Lost fic: Prophecy, part 2
Jul. 24th, 2006 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alliecat8I'm pretty sure that this isn't what Queen ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cmonkatiekatie had in mind for her Queen day last Thursday. But it IS "hand fic," as she requested, and it's one I've been wanting to write and putting off until her request made me buckle down and do it. So, Katie, this is for you, unless you don't want it. It's dark. It's intense. But I know you read Part 1, and this is just the middle, so maybe you'll glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel. ♥
Also, part of this was totallyeponine119's fault idea. :D
Title: Prophecy, Part 2 (of 3)
Part 1 (Jack's Prophecy)
Part 3 will be Kate's Prophecy
Characters: Sawyer
Word Count: 1,680
Rating: PG for violence
Spoilers: through Live Together, Die Alone
Summary: Sawyer's take on captivity
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Author's Notes: It's probably best to read pt. 1 first, but I guess this can be read alone
Prophecy, Part 2
He refuses to die.
This surprises him, because all his life he’s courted death.
As he’d comforted Kate in the wake of the deaths in the hatch, and later as he’d loaded the guns with Jack and called him a friend, he’d felt an odd sense of responsibility. Maybe Locke had been right, maybe he was there for a reason. As Jack and Kate, the only people he’d begun to care about, rushed headlong into danger, he wondered if maybe he was there to be the level-headed one. Maybe he was there to watch their backs.
********
Live together, die alone.
You won’t take what’s mine.
His own crashing thoughts wage war with the disembodied whispers. The echoed whispers, in Jack’s voice, die alone, die alone….
And the silent shouts, in his own. You won’t take what’s mine.
The cords binding his wrists are tight, but his blood makes them slick as he struggles to get free. It’s been hours since they brought him here, threw him to the ground, bound his feet and left him lying on the cold floor. His prison is dark but for a sliver of yellow light beneath the door. He’s in a bamboo hut of some sort, alone, with nothing but whispers for company. The tiny room is empty except for a bed, and he’s lying on the floor beside it, his hands tied to one of the bed’s metal legs. There’s a lock on the door, but he knows he can pick it. He can escape, if he can just get his hands untied.
The pain is damn near unbearable, as flesh tears and tendons shred. His hands, godammit, his hands. He has other scars on his body, the one on his cheek where Zeke’s bullet grazed him, the one on his shoulder that the Others’ had inflicted as well, and the tiny scar on his lip that had been left there by Jack’s fist. Thirty-six years and he’s managed to go unmarred, through fistfights and backyard football games and even a goddamn plane crash. Every scar on his body has been put there by someone on this island. But these new scars will be the worst, and he has no one to blame for them but himself.
The whispers swirl around him, dragging him down into a disorienting vortex of truth.
Coward
"Get under the bed, don't make a sound; don't come out, no matter what happens." He’d obeyed his mother, not because he was a good boy, but because he was scared. He wasn’t a good boy; he rarely obeyed. But he was scared of the banging sounds and the shouting, so he cowered on the floor. He lay shivering as his mother screamed. He lay cold and silent as his father came for him, and, not finding him, shot himself instead. He clenched his eyes shut tight and squeezed his hands tight too, his fingernails digging into soft skin. Much later, when the social worker found him and reached for him, he pushed her away with hands that were red and slick with his own blood.
Traitor
He’d made up his mind, then and there, that he would never have blood on his hands again. Growing up, James had had a mouth on him, one that frequently got him into trouble. His uncle’s fists had been quick and vicious, especially as the tumor progressed and he lost control of first his motor functions, and then his emotions. He lashed out at James again and again, but James stoically stood his ground. There was something satisfying in watching the look of impotence cross the face of a man who tried to exert irresistible force against an immovable object. No matter how many bruises his uncle inflicted, James only watched between slitted lids and defended his blood-honor, and never a drop was shed. It was a strategy that served him well later, both in school and in the many foster homes he found himself in after his uncle’s death, as did his touch-me-not loner status that drew as little attention to him as possible. James Ford might be bruised, but he was unscarred and unbowed, and he carried that knowledge like a badge of honor.
