Captive (Part I)

jennyr · 2010-09-24T03:37:19Z

Summary: In the cold, isolated forests of 16th-century Europe, a lord takes a boy prisoner. As an unexpectedly tender relationship develops between captor and captive, resentment and distrust grow into warmth and trust in a pair of hearts that were once achingly empty. It aims to be a sensitive portrayal of a tender, if fragile, relationship that grows between two characters because of mutual loneliness as well as an intense longing for companionship. As a tentative trust develops between the two characters, the dynamics of their captor-captive relationship continually change as power is given, taken, and shared. As their bond deepens, the boy finds a new kind of freedom in his captivity and the man finds redemption for a brutal crime he committed. I would greatly appreciate any feedback and am looking forward to reading and critiquing other people's work. I am no history expert, so I'm sure there are historical inaccuracies, but I'm looking for feedback concerning the writing, not the historical facts. Thanks in advance to everyone who takes a look. Chapter 1 They needed the boy. They had spotted the boy and his older, larger companion resting in a clearing. Both were bedraggled, clothes torn and dirty, and looked exhausted. The companion seemed to be examining a wound on the boy’s left side. The lord and his men surrounded the two travelers. The man sprung to his feet; the boy he was with got to his feet more slowly, heavily favoring his left ankle. The man pointed his gun at the group of advancing men and fired. His shot missed; one of the lord’s men pulled his trigger and hit him squarely in the chest. The boy let out a shocked scream as his companion twisted and crumpled to the ground. The lord could see the despair and panic in the boy’s face as he fell to his knees beside the man and touched the bubbling wound on his chest, trying to quell the flow of blood, to no avail. His fingers became drenched with blood. His companion gurgled a little and then was still, leaving the boy alone. The lord locked eyes with the boy, knowing he was finally his to take. The boy looked back into the man’s eyes, anger and fear blazing in his own. The lord and his men moved toward the boy. The boy, still on his knees, quickly picked up his fallen companion’s gun and pointed it at the lord. The lord’s men immediately trained their guns on the boy. The lord put up his hand to signal them to wait for his order. He didn’t want the boy shot. The boy stared at him, breathing hard, pointing the gun at him. The lord took a step closer; the boy didn’t move, his arms shaking. The lord said clearly to the boy, “You can take a shot at me, but my men will shoot you before you’ve even pulled the trigger. There are three of them, and I know they won’t miss. They’ll kill you. They can put you in the ground right now, or you can drop the gun and come with me,” he reasoned. As his words captured the boy’s attention, one of the lord’s men slowly moved around behind the boy. The boy glanced down at his dead companion, utterly alone and unprotected. He slowly looked back up into the lord’s eyes, his own filled with tears that threatened to spill onto his cheeks. “Come with me. Come here,” the lord said more gently. With no response from the boy, he continued in a more threatening tone: “You have nowhere to go. We will hunt you, and you will be captured. Come willingly with me now and you won’t be hurt.” The boy looked into the lord’s eyes, clearly distrustful of him. After a few tense moments the boy lowered his gun slightly but did not drop it. He didn’t want the lord to come any closer; he needed time to think. At the boy’s submission the lord took a few aggressive steps toward him. The boy quickly raised the gun again in defense. He didn’t want to be taken. The lord was almost close enough to touch the boy. He could see the sweat trickling down his dirt-stained cheeks. While the boy’s attention was focused on the advancing lord, one of the lord’s men came up behind him and grabbed him. He locked his strong arms around the boy, pinning the boy’s arms against his body. With one arm holding the boy, he used the other to twist the boy’s wrist until he dropped the gun. The other men shifted their positions to form a circle around them. The man had two restraining arms across the boy’s chest, holding him against him. The boy bent his arms at the elbows and gripped the man’s arms. He struggled against his captor, his eyes still on the lord who was now only feet away from him. At the boy’s resistance the lord nodded and one of his men rummaged around in a bag and produced a needle. He prepared the sedative in front of the boy and waited for the lord’s instructions. The man was holding the boy so tightly he was having trouble breathing. Every