Unchained Melodies
Summary: "For so long that one instrument has been a source of comfort…now it lies propped up against a tree…lonely and forgotten, not unlike its former master." A tribute to Charlie and his guitar. This is a birthday fic for myself lol. It's my birthday today….well 1st Feb anyway. Enjoy.
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He treats his guitar with as much devotion and awe as he does a woman. Pale, spidery fingers caress the neck of the guitar and slowly work their way down, cautious all the way in case he damages the beautiful instrument in his hands. Love fills his steel blue eyes as he gazes with reverence at his one pride and joy, his baby almost.
This gives him joy like nothing else does and he can happily sit up against a tree somewhere and play it all day long. He trembles with each string as he tugs at it with his rough fingers, humming along to whatever tune it releases as though he knows every song ever born. Ever since Locke pointed out where it was and ever since he'd clambered up eagerly – and clumsily – to retrieve it, rarely has this beauty left his sight.
Only musicians understand the quiet agreement which settles between a man and his instrument. It's like a marriage in a way; both agree to respect, honour and obey each other for as long as they both shall live. He worships his guitar for many reasons, not all of them orbiting around music. His dad, who'd scorned his fantasies and wild dreams about being a musician, had bought this guitar for him on his eighteenth birthday and, with it, some wise words.
"You're an adult now, Charlie. I can't say I approve of you aiming for a career that could make or break you – unlike you're brother you've never been much of a risk taker. But I give you this guitar in the hope that you'll find what you're looking for. I only hope this guitar will see you through life and not to an early grave."
His father clearly understood the dangers behind the music business, what with all the struggles to make it big and then the declination of character once fame was achieved. A career in the music industry either makes a man or breaks him. He fears being in the spotlight, combined with the internal pressures of working in a band as opposed to being solo, had broken him. Now…he can be the soloist he's always dreamed of being of.
This guitar has given him so many memories, so many happy times he can't possibly scrawl down on a piece of paper. It is one of the most incredible things he's ever come across. He often marvels at its consistent ability to release such amazing music, with the guidance of a few friendly fingers of course. This beautiful instrument has even helped him bond with his fellow castaways, a feat he'd never have managed to do on his own.
Take Jack for example. The leader, despite what his job description entails, is too busy to take the time to socialise with his people. He has to make snap decisions and always plan ahead and so has very little time in which to relax and mingle with people. But today…today is different.
He walks along the beach and looks uncertain for once. People are talking and chatting and generally looking cheerful and he doesn't want to intrude. Being a doctor doesn't necessarily imply you're good around people and, as he's been told more than once, his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. Kate's nowhere to be seen, Sayid's retrieving wood for the never-ending fire they keep building and there is no way on earth that he'll talk to that belligerent, sarcastic, southerner Sawyer. Not without the desire to receive a brand new nickname, anyway.
His eyes spot Charlie, a young, spirited man who he's met and already professed to have liked. The younger man seems so carefree and plays his guitar with a smile glued to his face. Jack stares at him with envy, wishing he didn't have the responsibility of looking after everyone tattooed to his forehead.
He walks uncertainly towards him, not sure if he's intruding or not. Charlie looks up at him, gives him the once over look and gives him the green light. Relieved, Jack slumps to the ground and looks exhausted. Truthfully, he doesn't feel like talking much but now he's next to Charlie he supposes he has to start a conversation going.
Charlie, to his surprise, doesn't pressure him for a conversation. He doesn't ask him what their next move is, doesn't question him for answers he can't give and he certainly doesn't wonder why he's sitting next to an ex-junkie rather than speaking to anyone else. He just strums his guitar, occasionally pausing to write down something.
"You're a musician?" Jack notes simply, though the upward inflection indicates he's not certain whether he's stating the obvious or not.
Charlie's tiny smirk seems to say it all really. The younger man twitches and sniffs as he strums but he doesn't break his pace. His fingers lightly touch the guitar's strings, as though he's afraid of breaking it. Jack can't help but admire the love and devotion he shows towards it. Heaven knows he's probably treated patients with less care and devotion than Charlie shows towards his guitar…and that's not something to brag about.
"What brings you to this neck of the beach, Jack?" Charlie asks casually, still making beautiful music even as he talks.
"Not sure," Jack confesses. "I was persuaded to leave the caves so that I could get some sunshine." He laughs uncertainly. "Not sure what to do now."
"Don't have to do anything," Charlie replies, throwing a grin in his direction. "Just because you're our leader, doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself every once in a while."