But somehow the islanders had systematically chipped away at his shield. One after another, they had made him bleed. At first he had attributed it to shock, the trauma of the crash lowering his defenses and drawing him into skirmishes with Sayid, with Hurley, with Jin. But he’d recovered his equilibrium by the time Jack came after him with everything he had, slamming his fist into Sawyer’s mouth with all the pent-up viciousness of an enraged prizefighter. Sawyer was back on his game by then, drawing himself up tall and proud, but he hadn’t won yet, not judging by the fire that still raged in Jack’s eyes. So he goaded him one last time, “Didn’t think you had it in you.” Jack’s fist slammed into him again, and Sawyer went down and stayed there. He could feel the blood dripping from his lip. Jack retreated then, but he’d won. Sawyer will carry Jack’s scar for the rest of his life.
And in succession, these strangers, these random people he met in the last two months of his thirty-six years, have won again and again. There’s the scar on his bicep, put there by an Iraqi with a grudge. Another one on his shoulder put there by a kidnapper with an agenda that was still unknown. A scar on his cheek from a bullet he’d earned trying to protect a woman who’d been trying to protect him. And there are unseen scars on the inside as well. Some belong to Kate, some to Jack, some to others, unknown to them but stiff knotted ropes in his chest just the same.
He’d vowed to never have blood on his hands again and until now he’s succeeded. He’s vain about his hands. They’re his pride – smooth, long-fingered, competent. Golden-skinned and pristine, unlike his soul which is dark as sin. He’s kept his vow, but he’s betrayed himself all the same.
Fraud
The perfect façade. He knows that people are fascinated by it, as much as they are repelled. He can flash a dimple, and whatever he wants is his. He can snarl and scowl and get what he wants as well – self-protection. It’s one thing to pull them close, to get what he wants from them physically. It’s another thing – a better thing – to push them away when he’s done. The perfect façade.
The hardest part to master has been the timing, because there is always the split second, the briefest of moments when one mask morphs into the next, and that is the danger zone. He has to gauge it perfectly, the exact moment when they glance up or down, eyes sliding away with humble pride because they are the focus of his charm, or chin rising up as those eyes meet his gaze full-on as if to say, “Thanks for letting me in.” A shift or a blink of his eyes, and the connection is gone and all that’s left is a memory. Sawyer knows that the memory is enough; the memory will keep them coming back for more. But he can never let them see the shift, because in the quicksilver flash between open and closed, his soul is exposed and the hidden boy beneath the bed is revealed. And that boy is not allowed to come out. Not ever.
It’ll come back around
There are truths that Sawyer can handle. Coward. Traitor. Fraud. But the last whispered truth is more than he can bear. He’s seen it come back around, time and time and again. His life crashing to the ground and his heart continuing to beat, even as his soul curls in on itself and tries to die. His body encased in blackness, in the ocean and in the pit, with sharks of all varieties circling just above. Even the most mundane repetitions, like the messages in the bottle echoing the notebook-filled tubes they’d found in the jungle, lend credence to the words that seem to emanate from the very air around him. It’ll come back around.
He remembers Kate’s hands on his forehead as he burned with fever, gentling him, easing the life-saving pills down his throat. He remembers how Jack used Libby’s plight to manipulate him into getting the guns, while underneath it all, Jack trusted him to do the right thing. The two of them, nurturing him, believing in him. Caring about him. The only ones who ever have, since….
Since.
It’ll come back around.
Sawyer’s soul is black as sin. But his hands are pristine. Then he hears the shouting. “Stop it. Please stop it. Go away. Stop it. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Kate’s voice is shrill, and in the crack of light under the door, he can see two sets of shoes. Kate’s smaller boots, and a larger pair that he recognizes as Jack’s. Kate is struggling in the direction of Sawyer’s door, but someone is holding her back. Again, she screams.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing with a gun? Get out of here!”
