A/N: I had this up about a month ago. I added bits and touched up the grammar since then, but it's now the first installment in a series I'm putting up. I hope you all like it!
Disclaimer: I don't own LOTF. Sorry. I wish I did. Sort of.

Fatefully Coincidental

Somewhere in the south of England, Ralph, the man with fair hair, lowered himself onto his sofa to watch the evening news. Lately, it had become a rather mundane ritual, thirty minutes of his otherwise empty time spent observing the world around him.

But tonight was different. As he sat alone in his spacious suburban flat, the TV set showed him blazing Technicolor images of the world he had tried so hard to forget.

"Last Sunday, a stray fishing vessel stumbled upon an uncharted island somewhere in the Pacific. The island is presently empty, but shows some signs of human habitation from within the last twenty years. Much of the forested area appears to have been damaged by fire, but evidence of primitive shelters and camps has been found."

The photographs that accompanied the newscast were unmistakable. Ralph recognized the platform, the wreckage of the forest, the mountain, and even the little neck of land that was Castle Rock. He sank back in his seat to absorb the enormity of it all: his forgotten and warped utopia, his once-Edenic little world was being photographed and broadcast to the prim, adult world he had accustomed himself to.

Presently, he bolted to his desk and fished through a mess of papers and unfinished stories. His career in journalism proved to tax his creative side, leaving him with an infinite supply of forgotten rough drafts. Finally, in the bottom drawer, he found the box he was looking for. It held some of his most precious papers, albeit mostly unused: all of the information he had gathered about the boys of the island upon his return home. He leafed through the crumpled, folded sheets of paper and picked one out from near the top, placing it by the telephone.

Upon reading the name scribbled on the paper, he was surrounded by memories of the island—and the beast. He sighed.

"What else is there to do?"

He decided in favour of venturing outside in search of a good cup of coffee, to allow time for thinking.

...

Ralph looked mostly at his own feet on the short walk to the coffee house. Watching his step was one of the few habits he had never gotten rid of after being rescued. Even inside the quirky coffee place, his eyes remained downcast as he entertained the possibility of a reunion of sorts, with Samneric and Maurice and Percival—and Jack. But when he looked up at the table next to him, he ceased to think about anything but the sight that presently filled his eyes and mind.

The girl had clear, ocean-blue eyes that suggested a sort of wise, intuitive countenance. She was rather small in size, with a porcelain face defined by the shadows cast on it. The face's angular features were etched into his mind: a low forehead and a broad nose, her face tapering off with a small, pointed chin. Her head was adorned and protected by a delicate mess of coarse black hair.

No, Ralph reasoned to himself. It's too fantastic. Yet his curiosity got the better of him and he relocated himself to a seat across from the girl.

"Hullo."

"Oh, hullo," she replied, grinning a bit timidly. Incredible, thought Ralph. The same smile, the same accent—everything matches up. Go on. Find out more about her.

"What's your name?"

"Anna."

Ralph paused, searching for the right words.

"Are…are you from around here?"

"No. I'm from up north, but I spent a few years in Ireland as a child—during the war, you know. Why do you ask?" She was slightly confused.

"Oh, no reason. You just look remarkably like somebody I…used to know. Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"One. A brother. Not too much older." She paused. "My mum used to insist that I quit telling people that, though."

"Why?"

"Oh, we never did see him again after the war was over." She frowned a bit, then sipped from her coffee cup.

Ralph took a very deep breath and asked the deciding question.

"What was his name?"

"Simon."

...

Dazed and overwhelmed by his discovery, Ralph walked numbly up to his flat and went to the telephone. Beside it was a yellowed slip of paper with the address and telephone number of Jack Merridew. He slowly dialed the number, wary and unsure of Jack's reaction.

A deep baritone voice answered. "Hello?"

"Is…is this Jack Merridew?"

"Yes." The voice sounded polite, but slightly suspicious.

"Jack, it's Ralph. From the—the island."

"Ralph?" A pause. "I can't believe this, it's so… my, my. We certainly have a lot to talk about, don't we?" Jack laughed nervously. "You know, I did see that bit on the news. I thought about it—for the first time in years—"

"I did too. Have you got anything on the whereabouts of your choir?"

"Sure. I—I'll round up as many as I can. Where shall we meet?"

