2.
The Mutiny
1. Nicki-
All relief that the Irishman could have brought with him into the bathroom left
as Matty stepped over the soaked paper on the floor
and stole a kiss from his trembling lips. Nicki’s blue eyes darted between his
lover and the Roman who had drifted into the tub over him– and he felt utterly
hopeless as Matty mistook him entirely, a devious
hand evoking a different cry all together. He shifted in the chilly water,
shaking his head as he fought to sit up instead of drift deeper into the watery
bed. “Matty...Matty...dammit...”
He fumbled with his words as he kept shifting his gaze between them, his breath
quickening as both began to undress, Matty coming to
join him finally- settling right in Ilarius’ place. A
dark light seemed to blink into existence in the Irishman’s eyes as he
smiled... and Nicki shivered again as pressed his hands up against his
shoulders. The good thoughts and feelings fled as he faced the possibility that
his lover had just been consumed by a mad demon from the past, and his eyes
shut tight as he felt another kiss crush his lips. “Desino! Mendico!...” He tried appealing to him in Latin, only receiving a
confused lift of Matty’s eyebrows and another playful
smirk. Stop! I beg!...
Nicki’s finger curled around Matty’s thin shoulders,
his palms still pressing upwards as he sunk deeper into the bathtub to escape
the pressure of the body above him. A few tears dripped from his eyes, hidden
as he shifted quickly enough to create a splash that wiped his face clean...
his face falling under the surface for a terrifying moment as he sucked in a
breath of water frantically. His descent was entirely of his own will, but as
frightened as he was, he had no notion of it. He felt himself go back to the
panicked moments with Claude, the icy water stinging his lungs and forcing him
into a desperate fight for air. Matty was stronger
than usual, possessed by the Roman centurion who sought to plunder him and
steal him away into the after life- Nicki was sure that was how it would be...
stolen from this life... when he was finally happy.
He heard the door swing open and Nicki felt Matthew jump above him. He took the
opportunity to grab the bar of soap and swing it against the side of his head-
a sharp cry and a recoil allowing him the window he
needed to scramble out from under him and spill out onto the slippery floor at
the English fop’s feet. The ink was running from the paper, covering Nicki’s
hands and knees with dark colors that made him shake with another sob. The
blonde fellow muttered a phrase to God as he watched Nicki’s flight from the
room– the slamming of a door echoing down the short hall as the man finally
vanished from sight.
The spy crossed himself, muttering another prayer as he quickly left the scene-
he wasn’t paid enough to deal with this sort of thing... and didn’t want to
find himself in a similar position as the talented actor. Haysfield
had warned him...
Nicki pulled open several drawers in the bedroom, slamming them shut as the
fruits of his search did not turn up... and then he found it, buried under
several papers that he scattered across the room with a careless toss. He
pulled out the little box, unfastening its lid and pulling out the ornate
string of beads from its dark interior. He dropped the wooden case, sitting in
the corner as his fingers furiously worked at the dusty beads, eyes shut and
head bowed. “Oh my Jesus, forgive us of our sins, save us from the fires of
hell, lead all souls to Heaven... Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the
world, have mercy on us... Lamb of God, who takes away
the sins of the world, hear our prayer.... Pray for us
oh Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of
the promises of Christ.... Morning star, Health of the Sick, Refuge of the
sinners, Comforter of the afflicted, Help of Christians... Pray for us... Have
Mercy, have mercy...”
A few silent sobs shook his back as he worked his fingers over each bead,
kissing the image of Christ on the cross at the middle, and then St. Sebastian
hanging below Him. His lips never ceased moving, even as the door creaked open.
The spark of the centurion had left, the ghost wandering now around the house
sullenly.
“Holy Michael, the
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PSALM 67: God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee
before Him.
As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so
the wicked perish at the presence of God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Depart, then, transgressor.’
The white beard and purple cloth hanging and hurting, while mums hands gripped
and tore arms into red. Hurts and hurts and Jesus is
staring.
‘Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor
of the innocent.’