It’s been nearly thirty years since Sawyer has felt human blood on his hands. Now the ropes grow looser with every hot, wet spurt. It’ll come back around, and James lies on the cold wood floor, with the bed above him and the light under the door and the memories from the other side making his senses scream in terror and rage. It will not come back around, because James isn’t James anymore, nor is he Sawyer. He doesn’t know who he is, he only knows that the blood on his hands means that there’s blood beating in his heart, and as long as there’s blood in his veins, this is one prophecy that will not be fulfilled. This time, it will not come back around.
Nobody takes what is his.
End
link to Prophecy, pt. 3 (conclusion)
cmonkatiekatie had in mind for her Queen day last Thursday. But it IS "hand fic," as she requested, and it's one I've been wanting to write and putting off until her request made me buckle down and do it. So, Katie, this is for you, unless you don't want it. It's dark. It's intense. But I know you read Part 1, and this is just the middle, so maybe you'll glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel. ♥Also, part of this was totally
eponine119's Title: Prophecy, Part 2 (of 3)
Part 1 (Jack's Prophecy)
Part 3 will be Kate's Prophecy
Characters: Sawyer
Word Count: 1,680
Rating: PG for violence
Spoilers: through Live Together, Die Alone
Summary: Sawyer's take on captivity
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Author's Notes: It's probably best to read pt. 1 first, but I guess this can be read alone
Prophecy, Part 2
He refuses to die.
This surprises him, because all his life he’s courted death.
As he’d comforted Kate in the wake of the deaths in the hatch, and later as he’d loaded the guns with Jack and called him a friend, he’d felt an odd sense of responsibility. Maybe Locke had been right, maybe he was there for a reason. As Jack and Kate, the only people he’d begun to care about, rushed headlong into danger, he wondered if maybe he was there to be the level-headed one. Maybe he was there to watch their backs.
********
Live together, die alone.
You won’t take what’s mine.
His own crashing thoughts wage war with the disembodied whispers. The echoed whispers, in Jack’s voice, die alone, die alone….
And the silent shouts, in his own. You won’t take what’s mine.
The cords binding his wrists are tight, but his blood makes them slick as he struggles to get free. It’s been hours since they brought him here, threw him to the ground, bound his feet and left him lying on the cold floor. His prison is dark but for a sliver of yellow light beneath the door. He’s in a bamboo hut of some sort, alone, with nothing but whispers for company. The tiny room is empty except for a bed, and he’s lying on the floor beside it, his hands tied to one of the bed’s metal legs. There’s a lock on the door, but he knows he can pick it. He can escape, if he can just get his hands untied.
The pain is damn near unbearable, as flesh tears and tendons shred. His hands, godammit, his hands. He has other scars on his body, the one on his cheek where Zeke’s bullet grazed him, the one on his shoulder that the Others’ had inflicted as well, and the tiny scar on his lip that had been left there by Jack’s fist. Thirty-six years and he’s managed to go unmarred, through fistfights and backyard football games and even a goddamn plane crash. Every scar on his body has been put there by someone on this island. But these new scars will be the worst, and he has no one to blame for them but himself.
The whispers swirl around him, dragging him down into a disorienting vortex of truth.
Coward
"Get under the bed, don't make a sound; don't come out, no matter what happens." He’d obeyed his mother, not because he was a good boy, but because he was scared. He wasn’t a good boy; he rarely obeyed. But he was scared of the banging sounds and the shouting, so he cowered on the floor. He lay shivering as his mother screamed. He lay cold and silent as his father came for him, and, not finding him, shot himself instead. He clenched his eyes shut tight and squeezed his hands tight too, his fingernails digging into soft skin. Much later, when the social worker found him and reached for him, he pushed her away with hands that were red and slick with his own blood.
Traitor
He’d made up his mind, then and there, that he would never have blood on his hands again. Growing up, James had had a mouth on him, one that frequently got him into trouble. His uncle’s fists had been quick and vicious, especially as the tumor progressed and he lost control of first his motor functions, and then his emotions. He lashed out at James again and again, but James stoically stood his ground. There was something satisfying in watching the look of impotence cross the face of a man who tried to exert irresistible force against an immovable object. No matter how many bruises his uncle inflicted, James only watched between slitted lids and defended his blood-honor, and never a drop was shed. It was a strategy that served him well later, both in school and in the many foster homes he found himself in after his uncle’s death, as did his touch-me-not loner status that drew as little attention to him as possible. James Ford might be bruised, but he was unscarred and unbowed, and he carried that knowledge like a badge of honor.
