Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
The elephant who had claimed his hat wore a vividly-colored headpiece on her face, similar to a horse's blaze, woven silk blankets draped over her broad back and atop it all, looking like nothing so much as a gazebo, an enormous golden-painted howdah. St. John had never seen any animal larger than a camel before, and that only from a distance at the Zoological Society of London. He felt a touch of giddiness looking up at her, the way he had felt on the Albert of Wales the first time he watched sailors running aloft into the rig.
The mahout gave the elephant's truck two short, sharp jabs with a large pointed stick and-wonder upon wonders-the elephant slowly knelt in the dirt, shaking the ground as she dipped to her knees. Two servants carried out a small flight of stairs with velvet-trimmed handrails and set it next to her. Cpl. Fitzpatrick mounted the staircase and climbed into the gilded howdah as off-handedly as if he were ascending to his opera box for the evening.
“Come, Captain! Join me in front,” he beckoned to Cpt. Aquilaine. The Captain gave a quick glance at St. John and scrambled up alongside their host, far less easily than the Corporal had. The mahout hopped lightly up on the elephant's head, settling between her ears, and gave one more quick poke with his stick. She rose as slowly as she had descended, and then the Captain and Corporal were ten feet in the air, rocking gently back and forth.
Thus abandoned, St. John climbed up onto a second elephant, determined not to let his nerves or wounded pride show out. He was joined by a native carrying a surprising number of rifles. A third elephant with two more natives and yet more weapons fell into line behind them and the train began to gracefully sway their way towards the jungle.
All the fear St. John had experienced with his first rickshaw ride came flooding back to him; an elephant ride was slower and smoother, but also far, far loftier. He turned to the native next to him, intending to make conversation as a means to distraction even if they only knew four words in common. The Indian, a guide by trade, spoke enough English to manage-so long as the discussion revolved around hunting.
After an hour of parading down a well-tended trail through the jungle-wilds, the mahout on the first elephant began shouting something in a tongue that was neither Hindustani nor Bengali, as far as St. John could ascertain. The guide turned to St. John.
“Sahib, we hunt now, please.” He offered up a rifle; St. John shook his head politely-he rarely shot, even on hunts, and did not want to attempt anything that might disturb the howdah. The native shrugged and shouldered his own rifle. From the far distance, on top of the normal cries and shrieks of tantalizing but as-of-yet unseen jungle animals, they began to hear what sounded suspiciously like humans, tromping through the underbrush to stir up the wildlife. A shot rang out from the first elephant and he was not greatly surprised to see Cpl. Fitzpatrick switching guns, leaning out one side and tracking a passing bird. Cpt. Aquilaine also began taking aim. The armed natives merely stared at the jungle, as if they were keeping watch.
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“Tiger, Sahib,” he spoke without taking his eyes off the jungle.
“Tigers wouldn't dare attack an elephant train, would they?” He strove to look impassive; the native hunter was not deceived by his feint.
“Oh no, Sahib. Male elephant in heat, yes. Tiger, no. ” St. John felt he had failed to grasp some essential part of the conversation.
“Why are you worried so about tigers, then?”
“Not worried! No. When we see tiger, we shoot and Pukka Sahib-” here he tilted his head slightly towards the first elephant and the Corporal “-keeps for his house.”
“Ah. Thank you kindly.” He turned his thoughts to the stuffed animals back at the manor, especially mindful of the enormous white tiger now keeping a silent vigil in one of the estate's three smoking rooms. St. John whispered a prayer that they would not encounter any tigers that day.
An hour of rather tedious shooting crept along. St. John spent most of it seated on the floor of the howdah, staring out at the jungle foliage and trying not to think fondly about Cpt. Aquilaine. Eventually the front elephant amassed a small but respectable collection: three great cranes, two long-tailed monkeys, a slow loris, a small golden monkey and a sapphire-blue peacock-they saved the peacock and golden monkey to be preserved as trophies and discarded the rest. Cpl. Fitzpatrick declared it was time to return and they reversed course in a grove nearly tailor-made for such a purpose.
St. John had begun to notice that indeed, the entire safari through the proclaimed wilds proceeded far too easily. The convenient trail, the beaters stirring up a selection of colorful but harmless animals to shoot, the natives armed to the teeth unless anything truly threatening emerged-the Cpl. Fitzpatrick evidently preferred his expeditions to be as predictable and uneventful as a pheasant hunt back in Devonshire. St. John suspected that Cpt. Aquilaine would not be taken in by such sham adventuring. He peered ahead to the first elephant, curious to see if he could tell, from demeanor or carriage alone, what his friend thought of their host's preference in hunting.
