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Food for the Rats; DNR
Topic Started: Thu Jun 2, 2016 6:37 am (119 Views)
Javin
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His shirt clung to his back like a second skin, soaked through with the rain and the sea spray. His breeches were no better, tight and uncomfortable. His body ached from the efforts of his labours aboard the ship, and he wondered yet again how much longer he would have to endure this strife. His hands were numb as they clutched the great sponge that bore them as its burden, sliding across the drenched planks as a penguin upon a sheet of ice. His eyes knew only hatred.

The captain was near, weathering the storm with the rest of them, yet he was not upon his hands and knees. The mate was with him. He had just given some unheard order to the bosun, who’d rushed off at once to obey. To either side of him, a dozen or more men - he had lost count now - worked the same planks that he did. The captain said that the work taught discipline, yet the men barely ate or drank. They were little more than slaves, slender and weak. They held no hope of resistance. As the waves thrashed the ship, tilting it this way and that malevolently, the rain lashed at them without mercy - and the captain took great pleasure in knowing that the crew could do nothing against him. Even though they had the numbers and the thought of mutiny often crossed their minds, they had not the strength to oppose the cruel taskmaster that was their so-called “leader”. Many of them had found their wills broken long ago. Every once in a while, however, a brief spark of hope was ignited.

The splinter in his boot was as sharp as any dagger. It would pierce the toughest flesh like a hot knife sliding easily through warm and melting butter. He had but to use it. He had but to plunge it into the captain’s heart, and then he would be the captain. The crew would bow to him - and he would make them kings upon the sea. Those that had subjugated them…they would be the ones swabbing. They would be the ones to waste away while the ones who now possessed the ship grew strong once more. It was such a simple thing, and yet the mate never left the captain’s side. He would be dead long before he reached the captain, and yet…in this storm…

He was drawing nearer, just as he knew the captain would. The captain was inspecting his crew, just as he always did. He wasn’t going to let a little thing like a storm halt his duty. He saw it as a point of honour that he should suffer as his crew did - but he didn’t even come close to the humiliation his crew had endured. Only his officers were treated well. But he was no officer. He was barely a cabin boy…barely even alive, as far as the captain and his precious officers were concerned. The anger burned inside him, flaring up as the captain drew nearer still.

His hands stopped moving, the storm and the motions of the others concealing his momentary inaction. He waited patiently, yet his patience would not hold out for very much longer. No, he had to act…he had to act soon, and he had to act quickly. The captain would not wait to be slain; he would draw steel against him between the beats of his heart and cut him down with all the importance that one would attribute to the slicing of bread. His body would be cast over the side and forgotten by the captain’s next footfall. He had to act before the captain could finish drawing steel - and there was the mate to consider as well. But the mate was a step behind the captain.

It wouldn’t be long now. He was so close…he could almost touch him….

His hand slid toward the length of sharpened wood in his boot…

The captain never saw it coming - or perhaps he did. It was impossible to know. He begged his ungarbed feet not to fail him as he rose, desperately hoping against hope that he would not slip in the water upon the deck. Nobody was surprised, and yet everybody was. He stabbed at the captain from above, the mate rushing forward, yet the captain did not have time to draw steel. He raised his arms, locking his hands upon his wrists. They grappled and he twisted, sliding and dancing with the captain. It was the mate who drew steel, yet he could not stab at him without striking the captain. They danced first in one direction and then in the other, the lightning flashing to illuminate their tango of death.

An in an instant, it was over.

A flash of fire from the bosun’s crossbow, a surge of pain, and he was distracted. The captain broke his wrist, and the wood flew from him. Panic grew in him, his dream of conquest and fair treatment - and justice - in sudden danger of being dashed upon the rocks. The captain twisted, and the mate lashed out with the pommel of his sword. Pain cascaded down his body, resonating from his skull. He was blinded suddenly, and he felt his legs failing him!

No…no!

His mind cried out in rage and despair as his vision darkened, the lightning no consolation against it.

When he awoke, he thought at first that he had not. Was this death? Was this the long darkness, the eternal night that all men feared? Was this the unending dread and fathomless deep? No…no, he had physical sensation. This was nothing like non-existence. It could not be, for his head felt as though it was split open and his left wrist cried out in agony. Yet there was darkness - and eyes. He started, and his head swam painfully. He sat up, aching and exhausted. The eyes…details were slowly defining themselves before him in the darkness. He looked up and saw the grate above him.

It was done. His eyes lowered to the shackle around his left ankle. After a moment, he slumped back against the crate. The hold was not merely for foodstuffs; it was for prisoners as well. It was for mutineers. It was for men like him…men who could no longer tolerate the captain’s tyranny. He had not been thrown overboard. He had been given a feast, and yet he had no way to open the uniquely designed lid of the crate. It was an ironic prison, this one: so much food so readily available, and yet, still he would starve.

The rats would feast well when at last his final breath left him.
Edited by Javin, Fri Oct 14, 2016 7:23 am.
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