Jonah up in his blacksmithing workshop and beat him with whatever tool struck his fancy that day—a whip, long metal rods, pronged sharp tools. Sometimes he’d stick the metal in the furnace and press it flush against Jonah’s exposed skin. Jonah’s only tunic had been cut off of him that first day, and he was never given anything to wear as a replacement—Carlisle always said he liked to see the marks.

His title may have been ‘apprentice,’ but Jonah knew what he was to the man—a slave. He’d been exchanged for money, for crying out loud. He wasn’t paid a dime for the years he’d worked in Carlisle’s blacksmithing workshop—hell, he served the man hand and foot, from dawn until dusk, but never got so much as a word of thanks. Carlisle always seemed much more preoccupied in abusing Jonah and trying out various cruel and unusual punishments than he ever did actually training the boy in his craft. 

So Jonah dreamed of freedom, even though he spent most of his nights chained by the ankle in the workshop, sleeping on a pile of hay. 

One evening, when he’d been permitted to accompany Carlisle to a supply run at the market, he spotted it, just out on the horizon of the sea. A ship—unlike any of the ships of the local merchants and foreign magistrates. Its flag was a deep, bloody red, with a grinning skull across the face of it. He could just make out the insignia as he stared out at the sea. The ship was approaching. 

That night, he knew it was his chance, when Carlisle passed out drunk off too much rum and forgot to lock the chain to Jonah’s ankle before retiring himself. This had happened before, on occasion, but everyone in town knew Jonah belonged to the blacksmith and would drag him back to his master the moment they discovered him, so there was never anywhere for him to go, unless he wanted to walk off barefoot into the jungle and get bitten by a snake or die of starvation. 

But tonight was different. The moon had risen high in the sky. Surely, the ship would have docked by now. Jonah snuck out of the workshop and slipped out onto the dark streets. His heart leapt as he approached the shore and saw it. Large and majestic now,  the ship towered high above the waves. Its masts rose up into the star-lit sky. Its decks were quiet—no doubt the crew had all gone ashore to… sample the local cuisine, as it were. 

Jonah took his chance, his heart racing in his chest. He leaped from the old wooden dock and caught a rope that dangled from the ship’s side. He summoned every ounce of strength he had left to climb up and hauled himself over the ship’s railing and landed on the wooden upper deck. He spotted a guardsman on the opposite side, an oil lamp flickering in his hand. The man hadn’t seen Jonah, thank god. Jonah scanned the floor of the ship until he spotted the gap in the floorboards that led belowdecks. Slowly, he crept through the darkness and descended the ladder. 

He wove through a maze of dark passageways below, looking for a place to hide. The cargo hold was the obvious choice. He crept past a snoring sailor in a hammock, the man’s slumbering body swaying with the rocking of the waves. At last, Jonah reached a larger room full of barrels, trunks, and crates. The crates were all nailed shut, so he tiptoed to a set of barrels, looking for one empty enough that he could slip inside. 

At last, he found one barrel at the end with a loose lid. This was his. He carefully lifted the lid and climbed inside, curling himself up before resetting the lid atop the barrel. So long as nobody came and nailed it down, he would be safe here until the ship docked once more. Then, he’d finally be free, on some new Isla, in some new town where he could start over. Get a real job, rent a room of his own—the visions of a new life invigorated Jonah as he curled up in the confines of the barrel. He was really doing it—this was really happening. He could barely contain his excitement. He was finally on his way to a new land. 

༻✦༺ 

At some point, Jonah must have fallen asleep, for he startled awake at the sound of muffled voices wafting through the corridors of the lower levels. His eyes snapped open, only to see absolutely nothing. He tried to stretch his limbs out, then panicked for a moment when he found he couldn’t, before he remembered where he was, and tried to calm his nerves. 

It’s okay, he told himself. Nobody is coming to check the cargo. He focused on his breath—in, and out. In… and out. 

Soon, however, he heard footsteps growing louder as they approached the cargo hold.

“Surely one of these has the rum,” said a gruff voice. 

Jonah froze, holding his breath. 

“I’m telling you, we drank it all,” came another, “Best pick up some more at the next port.” 

“Agh,” groaned the first, “You’re so full of shite.” 

Jonah, to his horror, heard the sound of wood against wood, mere feet away from where he sat. 

