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)
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Date: 2006-07-26 04:41 pm (UTC)*hugs you tight*