Jack clings to those words like a lifeline. He's been struggling to keep afloat of his own life because he's been concerned about everyone else's. Charlie's given him the break he needs and, for once, he decides to take it easy. The uncontrollable urge to fix things subsides temporarily and he spends a good part of the day listening to Charlie play, enjoying the fact that he's actually listening to music again. Even when Charlie starts to sing, he doesn't complain. He likes it in fact…he just hopes he doesn't have to hear the atrocious singing Charlie made him endure on their trek towards the cockpit.
Charlie takes this all in stride. He is indifferent to his audience, even if it is Jack, but finds he plays rather more slowly and plays tunes he knows everyone has heard of instead of fumbling for notes to make up his own song. He sings sometimes, noticing Jack doesn't visibly cringe this time, and appreciates the company. Sometimes it gets lonely on his side of the world, even with Claire here, and Jack's presence reminds him that occasionally someone will cross over the other side of the world to find him and keep him company.
With that thought, inspiration dawns on him. He fumbles for a pen and, with a smile, he stoops to the scrap piece of paper he gained from a quick barter with Sawyer and begins to write.
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Next to fall under the spell of the music is, surprisingly, Sayid. It's after Shannon's funeral and, understandably, the man is a wreck. Everyone knows how close he and Shannon had become, nobody daring to question how exactly an Iraqi and a spoilt American girl had fallen in love.
Charlie finds it inspires his next song, Impossible Love. He finds the best songs are drawn from real life experiences and there's plenty of inspiration to be drawn from his surroundings. After the recent demise of his carefully written song Monster Eats the Pilot, which had tragically been blown into the ocean never to be seen again, he realises his next song has to be less…out there.
Sayid, looking equally as lost as Jack had, comes walking across the beach and stares at him as if he has no idea who he is. But, predictably, he collapses onto the sand and stares blankly ahead at the ocean.
Charlie, feeling uncertain, is about to offer words of comfort to Sayid when…
"I don't need pity or condolences, Charlie."
"Ah," the Briton responds nervously. "Ok then, mate. I'll…er…let you be."
His finger movements are nervous ones, knowing this is a man whose grief could be as powerful as his rage. He doesn't want to offend or upset this empty shell of a man so, with caution, he starts to play the guitar again.
He quickly becomes lost in the music. He doesn't sway to the music – that would be inappropriate. Instead, he gently guides the words from his soul past his mouth so he's releasing them. The guitar doesn't fail him. He coaxes such a sweet song from its body and he feels a paternal pride flow through him as he gazes at it.
Sayid's head turns to stare at him and he sees tears fill the Iraqi's eyes. Whether that's from the grief of Shannon's death or the music, he daren't ask.
"Why do you play that?" Sayid's numb voice asks. "We're deserted on an island and there's so much death. How can you still play in spite of that?"
It's an interesting question. Charlie bites his bottom as he tries to formulate a good answer to it.
"It's a way to pass the time," he explains, still playing as he talks. "It's the one bit of normality in my life and I play it because…it's a little bit of home. I've carried this guitar for a long time, Sayid. Haven't you ever carried something with you all the time just because it means a lot to you?"
Sayid falls silent, recalling the photos of Nadia he still has in his possession. Her name is constantly on his tongue and despite his love for Shannon, the love he carries for Nadia is an ever glowing flame in his heart that cannot be easily extinguished.
He listens to Charlie's music and finds hope entrapped within the music. Death surrounds him, he realises miserably, yet hand in hand with it is life. He's lost so much over the years that it's sometimes hard to see the silver lining in the situation. He's always been a the glass is half empty kind of man and that's stopped him from counting his blessings. Yes, he's lost Shannon and yes he's lost Nadia too but least he had them for a short time. At least the sun has shone down on his life a few times, for a brief amount of time.
The guitar strums faster and faster as the song weaves a beautiful pattern in the air. Sayid finds comfort in the music, though grief still pierces his heart like a knife. He glances around at the world, surprised that life still goes on even when Shannon doesn't. For a brief interval, he realises this was how Shannon must've felt after Boone's death – isolated, alone, angry at the world.
When he eventually rises to his feet, he spares Charlie one last glance before he turns away and starts to walk to his own tent. It annoys him, as well as faintly surprises him, that the unknown tune has wormed its way inside his head. The music is interspersed with images of Shannon and Nadia and he has to walk faster to keep himself from losing it completely.
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Fairly soon, it's clear that the guitar is a source of comfort and hope judging by the number of people who drop by to see Charlie over the coming weeks. Some are just drawn to the sound of music, a sound which juxtaposes surreally with their situation, whilst others recognise their old favourites and wander up to reminisce about the good old days pre-island.
