|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 9, 2007 2:48:19 GMT -4
For some time now Gl12 and I have been posting this story in installments on the Henry Gale Lovers Community. It's an ongoing chain story, based on the "Can you?" system, and we're making it up as we go along (and having a terrific time with it). Anyone can jump in with an episode, an interlude, a drabble, a fic or an illustration. We like illustrations. Just try not to: kill any characters without prior permission drift off into slash or outright porn (it's not that we don't like it, but I know my kid goes on this site, and we have somewhere else to post these things) mess with existing storylines. Spoilers and speculation: Season 3 ...and beyond. Rating - varies. Some sex, some violence (are we surprised?) The usual disclaimers apply. We don't own LOST, Ben, or anyone else in this story (sniff). We don't claim to have a better idea of what's going on than the LOST storyboard writers do (though I am available to certain offers :-)) It begins at the end of Season 3, and continues into no-man's-land. CHAPTER 1.  BLOOD. He’s not my blood, she told herself. This man on the ground – he’s nothing to me. Suddenly, and more than ever, Alex needed that to be true. It meant she didn’t need to look back. It gave a meaning to what she had done. Such a small thing – such a giant thing – like the cry that starts off an avalanche. She wondered what Ben had said to Jack to make him lose control that way. Jack had been shaking with pent-up rage as he marched her father up the hill, then flung him to the ground at their feet. She supposed Ben must have provoked him somehow, just as he did everyone. Ben had an uncanny way of knowing exactly how to get under your skin. His coolness was infuriating. And his arrogance! That was the worst. He’d lied to her so many times. He’d treated her like a child; he’d hurt Karl; – and he hadn’t even said he was sorry. Ben would never apologize. Ben would never admit he was wrong. Which was why it would be a big mistake to start feeling sorry for him now. To begin with, he would think her weak - he’d always claimed, condescendingly, that she acted on impulse, that she was too reckless, that she never measured the consequences of her actions. Well, this time, she wanted him to know that she’d thought out every part of her plan. These people were her family now. These people and Karl. And when she was far away from this island – then maybe he’d be truly sorry. Sorry, perhaps - too late. But, oh - his face. His poor face. She tried to look away, but could not. She hadn’t expected to see so much blood. Thought inconsequentially - at least that isn’t one of his good shirts – and on that thought came such a sudden rush of pity and woe that she felt just like a child again, and wanted to cry as she once had at the sad bloody corpses of animals who had wandered into the sonic fence; rabbits, pigs, the occasional bear. His poor face. He was masked in blood; blood from his nose had drenched his shirt, and as he lay face-down on the grass she saw muddy boot-prints on his back, as if, not content simply to knock him down, Jack had actually trampled him, as if Ben could never be humiliated enough. She wondered why he hadn’t fought back. Ben could fight – she’d seen him do it - and in spite of his light build, he was tough. So why had he let Jack take him like that? Alex was conscious of a certain disappointment - even resentment – at the thought that he’d been so easily beaten. She’d thought her father invulnerable. As a child she had always believed this, and even in more recent months – he’d been shot through the shoulder with a crossbow bolt; he’d recovered from a spinal tumour and a surgery that had threatened to leave him wheelchair-bound – her belief in his powers had never faltered, even though he infuriated her, even throughout her defiance of him. She had only set out to make him angry, to provoke him, to teach him a lesson, to prove to him that she was capable of making her own decisions. She’d hoped, perhaps, to cause him distress. To make him pay attention to her. To make him sorry for what he had done – to her, to Karl. But to see him like this – That was different. She’d never meant them to spill his blood. She’d said – in anger, not meaning it -; I hate you. I wish you were dead. And now those words had come back to haunt her, gathering momentum, becoming a growing pandemic of hate that had spread even here, to her new family. She could see it in their eyes. They needed a scapegoat - she’d given them Ben. Tears stung her eyelids. She clenched her fists to make them stop. She knelt on the grass in front of him. Ben might not be her father, but he was the man who, for sixteen years, had picked her up when she’d fallen down; had applied Band-Aid and his own peculiar brand of comfort to skinned palms and grazed knees; had always come running when she needed him. And here he was now, on the ground, with no-one there to pick him up, or to comfort him, or to see to his wounds, or even to clean the blood from his face - Please, don’t hurt him any more. She almost spoke the words aloud. It was all she could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck. But she knew Ben. And Ben knew her. And on the heels of that thought came a terrible suspicion. What if he had known all along? What if he’d anticipated her betrayal? What if he’d planned it that way somehow – as if her very bid for freedom were somehow part of a longer game? She’d believed she was making a personal choice. But what if that, too, had been his plan? To ensure her protection from what came next? To give her a new family; a mother; friends, even Karl, who, away from the island’s influence, would no longer present such a risk to her? It sounded very plausible. And if that was true, he was playing her now; using her; forcing her to pity him; forcing them to spare his life. That was why he’d goaded Jack. That was why he hadn’t put up a fight. He’d even worn an old shirt, knowing he was going to bleed... It was a risky game to play. But Ben was a very good player, she knew. He wasn’t sorry. He hadn’t changed. This was just another of his strategies, and far from being humbled by what had occurred, he’d simply increased in arrogance - And so, instead of speaking for him, Alex simply looked away, and the sudden look of alarm on his face was more than enough to confirm her suspicions. “Alex -” he said. She did not look back. She did not reply. She would not be part of his plan, she thought. Not my blood, she told herself. And then, with a coolness worthy of Ben she rose to her feet and turned away and walked, very slowly, head high, back across the grass towards her mother.  PROSPERO It’s a long way back from the radio tower. For me, it seems endless, forging ahead with an eye to the trail and an ear to the whispers that precede us like evil ambassadors all along the twisted path. I keep a little way ahead, occasionally moving to higher ground to check out the groups of stragglers and to make sure no-one else is following. Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises – And now I can hear them clearly at last, their signals freed of my mind’s interference. I should have listened earlier. I know that now, as I begin finally to understand what Ben tried to tell me inside the hut. I mocked him, and I’m sorry for that. I called him crazy. I should have believed. After everything that has happened to me here, I should have had a little faith - They haven’t killed him. At least, not yet. Rousseau has him at the end of a rope, wrists bound and a rope halter round his neck, with strict orders from Jack to prevent him from talking to anyone. She need not worry. He does not try. It is an effort for him now even to walk, though he must, or be choked and dragged on the ground in her wake. No-one offers him food or drink. He does not expect it. He does not ask. I would admire his stoicism, but I know that he is simply beyond exhaustion; too far gone to think any more, and almost grateful for the fact. I called him the Man Behind the Curtain. The ineffectual Wizard of Oz. In truth, he is more like Prospero – the enchanter trapped in his own schemes, holding captive a being of supernatural power – Full fathom five thy father lies... Whatever the power of this island may be, it has almost driven Ben insane. It has robbed him of his humanity, has caused him to betray his own, has turned him inwards upon himself until all he can do is hold onto his belief that he is doing the right thing, that he can be saved, that he is acting for a greater purpose than any he has ever known. He has sacrificed everything to this cause – father, daughter, lover, dreams. And the look on his face as Jack makes the call, tearing his veil of secrecy – Since then the light has gone out of Ben. His eyes are dull with pain and fatigue. I have not forgotten that he tried to kill me – that he shot me and left me for dead in the Golgotha, the place of bones – but I understand him better now, and I know how he must be suffering. Perhaps he deserves it for what he has done – but if I have learnt anything during my time on this island, it is that revenge is a poor substitute for justice. Now, as night falls, we arrive at the beach. Desmond is already here, and I wait at the outer edge of the camp, listening for the inevitable, long, tearing wail of grief that rises up as Claire hears his news. Poor Charlie. Another sacrifice. The island demands more than its share of those. In retribution, Rousseau and the others tie Ben to a tree some way from the tents – drawing the ropes painfully tight, as if in so doing they could bring back their dead. Ben makes no attempt to resist. In fact, he has shown no resistance since he and Alex met the group. This makes no difference at all to Jack. Jack has other concerns right now. He sits on the beach late into the night, waiting for the helicopters. Ben waits too, with that look in his eyes; the look of a man who has lost all hope – Once more I think of Prospero, his magic staff broken, his spellbooks drowned. He that dies pays all debts. What debt does Ben owe the island, I wonder? And how much more will he have to pay?  