But somehow the islanders had systematically chipped away at his shield. One after another, they had made him bleed. At first he had attributed it to shock, the trauma of the crash lowering his defenses and drawing him into skirmishes with Sayid, with Hurley, with Jin. But he’d recovered his equilibrium by the time Jack came after him with everything he had, slamming his fist into Sawyer’s mouth with all the pent-up viciousness of an enraged prizefighter. Sawyer was back on his game by then, drawing himself up tall and proud, but he hadn’t won yet, not judging by the fire that still raged in Jack’s eyes. So he goaded him one last time, “Didn’t think you had it in you.” Jack’s fist slammed into him again, and Sawyer went down and stayed there. He could feel the blood dripping from his lip. Jack retreated then, but he’d won. Sawyer will carry Jack’s scar for the rest of his life.
And in succession, these strangers, these random people he met in the last two months of his thirty-six years, have won again and again. There’s the scar on his bicep, put there by an Iraqi with a grudge. Another one on his shoulder put there by a kidnapper with an agenda that was still unknown. A scar on his cheek from a bullet he’d earned trying to protect a woman who’d been trying to protect him. And there are unseen scars on the inside as well. Some belong to Kate, some to Jack, some to others, unknown to them but stiff knotted ropes in his chest just the same.
He’d vowed to never have blood on his hands again and until now he’s succeeded. He’s vain about his hands. They’re his pride – smooth, long-fingered, competent. Golden-skinned and pristine, unlike his soul which is dark as sin. He’s kept his vow, but he’s betrayed himself all the same.
Fraud
The perfect façade. He knows that people are fascinated by it, as much as they are repelled. He can flash a dimple, and whatever he wants is his. He can snarl and scowl and get what he wants as well – self-protection. It’s one thing to pull them close, to get what he wants from them physically. It’s another thing – a better thing – to push them away when he’s done. The perfect façade.
The hardest part to master has been the timing, because there is always the split second, the briefest of moments when one mask morphs into the next, and that is the danger zone. He has to gauge it perfectly, the exact moment when they glance up or down, eyes sliding away with humble pride because they are the focus of his charm, or chin rising up as those eyes meet his gaze full-on as if to say, “Thanks for letting me in.” A shift or a blink of his eyes, and the connection is gone and all that’s left is a memory. Sawyer knows that the memory is enough; the memory will keep them coming back for more. But he can never let them see the shift, because in the quicksilver flash between open and closed, his soul is exposed and the hidden boy beneath the bed is revealed. And that boy is not allowed to come out. Not ever.
It’ll come back around
There are truths that Sawyer can handle. Coward. Traitor. Fraud. But the last whispered truth is more than he can bear. He’s seen it come back around, time and time and again. His life crashing to the ground and his heart continuing to beat, even as his soul curls in on itself and tries to die. His body encased in blackness, in the ocean and in the pit, with sharks of all varieties circling just above. Even the most mundane repetitions, like the messages in the bottle echoing the notebook-filled tubes they’d found in the jungle, lend credence to the words that seem to emanate from the very air around him. It’ll come back around.
He remembers Kate’s hands on his forehead as he burned with fever, gentling him, easing the life-saving pills down his throat. He remembers how Jack used Libby’s plight to manipulate him into getting the guns, while underneath it all, Jack trusted him to do the right thing. The two of them, nurturing him, believing in him. Caring about him. The only ones who ever have, since….
Since.
It’ll come back around.
Sawyer’s soul is black as sin. But his hands are pristine. Then he hears the shouting. “Stop it. Please stop it. Go away. Stop it. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Kate’s voice is shrill, and in the crack of light under the door, he can see two sets of shoes. Kate’s smaller boots, and a larger pair that he recognizes as Jack’s. Kate is struggling in the direction of Sawyer’s door, but someone is holding her back. Again, she screams.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing with a gun? Get out of here!”