Claire regularly comes up, mostly to see Charlie. She occasionally, and somewhat timidly, requests a song and he obliges with a grin. His repertoire of guitar based songs is quite astonishing, yet he knows he's spent his wilderness years pre-Driveshaft listening to these songs and learning to play them.
His most surprising visitor turns out to be Ana Lucia, the Latina who seems to hate the world and everyone in it.
She staggers towards him as if she's drunk but there's pain there, crippling every part of her and that stops him from rising to his feet and walking away from Shannon's murderer. He stares at her and, for once, stops playing. His eyes, blue with a flash of accusation in them, stare at her and she stares back coldly.
"Don't need to stop playing on my account," she snaps, sitting by him but not next to him. "I don't want to be a killjoy and a murderer."
He blinks, processing this carefully. She doesn't show outward remorse but that's probably because her eyes say it all. A layer of pain, inch deep, settles inside her eyes like dust and he wonders whether he should remain silent or make a witty comeback. He elects to go with the former.
Shrugging his shoulders, he lightly caresses the neck of the guitar as if reminding him of his affections towards it and then begins to play again.
"Sounds like you need to tune it," Ana offers surprisingly.
He stares at her, rendered speechless by her knowledge of guitars.
"How did you know -?" he asks warily.
"I used to play guitar a bit," she cuts across him. "Needed something to do to pass the time whilst I was in between jobs, so I took guitar lessons." She shrugs as if it's no big deal. "Never got the hang of it really."
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he chooses not to reply to that and starts to tune his guitar which, he reluctantly admits, is starting to age. Once it's tuned, he strums it softly and then pauses, turning his critical gaze on Ana. She's staring into space, eyes wide and a reminiscent smile on her face. Well, it's not even a smile really but her lips are curled upwards slightly making her expression seem softer.
"Keep playing," she demands, refusing to stare at him.
Again he stares questioningly at her but obliges. His strums become louder and less erratic as he sways his head in time to the music. Half the time he doesn't actually play a song but simply tugs the strings to reassure himself that even on an island where mysterious and surreal events happen daily his guitar still works.
Eventually, he gets down to business and starts writing again. He lodges a pen in between his teeth and starts to compose what he likes to call Driveshaft's next album…only minus the band. Part of him hopes and craves for a reunion between the band members but he knows that even if it did happen he wouldn't want to be part of it. It corrupted him before and he knows it can do it again.
"Weren't you in a band?" Ana suddenly questions him.
"Yeah, what of it?" he shoots back, suspicious of her questions. Why is she showing an interest in him?
"Nothing." She shrugs. "I heard a couple of women on the flight saying that there was someone from Driveshaft on board, that's all. I assume that was you?"
Where once pride would've fluttered inside his chest at someone mentioning his band, shame took its place. He shudders and leans his head forwards across his guitar as he scrawls something on a piece of paper.
"There," he exclaims, setting aside the paper with satisfaction. "Finished."
Ana watches him, curiosity burning in her eyes. After a few seconds, she loses interest and goes back to staring out at the ocean. As a child the big wide world and its every detail used to fascinate her. Now she feels vulnerable in the said big wide world. She hates being a victim and prefers to be hated than pitied.
She's settled beside this musician because no one wants to give her so much as the time of day. She feels uncomfortable being around their camp, drinking the same water they do and sleeping underneath the same starry sky they do but she can live with it. This guy, although he's clearly discomforted by her presence, seems to be too lost in his music to care about what she's done. Plus, her mind reasons, it's not like his music is terrible to listen to either.
The music soothes her agitation, if only temporarily, and she silently marvels at how that guitar survived a crash when so many others didn't. Resentment replaces wonder, mostly out of habit.
He glances in her direction, surprised by how fascinating he finds her. Like her though, he disguises his interest as disdain and carries on playing. Without knowing, his new song becomes based around Ana. Little curls of ebony hair, he writes, twist round her eyes, guarding her stone cold glare. He scratches out a few lines here and there and gives it a title.
It's only fitting that that's the song he plays after her funeral.
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After the camping fiasco, all of a sudden the wheels turn. Everyone comforts Charlie, rather than it being the other way round. He marches solemnly into the camp, clutching his broken instrument to his chest like a child. He doesn't speak a word to Desmond, not a single word, and makes his way over to Claire's tent.
"What happened?" she wants to know, stifling a gasp as she inspects the damage.