“Oh yes, pop them all open, why don’t you,” the smoother voice said sarcastically.

“I fuckin’ will!” grunted the gruff one.

Jonah felt tears of panic in his eyes. This couldn’t be happening—please don’t check this one please don’t check this one please don—

The orange light of a lantern flooded Jonah’s vision, and he squinted hard against it as the lid of the barrel was thrown open. He froze, panic like ice in his chest, and gazed up into the light at the two shocked faces above him.

Their shock quickly turned, as two crooked smiles overcame their faces.

“Well well well…” said the gruff voice, a man with a scraggly beard and a bandana around his head. “What ‘ave we got here?”

“Seems we’ve found ourselves a little stowaway,” smiled the smooth-voiced one, a taller man with a scar on his cheek and a gold earring. 

“Don’t suppose you know this one, do ya Graves?”

“Can’t say I do,” said the gruff one—Graves—eyeing Jonah like he was a freshly grilled steak. “Though he sure is a pretty little thing, ain’t he?”

“Please—I’m sorry, just, just let me leave, I’ll—I’ll get off as soon as we’re at the next port—please!” Jonah pleaded, tears rapidly welling up in his eyes. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

Jonah paled when the two men laughed and laughed, before strong, rough hands reached in to haul him out of the barrel. The two men dragged Jonah out and threw him onto the floor. Jonah hastily turned to face them in a kneeling position. 

“Please!” He cried. “Please I beg of you, just don’t tell anyone—I mean no harm!” At least, for all his time with Carlisle, he’d had plenty of practice at begging for mercy.

“Aww, you hear that Crowe?” Graves chided. “He says he don’t mean no harm.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he don’t,” Crowe laughed, knocking Jonah over easily with a single sharp kick to his side.

Crowe stepped his foot down onto the side of Jonah’s face, leaning down to press the boy’s cheekbone hard into the wooden floorboards. 

“We’re just gonna have to see if the captain believes you.” 

Crowe kept his boot pressed down firmly on the side of Jonah’s head to hold him down. Jonah groaned in pain against the floor, convinced his head would split clean open if Crowe put even an ounce more weight on it. 

“Grab something to tie him up, would ya Graves?” 

“Already on it, mate,” came Graves’ rough voice, now a few feet away. Jonah couldn’t see what he was doing, but he heard his heavy footsteps approach once more and struggled weakly on the floor, still pinned down beneath Crowe’s savage boot. 

“Aye, that’ll do, won’t it,” Crowe clapped Graves on the back as the man bent down to wrestle Jonah’s arms behind his back. Jonah tried to writhe against the man, but Crowe was quick to lift his foot for a moment before stomping down hard on the side of Jonah’s head, sending white stars popping through his vision and making the whole room swim. Jonah cried out and went limp for just long enough for Graves to tie the boy’s hands roughly behind him with thick, coarse rope. Crowe stepped off of Jonah’s head only to lean down and wrench a fist into his hair, hauling the boy back up onto his knees. 

Graves, seemingly reading Crowe’s mind, wound the rest of the rope around Jonah’s torso, pinning his arms tightly against his back. Jonah tried to thrash against Crowe’s hold, but he only succeeded in making his own scalp burn as he twisted against the hand that held him. 

Crowe stepped around to Jonah's front to deliver a sharp slap across the side of his face. His head tried to snap to the side with the force of it, but he was still held in place with Crowe’s other hand in his hair, so Jonah’s face absorbed the full impact. Jonah gasped and hissed in pain, a fierce heat radiating through the side of his face. 

“You’re a firstly little one, aren’t ya?” Crowe’s crooked smile loomed down over Jonah as he said it, the amusement thick in his voice. 

“Ple—ease..” Jonah’s voice cracked as he held back a sob. This was the worst possible way this escape could have gone. He just prayed whoever this captain was, he would take mercy on Jonah. He tried not to think of how slim the likelihood of that really was.

When Graves had secured the ropes around Jonah’s arms and torso, Crowe hauled Jonah to his feet by the grip in his hair. Jonah stumbled up to follow the motion, his head still spinning with the force of getting kicked into the floor—the impact of Crowe’s boot against his head. 

“Ohh the captain’s gonna love this,” Graves grinned wide, rubbing his grubby hands together as he stepped back. 