WATER. It rained twice as he waited for dawn. Both times the canopy of the tree above him was too dense to allow any comfort to filter through. He tilted his head to receive what he could – a couple of droplets, that was all; barely enough to moisten his lips. The others had left him tied there, to a tree on the near side of the beach, as they raised their tents for the night again. But Ben made no attempt to escape. Even if he’d had somewhere to run, they would have seen him break cover immediately, an easy target on the open ground. And there was no-one to run to, of course – unless Mikhail had got away. Ben hoped so; but there had been no sign – and besides, he thought; why go to all the trouble of being captured in the first place; of letting Jack beat seven shades of sunshine out of him (and for no good reason, his friends were alive) if it was to run at the first opportunity? Men reject their prophets and slay them, but they respect their martyrs and honour those whom they have slain. He’d rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d already known he was a prophet. He was Benjamin, the favoured son. But if they needed something more – Isaac, the sacrifice. “What’s he doing?” whispered Karl, squinting through the straggle of trees. “Nothing,” said Alex. “Go back to sleep.” She was sitting on the ground at the mouth of the tent, legs crossed, watching. Not that she could see much from here; just his outline, slumped against the tree trunk. He had not spoken to her – or to anyone - since the previous day, when he’d failed to make Jack listen to him. At any moment the helicopters would be arriving. When they did, Jack would kill Ben. He’d said he would, and Alex believed him; there was something manic in Jack’s eyes, something that hadn’t been there before. It frightened her. A doctor was supposed to help people, not kill them. And Alex, for all her resentment of Ben, was long past the point of wanting revenge. If Jack tried anything, she thought, then she would have to stop him, somehow. Precisely how, she didn’t know. She simply knew that she couldn’t stand by and watch them execute her father. It was bad enough to think of leaving him behind as they followed Jack into the helicopters. So far, however, there had been no helicopters, and Alex kept watch, not sleeping because he did not sleep, not drinking because he did not drink, listening to the sound of the rain and wondering what he was thinking now. Karl looked at her from under his blanket. He’d always been rather in awe of Alex; of her capacity to take action; of her ruthlessness and single-minded passion. He loved her terribly, of course; but in recent days he’d begun to wonder if getting involved with Ben Linus’ daughter had really been the wisest idea. She’d started it; she always did. She’d taken the initiative. And Karl had gone along, as always; the way he had when they were children. Now she was beginning to frighten him. Her intensity was something else; and the way she’d ratted on everyone, caused the deaths of seven of their people – not to mention what had happened to Ben - and all because of him, Karl – Well. A little part of him had begun to wonder what the other girls were like in the world beyond the Looking Glass, and whether, perhaps – Meanwhile, there was Ben. Tied to that tree like an animal still savage enough to take your hand off if you ever made the mistake of getting too close. He’d always been afraid of Ben. His quiet, slightly nasal voice. His eyes. You couldn’t hide from Ben, he thought. Ben always found out if you’d done something wrong, the way he’d found out about Karl and Alex. Karl couldn’t sleep knowing Ben was there; and besides, she was watching in that creepy way, just like her mother, staring fixedly out into the dark as if there was something there to see. “Alex.” “What?” “Aren’t you tired?” “No.” He turned over again, trying to ignore the sound of the rain on the roof of the tent. It made him feel thirsty, but he didn’t want to get up and drink. He glanced over his shoulder at Alex, and saw the gleam of tears on her face. “Alex. Are you okay?” “Yes.” It was a lie, Karl knew. She always lied about that kind of thing – it came of being Ben’s daughter, he thought. Never confess to weakness. She hadn’t mentioned Ben at all, not since they’d arrived on the beach – and yet she watched him all the time, except when she was with that scary mother of hers, the Frenchwoman who hardly said a word, but looked at her always with those sad, psychopathic eyes. Poor Alex, he thought. It couldn’t be easy. With those parents, anyone would be a little mixed-up. “What’s he doing?” Alex shrugged. “Trying to drink the rainwater.” Her voice was toneless, but Karl knew her too well; that was the sound of deep despair. No-one had seen to Ben all day; no-one had given him food or drink, or even the chance to lie down. He must be suffering by now. And instead of making Karl glad, the thought made him deeply uneasy. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Ben was their leader; they’d trusted him. Ben was supposed to enforce the rules. Karl had broken the rules, but now it was Ben who had to pay. That was wrong. It was just – well, wrong. “What are you doing?” said Alex. Karl had thrown off the blanket and was looking round for his water-flask. “It’s okay. I’ll be back,” he said. “I just want to take a look at him.” Alex had stiffened. “Don’t hurt him,” she said. Karl was alarmed at her fierce look. “Don’t worry. I won’t. I wanted to talk -” “He won’t talk to you.” Contempt in her voice. Karl frowned. “I guess we’ll see.” The rain had stopped. Karl crossed the strip of sand towards the tree where Ben was tied. Hurley was on guard there, and beckoned him through when he saw the flask. Karl liked Hurley. Hurley was cool. If it had been Jack or Sayid, things would have been different. By the time he’d crossed the sand, the moon had appeared from behind the clouds. Its light threw into brutal contrast the marks of violence on Ben’s face; the dried blood; the dark bruises around his closed eyes. Karl stepped warily up to the tree. He hardly dared approach Ben. Even bound and barely conscious, the force of his personality was such that the young man was afraid to look at him directly. Gingerly, he extended the flask. Ran a filament of water over Ben’s face and into his mouth. “Alex?” murmured Ben. “No sir. It’s me. Karl.” Wearily, Ben opened his eyes. In the moonlight they looked violet. There was a vagueness in his expression that suggested to Karl that he might be in shock. “I brought you some water.” Ben drank. “More,” he said. “No, sir. It’ll make you sick.” Ben’s gaze focussed sharply on Karl. It was the look that had never failed to send Karl into a state of panic; cold and penetrating and impossible to refuse. If he’d asked Karl to untie him then, Karl would have had no choice but to obey. But he didn’t ask; instead he gave a small and painful smile and said; “How’s Alex?” Karl faltered. “She’s - good.” “I don’t suppose she mentioned me?” His tone was dry and disinterested. There was no indication of hope in his voice – no sign that he was in any way concerned. But Karl knew Alex. And Ben was her father. He had taught her how to lie. He cared – perhaps rather more than he should. “Did she send you to find me?” he said. For a moment Karl hesitated, suddenly conscious of how easy it would to hurt Ben now; to tell him his daughter hated him; to parade the fact that she’d chosen him over her father; to exert, and for the first time, power over this fearsome man who had ruled his life since the day he was born… But he couldn’t do it. Alex loved Ben. And if he hurt Ben, he hurt her too. And so he said as he stepped away; “Yes sir. She sent me.” |
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 10, 2007 21:22:58 GMT -4
|
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 10, 2007 21:23:14 GMT -4
Chapter 2
Juliet stood for a long moment, a bottle of water in one hand and a first aid kit slung over her shoulder. She had made and remade the decision a dozen times over, and although she had now gathered her supplies and started toward the edge of camp, her resolve once again started to wane. Behind her were excited voices talking of rescue and home. Before her, a distance away from the tent city, was the bloody form of Benjamin Linus, who had at various times been her mentor, her lover, her captor, and her hated enemy. In the wake of the day’s events, Juliet was once again unsure which of these was the closest to true.
Long accustomed to too much introspection, Juliet wondered why she was here, preparing to minister to the suffering of the man who had held her against her will on this island for nearly three years. More than that, he had changed her, turned her into something she never thought she could be. Even as the thought came, Juliet had to reject it. Ben had not changed her. He had simply created a world in which a ruthless streak had surfaced in her. Ben had not put it there. He simply made here aware that it was part of her. For that, she hated him most of all.
Still, she had found herself gathering supplies to tend to the wounded man. She had waited till Sayid had been relieved from guard duty, knowing he would never let her to get close to Ben, much less speak to him. Sayid had been furious when the larger group of crash survivors had returned from their trek to the radio tower with Ben in tow.
“Why is he alive?” Sayid had demanded. To punctuate the question, he had cocked his pistol and placed it against Ben’s temple. Murmers among the other castaways echoed Sayid’s sentiments to varying degrees. Jack had said that they would keep Ben bound and under close guard while they waited for rescue, for reasons that, Juliet had to admit, did not appear to have much logic behind them. Juliet wondered how different the past months might have been if the group had turned to Sayid for leadership instead of to Jack. Sayid’s training and experience made him the clear choice, but Juliet assumed his nationality prevented the others from trusting him completely in the beginning. But recent events, including her own presence, had shaken the survivors’ confidence in Jack, and increased their reliance on Sayid’s lethal efficiency. Juliet wasn’t sure why she wanted Jack to win the argument, but she kept quiet lest her support put Jack into an even weaker position.
All the while the argument progressed, Juliet saw that Ben looked only one place – to a spot near Alex where he could keep her in his peripheral vision. Unbidden, she felt a pang of sympathy for Ben as he watched his daughter abandon him completely. She thought he was pained not so much by the prospect of his own execution, as the knowledge that Alex would not raise so much as a word on his behalf. Juliet knew that a plea from Alex would probably be enough to turn the tide. These people were desperate enough to kill, but not to murder a man in front of his only child.
Aid came from unexpected quarters.