It’s been nearly thirty years since Sawyer has felt human blood on his hands. Now the ropes grow looser with every hot, wet spurt. It’ll come back around, and James lies on the cold wood floor, with the bed above him and the light under the door and the memories from the other side making his senses scream in terror and rage. It will not come back around, because James isn’t James anymore, nor is he Sawyer. He doesn’t know who he is, he only knows that the blood on his hands means that there’s blood beating in his heart, and as long as there’s blood in his veins, this is one prophecy that will not be fulfilled. This time, it will not come back around.
Nobody takes what is his.
End
link to Prophecy, pt. 3 (conclusion)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 01:54 am (UTC)The perfect façade. He knows that people are fascinated by it, as much as they are repelled. is SO Sawyer, as is the bit that follows about the transitional moment, where he could let the mask slip. As is the part with the blood on his hands, for the first time after 30 years, and how all the scars he bears have come from the crash or the island.
I'm so glad you wrote this. I know it was a tough one for you.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:01 pm (UTC)I hope I did a good job with the characterization, with the juxtiposition between the man who is in forced captivity on the island, and the boy who was in self-imposed captivity under the bed. I wanted to draw out the difference in that he chose not to face he horror when he was a child, but in the present day he's doing everything he can -- even risking his own life by stripping his own hands -- to free himself and do something. I want this story to be about James redemption from who he's always thought himself to be, to who he can be if he learns to care enough for other people. That's why I want to get this one "out there," because I feel like for once in my fanfic I have something to say! But, there's still chapter three to get through, so time wil tell whether I actually accompish that or not.
Thanks you for reading and *HUGS* for understanding what a tough one it was for me.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 02:24 am (UTC)Wow. That whole portion just breaks me. It is so true and I love that you thought of that, of that one moment when he is exposed but struggles within himself to keep his true self hidden. That is fabulous writing.
I completely adore this series. It is so raw and so telling and I can only hope the writers on the show can do the same justice with the characters that you are here.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:08 pm (UTC)Anyway, thanks a TON for liking and adoing. I like and adore your luau, too, but I hope that the partiers can take a break from all the lighthearted fun to discover this, too. A three-parter can't work if the middle part gets skipped. :/
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 03:46 am (UTC)Loved the part about shifting, about Sawyer knowing his own vulnerablity and not allowing others to see it, how he's got his limits and never crossed them until this moment, when he realized he cares about others, that he's allowed to care and allowed to change and if that means blood on his hands, so be it.
How he didn't have any scars until he got to the island, but it's in the island that he's finally allowed himself to change, how the scars - inside and out - are a turning point for him, a mark of the moment he started feeling.
I can't get my brain to focus even if my life depended on it. I'm sorry.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:14 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading, and I'm so glad you liked it! :D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 05:05 am (UTC)I love the way you have split this up into facets of Sawyer. The fact that every single scar on him happened on that island.
My favorite though and I really can't pick out a favorite one, it's not fair because they are all just fantastic..Traitor..for some reason, that actually makes me pain for Sawyer.
I love that character, he's been my favorite from the cigarette on the beach after the crash, from that one little scene I knew he was the one, the badboy with a heart, the one that has the bravado but like a crab has a soft underbelly, they are my magnet, I've watched too many shows with them on it and they are always my favorite, and you know I'm not even talking about looks, I'm talking layers, layers that make up the man, the one that he tries so hard to protect.
There really are so many facets to him, and I'm so happy that people see that, and I'm even happier you are writing them.
This is just so damn good.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 05:43 am (UTC)There's something so stripped down about this, like the basest, most instinctual levels of both Jack and Sawyer (so far) and the language almost mirrors that and makes it so hard to come out of. You make it so clear, things I know about them, but can't quite articulate. Like this bit:
But somehow the islanders had systematically chipped away at his shield. One after another, they had made him bleed.