“I’d say he might even reward us for finding the little rat, wouldn’t you say?” Crowe smiled back at Graves, his eyes narrowed to delighted slits.

“Aye..” Graves hummed, his voice a low rumble in his throat. 

“Let’s go, pretty boy. Move.” Crowe snapped, beginning to drag Jonah out of the cargo hold and down the wooden corridor. Jonah tried to resist at first, keeping his feet stubbornly planted, but a fierce yank on his hair was all it took to have him hissing in pain again and obediently following Crowe through the passageway towards the upper decks, Graves trailing behind them. 

Jonah let the tears fall silently, praying that this wouldn’t turn out as badly as he feared it would. He saw sunlight stream down from the gap in the ceiling as they neared the staircase, a loud mix of voices sounded from above. As he was marched up the stairs to the upper deck, Jonah pleaded in his mind to anything that was out there that this captain of theirs would be merciful. 

༻✦༺ 

PART 2 is up!!

*NEW* Pirate Story Taglist

“You’re just so cute when you’re out of it!” she cooed. “Aren’t you, baby boyy…” She was leaning in mere inches from his face, her short skirt pooling over his thin waist and pinning Seven in place with her thighs. 

She leaned up for a moment, perhaps to assess his expression properly, and Marquez could see the way she pinched at Seven’s cheeks when she spoke to him, as though he were a cute little puppy dog she’d met on the street. Seven whined at the treatment, weakly batting at her waist with his hands. He groaned in painful protest when she lowered her hand to press down on the bruises that littered his bare torso. 

“What’d you do to get all these, hmm?” She teased, pressing down harder at the purpled skin on his ribs and stomach. Seven cried out, weakly trying to push her away, and the sound seemed to snap Marquez out of his shocked daze.

“Get the fuck off him, Brie,” Marquez hissed, as menacingly as he could. He couldn’t exactly shout and shove her off of Seven—he knew that it would not go over well with Wes, if Marquez ‘mistreated’ one of his closest friends, but Marquez crossed his muscled arms and made a point to sound as irritated as possible to try and intimidate her off of him.

“Aww c’monnnn,” she chided in mocking protest, turning her head to look at him, her red hair cascading like a sunset-lit waterfall as she tossed it over her shoulder. “What’s the problem? He clearly likes it...” The snicker in her voice would be audible even if Marquez were not able to witness her expression firsthand. 

“He does not. Like it.” Marquez forced out through gritted teeth. “He’s sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of him,” he oozed authority now, knowing his purpose here was backed by Wes’ own desires—something even Brie wasn’t in a position to argue with. “Now buzz the fuck off.” He ordered. “Seriously.” 

“Aww, he does though!” She protested, challenging the certainty in his voice as she pressed down on a particularly awful bruise on Seven’s ribcage. “He does! Seven likes it.. Don't you baby?” Her voice dripped even further into nauseating condescension when she said it, and she squeezed both of Seven’s flushed cheeks tightly between her manicured fingertips, forcing another pained whine out of the boy. She smiled brightly and leaned in closer to his face, her pink glossy lips hovering inches above his own.

Seven blinked up at her with bleary eyes, “I… I.. um…” he was frozen in fear—he was never allowed to refuse them, especially Brie of all people. She could make his life hell for daring to speak against her—for resisting in the slightest. 

Marquez dropped a heavy hand to Brie’s shoulder. “Off him. Now,” he growled, and Brie turned her shoulder away and scoffed in mock disgust. 

“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. “I just wanted to come say hi to him!” Marquez stepped even closer to her, looming down over her straddled form, his biceps flexing as his arms twitched in their position. 

“Get. Off.” Marquez growled, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.” It was perhaps a bluff, mostly, but it seemed to work. Brie chuffed under her breath and climbed off of Seven. “Alright, fine! Fucking Jesus! You don’t have to be so fucking dramatic.” 

Brie huffed as she climbed off the bed and stormed out of the room in a whirl of fiery red hair, her flowy miniskirt swishing behind her. 

“Enjoy your little private time, lover boy. Hope you brought a condom!” she called behind her with a haughty sneer, and slammed the door behind her. 