What he saw caused him to gasp aloud. A sickening cold hand clenched at his heart; viscera twisted in equal parts anguish and envy. The Cpl. Fitzpatrick had an arm over Cpt. Aquilaine's broad shoulders and was running fingers through his hair in a lazy manner that suggested not only friendliness but also long-standing intimacy. Cpt. Aquilaine, in return, was muttering something into their host's ear while grinning. They appeared to be sharing some private joke; perhaps they were laughing at him. He considered-for a moment only-leaping from his elephant, demanding satisfaction from Cpl. Fitzpatrick and then beating the man with his own bejeweled cane until he begged for relief. But no, he could not blame the Corporal; had he not, just two nights past, dreamed of enjoying similar affections with the Captain? St. John briefly wondered if he might faint.
I am the greatest fool in all Christendom. Under what pretense could I have ever thought the Captain and I-all his talk of my forgiving him; he must have seen me out and been making an attempt at kindness, wanting to let me down gently. Yes, of course-he regretted the possibility of giving me pain. And no wonder he was so eager to come for a visit! Naturally he would invite me along-I am a friend to him, nothing more; any misunderstanding, however slight, was entirely on my end of the thing, a mere weakness of my flesh. A snippet of a dream. Yet here I am, near to weeping. St. John, thou most foolish man! I have spent all yesterday begging God to remove these feelings, and when I learn they are for naught I am sad? What I have just seen is a blessing sent to me by my Father. Showing me the error of my ways-yes, yes, teaching me how wrong my urges have been. There is nothing between he and I, there has never been anything and I am-I must be glad for it-because anything else is sin, impossibility.
Whom the Lord loveth He chastiseth. I thank Thee, Lord. I thank Thee for Thy mercy, in what Thou hast shown me. Thou art kind.
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But making such an attempt at pious gratitude sent an almost physical pain through his heart, and he clutched at the folds of his cloak. This was his punishment, his penance, and his purification. The Lord was emptying him of all worldly impulses, releasing those last lingering ties that bound him to the mortal plane, making His servant clean and and entirely dedicated to Him. But the Lord's cleansing burned like fire.
Blinking back his emotions, he cast about in desperation for any trivial thing that would draw attention from this humiliation-on anything but the Captain and the Corporal. Details stood out raw in his mind and he noticed, for the first time, the rough floorboards of the howdah, the scents of jasmine and sandalwood in the air, the twisting red lines like worms under the skin of the guide's feet. Hookworm was such a cruel scourge, but it did serve to put his current misery in perspective; at least St. John could always be assured of having stout shoes and wholesome food, whatever else he might suffer. He decided to apply himself to another's troubles-God would bless such an action, surely, and show His servant a measure of tenderness. St. John composed himself with an effort.
“Is there a doctor here at the estate, guide?” he whispered; he did not fully trust his voice.
The guide looked blankly at him. “Yes, Sahib. You are ill?”
“No, I am quite healthy. It is your feet-they must be looked at.”
“Me, Sahib? Oh no. I am good.”
“You are not. You have hookworm and could develop chlorosis. You must ask the doctor about it; you should not work until your feet are better.”
The guide, in return, gave him a puzzled, frightened sort of look, glanced quickly at the front elephant, then looked back at the floor while shaking his head. St. John also looked to the elephant, where Cpl. Fitzpatrick was leaning into Cpt. Aquilaine, caressing his cheek. He looked away.
“Kyā āpa baṅgālī bōlatē haiṁ?” he whispered. It was high time he put his studies into practice, and intellectual efforts sometimes eased emotional suffering.
“Bēśaka, sāhiba.”
“Kŏrpōrala karatā hai?”
“Nahīṁ, sāhaba.” The guide looked wary.
“Tuma nahīṁ ēka ḍŏkṭara kyōṁ cāhatē hō?”
“Maiṁ apanē pairōṁ kē li'ē ēka ḍŏkṭara cāhatē haiṁ, hām̐, lēkina hama usē yātrā kī anumati nahīṁ hai. Cikitsaka kēvala guru kē li'ē hai.”
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“Agara hama kāma nahīṁ karatē hama kōṛē haiṁ.”