2 sentences, and they just say so much and are so essentially Sawyer. And you understand Sawyer in a way the rest of us can only hope to. I actually teared up a little during that last paragraph because you put me so far in his head, but don't tell anyone.
And the whole hands thing, you dealt with that so beautifully. Sawyer would be vain about them.
I wanted to quote more because your word choice blew me away, but I'm all spent now. And terribly impressed too.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:24 pm (UTC)I'm gad I could write this one for you, because I knew you'd get it even though it's not happy party pr0n. (That's why I gave you happy icons, too, to make up for it! :D). Thank you for reading and for liking. ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 11:22 am (UTC)James Ford might be bruised, but he was unscarred and unbowed, and he carried that knowledge like a badge of honor.
This is so Sawyer, to be proud of that, maybe the only thing he is proud of, and then realizing that that is stripped away from him. *clings to her blanket*
I can't wait for Kate's part; then I have to read all three in a row again, and maybe leave more coherent feedback.
In the meantime, *dead*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:29 pm (UTC)I'm glad you think I captured Sawyer well. He's losing parts of himsef that have kept im safe and "sane" his whole life -- what might happen when that is all stripped away from him?
I love the luau, but I refuse to write anything else heavy until it's over, so this series will have to go on hiatus until the summer festivities are over. Hang in there with me, please? *loves*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 07:41 pm (UTC)And then, one quite night, you gonna post it, and I'm gonna read it, and it will probably break me all over the place; and I'm already looking forward to that!
*loves you back. A lot*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 02:57 pm (UTC)Nobody takes what is his.
is the perfect ending for this. it sums up Sawyer's attitude about almost everything, from his stash to his pride and everything he considers important.
I love the bit about the shift in the facade. with Josh's great acting we've actually seen his soul a couple of times, a glimpse of James. this gave me chills darling.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 04:01 pm (UTC)♥
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:37 pm (UTC)And yes, we, as the audience, have seen that shift in his soul several times, and it never fails to move me. That is just a great testament to what a wonderful actor Josh is. And no one on the show ever sees it, because no one suspects it's there. The first person who sees it will be the first person to love him, and they will be the first person he'll betray, because that's how he is. Until someone comes along who can fix him. Casting call??? ;D
Thank you so much for reading and liking!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 11:59 pm (UTC)But he can never let them see the shift, because in the quicksilver flash between open and closed, his soul is exposed and the hidden boy beneath the bed is revealed. And that boy is not allowed to come out. Not ever.
It makes me envious. I wish I could write like this. It's a beautiful, brilliant character study and completely amazing. And now I'm crying again. ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:41 pm (UTC)*hugs you tight*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 12:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:43 pm (UTC)Feeling better now? I didn't mean to send you into shock! But I'm so, so glad you liked it! Thank you so much for reading, and for the "heartfet" thank you. ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:48 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for reading and liking! *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 03:43 am (UTC)I'm assuming part 3 is Kate! Looking forward to it! ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 04:50 pm (UTC)You know I love it in the maze of Sawyer's head. Yeah, I'm going into Kate's next...if you never see me again, that's why. I have a feeling it's a hopelessly tangled mess in there. Wish me luck!
*HUGS*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-28 01:38 am (UTC)***
I really hate to buck popular opinion, but where you and all of your readers have seen deep, dark angst here, I have read through that and heard the strains of redemption's song sung in the last paragraph + a line, and that makes this a fic of hope for me.
James isn’t James anymore, nor is he Sawyer. He is now, for this moment in time, anyway, united within; breaking the old mold, scarring himself, blooding himself, in order to save what is precious to him-to what he has allowed to become precious.
***
he wondered if maybe he was there to be the level-headed one. Sawyer has always been the level-headed one; always the one to measure his thoughts and reactions, unlike fly-off-the-handle Jack, or flight-or-fight Kate. As you have said (and written) before, he is a man of action - and I am saying he is a man of precise action, in everything he says or does.