time he inhaled to draw breath it seemed that the man tightened his arm around his stomach. Eventually the boy stopped struggling and was still. “I’ll hold him,” said the lord. The boy was released for an instant before he was pushed into the lord’s body, his face pressed against his chest. The lord moved his hands around the boy’s back to feel for any weapons. With the boy against him, he could feel the frantic beat of his heart, like a caged animal. The boy felt the lord lift his shirt to expose his back and felt his hand on his bare skin. He flinched slightly but didn’t resist. He felt another man’s hand on his lower back and a sharp, aching pain, but he didn’t struggle. The lord’s hand was still on his back, holding him. Darkness started to encompass his vision. He felt himself forced down onto his knees as his body weakened, and then he knew no more. Җ The lord carried the unconscious boy into the drawing room of the manor house and laid his supple form down on a couch. He had one of his men light the candles in the room. “Bring towels,” he instructed another man as he sat down beside the boy. The lord pulled the boy across his lap, supporting his head. He removed his dirtied, bloodied shirt and carefully examined the wound on his left side. It was long and ragged and stretched from mid-torso to hip. The lord lightly touched the swollen, blood-streaked skin with his fingers. The boy had needed stitches days ago. Now he would have to re-open the wound in order to properly clean it. He wrapped the boy’s bare upper body in a towel and carried him to the examination table in the infirmary. He could close the wound himself and then send for the doctor in the morning. He had his men bring alcohol, water, soap, cloths, ointment, a needle and thread, and clean wound dressings. He waited for the water to heat on the fire. The boy wasn’t in pain anymore now that he was unconscious, so they had time. While he was waiting the lord removed the rest of the boy’s soiled clothes. After the water heated the lord held a warm cloth against the boy’s side, applying light pressure. After he soaked the wound he worked soap into the abscess, cleaning gently with his fingers. He carefully washed the wound, removing the fresh, gelled blood as well as the dried blood. He rinsed the soap out of the wound by dribbling water over his side and then dried it with a towel. Now he prepared to close the wound. He dabbed a bit of alcohol on it and held the needle over the fire for a couple seconds to sterilize it. He pierced the skin with the needle and began sewing. Soon his hands were stained and glutinous scarlet blood was smeared across the boy’s torso. After some concentration he tightened the stitches and tied them off. The white thread was stained a crimson color. He washed the tender, swollen area with warm water once more and dried it with a towel. The lord thoroughly coated his fingers with ointment and carefully rubbed them over the closed wound. He moved his fingers slowly and delicately, not wanting to rupture the fresh stitches. When he had finished coating the boy’s wound he dressed it with clean cloths. He knew that the wound would pain the boy in the morning. The boy’s ankle, swollen and bruised, looked badly sprained, but there was little to do about that. If anything, it would make escape more difficult. The lord wrapped a clean towel around the boy and lifted him off the table. He held him gently in his arms, careful not to touch the bandaged wound. He carried him upstairs to a guest bedroom and laid him on the bed. After rummaging in the bureau he produced nightclothes that the boy could wear. He dressed him and laid him on his back, head on the pillow, and pulled the covers over his body. The lord sat on the bed next to the sleeping boy, looking down at him. The boy’s face was relaxed and peaceful, so different from earlier that day. The lord touched his cheek lightly with his hand. His skin was warm but not feverish. He let his fingers linger on the boy’s warm skin for an extra moment before getting up from the bed, closing the door quietly, and turning the lock. Җ The boy slowly regained consciousness. He woke lying in bed, surrounded by darkness. His body ached and he was disoriented. He wasn’t sure where he was or how much time had passed since he had been fully conscious. When he tried to sit up he felt a throbbing pain in his left side. He lay back down and gingerly fingered the bandage covering the wound. The bandage felt wet and the slight pressure from his hand hurt. He winced and moved his hand to rest on his stomach. One of the first things he became aware of was the heavy rain outside. He listened to it lash the roof and the window to the right of the bed. It had a constant, reassuring beat. He couldn’t hear anything above it. It