The relief of her absence was instant, palpable between the two of them. “Sorry about that..” Marquez looked sheepish as he gazed back down at Seven, who was still panting slightly, his eyes wet around the edges. “I didn’t know she’d come in like that. Does this door even lock?” 

“It… It doesn’t, Sir…” Seven said quietly, confirming Marquez’ suspicions that Seven might have his own room, but privacy was a right he had to constantly earn around here. 

Marquez vowed to wring her neck along with Wes’ when the time came. He let out a heavy sigh, trying to shove the feelings down once again and right himself to focus on what he could actually control. He willed his brow to unfurrow, his expression to soften, back into that of calm gentleness—the one that Seven needed right now. 

“Okay, just come here,” he situated himself beside Seven once more, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s alright, just come over here with me,” he said gently, extending one arm and beckoning Seven to lean back with him and snuggle into his torso as he’d been before. Seven’s skin still felt so hot to the touch. Marquez spotted the bottle of ibuprofen on the bed side table.

“Did Wes already give you a few of those pills?” He said, nodding to the bottle. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven murmured against his chest, not even looking up.

“Alrtight then, I’ll give you some more in a few hours. For now, let’s just be here together, okay?”

“Oh–” Seven’s voice caught in his throat. “Okay.. Yes, Sir..” Marquez felt the boy hiccup against his chest, but didn’t say anything, instead bringing a hand to Seven’s bare back and rubbing gentle circles into the feverish skin with his thumb. He tried not to take too much notice of the way the layered whip scars felt beneath his fingertips. Don't think about Wes. Don’t think about how much you fucking loathe Wes. Don’t think about how nice it’d feel to slam his face into the ground.. 

Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it down, vowing to channel the energy into soothing the subject of Wes’ abuse. His other hand lifted to Seven’s head, carding long fingers through the boy’s damp hair, absentmindedly undoing any tangles in careful, feather-like motions.

Seven didn’t know what it was that made him start crying. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the act of someone actually caring about him, for the first time in over a decade, that brought fresh tears to well up behind his pale, long lashes. He hadn’t felt actually, genuinely loved like this since—since her. 

And just like that, the floodgates opened, as the memories Seven had worked so hard to suppress over the many years began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness, breaking through the confines of the mental walls he’d carefully built up for his own sanity. He tried never to think about the past—about her. It all hurt too much to think about—but perhaps it was the fever, Marquez gentle touch, his soft voice, or all of the above, that weakened the gates of the dam with crack after crack, little hairline fractures spreading into larger canyons in the concrete, until the whole wall collapsed into rubble and water flooded into the valley of Seven’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his mother.

Rosaline had been a gentle and hardworking woman—what she lacked in money she more than made up for in spirit. She worked herself to the bone to provide for the two of them, but it never cost her her smile—she would beam at her little boy every time she came home. She’d take Seven up in her arms, swinging him around with sore muscles and hugging him close. 

The way Marquez smiled at him, the way his hands felt like pure love itself, it all flooded his fevered mind with memories of her—of the last times he was able to feel gentleness, like he was truly worthy of love. His Aunt Beatrice had never loved him—that much was clear from the day he’d been moved into her house and was carved in stone the day she’d sold him. But Rosaline always had. Seven missed his mother more than anything in the universe. It ran through him like a wooden stake, piercing through his very heart in the place where every emotional nerve met at its highest sensitivity. 

He grieved the life he might’ve had if she hadn’t died when she did. He missed the way she would hold him, he missed the way he’d trusted in her—in the world itself, at the time—to hold him and lead him through it safely. The memory of her love always opened a hole up in his chest and sucked everything good in with it. It cracked his soul apart and it fucking hurt. It always did when he allowed himself to remember her gentleness. He’d tried for years to block it out mentally, for her memory only caused him more pain, but something about the way Marquez’ was holding him now made him unable to think of anything else. 

He cried into the pillow in his arms, feeling Marquez' gentle touch on his hair, on his back. He wanted to apologize for crying but he couldn't even get himself to speak, he was sobbing so hard. He remembered the little stuffed pig she'd gotten him one year, when he was very small. Whatever happened to it, he didn’t know. He wasn't even allowed to pack his own things from the house after she’d died—he was ushered to his Aunt Beatrice’s house so quickly and the house he’d shared with Rosaline had been cleared out by his Aunt before he could clutch anything for the last time. Aunt Beatrice, who had said he was ‘too young to know what he’d need,’ had packed it all up—what little she thought necessary—and must have simply thrown the rest away. Seven never saw the pig again, or any of his stuffed animals, or even any photos of her. He had nothing but the memories.