“Hasn’t there been enough death today?” All eyes turned to Rose, whose calm countenance belied all they had been through.
Sayid did not lower his gun, as he started to reply. “Rose, this man is dangerous, and we are not safe as long as he….”
“Come on, Sayid,” it was Hurley this time. As soon as he spoke, Juliet knew that Ben would live. “The helicopters will be here any minute. We can just keep him tied up till they get here and then they can arrest him, or whatever.” Juliet could sense the tide turning among the group, but Sayid did not move. “Come on, please,” said Hurley.
In the end, it had been agreed that Ben would be tied up and turned over to whatever authorities appeared to collect them. Sayid had secured Ben, tying him at his wrists and ankles and binding those together. He had further insisted that Ben be kept apart from the group and away from the tree line, and attended by an armed guard at all times. The result was that Ben had sat in the full sun for several hours while they waited on the much anticipated rescue team.
When Juliet approached, his eyes were closed and his head rested on his knee. The guard sat 15 feet away. Juliet had not recognized him, but she lied that Jack had asked her to check on Ben, indicating the first aid kit. The man had waved her on.
Ben did not move when Juliet stopped in front of him. She wondered if he might be asleep. “Ben,” she said softly. He opened his eyes and raised his head to look at her. Juliet had steeled herself against how he would look, and it was a good thing because he looked like something out of a cautionary tale, used to frighten children into behaving. His face and neck were almost totally covered with blood, which had now dried to dark brown, but several wounds still oozed bright red. His lips were swollen and white from dehydration. One eye was partially concealed through a combination of swelling and coagulated blood.
“Can I clean you up?” Juliet asked, in what she hoped was a detached tone. She was fully prepared for him to refuse her ministrations and throw her treachery in her face. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes even more striking than usual against the blackened palette of his face.
“Thank you,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse and weak. “Please sit down.” He indicated a spot on the sand in front of him with a nod of his head.
Juliet smiled. Leave it to Ben to observe social conventions even in his present condition. If the devil came to deliver him to hell, Ben would offer him a chair and thank him for his trouble.
**********************************
Juliet dropped the first aid kit and knelt in the sand in front of Ben. She took the cap off of her water bottle and held it up to his parched lips. He drank greedily until she pulled the bottle away. He asked for more, but she shook her head. “In a minute,” she said. “You need to take it a little slow.”
She poured some of the water onto a soft cloth and where to start on the encrusted mess that was his face. Ben closed his eyes and his breathing was deep and steady. Juliet recognized it as his way of centering, and controlling his reaction to the pain. Ben was a man of many remarkable abilities, but the one that had always fascinated Juliet the most was his capacity to control himself and carefully measure his reactions, no matter what he was feeling. Some might interpret this that he simply had no feelings but Juliet knew better. She had learned to read Ben very well. His reactions were subtle, but they were there.
Juliet sometimes envied Ben his detachment. Her emotions were always a hair’s breadth from the surface, and too often bubbled over, usually leaving something to clean up. Colleagues and supervisors were forever telling her she needed to maintain professional distance from her patients and research subjects, but as much as she tried, Juliet never managed it. It was the same in her personal life. She was too quick to give her whole heart, never suspecting the lies she was told until it was too late.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Ben’s voice.
“Juliet,” he said.
“Yes?” She drew the moist cloth away from his face and sat back on her heels. As Ben opened his eyes to look at her, she scolded herself for the flutter she felt in her stomach. Damn the man, he had a way of looking at you as though you were the only person on earth. It was no wonder he engendered such unflagging loyalty among his people. His charisma was undeniable, and his irritating habit of looking straight into your soul allowed him to know exactly what you needed to hear.
“Is Alex alright?” he asked. The question was not unexpected. Jack had filled Juliet in on what had happened on the trek to the radio tower.
Juliet nodded. “She’s okay,” she said. “It was a shock, of course, but she’s a tough kid. She’ll work it out.” Juliet refrained from telling Ben that Karl had stepped up like a yeoman, and had not left her side since they returned to the beach.
“I suppose it is a great relief to her,” Ben said, “knowing that I’m not really her father.” He looked past Juliet to the ocean.
She studied him a moment. “Self-pity doesn’t become you,” she said. Ben’s eyes snapped back to her and she raised an eyebrow.
“In retrospect, I am questioning the decision not to go with my second choice for a fertility specialist,” he said evenly.
“Not till now?” Juliet asked, with feigned sincerity.
Ben closed his eyes as she went back to work on his face. Juliet could not keep a tiny smile from her lips. They had been such an ill-matched pair in so many ways, but she had always been able to match Ben’s sarcasm. Often she was the only one who caught the sardonic humor that peppered his conversation. She had always thought this was what had initially drawn Ben to her. Juliet was accustomed to men looking at her. In fact, her long blond hair and perfect curves were sometimes an obstacle to being taken seriously as a scientist. Ben was different. He had seemed at first immune to her looks. Amid Goodwin’s flirting, Ethan’s boyish eagerness to please, and the appreciative glances of the other men in the community, Ben looked Juliet in the eyes, and listened, undistracted, to her opinions. Juliet supposed that in some self-defeating way, it was Ben’s disinterest that had sparked her attraction to him. Soon it was her daily challenge to make him smile or impress him with her wit. She had often thought of how Rachel would have scolded her for brushing off Goodwin’s easy-going and uncomplicated advances to pursue an impossible affair with Ben.
“Dammit,” she muttered.
“What?” Ben asked, looking up into her face.
Juliet shook her head. “You’ve got some debris pretty deep into this cut,” she said, indicating a wound on his cheekbone. “I need to get it out or you’re going to have a nasty infection.”
“Rather an optimistic view of my future,” Ben replied.
Juliet opted not to follow that line of conversation. Instead she rifled in the first aid kit and produced cotton swabs, sharp tweezers, and what appeared to be a scalpel, then she stood up and moved behind Ben.
“What are you doing?” he asked
“Getting a better angle,” she replied. She knelt down directly behind him. “Lean back as best you can,” she instructed. Ben tried to comply, which consisted of bending his knees further toward his chest, and tugging the ropes on his wrists even tighter. He ended up leaning against Juliet’s body, and she planted her elbow on his shoulder for stability. “Look to the right and tilt your head back,” she said. It was their close proximity, Juliet knew, that let her notice the split second of hesitation before Ben turned his head and rested it on her breast.
Juliet nearly panicked and moved away when she realized that he could almost certainly hear her heartbeat. She tried to still its racing by concentrating on the task before her. She braced the heel of her hand on his forehead and gingerly probed the gash on his cheek with a swab. “This is going to hurt,” she said.
************************
As she nursed Ben’s beaten and bloodied face, Juliet’s mind went in two different directions. This was nothing new for Juliet, of course. Her scientist’s mind was often working at cross purposes with her woman’s heart. Even now, she methodically picked at the sand which corrupted the deep red wound on Ben’s cheek, she was also acutely aware of the warmth of his body nestled against her own, the beat of his heart which she could feel through the thin fabric of her shirt, and the familiar smell of him, which brought floods of memories washing over her. Juliet paused only a moment to breathe him in, and then let her doctor’s hands go to work. But her heart, always its own master, flew back in time to a summer evening two years ago.
She sat with Ben on an enclosed back porch, the only light coming from pungent candles, lit to keep nagging mosquitos away. When she had first come to the island, the startling quiet of the nights had unnerved her ears, accustomed to the roar of Miami’s sleepless streets. But it had taken far less that the year she had lived there for the quiet hum of insects and the occasional cry of distant animals to become familiar. This particular evening, she also had Ben’s soothing voice to keep her company. She had stopped by his house to report to him on the latest disappointing developments in her research. But he had seen she was upset and invited her in, poured her a glass of tea, and insisted she come sit on the back porch with him. Before she knew it, Juliet was sobbing into the offered handkerchief, and pouring out her soul to him. And it had not stopped with the anguish of losing patients. Juliet was never sure how the subject had turned to her disastrous marriage, and the toll it had taken on her confidence and self-esteem. But an hour after she had arrived, she was wiping her eyes with the remains of the hanky, and apologizing for her emotional meltdown.
“Don’t be sorry, Juliet,” Ben had said. The tenderness in his voice nearly caused her to revert to hysterics. She was grateful for the interruption of the slamming front door and the sound of feet pounding through the house and up the stairs, and immediately back down.
“Dad!” a voice from inside shouted.
Ben looked at Juliet who gave a self-conscious smile through red eyes and motioned for him to go ahead and answer.
“In the back, Alex,” Ben had called out. In a moment, the door inside was filled with the forms of two teenagers, interrupting the exuberance of youth to try to be civilized in adult company.
