31A/N: Hello again, I've decided to make this a collection of the stories that I come up with from the prompt list I talked about. The second word was "Master", which lead me to think of the William Ernest Henley poem "Invictus". When I read that poem I immediately think of Eliot, and thus was this born. All italicized parts (with the exception of the title) are from the aforementioned poem, and are not owned by me. Neither is Leverage. I hope you like it, and please review!
~Master~
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
The night was black. It was nearly impossible to tell where to put his feet, let alone to try and keep track of which direction he was going. He could hear the shouts of the rebels behind him; hunting him, trying to exhaust him so they could find him in the darkness. Every so often there would be a round of gunshots – semi-automatic rifles – and they would light up his path in the fraction of a second before he heard the bullets ricochet off the trees behind him. His leg burned, the laceration that ran from ankle to knee screaming out in protest to his violent movements.
Harsh voices called his name, cursing it, vowing revenge and every kind of recompense, but still he ran. He ran through the underbrush and zig-zagged his way through the trees. He hurdled fallen logs and ducked through vines. He ran until the voices grew into distant shouts, and then into echoes, and until they grew silent all together. Then he collapsed, falling against the bole of a mighty jungle tree and panting. His lungs burned and his heart pounded, but he knew that he couldn't stay on the ground. After only a moment's rest, he grappled with the thick vines that hung around the tree and hauled himself up onto a branch. Once he was settled, he pulled out his hunting knife and plunged it into the bark next to him so it would be ready if he needed it. As he slipped into exhausted unconsciousness, Eliot Spencer sent up a prayer of thanks for the indomitable will to survive.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Eliot's mouth filled with the familiar taste of blood as the fist met his jaw, but he recovered from the blow and turned a steely gaze back on his assailant. The man rewarded him with another punch, this time to the other side of Eliot's face. With his hands shackled behind his back and two rifles trained on him, there was little Eliot could do but continue to glare impassively at the man in front of him. The man nodded almost imperceptibly to someone that Eliot couldn't see, and the hitter felt a kick planted on the back of his right knee. That knee folded instantly, but the other one stayed firm, and Eliot managed to regain his balance. The man nodded again, and this time the guard kicked Eliot repeatedly in the backs of both knees until they buckled, forcing Eliot to kneel.
The man grabbed a fistful of Eliot's hair and forced him to look up. "Now, Spencer, are you willing to co-operate?" the man's foreign accent grated on Eliot's nerves, reminding him of Moreau. With that thought in his mind Eliot spat, staining the man's face red. It earned him a swift knee to the stomach which nearly knocked him to the ground, but he held firm and gave the man standing over him a defiant smirk.
"Is that all you got?"
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
Faced with injury every day, faced with the certainty that for him to be caught was to be killed, faced with the horror and the terror and the menace, he wasn't afraid. Whatever he went through now, he knew he'd been through worse. Whoever he came against, he knew he'd seen worse. If he had done it then – alone – why couldn't he do it now – with a team? He had brothers and sisters now, and he didn't have to just fight for himself. They looked out for him, he looked out for them, and together, they looked out for others. By himself he'd faced the worst things imaginable, and together they'd faced the worst people imaginable. How on earth could he be afraid?
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
A/N: After today I hope to update this story twice a week, on Fridays and Mondays, until the list of prompts (there are 31) is done. So unless anything really unexpected happens, there should be another chapter up this Friday. I hope you liked this chapter, and please review. This writer runs on reviews!
Next up: Storyteller