blanketed all other noise and was like a cloak sheltering him as he lay there in the dark. He felt protected. He lay listening to the rain’s steady pounding. He turned his head to the side so that his right cheek rested on the pillow. He watched the rain pelt the window, a witness to the night’s beauty. The faint glow of the moon, like a gently smoldering ember, illuminated the streaming torrents that fell from the heavens. He watched the individual droplets of water on the panes, trickling down the glass like tears. He gazed out of the window into the weeping night. As he watched the tears fall from the sky he remembered. The crack of the bullet. His shocked scream as his companion fell. His fingers bathed in blood. The lord. His own anger and fear. Struggling against the strong arms that restrained him. The sharp sting of the needle. Falling onto his knees. And then nothing. Nothing except darkness. Just like now. The boy felt too numb to cry, like he had been drained of all emotion along with his energy and spirit. He rolled over onto his right side. He bent slightly at the knees and brought his legs up under him, tucking his hands against his chest. Shivering, he pulled at the covers around him, seeking warmth. But as he lay there unmoving he felt the bitter night air begin to creep into his bones, its cruel, insistent fingers probing and working their way into his soul. He couldn’t seem to shake this feeling; this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he had swallowed an ice cube and it was slowly trickling down his throat and through his insides. This recognition that his companion had been killed but he had been spared, for a reason he didn't yet understand. Chapter 2 “He bled a lot last night. When did you treat the wound?” “We only found him yesterday. I had to re-open the wound so I could clean and close it properly.” “This injury is not recent. It looks days old. If you hadn’t found him, he would have fallen to infection or been felled by the elements, whichever claimed him first.” “I know. That’s why I needed to find him.” “Was he traveling alone?” “No; he had a servant with him; a bodyguard of sorts. He must have carried him some of the way. I don’t think he could have made it that far on that ankle.” “Where is—” “He’s no longer accompanying the boy.” The boy heard their voices for a few moments before opening his eyes. He slowly came back to consciousness. He had been in a very deep sleep, exhausted from the trials of the past few days. It was daytime but the light coming in from the window was muted. The sky was gray and portended snow. The faces of the lord and a man he assumed was the doctor looked down at him, studying him. He tried to sit up but was immediately pierced with a stab of raw pain from his left side. The lord gently but firmly pushed him back down into the pillows. “No; stay still,” he instructed. The boy obeyed, having little choice in the matter. He laid back submissively and let himself be handled, not making eye contact with either man. He had lost enough blood to weaken and subdue him. He was not relaxed, but compliant; he knew he didn’t have the strength to struggle with either man. He wondered how long the two men had been there, sitting beside him while he slept, examining him. The bottom of his shirt had been pushed up to expose his abdomen and the band of his pants had been slipped down slightly to give access to his hip. The doctor had already unwrapped the soiled bandage from his side and had cleaned the wound, using cloths to soak up the fresh blood that had come in the night. The crimson-streaked cloths lay beside him on the bed, the red color contrasting sharply with the white sheets. The doctor meticulously coated his fingers with ointment. He touched the raw, tender skin and the boy jumped, lifting his back off the bed. The lord placed his hand on his chest to hold him still while the doctor treated him. When the doctor gently rubbed his fingers over the sore wound again the boy squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the throbbing ache he felt. The doctor’s hands were cold and probing as they spread ointment over his stitches, but the boy gradually relaxed his muscles as he ascertained that neither the lord nor the doctor intended to hurt him at present. When he had finished lubricating the wound the doctor dressed it with fresh bandages. The lord helped him wrap the cloth around the boy’s slim torso. The doctor pulled back the sheets on the bed and gently retracted the boy’s left leg. He rolled up the leg of his pants to mid-calf and gently held his ankle. It was badly bruised and swollen, but he had little capacity to treat sprained limbs. It would simply require time to heal. “He shouldn’t put weight on this ankle until it heals,” he told the lord. The doctor