Like a child, he gives her that morose stare which almost begs her to fix it. He holds it out and wants to cry over the loss of a faithful friend. He didn't cry at Boone's funeral. He didn't cry at Shannon's funeral. He didn't even cry at Ana Lucia and Libby's funeral. Now, he feels tears prick the back of his eyelids and it's all over the death of his guitar.
"I don't know if it can be fixed," Claire informs him, biting her lip at his distressed look. "I'm sorry, Charlie."
He already knows this but hearing it from someone else's lips just brings his entire world crashing down. The one piece of home he'd possessed is now wrecked beyond repair. It's devastating and he almost loses control before a pair of steady hands grips his and he finds a rosy pair of lips silences the sobs he almost starts to release. He responds to the kiss and then releases his own lips and stares questioningly at her.
"I know your guitar's broken," she explains, watching him carefully. "And I know what it meant to you, Charlie. I just thought you needed reminding that you're never alone. I told you I'd never give up on you and I stand by that." She slips her nimble hand into his. "We'll get through this together."
He smiles sincerely at her, touched by this beautiful, perfect woman who fluttered into his life like a butterfly. The moth and the butterfly, he muses carefully. Now that's a cool title.
He ponders over what his and Claire's theme tune would be. He decides it would sound soft and graceful, perhaps with a few loud notes flung in to represent their rough patches. He sketches the notes in the sand and pretends he's playing the guitar though his fingers merely grip the cold, bitter air instead of strings.
Maybe I never needed my guitar to feel like I was home, he contemplates briefly, as he watched Claire pick Aaron up and tickle his stomach playfully. Maybe all I needed was a family. All we need to survive is one person who truly loves us…and I have her.
His eyes close gently and he falls to sleep, his head lolling against Claire's leg and he feels her stroke his hair gently. The guitar plagues his dreams and yet it is a shadow of the life which corrupted him. He's always loved music but he's never craved it like he does a family. With his own island family by his side, he feels utterly at peace. The guitar's demise does upset him still and he occasionally hurls resentful glances in Desmond's direction but overall he feels like the death of his guitar closes the chapter of his life entitled "Life as a rock star."
Later, the parachute woman Naomi will ignite in him the realisation that his band was a one hit wonder group and nothing more but a new chapter opens up in his storybook…and it turns out to be his last. He sheds off the skin of a rock star and puts on the skin of a hero…and he does it for Claire and Aaron.
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Three years later, a woman crosses the lonely sands and stares affectionately at a broken cradle, her gaze turning to one of bewilderment as she turns a silver ring with the letters DS on it in her hands. She closes her eyes as she relieves her wedding, knowing that another love story has also been shattered along this lonely beach.
She notices another memento from the past – Charlie's guitar.
Battered and worn down by time, the guitar looks strangely noble as she walks towards it. Her own eyes carry miniscule tears at the vivid memories which flash before her eyes like dreams.
A trembling hand touches the guitar softly and suddenly she can hear music inside her head. A silhouette of a man shimmers into view and she can almost see it in front of her, the image of Charlie playing his guitar. It seems wrong that the guitar has been abandoned to the ages and yet she can't bring herself to move it.
For so long that one instrument has been a source of comfort for so many people. Everyone had gathered around it at some point, whether it was just out of boredom or because they were searching for something within the music they were hearing. Now it lies propped up against a tree lonely and forgotten, not unlike its former master. She wonders how such a noble and heroic figure became forgotten over time.
She puts her head inside her hands and starts to weep. Oddly enough, this is the closest to a funeral anyone's ever going to give Charlie. This guitar reminds her of the many losses this island has endured and she does something she hasn't done since she was a little girl. She prays.
He watches her silently, smiling approvingly at the quiet, private funeral he's watching. His eyes moisten at the sight of his old guitar and it seems like centuries since his hands last clasped it. Fatigued by grief, disappointment and despair, Charlie Pace sighs and his very body seems to melt into the island itself.
Like the guitar, he remains a source of comfort for those left on the island though they can't see them. He bounds in and out of time like a bunny and watches over those he once knew and once loved. Like the guitar, he's broken beyond repair. To amend that, he seeks her out on a daily basis but without any luck. She's beyond his grasp now, in the grips of a higher power. One day, he knows, they'll be together again.
Until that day comes, he'll keep on living life one song at a time. No one truly dies here – they just hover in the background guarding over their loved ones like the guitar guards over the remains of their old camp. It's poetic justice in a way that he sacrifices himself for the woman he abandoned his guitar for, just as his guitar sacrificed itself for the master whose love of music, in the end, came second to Claire and Aaron.