He had a feeling Beatrice had always hated her sister. His mother had never really spoken much of her, not that he could remember anyway. But after Rosaline’s death, Beatrice had seemed hell-bent on erasing her own sister’s very existence from history itself. Beatrice always grew angry with Seven whenever he tried to talk about his mother. He learned quickly never to bring it up. Rosaline lived on in his memories, though, and he remembered kneeling on the floor every night in Aunt Beatrice’s house, silently praying to anything that was out there to bring her back—to take him away from this new house where he was loathed and beaten down like he was some evil, wretched thing. He’d pressed his face into the hardwood and cried into the floorboards, praying over and over to have his mother’s sunshine back. 

Nothing ever answered him, of course. 

He was so young at the time, that he didn’t even recall that many conversations between them, but in his mind he could see her smile. He heard the sound of her laugh. He remembered the way she’d make pancakes for him in fun little shapes—hearts and dinosaurs—and put fresh strawberries on top. The songs she’d sing him—god the songs—sweet little lullabies as she rubbed his back to lull her young son to sleep. The songs especially hurt to think about—the melodies in his head. He tried to shove them down but the song started up anyway. 

‘Go to sleep my darling, hush now, don’t you cry…’

He had curled in on himself now. He bit down on the pillow he was clutching and sobbed, shaking with the pain of it. His head pounded harder with the fever. He'd give anything to hold her in his arms again. Seven didn't know how tall she’d been before she died, he had been so young and small at the time, but he imagined he might even be taller than her now. He thought of what it would be like to hug her, to pull her up against him tightly and rest his chin on the top of her head. He wondered if she’d still sing to him, the way she used to—soft and light, like the call of the morning birds. 

Birds—they made him think of her too now, in the thick of his fever, his mental walls demolished to nothing by the sick burning heat. There was a memory of him lying next to her on a blanket in the grass. The shade of sunlight-dappled branches cast wandering stars over their forms. The image was so vivid he may as well have been hallucinating. He lay with his head on her shoulder and leaned into her torso, her arm wrapped around him. Rosaline laughed, in that bright, beautiful way that felt like the morning light itself. She pointed up to a bird on a branch. 

“It’s a red breasted robin, dear, do you see it?”

“Yes, mama,” he’d probably said, nuzzling in close to her and gazing up at the little bird. 

Rosaline was not unlike the robin. She was light and free and peaceful. She hadn’t had it easy, certainly not, but she’d never lost that light that seemed to glow at the edges of her form. That music in her laugh, that carried on her voice with every word. Birds always brought Seven a certain bittersweet peace, when his guard was lowered as it was now—she must’ve given him that association before he could even piece it together. 

He’d give his life for hers, in a heartbeat if he could. She’d been too gentle, too sweet for a world like this one. It was only through some cruel divine wrath that her light would be snuffed out so soon, that Seven would be cast into darkness to face the world's cruelty alone—Aunt Beatrice, the facility, the McQueens. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, to tell her he loved her one last time. He was so young the day Rosaline had died—she didn’t even get to see what he might turn out to be. 

Seven cried in Marquez’ arms until he couldn’t anymore. Though Marquez didn’t know what had suddenly overcome the boy, he never pried, and simply held Seven and let him ride out the emotional waves as they came. Marquez would be his rock—the one thing he could steady himself against amid the barrage of the storm—he was determined to be, to stay with him until the clouds parted and calm was restored to the seas of Seven’s mind once more. 

At last, Seven’s sobs gave way to little faint hiccups, the occasional sharp inhale, until even those faded into something slower, something akin to a calm sky with a still distressed, swirling sea below. Marquez kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scarred back. He pressed a soft kiss into the top of Seven's head. The boy had fallen asleep right there, no doubt spent from crying and fighting the fever’s heat. 

Perhaps, when he awoke, Seven would tell him what he’d been thinking about. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Marquez would listen if he wanted to talk, but it was up to Seven if he was willing to share it. Regardless, Marquez would be right here, still holding him tightly when he awoke once more. 

༻✦༺

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