Pressing into the skin on head and burning and hearing screams. Growls. Scratches. Mum is
scratching and gripping as I fall. Forward. Jesus is staring.
‘Give place, abominable creature, give way, you monster, give way to Christ, in
whom you found none of your works.’
Scratches.
‘For he has already stripped you of your powers and laid
waste your kingdom, bound you prisoner and plundered your weapons.’
Fling the water and cross the fling across the heart. Scream and wrench and
fall fast back to the wood. Pain and burning and growls to
scream. Latin. Deep Latin.
All was gone and falling with eyes back to groan and shake.
‘He has cast you forth into the outer darkness, where everlasting ruin awaits
you and your abettors.’
The smell of stink and burning and incense and sleep... and Anou,
Anou... secrets... gone.
Nicki groaned out another sob as he fell forward into his lover’s arms,
dropping the rosary between them to clutch at Matty.
He’d fit, and his mother had taken him to the Church. He’d fit and he was evil
from then on... His father had said no to the procedure, but had done nothing
to stop it. He’d been in
He gripped Matty’s wet body to his own, shuddering
uncontrollably as he fought to overcome the fear that had settled so deeply
upon him. It was weighing down his shoulders, like ever day since he had turned
ten and had faced the strange specter that had appeared one night over his bed
in
He could remember growling and shaking and pain wracking his body as the
crucifix had been pressed to his forehead. He could still see Christ’s sad eyes
staring down on him from the stained glass window, and the blessed Virgin
looking sympathetic as he threw out curses and screams towards the priest. His
mother had held him down, her fingernails digging so deep into his arms that he
had started to bleed. He’d been so tired afterwards, and couldn’t even recall
what had happened... though the fits had never stopped since, or the
apparitions. He’d never felt such a touch as Ilarius
had bestowed upon him, and he was sickened by the idea that he had been taken
by the fellow, completely defiled- how could you explain sleeping with the
dead? How could you explain that terror... Matty would never understand... he’d been skeptical about Annouska, and would never understand his present terror.
“My father... please... get him...” The request
sounded so foreign as he whined it against the cold
skin of his husband, but he needed him now more than ever.
Peter Stanton and the rest-
Peter at last emerged from the room where his son was now sleeping peacefully.
It had been a long time since he had gotten to share the private thoughts of
his son, or seen the final sweet moments as his aristocratic child fell into a
blessed slumber. He missed those days that he had lost with him, before his
mother had completely traumatized him and made him fear the world he could see.
Peter understood better than anyone those horrors.
He slowly entered the kitchen where the reedy Irishman had settled with a
bottled beer and a depressed scowl. Ilarius was
seated across from him, whispering quiet apologies to the fellow, hopeless and
alone. “Thank you for coming for me, Mr. Dillon... Nickolai is asleep. He told
me to explain things to you, so that perhaps you would be persuaded to believe
his tales were more than just fiction. May I sit? Thank you.” He took the seat
next to Ilarius, diagonal now from the living fellow
and earning a lifted brow. “That seat is already taken, I’m afraid.”
Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The other beer on the table
hadn’t been noticed by his son’s lover, and Peter noted with a grimace that the
bottle was chilled. Ilarius appeared sheepish. “I’m
not sure where to begin, Mr. Dillon, it is a tiresome story- most of which
should have never happened... would have never happened had I been home to
protect him from his mother’s ignorance. Devorah is a
fool... Forgive me. I ramble. May I have that?” He took the beer from the
centurion, taking a short swig to ease his nerves. Each sentence seemed to be
more forced than the last, the English diplomat finding that his words were
sticking to the top of his mouth as he tried to confront the fellow who had
stolen his son’s affections and corrupted him into a very happy sodomite.
“Can you forgive me, Mr. Dillon? For being upset with you? I pushed Nicki so
hard to do well in everything because I loved him dearer than anyone. He is my
son... the only one I had any courage to raise... I’m sure you heard about
Archibald. God Bless him and damn me for it... I should have never separated
them. Funny how they knew each other, Nicki and Archie.