slipped his arm behind the boy’s back and helped him to a sitting position. He reached over to the nightstand beside the bed and held a glass of water for the boy to drink. He raised the glass to the boy’s lips and the boy drank without prompting, finishing the water. “Thank you, doctor. Leave us now,” the lord said. The boy watched the doctor leave the room. Now he was left alone with the lord. He felt more comfortable when the doctor was there too, because he didn’t have to interact directly with the lord. He averted his eyes, looking down at his hands. Yesterday they had been covered with his friend’s blood, but today they were unblemished. It was clear they had been cleaned, just as the blood stains on his body had. Spreading ointment on his fingers, the lord reached out to touch a cut over the boy’s left eye. The boy immediately recoiled from the touch, making it clear that he did not want contact. The lord looked at the boy questioningly. “You killed him,” the boy said in a strangled whisper, finally looking at the lord. “You know I had no choice,” said the lord. “I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t give the order. My men did that on their own. I’m sorry that you had to see that.” “You didn’t have to kill him.” “Would you have come willingly?” The boy ignored the question. “Did you bury him, or did you just leave him out there in the open?” he asked urgently, his voice going up an octave. The man broke his gaze. “We didn’t bury him.” The boy looked indignant and disgusted. He made to turn his body away from the lord but the lord held him in front of him as he continued speaking. “There was no time to bury your servant. It was dusk. If we hadn’t found you last night, you surely would have frozen to death out there. The temperature dropped considerably.” The boy didn’t respond; hot tears brimming in his eyes. The lord’s eyes searched for the boy’s, but the boy wouldn’t look at him. “I am no barbarian,” the lord insisted. “Would you have rather died out there?” When the boy said nothing, the lord commanded, “Answer me, Tristan.” He watched the momentary shock on the boy’s face at hearing his own name. Tristan met the lord’s eyes. “No,” he said quietly. The lord reached out toward the cut on Tristan’s eye again. Tristan hesitated for a moment but then allowed the lord to touch his face. The lord pushed the boy’s mahogany hair off of his forehead. The cut above his eye marred the beauty of his porcelain skin. The lord used the tip of his finger to rub a bit of ointment into the cut. His hands were cold, but they were gentle. “Who are you?” asked Tristan as he felt the lord’s fingers lightly brush his cheek. He raised his hazel eyes to meet the lord’s. “My name is Matthias,” said the lord. “Why are you doing this?” Tristan asked. “Your father—” “My father is dead,” Tristan snapped. “Your stepfather—” “I do not call him Father,” the boy interjected. “He has taken something that belongs to me.” Tristan carefully watched Matthias for further information. “How old are you?” Matthias asked the boy sitting before him. Surprised by the question, Tristan considered the man next to him before answering. “Almost sixteen.” “My friend’s son is ten years old,” said Matthias. “Younger than you. His name is Faran. He was taken by your stepfather and I need to get him back. Alive and unharmed.” Tristan saw aching sadness in the man’s eyes, but he also detected fierce anger in them. Matthias’s intent to protect this boy was strong, and threatening to any and all who stood in his way. Tristan turned away from him. “Do you understand my meaning?” Matthias asked. “I understand,” Tristan said quietly. Җ That evening Matthias returned to the guest bedroom with food. He sat down on the bed beside the boy and set the tray of food on the nightstand. Tristan sat up gingerly when the man entered the room, his injured side protesting at the movement. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled as he looked at the meat and cheese on the tray. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He immediately noticed a knife tucked inside a cloth napkin on the tray. He felt a sickening flood of excitement in his belly. He quickly averted his eyes from the blade and waited for his opportunity. It was automatic, this instinct to protect himself, just like he would when his stepfather hit him. When Matthias turned his back for a moment, Tristan noiselessly slid his left arm toward the nightstand until his fingers touched cold metal. He carefully grasped the knife in his fingers, tucking the utensil flat against his palm. He brought his hand close to his body and placed his palm flat against the mattress, concealing the blade. Matthias turned back toward him. “Give it to me,” he growled quietly, locking eyes with Tristan. When the boy feigned innocence