After a brief, impersonal exchange of information, the former enemies politely said goodbye to one another and went about their respective businesses.

...

The hardest part of this business, Ralph decided, had to be done first and with the most care. He decided that it may not be the best idea to tell Anna every detail of Simon's death, but at least that he was gone—as if she wasn't already aware. He carefully selected his words as she told him of her childhood.

"I was about five years old during the evacuation. Simon was nearly ten. He was away at school at the time, and I hadn't seen or heard from him since the Christmas holidays. Mother used to worry about him ever so, because he was sick so often. Anyway, I was sent into the Irish countryside with Mother and a few cousins when the evacuation started. There—there were a few times, when I'd been living there for six or seven months and thunderstorms would come in the middle of the night, when I'd suddenly wake up and instinctively wonder where he was." Anna's quiet, harmonious voice faltered a little, but regained strength.

Ralph had already told her most of his account of the island, but he prepared to tell her the rest of the truth, or what he could tell of it.

"Anna, I…I was one of the last people to speak to Simon. He…he died in a tragic accident. And the sad thing was that he was only trying to tell us the truth…" He took a long drink from his coffee and another deep breath, worried that his words weren't making complete sense when strung together. "One of the last things he said to me was that somehow, he thought I'd get rescued, that I'd get back all right—"

"And you did. You're a wonderful listener and a good friend. Like a brother, almost." Anna smiled knowingly. Ralph began to think that somehow, she already knew that her own brother wasn't physically there—but she acted as if Simon had never really died.

...

The next afternoon, Ralph kept himself rather busy answering his doorbell. He tried to welcome all the old faces with warmth and forgiveness, and for the most part, it was easy. Yet a small part of him doubted that the reunion would turn out to be so sweet.

Many of his old companions told happy stories: Percival was a stage actor who had just finished a long, successful run as Laertes in Hamlet. Johnny was a rather hands-on, outgoing sort who worked in construction. Samneric were closer than ever, despite choosing radically different careers: Sam decided to become a film editor, while Eric opted to sell used cars.

Even when the former choir boys began to arrive, the reunion still seemed lively and free of conflict. Robert developed a great talent for public speaking and challenging others, and had become a member of Parliament. Maurice went on to become a screenwriter, using his uncanny talent to make people laugh. Henry, who had once childishly poked at tide-pool transparencies, now studied them carefully as a marine biologist. Stanley, a brainy, inquisitive young man, became a child psychologist. He especially loved working with troubled or autistic children.

Jack was among the last to arrive. When Ralph answered the door, he was suddenly face-to-face with the tall, freckled redhead who had ordered a stick sharpened at both ends those many years ago. His hair remained that bright shade of vermilion, framing his face like licks of flame. The fiery blue eyes had subsided and presently expressed a look of hope and indescribable regret. He carried a small package and a bulky manila envelope.

"Sorry I'm late."

"You're right on time." Ralph showed him in. Several bemused faces looked up at Jack as if expecting something, an apology perhaps.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" asked Maurice, smiling a bit.

"I've had my hands full for a while—I finished law school a few years ago. I work mainly with criminal cases these days," Jack replied politely, as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech.

Stanley gestured towards the two packages Jack held. "What've you got there?"

"Oh. I, um…I got this in the post this morning. From Roger." He held up the huge yellow envelope and continued, hesitant at first. "He was on trial for arson a while back. In fact, I was the prosecuting lawyer on that case. Evidently, he set a sweet-shop on fire—the owner, a rather plump old woman, had third-degree burns all over. Pitiful." Jack shook his head sadly. "Anyway, he was found guilty. Been in prison nearly three years now. But he seems to have taken a fancy to painting lately." He pulled a small canvas out of the envelope. "I'm not quite sure what this is, though."

The canvas was a chaotic mass of splotches, like one of those ink blots a psychiatrist shows a patient to see what he's thinking. Samneric were the first to speak.

"Maybe you should hold it further away—"

"—and squint a little."

Maurice took the canvas and squinted. The usual cheerful grin melted away from his face. He remembered the picture in his head, remembered his own face smeared with blood. "Why, it's a pig's head on a stick!"