I still have one, and I don’t think I shall ever be able to fully express my
joy at having this second chance. That’s why I want to start over with both of
you... You are the love of Nickolai’s life. I can
accept that. I can find it in my heart to love you as my son, if you’ll allow
it? You’ve taken such good care of him... but can you blame me for being angry
at first? He was so young and so easy to persuade into your bed, I’m sure- so
eager for affection and acceptance- independence. He was always stubborn... How
I ramble...what stuff I say.” He glanced towards Ilarius
with a heavy sigh, running his hand through his shabby hair once again– his wig
had settled as the table’s centerpiece, flaking powder across the mahogany top.
He absently wondered if the table had seen his son’s back... he took another
swig of the beer. The Roman looked crestfallen.
“He told me that he had once brought up Annouska with
you- the little red headed girl in
“He’s never quite gotten over it, I think. He blamed me when his mother began
to insist he was still possessed by the demon. Perhaps he was... but whatever
had stolen his innocence is gone now... He’s been bewitched by another devil,
don’t you think?” He offered a kind smile in Matty’s
direction, and then shook his head. “I took him to a doctor who said it was
epilepsy. But he still saw the ghosts. I think God was punishing me for
Archie... I think He designed it so that I would watch my son damn himself to
hell. He doesn’t believe. How could he? His Saint Sebastian didn’t heal him
when he asked and prayed. Nothing happened when he begged to not see the fallen
men at our doorstep, or the women in the river who had been accused of
witchcraft and tied to rocks... left at the bottom to die... or the Roman
centurions who managed to touch not only his fear, but his physical body.” He
finally gestured to the open seat at his side. “I see them too, Mr. Dillon, and
this is no joke.
“There is a dead man sitting at your table, from the time of Hadrian. He lived
in my house for a long time, and then disappeared with Nickolai the night he
came for a visit. Apparently he was quite taken with my son... Taken enough to possess you while you came on to him in the
bathroom. He’s sorry for it now though, and he’s also sorry for the beer
he stole.” Peter lifted up his bottle once more before taking another drink.
“Well... I hope this doesn’t change your opinion of him... My son loves you
more than his own life, Mr. Dillon, and I am fond of the description he paints
of you.”
2. Josiah Kent-
It was mutiny, and there was no other dark word for it. Archie and Dagfinn had been quite keen to take over command as soon as
Angelo had fallen ill- a mysterious coincidence that coincided with Vasiley quitting his trips to the galley for sneaked tastes
of the captain’s food. Hess was in on it too, he knew. How could he just stand
for it? They were almost to his home, and they wanted to turn around and go
back to
“Mister Kennedy, I believe you are speaking the words of a mutineer, and you
lot are all following in behind him- you spineless cowards. Captain Torricelli
has made good on all of his promises, and you really think that this Englishman
will be able to sway the opinion of his superiors? Convince them that you all
were pressed? Damn your eyes, man, he can’t.” He glanced over the steady-footed
crew, watching them turn their gazes to the ground as he set his eyes upon
them. “This is a mutiny! Against one of our own!” Dagfinn tried to silence him with a heavy hand on his
shoulder, a cold look, but Twig moved quickly from his grip. “I for one will
not stand for it!”
By this time the men were shifting, staring from the bold boy and the two older
gentlemen who had taken control of their mission- put it in reverse to return
back to a civilized world where they were not accepted... but these two were
certainly the one’s who knew how to work the ship. Their captain was just a
simple Italian pretending to sail. Archie could sense the tension building as
the men began to rethink their loyalty, and addressed the men in a voice of
unquestionable authority. “The boy is disillusioned by his relations with the
captain. I can promise you that you will not be in any danger as we enter into
port, not under my name, not with a merchant license. There will be no impressment, and I will see you all safe. Mister Kittelesen has made a request to be dropped off there to
return home to his wife and boy, and any of you who also wish to leave may do
as your conscience dictates--”
“He’ll see you all hanged!” Josiah drew his sword, usually meant for theatrical
decoration, and pointed its tip in Archie’s direction. “He is the devil and he
speaks lies! Don’t let him fool you!” By this time he was advancing towards the
renegade master, a sneer on his young face, a lust for blood in his eyes.