he roughly grabbed his left arm. He felt his muscles tense under his fingers, resisting him. “You’re hurting me,” Tristan implored, glaring at the man reproachfully. “Don’t. Just—don’t,” said Matthias unsympathetically. He refused to play games with the boy. Despite his warning, Tristan struggled. He was strong, but he could not overpower a full-grown man, especially when he was weakened by his injuries. Matthias reached for Tristan’s hand. Tristan impulsively closed his hand around the knife and the blade cut deep into his palm. He inhaled sharply and the blade clattered to the floor. He closed his hand to protect his wound, already dripping blood on the sheets. Matthias forced Tristan’s fingers to unclasp, holding his hand open, and examined the deep slice in his palm. “Damn you!” he said angrily, grabbing the cloth napkin and wrapping it around the boy’s bloody hand. Tristan bit his lip to avoid gasping when the man roughly tightened the cloth to stop the flow of blood. Even so blood blossomed on the cloth. After Matthias knotted the cloth around his hand, Tristan met his eyes uncertainly. Matthias returned his uneasy gaze for a moment and then slapped him, connecting with his left cheekbone. Tristan turned his head at the sting, squeezing his watering eyes shut for a moment. He knew he deserved this, and the man could have done much worse to him, but to be slapped felt like an injustice, an embarrassment. Against his better judgment, he kicked out at the man with his uninjured foot. He knew immediately that he had made a mistake. In an instant Matthias’s arm was pressed hard against his chest, pinning him flat against the bed. His arm pushed against his throat, constricting his breathing a bit. He didn’t struggle when Matthias turned him over onto his stomach; he only winced at the pressure on his injured left side. He stayed still as the man unfastened his belt. Matthias pushed up Tristan’s shirt to expose his back. He paused as he noticed bruises on the boy’s lower back. He knew neither he nor his men had inflicted them; their yellowish hue indicated that they were older. He hit the boy with his belt, the sharp metal buckle tearing his skin, but he was careful to avoid the older bruises on his lower back as well as the wound on his left side. He was already bleeding some, scarlet trickling slowly from his arched shoulders. Tristan trembled as the man hit him, blinking back tears. He squeezed his eyes shut so the tears couldn’t escape. Matthias could see his fists tightly gripping the sheets and the grimace on his face. His right cheek was pressed against the bed, his left cheek turned up; his cheekbone was swelling where he had hit him. After a short time Matthias could see he had had enough and stopped. He refastened his belt around his waist, watching the boy sprawled on the bed. He was trembling slightly, anticipating more punishment. His eyes were still closed. Matthias pulled Tristan’s shirt down to cover his bloodied back. He got off of the bed and retrieved the knife from the floor, taking the boy’s uneaten dinner with him. He wet his fingers in his mouth and snuffed out the candle in the room, leaving the boy lying in darkness. He slammed the door behind him and locked it. Tristan was hungry, sore, and upset. His back felt wet with blood against his shirt. But mostly his pride and his sense of control over the situation were hurt. He knew what kind of man his stepfather was. He knew he wouldn’t be merciful to the boy he had captured. He knew he would hurt him. And then what choice would this man have? Tristan delicately rolled onto his right side and laid his head on the pillow, pulling the covers around him. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry when the lord was here, but now he was alone and he could. He bent his knees slightly and brought his legs up under him, curling up with his hands tucked against his body. He cried quietly, tears of frustration dripping down his hot cheeks. He didn’t want the man to hear him crying. He gently cradled his throbbing left hand in his right. Outside the door, Matthias heard Tristan crying quietly and thought that perhaps he had been too hard on him. He regretted hitting him. The boy had tested his patience and consequently learned that he would tolerate only so much defiance. He didn’t think Tristan would have actually hurt him with the knife; it was more a show of control and a test of his tolerance for disobedience. The boy was scared and desperate, and thus his actions had been rash and impulsive. He had a guarded sweetness about him, but he was also fiercely stubborn. He needed to learn to be submissive and compliant. Matthias didn’t want to hurt him, and hoped he wouldn’t have to. The boy was more to him than just a prisoner to be ransomed and returned undamaged.