“Hey, Dad, Karl and I are going over to Tom’s to play pool and stuff. Is it okay if I stay late? Oh, hi, Jules.” The boy hung back behind the girl who danced excitedly from foot to foot, as if the sheer effort of standing still was too much for her. Both were in the gangly stage of suspension between adolescence and adulthood, fluxuating hour to hour between wanting to run headlong forward or back, tragically unable to relish the perfect state of in-between of a 14-year-old.
“How late is late?” Ben asked.
“Twelve?” Alex suggested, having clearly calculated how far to try to push.
“Eleven,” Ben said.
“Thanks, Dad!” Alex replied, springing forward from her position to kiss him on the cheek before disappearing through the kitchen door, pushing Karl ahead of her. The fading sound of footsteps and laughter was punctuated by the loud slamming of a door.
Ben winced and shook his head before taking a sip of his drink. Juliet giggled.
“I’m sure I was that young once,” she said. The unbridled euphoria of the teens’ presence had dissipated her earlier gloom.
“I suppose so,” Ben replied, looking unconvinced.
“Oh come on,” Juliet teased. “Weren’t you ever in love?”
“In love?” Ben blurted out, looking stricken.
“Well, as in love as 14-year-olds can be,” Juliet said, feeling a little guilty about the horrified look on Ben’s face. “She’s not a little girl any more, Ben. You’re going to have to get used to that.” Perhaps because she had never known Alex as a young child, Juliet found it easy to see the beginnings of a striking young woman in her.
As Ben still stared into the empty doorway, Juliet sipped her iced tea.
“So have you?” Juliet finally broke the silence.
“Have I what?” he asked.
“Ever been in love?” Juliet said. She felt her stomach flutter as he gazed back at her. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to ask. Perhaps because she had just poured out the story of her ill-fated marriage. Perhaps because the setting suddenly felt intimate. Whatever her reasoning, Ben did not answer. But really he didn’t have to. The faraway look in his eyes was all the answer she needed.
“What was her name?” Juliet asked softly.
In a tone Juliet had never heard from Ben before, he answered. “Annie.”
The name hung in the air and the silence dissuaded Juliet from asking the dozen questions that came to mind. Mostly she wondered what sort of person could put that kind of expression on his face.
At length, Juliet moved to stand. Ben was evidently startled from a reverie and stood up suddenly. When he did, he tipped his glass from the small table between their chairs, and too quickly bent to pick up the broken pieces. When Juliet moved to help him, she noticed he was bleeding from his hand.
“Ben,” she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and holding it toward the dim light to examine it. Blood was flowing freely but he pulled his hand back.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Who’s the doctor around here?” she asked rhetorically, and pulled him into the house. With expert swiftness she quelled the bleeding, cleaned the wound, and applied a butterfly bandage. Within a few minutes he was sitting on the couch as she sat on her heels on the floor, putting the finishing touches on a wrap bandage around his hand.
“You’re very good,” Ben said.
Juliet looked up to find him studying her, his blue eyes intense. Juliet could not reply, but continued to fidget with his bandage, although it was clearly complete. With his free hand, Ben reached over and brushed a lock of hair from her face. Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily and she drew in a deep breath. She wondered why she should suddenly feel so shy. She was a grown woman after all. A professional. With a marriage under her belt. Why should she feel like a teenager with a crush?
Juliet still did not look up at Ben, but she ran her thumb over the exposed fingers of his bandaged hand, gingerly caressing them. He clasped her hand and pulled her up until she was eye-level with him. Finally, Juliet allowed herself to meet his gaze, looking deep into sea-blue eyes. Her heart seemed to skip every other beat as he caressed her cheek and traced his finger softly over her chin, moving with torturous slowness over her lips. She ached to draw his fingers into her mouth, needing to taste some part of him.
Instead she moved her hands up along his arms, over his shoulders and rested them lightly on his chest. Her hands, it seemed, were not content and insisted on continuing their exploration of his body. One moved around to his back while the other slipped up and around his neck. Juliet could see Ben’s eyelids flutter and the increasing rise and fall of his chest as his breathing deepened. She felt the exquisite power of seeing him respond to her touch. Ben’s hand slipped behind her head and tangled in her hair as he pulled her to him. She willingly moved into his arms until she could feel his breath on her lips. When he was no more than a hairs-breadth from her, he paused, and she felt suspended in the overwhelming anticipation of his kiss.
“Juliet,” he whispered into her mouth, and then enfolded her in a kiss that was as deep and sensuous as any in her most private imaginings. He could have made her a slave with that kiss, his tongue teasing and tantillizing, seeming to know her most secret longings. She opened to him completely. She couldn’t help it. The whole world disappeared. Her past faded into darkness. Her future no longer mattered. There was only Ben, and his arms around her, and his fingers in her hair, and his breath on her neck, his teeth gently tugging on her earlobe, his tongue leaving a blazing trail of pleasure anywhere it touched her. Incoherent thoughts swirled in her head as warm lava of desire flowed through her body.
“What are you doing, Juliet?”
Started, Juliet jumped, unintentionally jabbing the cotton swab deep into the cut on Ben’s cheek, and causing him to wince and draw in a sharp breath. Juliet had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not noticed Jack approaching. He was now standing a few feet away staring down at her. Juliet tried to straighten up, but Ben continued to lean against her so that she couldn’t move away without pushing him over.
“What are you doing?” Jack repeated. Juliet noticed the forced casualness in his voice, and was acutely aware of the half-embrace she had Ben in. A nearly imperceptible tug at the edge of Ben’s mouth told her that he had noticed it as well.
|
|
|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 11, 2007 3:39:20 GMT -4
CHAPTER 3.  DEMOCRACY Twenty-four hours later, and there was still no sign of any helicopters. It was only a matter of time, said Jack; but then, that’s what he’d said when the plane crashed, and they were still waiting. Hurley wished Jack would mellow out. In fact, in Hurley’s opinion just about everyone could do with a dose of chill, but especially the doctor, who was looking kinda peaky now, with a weird glint in his eye that boded no good for anyone. And the guy from the hatch - Henry Gale - or Ben, as everyone called him now. How long was he going to stay tied to that tree? At least Juliet had cleaned him up and disinfected the cuts on his face, and Karl had brought him something to drink. All the same, he looked terrible. Worse than he’d looked the day Libby had died; the day Hurley had brought him food and water. Hurley was glad Ben hadn’t killed Libby. It would have made things even worse, knowing that he’d helped the guy who had shot her. But it was Michael who had done that - Michael, who was one of them. In fact, as far as Hurley knew, no-one had seen Ben kill anyone; which made him pretty unique, Hurley thought. So - why did everyone hate him so much? Well, people don’t like clever guys. Clever guys make you feel stupid. Like rich guys, they make you feel small. Ben was smart, he knew that. Jack said Ben was dangerous, and Hurley thought he was probably right; but the real reason Jack hated him, Hurley thought, was because his people followed Ben. They did what he said. They listened to him. He had to have something going for him to inspire so much loyalty and trust. He remembered what Henry had said in the hatch. You’re one of the good ones, Hugo, he’d said. Hurley had wondered then what he’d meant. And now, seeing him like this again, beaten and helpless and tied to a tree, memories of Libby – of her sweetness, her patience, and above all her compassion - returned once again to trouble him. Jack was so sure they were the enemy – but what if Jack was wrong, dude? What if the Others were the good guys, and it was Jack and his friends who were wrong – his friends, who had killed a whole bunch of people today, some of them in cold blood? Let’s face it, dude, he told himself. The Jack-Sawyer-Sayid party don’t have what you’d call, like, a gleaming track record. And the guy – Ben – had kept his word. He’d told Hurley that he wouldn’t forget that moment of kindness in the hatch. That was why he’d sent Hurley back when he’d taken Jack and the other two. Ben kept his word. Even Jack said so. “So how long’s he going to stay, like – tied up?” Finally he dared to ask. “Because people are starting to get, you know, nervous? Like they’re wondering if – maybe his guys might come looking for him?” “No-one’s coming,” said Jack. He seemed very certain of that. “And he stays like this till rescue comes. I want him to see us get away. I want him to know he’s failed. And then I’m going to -” Jack paused. Behind him, at the mouth of her tent, Alex was listening to every word. Hurley had seen her during the night, her angular face pale and pinched, watching Ben with sorrowful eyes. He tried again. “That’s really - not cool. I mean, dude. The guy has to eat. And like –maybe, you know, take a leak or something?” Hurley sighed. He found that it was often left to him to point out certain practicalities, like digging latrines, or finding food, or providing entertainment for the troops while Jack and the rest of the hero brigade was out playing cowboys and Indians. And then there was Alex. Ben was her Dad. Had Jack really forgotten that? Jack shook his head. “He stays tied up. He’s dangerous.” “Dude,” said Hurley. “There’s nowhere to run. And what’s he gonna do to you? Bleed on you? Or are you afraid if you let him go, he’s gonna talk you out of what you’ve got planned?” Jack gave Hurley a ferocious look, and Hurley took a hasty step backwards. Jack had been way too quick with his fists in recent days, and Hurley had no intention of ending up like Ben. He shot a look in Alex’s direction. Yes, she was still listening. Locke, too, was within earshot, and from his attentive posture, Hurley guessed he could hear every word. He raised his voice a fraction more, and was pleased to see Rose standing nearby. “I mean, it’s not like he’s Superman. He’s gonna need food and water and - like, medical stuff. And if we keep him like this for much longer, then he’s going to die, man. And that would be – that would be -” Hurley’s baby face crumpled with the effort of making such a long speech. He swallowed nervously, aware that half a dozen people now had stopped what they were doing to listen to him. With an effort, he went on. “You could have killed him yesterday and no-one would have been surprised. That would have been like – nearly okay. But now it’s different. He’s – like - a prisoner of war, or something.