Tarzan X Shame Of Jane Part 2 -

The jungle had changed since the fire. The ash had settled into a gray paste over the ferns, and the silence was heavier than any thunder. Jane Porter stood at the edge of the clearing, her khaki shirt torn at the shoulder, a fresh bruise curling around her ribs like a purple serpent.

The shame wasn’t from the wound. It was from what she’d done to survive.

Three days ago, a rogue band of mercenaries had landed on the coast. They weren’t after ivory or land—they were after Tarzan. A collector in Monaco wanted the “Ape Man” alive, caged, and exhibited. They had used sonic drones to scatter the great apes, then set the eastern canopy ablaze to drive Tarzan into open ground.

But Jane had been alone when they cornered her.

“Where is he, Mrs. Greystoke?” the leader, a man named Voss, had asked, pressing a heated blade against her boot.

She hadn’t spoken. Not a word. But when they tied her to a tree and began to cut vines in a pattern around her—mimicking the Mangani great-ape distress signal—she’d realized the truth. They didn’t need her to talk. They needed her shame.

Because Jane knew the jungle’s oldest law: to be useless is to be dead. And for the first time in her life, she had made herself useful to the wrong side.

She had shown Voss which mushrooms Tarzan used to treat his wounds. She had pointed—with a jerk of her chin, a tear in her eye—toward the hidden waterfall cave where he kept his father’s hunting knife.

She had betrayed him. Not for freedom. Not for mercy. For the simple, animal reason that she had been afraid of the fire.

Tarzan found her not by sight, but by smell. He landed on a low branch without a sound, his chest painted with charcoal and his own blood. His eyes, the color of wet flint, held no anger. That was worse.

“Jane,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

“They have the cave,” she whispered. “I showed them. I’m sorry isn’t—”

He dropped to the ground in front of her. She flinched. He didn’t.

“They will not find the knife,” he said. “I moved it three moons ago. When you began to dream of the ship.”

She blinked. “You knew?”

“I know the smell of a mind leaving.” He crouched, his face level with hers. “You are not ashamed because you spoke. You are ashamed because you spoke and it did not save you.”

Jane’s throat closed. He was right. Voss had laughed after she gave him the mushroom knowledge. He had made her repeat the directions three times, then tied her tighter. Her betrayal had bought nothing—not even a cup of water.

“What use am I now?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Tarzan turned and pressed a smooth, flat stone into her hand. It was warm from his body. On it, scratched in crude lines, was a map of the mercenary camp.

“This is use,” he said. “You know their guns. Their guard shifts. Their fear.” He pointed to a small X near the river. “The cook. He is kind to you?”

She nodded, confused. “He gave me bread.”

“He is their weakness. He hates Voss. You saw it.”

She had seen it. A flicker. A glance.

“Tomorrow,” Tarzan said, “you will walk into their camp. You will tell Voss you want to earn your freedom. You will cook for them. You will smile. And when the cook gives you the pepper root—the one that makes men choke and weep—you will put it in the stew.” tarzan x shame of jane part 2

Jane stared at the stone map. Her shame was still there, coiled in her stomach. But now it had a shape. A direction.

“And you?” she asked.

Tarzan stood, his silhouette merging with the dark trunks behind him. “I will be where the useful ape always is.”

“Where?”

“In the shame you thought you buried.”

He was gone before she could thank him. But she didn’t need to thank him. She needed to be useful.

The next evening, Jane walked into the mercenary camp with her hands raised. Voss smirked. The cook looked away.

“Changed your mind, Mrs. Greystoke?”

“I want to eat,” she said. “I want to live. I’ll cook. I’ll clean. Just don’t put me back in that cage.”

They laughed. They let her near the fire. They let her stir the pot.

And when the pepper root went in—when the stew turned from brown to red—Jane did not flinch.

An hour later, twenty men were on their knees, coughing, eyes streaming, gasping for water. Voss stumbled toward his rifle, but his hands shook too hard to aim.

That’s when Tarzan dropped from the canopy. Not roaring. Not raging. Silent as the shame that had finally become useful.

He bound them with their own belts. He dragged Voss to the river and left him tied to a log for the crocodiles to consider.

And Jane? Jane built a fire that was not for destruction, but for signal. A rescue ship saw the smoke by dawn.

As they waited on the beach, Tarzan touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

“You did not run,” he said. “You became the vine that strangles the trap.”

Jane looked at the ocean. Her shame was still there—smaller now, sharper. Not a wound. A tool.

“Part 3,” she said quietly, “is learning to forgive myself.”