***
His prison is dark but for a sliver of yellow light beneath the door. When I read this description of Sawyer's "cell", I thought immediately of young James under the bed, staring at that sliver of light under the door. When you tied the two timeline images together at the end, in the "redemption" paragraph, you cemented for me the emergence of the new James/Sawyer - another indication of how carefully you crafted this ficlet.
***
Having Kate parrot Mrs. Ford's last words is a brilliant device, underscoring once again the blurring of the line between then and now, James and Sawyer, things he couldn't/didn't change and things he can.
***
I would be remiss if I didn't list the other paragraph which just rocked me to the core (condensed only because my comment is now longer than your fic, and I don't want to not quote it all):
There are truths that Sawyer can handle. Coward. Traitor. Fraud. But the last whispered truth is more than he can bear. He’s seen it come back around, time and time and again. His life crashing to the ground and his heart continuing to beat, even as his soul curls in on itself and tries to die. His body encased in blackness, in the ocean and in the pit, with sharks of all varieties circling just above. Even the most mundane repetitions, like the messages in the bottle echoing the notebook-filled tubes they’d found in the jungle, lend credence to the words that seem to emanate from the very air around him. It’ll come back around.
Beyond brilliantly voiced. Absolutely.
***
Jesus, I'm sorry Allie. I'm late and verbose to boot. I understand your need to take a break from the angst of tearing Sawyer's Prophecy from your soul, but if you do not finish this trilogy in good time, I shall hunt you down and smite you - really hard.
*raises my glass in a southernly direction* I drink to you, darlin'.
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Date: 2006-07-29 07:04 pm (UTC)Also, thank you for saying this: Sawyer has always been the level-headed one; always the one to measure his thoughts and reactions, unlike fly-off-the-handle Jack, or flight-or-fight Kate. I think I knew that subconsciously, but I'd never really examined it in the light of day before. Sawyer's actions so often seem reactionary, but if we study him closely we can usually figure out that they rarely are. And...studying him closely is one of the great joys in life, is it not? ;)
Thank you for the wonderful feedback. Never apologize for being verbose -- I appreciate every word! *hug*
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Date: 2006-07-28 03:02 am (UTC)I like the way you use blood here. Obviously, it's a realistic part of the struggle to get out of the bindings, but coming back to images of blood keeps this story grounded in something very harsh and painful and real. I don't know how to explain it, but your use of all the concrete stuff here seems to fit Sawyer's personality, the fact that even though this is very much a mental struggle for him, he has a way of making everything physical. (Whereas part one with Jack was more blatantly internal.)
I could comment on nearly every paragraph of your writing, especially the last one, the way the ending builds into a rhythm that sweeps the reader up and into those last couple of lines. What's even more extraordinary than the writing is how you take us inside Sawyer's insecurities and pain. Sometimes I'm skeptical of the level of unconditional love you have for the character. I adore him too, but in a way that chooses not to excuse his bad behavior simply because he had a bad life. But then someone comes along and reminds me that he had a truly horrendous childhood, and he is who he is partly because of that, and it's a miracle he's so strong. And even if he does awful things, that doesn't mean he's not a human being underneath it all. Does that make a damn bit of sense? Anyway, you did that in this story for me. Like here:
But somehow the islanders had systematically chipped away at his shield. One after another, they had made him bleed.
Normally, at a point like this, I'd mentally jump in and defend Kate or Jack or whoever had butted their head against Sawyer's walls and say that it was Sawyer's own fault for having those walls, and he's a grown man, so he should just get over it or deal with the consequences of being so shut up inside himself. But this story puts me in a headspace where I'm thinking, 'They should stop hurting him, dammit!'
Sorry this sounds rambly. I just sometimes don't explain myself very well, or in a minimum of words. Or, apparently, without making myself sound like I hate Sawyer, which I obviously don't. You just made me love him more. :)
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Date: 2006-07-29 07:22 pm (UTC)Seriously, thank you for saying this: But then someone comes along and reminds me that he had a truly horrendous childhood, and he is who he is partly because of that, and it's a miracle he's so strong. And even if he does awful things, that doesn't mean he's not a human being underneath it all. Does that make a damn bit of sense?