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything about this man.” “I know one thing.” That was Rose. Calm as ever. “He’s suffering.” “Then let me put him out of it.” Sayid’s voice was clipped and cold. “You know what happened on the beach. How many more reasons do you need?” From his belt he pulled out his gun. Behind him, Alex sprang to her feet. Hurley took an instinctive step back. Locke unsheathed his hunting knife and moved to intercept Sayid. Rose put a hand on Jack’s arm. Now they stood frozen, watching each other; Jack’s eyes narrowed to slits, Sayid’s face distorted with rage, Alex pale and close to tears. The atmosphere was charged with static. For sixty seconds, no-one moved. Then, in the wake of that ominous silence a dry and slightly unsteady voice came to them from across the sand. “Don’t mind me,” said Benjamin. “Just pretend I’m not here.” Rose looked at Jack. “Well - doctor?” she said. For a moment he glared at her. Then he gave a twisted smile. “All right, Rose. You win.” He turned to Sayid. “Give me the gun.” “You are making a big mistake,” said Sayid. “As long as he lives -” “I said, give it to me!” Regaining his calm, Sayid obeyed. “So what do we do now, Jack? Do we let him go? Is that the plan? Send him back to his camp with a smack on the wrist? I thought we were at war, Jack. Is this the way you Americans wage war?” Jack ignored him. He took the gun. Walked twenty paces towards the tree, then levelled the barrel at Benjamin. Ben faced him without a flicker of emotion, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Sun Tzu says in The Art of War,” he observed in a voice made harsh through dehydration, “that, in victory over the enemy, the wise general must ensure that not even the smallest resistance remains. It’s hard to be a general, Jack. I’m sure you’ve found that out by now. It makes you unpopular. Sets you apart. And isn’t that just the worst thing? To walk among them – and still be alone?” “Shut up,” said Jack, pressing the gun to Ben’s face. “One more word and I’ll kill you now.” Then, turning to Rose, he said: “Get the others. All of them. Bring them here in ten minutes.” Sayid’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?” he said. “What happens then? What are you going to do, Jack?” Jack bared his teeth. “One man, one vote. That’s how we do it in America.” “And – uh - what are we going to vote on, man?” That was Hurley, his face pug-like with anxiety. “My life,” answered Ben. |
|
|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 11, 2007 3:42:51 GMT -4
CHAPTER 4.  ONE MAN, ONE VOTE. It was like something out of the Old Testament. All the survivors were gathered together, watching in silence as Jack took the votes. One by one they stepped forward, some eagerly and without hesitation, others reluctant, furtive, abashed. It was not a secret ballot. A man’s life was at stake here, and everyone was responsible. One man, one vote. Black or white. Life or death. Life or death for Benjamin Linus, who greeted them all with his crooked smile and a polite, if weary nod of the head, as if to indicate that they should at least make themselves comfortable as the slow, painful ritual of voting began. That’s the spirit. Democracy. Listen to the voice of the people. And if they sound like sheep, Jack, well – don’t say I never warned you. A shepherd sometimes has to lead where his flock would otherwise refuse to go. The sheep have to trust the shepherd, Jack – even if he does have an appetite for lamb cutlets. Ah, my back! It feels like barbed wire. My legs have been numb for twenty-four hours. My wrists are chafed raw. My ribs are cracked. And it hurts me to be immobilized, without the chance to stretch out or to shift position, or even to escape into sleep. I reek of sweat and blood. I’m in hell. And don’t try to pretend, any of you, that you feel no pleasure in seeing me this way. Don’t try to pretend that it doesn’t excite you; that it doesn’t make you feel strangely alive. I told you, didn’t I, not long ago? You people are looking for someone to punish. A whipping-boy to take the blame. Do the sheep blame the shepherd if the wolf raids the herd? No, Jack? Well, perhaps they should. Still, I guess they’re your sheep. They’ll do what you say. They’ll follow you. Right into the slaughtering-pen. Yes. I’m done talking. Thank you, Jack. I hope you don’t mind if I close my eyes… |
|
|
|
Post by gem10 on Jun 11, 2007 9:33:18 GMT -4
.......wow. This is amazing. Beautifully written and well presented with the pictures aswell. I especially like this line: If the devil came to deliver him to hell, Ben would offer him a chair and thank him for his trouble.
Sorry for breaking the mood, I just had to say how much I am enjoying this. Well done !  |
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 11, 2007 11:13:41 GMT -4
Chapter 5.
Jack’s instructions had been short and simple. Vote.
Life or death. Mercy or condemnation. Hell, or something slightly east of hell. The group of castaways had, at first stood in appalled silence and merely stared at him. They had been dragged from their eager talk of home and rescue and pressed into service as the jury in a capital trial. Only there was no trial. No evidence, no argument, and no deliberation. There was only verdict. Verdict and sentencing.
Some had protested as Jack pushed two papers into their hands – one black and one white.
“This is barbaric,” Bernard had said in nearly a whisper.
“This is the way it is,” Jack had replied coldly.
“Listen, Jack,” Bernard went on, his voice pleading. “If you’re right, and the helicopters are on their way, then this isn’t necessary. If you’re wrong, then we have to go on living here. Living with what we’ve done...” his voice trailed off.
“Take the goddamned papers, Bernard,” Jack shouted back at him. Bernard took a step back and held out a trembling hand to receive the ballot.
Clair had been crouched on the sand, hugging Aaron. She faced the ocean and constantly scanned the horizon. When Jack held two papers out to her, she shook her head.
“I don’t want to vote,” she said.
“Everybody’s voting,” Jack snapped back at her.
“I’m not,” Clair replied.
Jack crouched down to her level. “Look, Claire. If Charlie was going to come back, he would have been here by now. Charlie’s not coming back because he killed him,” the last sentence was punctuated by a finger jabbing in Ben’s direction. “And now we’re going to do something about it.” He stuffed two papers between her hand and Aaron.
Most of them were too scared or too shocked to say to Jack or even meet his eyes. He staggered among them like a drunkard. Sweat poured off of his face, now a darkening shade of red. All eyes were on him as he moved around the gathered circle and stopped in front of Juliet. Her mouth was set in a hard line, but her eyes betrayed a cacophony of emotions. Jack stood in front of her, panting with exertion and rage.
“Do I get a vote?” she asked. Her voice, capable of such tenderness and compassion, spilled over with judgment. Jack seemed paralyzed with indecision.
“Jack,” Juliet’s voice softened. “An hour ago, you stopped Sayid from killing him. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
The mania seemed to drain from Jack’s face, and a choked sob escaped from his throat. Juliet laid her hand on Jack’s arm.
“You have been through so much, Jack,” she said. “You need to rest.”
Jack jerked his arm away from her as if her touch had become painful. “Well, you had a nice chat with him, didn’t you,” he growled. “Is that what he told you to say to me? Well, I don’t need your pity!” He backed away from her, his feet slipping in the soft sand, and moved on to the next group of castaways. Three women took the offered papers and moved away without speaking.
Next Jack found himself face to face with Locke. Jack stood breathing hard for a moment and Locke appeared braced to receive a frontal assault.
“Well, I guess you only need one of these,” Jack said, spitting hatred with each word. He hurled the black paper toward the sand, but it seemed to defy him by floating slowly away on the breeze. Jack shoved the white paper toward Locke.
“Do you know the papal elections are still done on paper?” Locke said in a conversational tone so out of place in the charged atmosphere that everyone, including Jack, did a double take.
“It’s true,” Locke went on. “Then when they have reached a decision they burn the ballots with straw to make the black smoke which signals that there is a new pope.”
Only Alex was watching Ben closely enough to notice him lowering his head to hide a fleeting smile.
“Just take it, John,” Jack said wearily, holding out the paper.
Locke shook his head slightly, but did not move a hand.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said.
“Sorry for what?” Jack shot back with a mocking laugh. “Blowing up the communications station? Blowing up the submarine? Making me push that goddamned button? Or is there something I don’t know about? Maybe a surprise for my birthday?”