Tarzan tilted his head. “That is not a jungle lesson.”

“No,” she said. “That’s a human one.”

He took her hand. They walked into the waves together, not as hunter and rescued, but as two useful things finally whole.

End of Part 2.

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Part 2 adopts a dual‑narrative approach: alternating first‑person sections from Jane’s diary entries and third‑person scenes centered on Tarzan’s observations. This structural choice accomplishes two things:

The Weight of the Green

Jane Porter woke before dawn, the hammock’s coarse fibers still imprinted on her cheek. Beside her, Tarzan slept in a half-crouch, one hand resting on his knife, the other limp across her ankle—a possessive tether even in slumber.

She should feel safe. Instead, she felt watched.

The shame had begun three weeks ago, after the Belgian ivory hunters left. They had not harmed her physically—Tarzan had seen to that, tearing their encampment apart like a god of vine and fang. But one of them, a gaunt man named Coetzee, had whispered something as Tarzan dragged him into the mud:

“She’s not yours, ape-man. Look at her eyes. She’s already ashamed of choosing a beast.”

Tarzan had not heard. Jane had.

Now, every rustle of leaves felt like an accusation. Every time she reached for his hand in front of the village, she felt the weight of their stares—the tribe who had accepted him but never fully trusted her. The white woman who came to the jungle and forgot her own kind.

That was the shame. Not loving him. But loving him wrongly—with the part of her that still remembered London, parasols, and the smell of tea in a porcelain cup.

That afternoon, she walked to the river alone.

Tarzan had gone to check the northern snares. She had lied and said she needed to wash clothes. Instead, she sat on a fallen kapok tree, pulled her knees to her chest, and stared at her reflection.

The woman in the water had tangled hair, sun-browned skin, and fingernails permanently stained with sap. She had not worn a dress in six months. She had not said a proper English sentence in four.

“You’re not Jane anymore,” she whispered. “You’re just… his.”

A twig snapped behind her.

She did not turn. “I told you I’d be fine.”

Tarzan dropped from the lower canopy without a sound. He did not speak—not in English, not in the guttural Mangani of the apes. He simply sat beside her, close enough that his shoulder pressed against hers.

“You lie,” he said finally. His voice was low, less polished than hers, but sharp as flint. “You say ‘fine.’ But your smell is wrong. Bitter. Like old fear.”

Jane laughed—a short, hollow thing. “My smell? God, Tarzan, I can’t even have a private thought without you sniffing it out.”

He did not flinch. He picked up a stone and turned it over in his calloused palm. “Coetzee’s words. They still live in your head.”

She went cold. “You did hear.”

“I hear everything.” He placed the stone in her hand, closing her fingers around it. “You think I am beast. That you should feel shame for wanting me.” The jungle had changed since the fire

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. You sleep at the edge of the hammock now. You flinch when I touch your face.” His yellow eyes, so inhuman in the dappled light, held no anger—only a deep, patient hurt. “You are not ashamed of me, Jane. You are ashamed of her.” He touched her chest, right over her heart. “The old Jane. The one who would have run from a man like me.”

She wanted to deny it. But the truth sat in her throat like a swallowed seed.

“She would have run,” Jane admitted, her voice cracking. “She would have called you a savage. And I killed her to be here. I buried her in this jungle, and sometimes… sometimes I hear her screaming.”

Tarzan was quiet for a long moment. Then he took the stone from her hand and threw it into the river. The ripples swallowed her reflection.

“Good,” he said.

Jane blinked. “Good?”

“Screaming means she was alive.” He stood, offering her his hand—the same hand that had torn out a leopard’s throat, the same hand that had braided flowers into her hair after their first kiss. “But you are not her anymore. And you are not mine. You are you. And you choose every day to stay.”

She looked at his hand. Then at the river, now calm again.

The shame did not vanish. It coiled in her stomach, stubborn as a root. But something else grew beside it—a quiet, fierce defiance.

She took his hand.

“I choose,” she said. “Even when it’s ugly. Even when I hate myself for it.”

Tarzan pulled her to her feet. For the first time that day, he smiled—not the grin of a hunter, but something smaller, more private. “Then there is no shame. Only the choosing.”

They walked back to the village together, her fingers laced through his. Behind them, the river carried away the ghost of a woman who had once been too afraid to love a man who smelled of rain and blood.

She did not look back.

End of Part 2

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Tarzan’s mythic aura is destabilized in Part 2 through several mechanisms:

The central motif of shame operates on multiple levels:

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