Shearwater

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Sat Oct 30, 2010 6:48 pm

Shearwater says... · Sat Oct 30, 2010 6:48 pm

Hi Jenny! Here to review ^^

First of all, I have not read the previous reviews so I'm sorry if anything I state has already been said.
Alright, so interesting beginning. It was a slow hook but grabbed my attention nonetheless. Also, there seemed to be a bit of repetition with 'they boy, this boy, that boy" and it became a bit confusing to read and a tad annoying. Maybe you could have given them distinct features to tell them apart. Not only that but you seemed to say "The boy" a lot. Maybe you could have changed that to him/he sometimes just to help the flow a little. "The Lord locked eyes with him." Suggestion.

Your wording isn't as strong as I would have liked it to be. Instead, you do a lot of robotic movements here and state actions. Try playing with the words and use some imagination to make them more interesting to read. Either that or was it was the repetition of "the boy, the boy". That really sticks out to me, I'm sorry. Also there were no names or anything it was difficult to read and keep pace with it all. I also found a bit of repetition on the second part of the first chapter with the usage of blood, wound, etc. Might want to go back and edit those.

Now, there seems to be a lot of action in the first part and not enough thinking. It's just a passing scene we don't know why they're doing this or what the boy's name is who he is or what they want. No emotions said behind their voices. But you did a good job providing us with feeling with their actions. Although, I don't think that's enough. I'm left with many questions by this point and I can't get into your character's heads and read what they're thinking so it bothers me.

As for your second chapter, I thought it was a lot better than your first. Mainly because there was more going on. More dialogue, more personality. It was pulling me in again.I can see the mixture of feelings being played in here and it cutting in deep while still being vague. This relationship right now seems like a slave/master kind of thing and it's a bit weird but nice in a way that I can't describe or actually find a word for.

Now the third chapter. As Snoink had mentioned, I don't like how Matth. Beat Tristian, he does care for the kid. It makes Matth. seem like a violent and abusive character which I doubt he is. Your pace is slow but builds up nicely and you don't take away too much from the story or stuff it with boring dialogues, neither do you overuse descriptions which is nice. Vocabulary was great and your writing was nice too. I think at first it was a little hard to read but I got used to it later on. Alright, that's all for now. PM me if you need me. I'll be on to part two of this.
Cheers,

-Shear

There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.
-W. Somerset Maugham

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jennyr

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Sat Oct 30, 2010 9:20 pm

jennyr says... · Sat Oct 30, 2010 9:20 pm

Hey, thanks so much for the review! It was helpful to me. I'm hearing some of the same suggestions, so obviously I need to change a few things.

I recognize that the first chapter is the weakest by far, especially with the excessive use of pronouns. I'm working on a way to revise that chapter and make it stronger.

Hope you saw Chapter 3--Matthias being kind to Tristan the morning after hitting him. I posted the first two chapters at the top but then decided to post the third chapter as well, after some people had already left comments, so you kind of have to look for it.

Thanks again and hope you enjoy the next parts. I personally think it gets better as it goes on, both the story and the writing.

PinkShearwater wrote:Also, there seemed to be a bit of repetition with 'they boy, this boy, that boy" and it became a bit confusing to read and a tad annoying. Maybe you could have given them distinct features to tell them apart. Not only that but you seemed to say "The boy" a lot. Maybe you could have changed that to him/he sometimes just to help the flow a little.

Yep, I've heard this quite a few times.

I'm going to introduce names in the first chapter when I revise it.

PinkShearwater wrote:Either that or was it was the repetition of "the boy, the boy". That really sticks out to me, I'm sorry. Also there were no names or anything it was difficult to read and keep pace with it all.

It's coming back to haunt me. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

PinkShearwater wrote:Now, there seems to be a lot of action in the first part and not enough thinking. It's just a passing scene we don't know why they're doing this or what the boy's name is who he is or what they want. No emotions said behind their voices. But you did a good job providing us with feeling with their actions. Although, I don't think that's enough. I'm left with many questions by this point and I can't get into your character's heads and read what they're thinking so it bothers me.

My intention was to make the first chapter mainly action/a scene to advance the plot and then slowly reveal the motivations for their actions in the following chapters. However, perhaps I should think about adding some feelings/perspectives into it. It's good food for thought, so thanks.

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jennyr

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Mon Nov 29, 2010 3:09 am

jennyr says... · Mon Nov 29, 2010 3:09 am

Hey guys.

I completely re-did Chapter 1, and I think it's significantly improved--it flows better and there's more characterization, conflict, and plot details. It is longer than my first version, but I definitely think the additions contribute to the story. I didn't want to erase my old version of the story because people had taken the time to comment on it, so I actually posted a new story thread under 'Historical Novels' (different genre).

Please take a look if you're interested:

topic72553.html

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