“I’m sorry I talked you into being a leader when you weren’t ready for it,” Locke
replied. The calmness in his voice seemed to agitate Jack past the brink of control and he lunged at Locke. Like lightening, Locke’s hand shot up to grab Jack’s wrist, and he spun the other man around, catching Jack’s other wrist, and pulling his arms tight across his chest. Black and white papers fluttered to the ground as Jack struggled against Locke’s restraining hold. Hurley raised an eyebrow, recognizing the tactic used to subdue violent mental patients. It occurred to him to wonder how Locke knew the move.
“Let me go,” Jack snarled through clenched teeth.
“I will,” said Locke, with infuriating calm. “But you’re not going to hit me.”
“Let. Me. Go.” Jack repeated. After a moment the onlookers could see Jack’s straining muscles relax, and Locke’s hold on him loosen. Jack’s face was still taut with anger as he spun out of Locke’s grasp and the two men backed away from each other.
“I’m not done with you,” Jack spat with undisguised contempt.
“How many votes are you going to hold?” Locke asked. He scanned the faced of the gathered crowd then turned and walked toward the edge of the camp. He slowed his pace as he came near where Alex and Karl stood observing the proceedings.
“Don’t worry,” Locke said, casting a sidelong look at Alex. “I won’t let them kill
him.”
The only other soul who heard the promise was Alex’s ever-present shadow, Danielle Rousseau.
|
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 11, 2007 11:18:39 GMT -4
Thanks for the feedback gem10!! It is great to know that people are enjoying the story. Anything to help get us through the looooooooonnngg months ahead!
|
|
|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 11, 2007 11:51:56 GMT -4
CHAPTER 6.  WHISPERS OF DISSENT Hey, you know what I think, dude. I mean, we’re gonna to get rescued, right? We’re gonna go back to – like, civilization. And when we get back there, none of us is gonna want to think about how we killed a guy in cold blood and kicked him when he was already down. So – uh - there you are, guys. My vote. I urge you not to do this. This man is very dangerous. How much more harm must he do before we do what must be done? He is not redeemable. He will only ever lie to us, even under torture. He is no use to us as a hostage. If there is another attack, he will simply slow us down. We are at war, everyone. We cannot afford to think otherwise. I cast my vote. No clemency. No! Don’t! I mean it – you can’t! I never meant it to go this far. I thought you were the good guys – I thought you’d be different. But you’re not, are you? You’re just the same. All you care about is getting what you want. Besides, can’t you see? He’s using you. He’s turning you into animals. You thought you were so smart, with your voting and your stupid speeches. But you can’t beat him like this. The only way you can beat Ben is by not playing his mind games. Kill him, and you’re still playing his game. He isn’t afraid to die, you know. But if he dies, it all falls apart – you, your escape plan, everything – and we’ll none of us ever get off this island. So that’s my vote. Just let him go. Please? Please? She’s right, you know. He’s a great man. Great men don’t live by the same rules as ordinary people. They have responsibilities. They have to make sacrifices. They’re – complicated, you know? “Those whom the gods love are seldom fated to prosper”. He says that sometimes. And God loves him as He loved Jacob. Gun. No vote. Finish. Now. Forgive me for speaking. But I will not. I will not be made responsible for the death of a man. Any man. Not even this man. I do not like being so close to him. He frightens me with his strange blue eyes. But I will not kill him with my words. Not with this new life growing in me. Even a dog loves life, so they say. Give him his. Let him go. You can’t be serious, Tokyo Rose! You don’t wanna take responsibility? Fine. Let me take it. I can handle the karma. Some people talk, and others do – so stand aside, please, folks, and let a homeboy show you the moves. Whaddya say, Clarabelle? The band’s playing our tune. You up for a bit of hippety-hop? Folks, we need to keep calm about this. You’re looking at things the wrong way. There are things on this island we don’t understand. Wonderful things. Terrible things. Shooting him won’t give us any answers. But talking to him – listening to him – just might. God knows, if anyone has reason to want him dead, then surely, it should be me. But he can’t go back to his people now. They’ll know by now that he lied to them. And we know they’re not the forgiving type. So – I agree with you, brother. I’m no murderer. And the little things we live to regret come back to haunt us all our lives. This is insane! Little things? He shot Locke. He imprisoned us. He beat Sawyer. He’s a cold, brutal, heartless killer. And you’re still arguing what to do with him? Honey, even a killer has a heart. And no-one acts without a reason. You’re all way too busy playin’ Rambo to think of anything else but killin’ folk and your revenge. Now I’m against capital punishment because I don’t think it’s right for anyone to put another human being under sentence of death. I believe everything happens for a reason. Even the things we don’t understand. I’ve got a few years on most of you – even you, Ben - and one of the things you find as you get older is that you begin to value life more than you did when you were twenty-one and your blood was still so hot that it practically burned to be let out. We’ve lost too many of our friends, and I guess Ben here’s lost all of his. So haven’t we all done enough? Can’t we all just walk away, and all of us bury our dead in peace? I have no place among you, I know. Your quarrels have nothing to do with me. But understand this; there is an infection here. It is very contagious. It kills. It makes monsters of people. And now I see it has spread to you. And however much I may hate this man, however much I may wish to see him punished for what he has done, I have no wish to see him die. I know I would enjoy it too much. And that would make me one of Them – Or worse still, one of You. |
|
|
|
Post by gem10 on Jun 11, 2007 16:56:32 GMT -4
Great idea, the P.O.V of everyone. Who was this though: |
|
|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 11, 2007 18:19:10 GMT -4
Great idea, the P.O.V of everyone. Who was this though: Candyass Kate, of course :-) |
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 11, 2007 18:59:43 GMT -4
Chapter 7
And so it was done. Jack had held his hands out to take the votes – white in his right hand, black in his left. No one had spoken to Jack or to Ben as the ballots were cast. Even those most impassioned that Ben should die understood the gravity of the ritual. Some had returned Ben’s silent greetings with nervous smiles of their own, but most simply placed their ballots into Jack’s hands, and returned to their place in the circle.
Juliet stole a look at Ben. “If they only knew,” she thought. Even in his weakened state, even facing execution, Ben was learning about his captors, evaluating their expressions and the way they carried themselves. Cataloging relationships. Tagging weaknesses for possible exploitation. The best way to learn about a person is to place them into a stressful situation and watch them react. As impossible as it seemed, Juliet would not have been shocked if Ben had orchestrated the entire event just to see what they would do. And now as it happened, she saw him watching. She saw him learning.
She also saw Jack’s demeanor change as the voting continued. His rage was spent, and he seemed to grow paler and more insubstantial as the ballots were placed into his hands, as though he could hardly hold the weight of the paper. When every person had cast their ballot, Jack counted them in front of the group.
And so it was done. Ben would live. They all stood in silence, waiting for someone to move. No one was quite sure what to do next. There was no judge to dismiss them and thank them for their service. After a moment, Locke slowly loped across the center of the empty circle. When he reached the edge, Jack grabbed his arm to stop his progress.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked. His voice was a thin shadow of itself.
“I’m going to cut him down,” Locke said.
Jack did not let go of Locke’s arm, but he seemed unable to articulate any thought.
“I won’t let him go,” Locke promised. Jack still did not move. Presently, Sayid came forward and held out his hand to Jack.
“Give me the gun,” he said. Jack drew the gun from the back of his waistband and handed it to Sayid, then walked a few uneven steps to the side. This seemed to break the trance that held the circle in place, and they slowly started to drift away. Talk was only in whispers, and most did not look at each other. They looked at the ground and searched for something to busy their hands. It was as if they had sobered up from a midnight caraouse and now they knew something about each other that they shouldn’t know.
Under Sayid’s watchful eye, Locke went to the tree where Ben was shackled. For all of his bravado, the ritual had left Ben drained and he sagged against the ropes. As Locke sawed through the first one, Ben started to collapse. Locke started to grab his arm to hold him up, but found it was unnecessary. Hurley was supporting Ben’s upper arms and holding him propped against the tree. Locke quickly cut the other ropes and replaced his knife into its sheath. When he came back around the tree, Hurley had one of Ben’s arms across his shoulders.
“Dude, can you walk?” Hurley asked. Ben nodded weakly, but his knee buckled on the first step he tried to take.
“Don’t bother,” said Locke. Pulling Ben’s other arm around his neck, Locke swept him up like a child.
“You can put him in my tent,” said Hurley. “There’s room in there now that Naomi’s…” he trailed off nervously. “Well, I’ve got space.”
Locke nodded, and they started across the sand. In the waning sun of the afternoon, they made an absurd parade. Hurley trying to hurry as his feet sank into the sand. Locke walking steadily as though the unmoving form in his arms weighed nothing. Sayid stalking behind, pistol gripped in his right hand. And some distance behind, Alex and Karl formed the rear guard.