“Kōṛē? Maiṁ śabda nahīṁ jānatā.” St. John gave an elaborate shrug.
That brought a weary smile to the guide's face. “Kōṛē. Mārā?” He mimicked the actions of beating someone with a stick.
“Āha. Yaha hai ki kyōṁ kisī kō thā... Kala kōṛē?”
The guide's face went dark. “Hāṁ. Ki mērē cacērē bhā'ī thē. Usakā bēṭā bahuta bīmāra hai. Vaha usakī paravāha kārakhānē mēṁ jānā nahīṁ cāhatā thā, isali'ē vē usē kōṛē aura hama saba kō dēkhanē kē li'ē banāyā hai.”
“Vē ēka aurata kō kōṛē?” St. John suddenly found this conversation to be quite useful; his misery was being converted, with all due haste, into a fine and burning rage towards the vicious, grasping Corporal, who needed to possess everything, rule everything, and would never spare so much as the crumbs for another man if he could manage. “Ki burā hai, duṣṭa. Āpa kyōṁ nahīṁ chōṛa sakatā hūm̐? Āpa gulāma nahīṁ haiṁ.”
“Hām̐ sāhiba. Hama kara rahē haiṁ.” The guide looked at St. John as if he were a child. St. John gaped at him, his mouth sagging open. He tried to speak further and failed.
I knew slavery had not technically been abolished here, because the East India Company runs the country's administration rather than the Home Office. I did not think that meant any true Englishman actually practiced this wickedness, let alone any of its attendant vices.
Such atrocities will not stand.
He spent the rest of the ride homewards in silent thought, overcome by the sorrows of the world and the suffering of the people in it. Each glance at the front of the train confirmed what he already knew-presently he stopped looking at them.
By the time the elephants returned to the estate proper St. John was settled in his mind: spreading the Word of Christ to the unchurched people of India would not be enough; Christian fellowship also demanded a lightening of their earthly bonds and defeat of those who caused them such distress. In addition, he would crush his weaknesses once and for all. And, having driven out these unnatural desires, he would quash Cpt. Aquilaine's presumption that St. John had ever harbored such thoughts in the first place. He could not abide the idea that the Captain might think so little of him.
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I have been shouting the praises of this story all over LJ; I cannot even tell you how much I love it.
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I need it to be next Friday already!
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So well written. Your St.-John is so spot-on! I'm delighted that someone is finally writing about him, giving him a life and a destiny after Jane Eyre!
But, oh!, he is going to hurt and hurt Aquilaine badly before it gets better. And it is logical too, with his education and taboos.
Somehow, the fact that he is repressed will make it all the more fulfilling and hot when he finally surrenders to his senses.
What is Aquilaine playing at, I wonder? Was he hurt by the reverend's behavior? Is what St-John witnessing not what it appears?
Poor St.John, thinking he is over the captain, when he is more concerned than ever about what he might think of him!
I adore this fic and eagerly wait for each update.
A little observation on a small detail, though. I noticed that Fitzpatrick's military rank is "Cpl". A corporal is not an officer. It is the rank just above "private", which is the lowest non-officer rank.
A cpl would be very unlikely to be from a priviledged background, have gone to Uniersity and be allowed to befriend so intimately an officer like the captain.
If is rank is a little below Aquilaine, he could be a lieutenant. Above, a major. Or he could be a captain too.
I hope I didn't offend you with that, because I think your fic is masterful!
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when I read your obeservation I first thought WTF Corporal is one of the higher ranking officers! I do not understand this at all.
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anyway, I was CONFUSED. LOTS. and then I read your comment again and was like hoshit. I called him Corporal. I meant COLONEL. I always get those confused. Always. Fuck fuck oh well.
Good catch! I'm stickin' with my error, because consistency is fun, but I'll fixy-fixy for when I post to AO3. :D
also, last time someone pointed out an error I was a tad grumpy about it, but it propelled me into a tentacle-fic. I am not grumpy now, but perhaps I will come up with something anyways...
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This is really brilliant, feels very period and very emotional. Just please, work in the very Jane Eyre-esque and symbolic BED ON FIRE. Nothing communicates Victorian desire to bang ASAP than a symbolic FIRE in the BED.
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As I said, it was just a quick question about a detail and I didn't mean to offend.
My comment focused mainly on how much I like your characters and the universe you created. :-)
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