At first, Ralph did not know what Maurice meant. A faint recollection of a pale face, teetering on a stick and grinning at him, presented itself. But for the first time in years, the curtain in Ralph's mind fluttered and blocked the memory. All he could see were splatters of black and red, mulberry and olive, pink and brown.

Jack spoke again. "This is for you," he said quietly, handing Ralph the other package.

Ralph opened it carefully and stared in wonder at the contents. Inside was a glimmering conch shell, a perfect swirl of cream and pink and white, almost an exact replica of the thing he had held in his hands that first morning.

There was one more thing in the box. At first glance, it had looked like a spare wad of paper, but Ralph picked it up anyway. He slowly lifted away the paper to find a pair of rather old and not at all stylish glasses. One lens was cracked, with the glass almost completely gone.

"Piggy's specs," he whispered.

Ralph imagined his fat, asthmatic friend wearing the specs when he was still alive, taking them off every so often to clean them—and to think. He could even hear Piggy's voice whining, "I jus' got one eye now!" and wondering about the distant possibility of rescue. Ralph looked at the specs, then up at Jack.

"You…you mean you've had these all the time?" A single tear began to roll down his cheek.

Jack nodded slowly and began to speak. "I kept them in secret—in an unmarked box. I never really looked at them or took them out, because I always thought of them as part of an unhappy chapter of my life. But somehow…I still wanted to remind myself that someday I'd see you again, to give them back to you and—" he paused, gathering his courage to speak further, "—and to tell you how completely, utterly sorry I am. For everything."

Ralph closed his eyes and tried as hard as he could to hate Jack. The curtain in his mind began to appear again, and soon closed over the image of the domineering choir boy, the hunter, the "chief," the painted savage. The hatred was gone.

He opened his eyes. "I forgive you."

The others applauded as Ralph and Jack shook hands and became friends once again. And then the room was silent, but this was a happy silence. Everything was back to "normal," the way they wanted it to be, the way it was when they first met.

Presently the doorbell rang. Ralph answered the door and showed the newcomer in. It was Anna, dressed casually but with a string of pearls around her neck. She looked remarkably familiar, the spitting image of a child the assembly had once known. They perked up with interest and began to chatter. Samneric tried to think, still as one being.

"I must've seen that face before—"

"—but where?"

Ralph half-jokingly picked up the new conch. The noise subsided. "Everyone, this is Anna…Simon's sister."

The room fell silent. The momentary happiness fled from the assembly's minds and everyone present forgot how to speak.

Robert cleared his throat to break the silence. Sam began to fidget nervously, while Eric chewed at his thumbnail. Jack swatted at a fly that buzzed around his head. Ralph hurriedly excused himself to the kitchen, chastising himself for his own colossally bad idea.

The room was still deadly quiet. Dozens of eyes darted around, waiting for somebody to speak, averting any contact with the awkward guest. Percival glanced behind himself at the kitchen door. He could see Ralph compulsively scrubbing at various surfaces, silently muttering to himself.

Finally, he gave in and looked into Anna's sapphire eyes, into two glittering, reflective pools, into his own faint memory of the unspeakable crime. Hesitantly and after a great deal of effort, he opened his mouth as if to say, "Do you know about the things we did? Will you forgive us?"

The cleansing pools of sapphire twinkled with acceptance. Anna grinned.

A few minutes later, Ralph poked his head through the doorway adjoining the kitchen to the sitting-room. To his astonishment, he found Anna happily conversing with the assembly about everything from political activism to modern art to hippies to music theory. It was as if she were talking to friends, as if she had somehow known their part in young Simon's fate and had accepted and forgiven them anyway.

...

By now it was well into the evening. Ralph had decided to take a brief walk to get some fresh air. Percival accompanied him.

"What do you think'll happen to the island?" Percival inquired.

Ralph chuckled a little. "You know, I almost forgot about that. I can't say, really. Maybe a vacation spot."

"Oh, I hope not. I hope it just gets left alone. I can't imagine anybody wanting to holiday there."

"Neither do I, I suppose."

Percival changed the subject. "Anna's quite remarkable."

"Indeed she is." Ralph craned his neck to look up at the star-lit sky.

"So you did tell her—"

"Most of it. But I have a feeling that somehow she already knew."

The two men stood and gazed at the dancing constellations above them.

the end.

A/N: R&R please?