It makes all kinds of sense. Do I excuse Sawyer too often? Yes, yes, yes. But that's the psychologist in me jumping in to COMPLETELY lose my clinical detatchment over a beautiful, charismatic madman. ;) I want to gently ease Sawyer back to that night, and then systematically untangle everything that's gone wrong since then and smooth it out and make it bearable for him, so he can move on and be the strong person that he's shown himself capable of being. So, although I can't deny that I love him for his body, lol, it's his fucked up mind that has really captured my heart.
Though, to give your boy his due, his brain could use some tending to, too. As well as his bod. But if I neglect him, somehow I don't think you'll have any problem taking up the slack. ;D
Thank you for reading this. I know you might not've if I hadn't asked, because it's so dark. I hope you'll stay with it through the final chapter, because I think (hope) it'll have a satisfying conclusion. You know, after we've all played Ketchup and gotten back to indulging our muses. ;)
*giggles and loves*
if I was to classify this story....
Date: 2006-07-28 08:28 am (UTC)I'm usually the one that's always happy-go-lucky and telling people how "amazing", "wonderful" and "beautiful" their stories are...which normally isn't a lie. But if I was to classify this story, (both parts but especially this one), I would have to say that this is powerful...extremely powerful.
I'm looking forward to reading 'Kate's prophecy'....
~C~
Re: if I was to classify this story....
Date: 2006-07-29 07:25 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked this, and I'm glad you "got" the fact that the next bit will be Kate's prophecy. And we'll find out if each of the prophecies will come to pass. But not til after the luau, because that's pretty much eaten my brain for now. ;)
*smooch*
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Date: 2006-07-30 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 04:02 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for reading and for liking! :D
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Date: 2006-08-14 03:12 pm (UTC)But he can never let them see the shift, because in the quicksilver flash between open and closed, his soul is exposed and the hidden boy beneath the bed is revealed. And that boy is not allowed to come out. Not ever.
Loved this part, how he keeps his real self hidden deep down, how he's careful that no one ever sees the truth.
He's such a fighter, and I love that about him, how he never gives up, never gives an inch. And here, as he struggles to get free, as he decides to live, that's in full force.
That image at the end, echoing back to when he was a child, gave me chills.
The only thing is - I didn't quite get what was happening at the end, with Jack & Kate. Is it supposed to be unclear, or am I just dense? And did you post the third part of this yet? If so, I missed it.
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Date: 2006-08-14 03:30 pm (UTC)Caffeine is a gift from the gods. ANYWAY....
I'm so glad you liked this! It was way dark, though maybe not so much so as part 1? I dunno. I put both of our boys in their own private hell, didn't I? You weren't supposed to get what's going on at the end. That twist was Megan's idea and it's SCARY, so much so that I'm putting off writing it because I'm not sure how it will end...maybe better, maybe worse. What it's supposed to convey is that Sawyer is seeing and hearing a re-enactment of what he lived through as a child, only it's Jack and Kate instead of his parents. Do you have AIM? Pt. 3 is something I want to talk about before I write it.
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Date: 2006-08-14 04:25 pm (UTC)Yeah, I got the connection to what happened when he was a kid, but I guess the backstory to why that would be happening again will be in the next part.
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Date: 2006-08-23 01:51 am (UTC)And YES, you definitely need to come talk fic with me! You and Zen inspire each other the way that Megan and I do, so I have a feeling that you and I would "click" and help bring out the best in each other's fics, too.
As for Prophecy 3, RL is giving me fits right now, and I just can't find the time I need to give it the attention it'll demand. A heavy fic like that one needs all my concentration, and that just can't be done in between pep rallies and orthodontists appointments and moving one kid out and moving the other into a new room, etc. etc. But I have to get it done before the season premiere, because after that it'll be obsolete. I never thought I'd say it, but I wish hiatus would last a little longer, to give me a grace period!
I'm glad you got through your crazy stressful event in one piece. I hope you can get some R & R now, and get back to writing! (No pressure, just me being hopeful. :) )