Hurley held aside the tent flap and Locke gently laid Ben on the pallet on the floor.
“Leave it open,” Sayid ordered as Hurley started to let go of the flap. Hurley obeyed without argument, throwing the flap over the top of the tent. Sayid took up a post a few yards away.
Locke stood up and stepped over Ben. “You’re a good man, Hugo,” he said.
“Look, dude,” Hurley said seriously. “No offense, but you have weirded me out since the day we got here, so don’t start acting like we’re b.f.f.’s or anything.”
Locke grinned and nodded. “Fair enough,” he replied.
“You better get him some water,” Hurley said, then turned and walked away. Locke headed for the water tanks leaving Alex and Karl standing outside the tent.
Alex stared down at her father. “Karl,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” he said, surreptitiously taking her hand
“What’s a b.f.f.?”
|
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 11, 2007 19:04:23 GMT -4
Chapter 8
Hurley drained yet another water bottle and went to refill it, even though he knew it would just make him have to pee – again. He knew it was nerves, but he couldn’t think what else to do. “Is this frickin’ day ever going to end?!” he thought to himself. The light was finally beginning to dim, but it seemed that even the sunset was taking hours. He had quit looking up to sweep the skies for helicopters or the horizon for ships. He couldn’t say he had given up hope of rescue, but he could no longer stand the disappointment of scanning the sky and seeing nothing but sky.
The biggest problem was that Hurley had no place to go. Everybody had been acting so weird after the vote that you couldn’t pretend things were normal, even island-normal. All of the great feeling he had after rescuing Sayid and Jin and Bernard had dissipated. And Hurley felt very self-conscious about his part in protecting Ben. He always hated drawing attention to himself, and now he felt like everyone was staring at him when he wasn’t looking. He just wished he had someplace to be. He couldn’t talk to Jack. Kate and Sawyer were off sulking by themselves, and besides they had voted for death for Ben so Hurley figured they wouldn’t want him around. Sun and Jin were mad at each other – don’t want to get in the middle of that. Clair was busy staring out at the ocean, which just reminded Hurley that Charlie wasn’t back. And he sure couldn’t go to his tent. Hurley finally plopped himself miserably on a pair of airline seats and watched the people moving around in the distance. He just couldn’t bear to watch the empty horizon.
******************
“Why don’t you go keep Hurley company,” Rose said.
“Why?” asked Bernard.
“He looks lonely,” Rose replied, pointing across the camp at the solitary figure.
Bernard squinted suspiciously at Rose. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked.
“Now what makes you say that?” she said, putting on her best innocent look.
“Oh, maybe because you have just heated a canteen of tea and you stuffed one of my shirts into your bag,” Bernard answered.
Rose smiled and patted Bernard’s cheek. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I?” she said.
“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Miss,” he said. “What are you up to?”
“I’m just going to bring our guest something to eat,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because he’s probably hungry,” Rose answered. “He’s had a bit of a day.”
“No, why you?” Bernard insisted.
“Who else do you think is going to do it, Bernard?” Rose asked.
Bernard could not argue this point, but he searched for another reason to keep her away from the quietly frightening man who sat alone in Hurley’s tent. “Rose, I don’t think Jack…..”
“Oh, let him try and stop me,” Rose said, raising an eyebrow.
Bernard smiled sadly. For the millionth time he felt a pang of regret that he had not met his wife in his youth. What might he have made of his life with her on his side? “I’ll come with you,” Bernard said, getting to his feet.
“Oh good,” she replied. “You can visit with Sayid while you wait.”
Bernard stopped in his tracks. He had avoided Sayid since the disastrous events on the beach the previous night. Partly because he knew Sayid was angry at him for telling the Others what they wanted to know. But mostly because within three feet of him, Sayid had snapped a man’s neck with his legs. It was all Bernard could do not to vomit on the dead man in front of him. Rose was right. He wasn’t Rambo.
Rose had stopped to look back at Bernard. “Why don’t I go keep Hurley company?” Bernard said. He started to turn away, but Rose’s voice stopped him.
“Bernard,” she said softly and he turned to look at her. She gave him the smile that had made him fall in love with her. “I’m glad you’re not Rambo,” she said. Bernard nodded and went off to find Hurley.
*******************
The light was dimming when Rose arrived at Hurley’s tent. Most of the castaways were giving Ben a wide berth. Only Locke sat a few feet outside the tent, absently flipping a large hunting knife. Sayid had not moved from his guardian post just a few feet further away. Rose knew that the two young strangers were hovering nearby, but she could not see them at the moment.
As she neared Locke she stopped. “Do you mind?” she said. “I wouldn’t want to lose a toe.”
Locke looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Oh, sorry,” he said, and returned the knife to its sheath.
Rose looked in at the dark-haired man inside the tent. The ropes had been removed from his wrists, but his ankles were still bound together. Rose didn’t think he looked like he could run anywhere, but she supposed it was a reasonable precaution. He had proven himself rather resilient in the past. Ben sat up straight to look at her, although it was clear that the effort was painful. His face was passive, but his steady blue gaze was clear and intelligent. Rose was flattered that he wasn’t playing the pitiful victim for her. She supposed he knew that she wouldn’t believe it.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, holding out the canteen.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied.
As she moved unsteadily forward in the soft sand, Locke stood up. He moved the box he had been sitting on to the edge of the tent and took Rose’s hand as she sat down. She drew a cup from the bag over her shoulder and filled it to the brim with the steaming brown liquid. She held it out to Ben. As he reached to take it, Rose could see the bloody marks where the ropes had stripped the skin from his wrists.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the tea carefully so as not to spill any.
Rose turned, “John?” she offered, speaking over her shoulder.
“No thanks,” he replied. He had returned to his previous place and was crouching on the sand.
Rose turned deliberately and held out the canteen. “Sayid?” She looked him directly in his dark eyes and waited for a response. She knew he would not share a drink with Ben, and she waited for him to say so.
“No,” Sayid replied, his contempt undisguised. Rose did not move or look away. A long pause, and Sayid added, “Thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” Rose said, taking out another cup and pouring it for herself.
They drank in silence, Ben studying the ground in front of him as intently as Rose studied him. When he had finished the drink, Rose refilled his cup, then replaced the lid on the canteen. After she put her own cup back into her bag, she drew out a light blue dress shirt.
“You’re a mess,” she said to Ben, who seemed slightly startled by her directness. Rose went on. “My Auntie Beryl always said that a clean shirt gives you a fresh perspective.” She held the shirt out to Ben.
Ben did not move. When he finally replied, his tone was almost polite, but a stain of condescension crept in around the edges. “I’m sure your Auntie Beryl was a charming woman,” he said. “But I’m fine with my perspective the way it is.”
Rose stood up, still holding the shirt. She was standing so close that Ben had to tip his head back to look up at her.
“Young man,” Rose said firmly. “There is something about you that seems to make people want to punch you in the face. I won’t venture to guess what that is, but unless you feel you don’t have enough bruises, I suggest you sit here quietly and do as you are told.”
Ben stared back at her for a long moment, then set his cup in the sand and began to unbutton his blood soaked shirt.
“Thank you,” Rose said, draping the clean shirt over the box she had been sitting on. As Locke held out a hand to steady her as she stepped into the soft sand, Rose looked him up and down. “You know, you could stand to freshen up too, John,” she said. “Seems like you got a hole in your shirt – somehow.” The last word was added as she moved off across the beach. Sayid did not miss the fleeting look that Locke and Ben darted at each other, but he did not know what it meant, and he was too angry to ask.