“Come, Mister Kennedy- we will fight for it.” No one moved to stop the master
from taking out his sword and accepting the challenge.
Josiah’s arm shook as Archie lunged, blocking only just as he hurried to find a
place on the deck that would provide a less dangerous footing. Lines were on
deck, dropped mops and holystones littered around carelessly, and every place
seemed to be dripping with hazards. Twig finally turned to face the man who had
pursued him across the ship, trying to reason with himself that running had not
been purely out of fear. He lifted himself up a bit taller, holding the sword
again in determination and making a quick jab of his own- beginning what would
be the last of their brief encounter. His dancing about the master did nothing
to save him, the quirky beats of his heart drawing on his strength as much as
his growing fear, and Twig soon felt the blade torn from his grasp after a
nasty lashing from the red-haired Englishman.
The tip of the sword was pointed at his chest, heaving now in strained breath.
His wheezing took away all the dignity he had left as he stood there defeated.
The blade finally dropped from between them, a resignation demanded, and Josiah
leapt at Kennedy in response. A pair of hard hands grabbed him back, and the
firing of a pistol finally stopped his struggle. He stared at the smoking
barrel of Archie’s flintlock, shaking in panic as he tried to free himself of
the large Norwegian that held him fast.
“Enough, Kennedy! Let him be... we’ll lock him in with
the captain. He can’t do us no harm now...”
~~~~
Josiah heaved a sigh as he stared out over the railing. The men had been piped
to dinner, and he was relieved to finally be generally alone on deck. All of
the apologetic glances and friendly words could not win him over to their side,
but he offered no more protests- he knew he was outnumbered.
They would be rounding the
The retched cry of Hess woke him from his musings, and he sneered again,
glaring over at the fiend that was responsible for the state of his lover. The
doctor would pay... he would make sure of it.
Twig and Hess-
“Your bravery is astounding, Vasiley. I’m glad to
know that once we have the numbers you will join us.” Twig sneered, an
uncharacteristic expression on his usually cheerful face. “Forgive me if I’m
not as hopeful for the future as you- I’ve already escaped from the navy once…
and I’ll be damned if I go back.” The doctor’s cry grated against his nerves
and he stood up, his head turning towards the cabin as he heard his dear
captain instead. He offered a quick good day before hurrying off to see what
had happened to Angelo.
In the cabin Twig occupied himself with getting Angelo back into his hammock,
quite a task for the young lad. He had him settled soon, the captain’s pain
reflecting in his own face as he moved the black locks away from his face and
placed a kiss on his sweating forehead. “Easy, Angelo.
I’m here, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you…” He dragged over a
chair and sat down beside him, holding one hand and humming a song for the man
to get back to sleep. The jacket failed to cover up the concealed weapons, and
slowly he drew up the flintlock into his own hand, placing it under his shirt.
He kissed him again before he stole out of the tiny room and back on deck…
He did not meet the gaze of any of the sailors as he traveled forward to the
galley, and did not bother to knock as he entered into the small chamber to
confront Hess. The copper was full with the captain’s meal- prepared last now
that the men took priority over the disabled. Twig’s face twisted into an animalistic
grimace, teeth bared as he grabbed up the handle of
the square pot and announced his presence by slinging it down by the
preoccupied doctor’s feet. The slop scattered, the boy raising his voice to top
the noise he had created. “Good day, Mister Hess. We need to have a talk. Sit.”
Nathaniel jumped as the metal hit the floor, spinning around to face the
enraged young man with a very astounded expression. He’d been preparing the
dish for hours now, hoping that the fine taste would sooth the captain a
little, would mask the pinch of poison he added to make him sick again. “Mister
Kent! For God’s sake! You’ve ruined it!” He took a seat regardless, finding the
stool by edging backwards until he bumped right into it. He caught the faint
hint of rasp in Twig’s breath and held up a hand. “You need to calm yourself or
you’ll upset your condition.”
