cw: hand whump, gore, brief emeto mention, this one gets kinda graphic so be warned :)
"Pick a hand."
James eyed his captor, sullen and silent. For two days, he'd been a prisoner in the brig of his own ship. No food, no water, no idea if the men still loyal to him were even alive. Kept chained to the wall, bound in a bent position by rough rope.
His body ached, his head was pounding, his mouth felt swollen, and here was Peter, first mate turned mutineer, giving him stupid orders.
"Pick a hand," Peter said again, sounding annoyed.
"Why?" James spat out, his voice rasping. "Why should I do anything you ask of me?"
Peter clicked his tongue. "Well now, you don't sound like someone who wants a drink of water."
James scowled. So this was how it was going to be. He'd have to play Peter's games, cave into his demands, just for the pleasure of keeping himself alive. Fine. His life was worth more to him than his pride.
"Left," he said, and Peter's face broke into a smile.
"There we go!" he said, producing a small flask from his hip and unscrewing the lid. He pressed it to James' lips, and he drank, unable to grasp it himself with his hands tied behind his back. It was taken away too soon.
"Now, you said your left hand?" Peter asked, moving behind him. James tensed as his former first mate cut the hand in question loose in such a way that the other was still tied firmly in place. Traitor or not, Peter was skilled with rope tricks. He gripped his wrist tightly, and James winced as his arm was straightened for the first time in days.
Even with one hand freed, the rest of his body was practically immobilized. Trying to fight back at this point would yield only failure. His best hope was to entertain Peter's wishes until the traitor let his guard down.
"Left hand, left hand. Good choice," Peter said, tracing a finger along James' palm. "Now, will you let me cut it off?"