|
|
|
|
Post by keyserzozie on Jun 12, 2007 3:19:56 GMT -4
CHAPTER 9.  It begins with a shirt and a cup of tea. What a way to lose a war. Because that is truly how wars are lost; not through betrayal or superior strategies, but through the simple kindness of compassionate folk. The goodness of folk who still dwell in the light; of people who see, when they look at him, not a dangerous animal, but a man who is helpless and in pain. Do not think me unfeeling, Jack. I know remorse. I understand compassion. But I also know that, for the majority to live in the light, a few of us must embrace the darkness. And although every single time I look into the abyss, I lose another particle of the man I once was, I still understand what must be done. However, I also recognize the need for structure and discipline. A soldier does not question the orders of his commanding officer. And for as long as you are in command I will obey your orders – not because you are right, Jack, but because to forsake order is to surrender to chaos, and without rules, we all succumb. Still – I will watch him. As I will watch you. No leader is invulnerable. And your weakness – your democracy - is very American. You presuppose a code of honour, game rules for the enemy. But war is not a game, Jack. This man you call Benjamin Linus plays by his own rules. Feigning weakness, he has divided us, setting us against each other. Now he has Locke as his protector, and Rose to bring him tea and sympathy. See how Hurley offers him food, and how Juliet – whom I have always mistrusted – hurries to attend to his cuts and bruises. He may still be our prisoner, but notice the way people look at him. This man is a looking-glass; reflecting what we most want to see. To Hurley, who likes to eat, he looks hungry. To Rose, who never had a child, he needs care and motherly advice. To Locke, he is a mystery to be solved. And the rest? They need a saviour, Jack. The helicopters you promised them are nowhere to be seen. The certainties they may once have felt are beginning to evaporate. And soon he will begin to talk; to promise them deliverance; to charm and lie and seduce them with words – For the moment he does not speak. He listens. He waits. He bides his time. He already knows so much about us; our weaknesses, our hopes, our crimes. He looks at me with fear and contempt. Contempt at my primitive methods and fear at the knowledge that such methods can work. He himself is above such things. He does not like to dirty his hands. He belongs to that most dangerous of races - the idealist, ready to die for his cause, infecting others with the same disease. Look how he has infected you. Look how he has played on your weakness – that fatal weakness masquerading as strength that calls itself democracy. I tried to warn you before. I failed. All I can do is warn you again. Do not listen to this man. Do not look him in the eyes. The blue abyss of his eyes. |
|
|
|
Post by GL-12 on Jun 12, 2007 21:02:17 GMT -4
Chapter 10  What more would you have of me, Jacob? How many times must I give my body over to be beaten, split open, tortured, ravaged by disease? Time after time I have shown my faith in you. When will you show your faith in me? Why must you continue to test me? The questions whirled in Ben’s consciousness amid the fog of pain and fatigue. For a time, exhaustion had rescued him. Given him respite from the storm that pounded down upon him. Till the end, he had clung with bleeding fingers to the hope that he could make it happen. That he could protect the island through sheer force of his will. But he could not make Jack listen. Jack beat him and defied him. And he could not make Locke listen. Locke lowered his gun and turned away. So as Ben stood next to Alex’s mother and heard the voice of his deepest fears on the other end of the radio, he finally let the weight of despair crush him. He quit fighting. He quit hoping. He quit thinking, and simply waited for the river of destruction that had dogged him for so many years to catch up to him and pull him under. But these strangers, these others, had not killed him after all. They had searched their wretched consciences and had not found the will to condemn him. Instead they had given him food, water and rest. In their kindness, they had taken his only comfort from him. As his strength returned, so did the awareness that as long as he still lived, he was bound to his promise. When night fell with no rescue, Ben’s last spark of hope kindled into a tiny flame -- too small to shed any light or heat, only enough to torment him and mock him by its very existence. So you have a new favorite, Jacob. What am I to you now? Do you mean to abandon me? Am I to be cast aside like an old husk now that you have used me up? Do you think I will submit so easily? I have learned too well from you, Jacob. You will learn too. I am the one who has protected you. I have kept you safe, kept your secrets. And I will be the one here when the rest are gone. You will see, Jacob. You will see who is truly your own and who is not. ********** It was several hours since night had fallen and about half of the castaways had given in to sleep but only with the assurance of their friends that they would be awakened the moment anything was seen or heard. Large fires were burning, their orange glow competed with the ashen white moonlight giving the beach an air of unreality. Sawyer gave a nod to Sayid as he passed, and then stood for a moment and looked down at Locke, who was propped against the base of a tree with his eyes closed. Sawyer could see Ben laying inside of Hurley’s tent, but in the shadows, he couldn’t tell if the prisoner was awake. “What can I do for you, James?” Locke asked, not opening his eyes. Sawyer stood for a moment and seemed to consider simply turning and walking away. Finally he crouched down, sitting back on his heels near Locke. “Why are you protecting him,” Sawyer asked, without preface. Locke studied Sawyer’s face in the dim light. He was different since that night at the Black Rock. Locke knew, but refused to feel remorse. Some things had to be done. Still, he felt a pang of compassion for the man, still very much a boy in many ways. They were bound together by their connection to the man Locke knew as Anthony Cooper, the author of the disaster that was both his life and Sawyer’s. When Locke did not answer, Sawyer went on. “The word around camp is he shot you,” he said, jerking his head toward Ben. “I guess he had his reasons,” Locke said simply. Sawyer’s drawl deepened as he replied, “Well, let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya.” Locke smiled, but Sawyer was unwilling to let the issue go. “This guy has done nothing but try to get us all killed,” he said. “I get that you are on some kind of Zen pilgrimage, but how does being Ben Linus’ bodyguard come into it?” “It’s a fair question.” Ben’s voice glided, smooth as silk from the darkness of the tent’s interior. Locke did not turn or even indicate that he had heard Ben’s words. “Is that what you are really here to ask me, James?” Sawyer cast a glance toward Ben’s motionless form, and then leaned closer to Locke. “How did he get here?” he whispered. “At the ship – Sawyer – your old man. How can he be here? On this island?” “I don’t know,” Locke replied. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Sawyer came back, his voice louder. Locke could see the desperation that tempered his anger. “I honestly don’t know how he got here, or why he was here,” Locke said earnestly. “He just showed up in that shipwreck?” Sawyer snapped. “No,” Locke said. “He showed up in Ben’s magic box.” “Magic what?” Sawyer asked. “It doesn’t matter,” Locke replied. He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Listen, James. Do you really think this is an ordinary place? That we all just happened to crash on this island, and that all the things that we have seen, that have happened since we have been here are just coincidence?” Skepticism showed on Sawyer’s face but he did not answer. “What are the odds?” Locke continued. “What are the odds that my biological father was the same man who caused your parents’ deaths, the same man that you have been searching for your whole life, and that you and I would end up on the same plane from Sydney and would be among the less than 100 people who survived? Here?” “What’s your point?” Sawyer asked. “He’s recruiting.” Sawyer turned when he heard Sayid’s voice. Neither Locke nor Sawyer had noticed Ben sitting up and turning an ear toward their conversation, but Sayid had. “Recruiting for what?” Sawyer asked, his growing frustration evident in his voice. Sayid started to reply, but was interrupted by the abrupt arrival of Alex and Karl, followed closely by Kate, who had come looking for Sawyer. Alex dropped to her knees in the sand just outside Hurley’s tent. “Ben,” she said, out of breath from running. Locke noted how Ben’s face hardened when Alex called him by his proper name. “Did you see what they’re doing?” Alex asked. Locke wondered how Alex came to wear her emotions so publicly when her father had such control over his. “Yes, Alex. I saw,” Ben replied, his voice cold. “Well?” she pressed. “Well, what?” Ben said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” Alex insisted. Ben gave her a withering look. “Just what do you expect me to do?” he asked, indicating the ropes that bound his ankles together. “Hop across the beach and take the shovel?” Sawyer and Kate exchanged a confused glance. Locke looked at Karl and followed his gaze to a point at the far end of their camp. The pale moonlight illuminated the covered shapes of seven bodies, and just beyond, the silhouette of a man digging. “Dad,” Alex whispered desperately, clutching Ben’s arm. “They’re burying them.” While Locke did not understand why the burial of the dead islanders caused Alex such alarm, he did recognize one thing. Even with Ben bound and imprisoned, Alex clung to a child’s belief that her father could do anything if only he chose to. Locke wondered how close to the truth that belief was. Ben looked at Alex for a moment and then turned his gaze to Sayid. “May I walk to where my people are being buried,” Ben asked with measured politeness. “For what purpose?” Sayid asked. “Because my daughter is upset about how the remains are being disposed of,” Ben replied. Sayid returned Ben’s steady gaze, working to quell his rising anger. He wondered if he alone could see through Ben’s manipulations. The mewling supplication. My people. My daughter. “Would you rather we leave them for the boars?” Sayid inquired coldly. “Sayid!” It was Kate who interceded this time. Sayid did not even look at her. Deliberately placing his pistol into his belt, he picked up a length of rope, walked over to Ben, and began binding his wrists in front of him. Alex stood up and went to stand next to Karl. Ben studied Sayid’s face, occasionally suppressing a wince as the soldier jerked the ropes tighter. “You’re very good,” Sayid whispered. “I don’t know what you mean,” Ben replied. “Of course you do,” said Sayid. He looked up from his knots to meet Ben’s gaze. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” “You have the chance right now,” Ben said evenly. “After what you’ve done, I wouldn’t be so cavalier with my invitations,” Sayid replied. “What I have done? You don’t hate me because of what I have done,” Ben said, his voice hushed. “You hate me because of what you have done. You hate me because I remind you of who you are and what you are good at.” Sayid stared back into the depths of unblinking blue eyes. “You hate me because you don’t want to kill me – you want to hurt me. You want to hurt me as you did before. You tell yourself that you do only what is necessary, but remember, I was there. I saw what no one else saw. When it was only you and me in that armory. I know you, Sayid Jarrah.” Sayid released the ropes from Ben’s ankles and stood up. Without a word, he grabbed Ben’s arm and jerked him to his feet. |
|