“My condition is none of your affair, sir. You’d sooner damn a man to his death
bed than cure them. You’ll no longer be preparing the food for the captain.
I’ll be doing it, and you will help me, step by step, every day until we get
back to
Hess crossed himself, instantly turning Catholic in the face of danger. He had
never been fearless, and the way his chest heaved betrayed all attempts at
appearing calm. “Twig! Oh, Jesus! Please, just calm
down. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll let you make the food. I’ll let you do it and I’ll
help you make him better.” He shuddered and grabbed onto the nearest piece of
furniture to steady him, the hot stove, and he wailed in pain as the metal
burned his palm and fingers.
Josiah shook the gun at him, snarling as he finally forced himself to steady
his aim again. “No! You’ll not touch him, you bastard!” The doctor made the
ridiculous mistake of standing up, wanting to cool his hand with salt water,
and Twig fired. Hess fell to the ground, and by the time the smoke cleared Twig
could only stand there, shaking and wheezing as he continued to point the gun
at the prone fellow. He didn’t feel bad for it, though he felt a few tears
spring up into his eyes as he stood there, waiting for someone to discover them.
3. Quinn-
Quinn O’Hare tossed his cigarette onto the icy street, the red glow of its lit
tobacco glowering to an abrupt black as he snuffed it out with the toe of his
shoe. He sniffed unappreciatively at the nippy wind that chafed his cheeks red
and abused his runny nose. His wiry frame shivered as he stood outside the
Edrington Estate, waiting for a chance to meet the father his mother cursed
with her every living breath. He snuffled again, closing one eye as he cocked
his head to the side to gaze up at an emerald parrot standing watch over the
door. The Earl apparently had appointed the creature in the place of his more
usual watch dogs. Their despondent howls came bitterly from the closed off
stables.
“ ‘ey thar,
pretty thang.” He chuckled as the bird puffed up in
indignation, lifting its colorful tail feathers to shit on his boot. The
laugher faded away as a more appropriate scowl leveled out his lips. He wiped
his shoe on the snow, managing to smear the poo along
the brown leather to offset the worn color. He didn’t seem to mind very much
and leaned against the supportive wall at his back. “Good evenan to ya too, than.”
The music and laughter inside swelled to greater heights, and he sighed into
his hands, rubbing them together and covering his sore ears. An even greater
rumble from his belly sent him walking towards the stables, hoping that one of
the horses had not had the heart to eat all of its grain that evening. “C’mon,
God, ‘elp a poor Paddy out, eh?” The door was partly
ajar, the dogs locked in an opposite stall of a ginger colored mare sleeping
soundly- somehow used to the ruckus of the mongrels. “Shut it, mutts! Yer Da don’t car bouch ye! No one cars a lick...”
Ginger stirred at that moment and snorted. She stamped and pawed at the ground
as the lanky Irish boy approached her stall, ears turning back in a warning.
The hand he offered seemed to win her over some, her nostrils flaring a bit as
her ears finally rotated in his direction, curious now.
“That’s right, girl… easy does it.” Quinn wasn’t too afraid of the pretty creature,
and was very soon stroking her soft nose. “Now thar’s
a pretty lass, ain’tch ye? Gentle as the Good Marry ‘erself, eh, Marry?” The mare responded to her name with a
few affectionate kisses along the boy’s strong cheek, a playful tug at his
shirt as he slowly came into the stall. “C’mon, God.
Poor Paddy…” He reminded the Lord above as he crossed over to the trough.
A few handfuls of rich grain were left and he scooped one big heap up to his
mouth. Ginger stomped a bit and nibbled again at his shoulder. He offered her
his other hand, full with food, and she began to dine as well, sharing in the
pleasure of his dying hunger. “God’s been good, eh, Marry?”
He sat down on a broken stool in the corner, dipping his hand into the water
bucket for a quick sip. It was foul and cool, and it stung pleasantly as it
slipped down his throat. “Don’t s’pose I could ask
for watar inta wine, than?
Aye… too much…” He let his eyes shut. He napped.