Shards: Broken
Innocence Bleeding
"Man is disturbed not by things, but by the views he takes of them." ~ Epictetus
The sun rides high and blind in a midday sky, dumb and uncaring of the worlds in its charge. Unseeing of the Earth. Unseeing of the island. Deep beneath the sky and the trees and the loam rests cold, carved stone, untouched at this hour by the light. Candles flicker instead, casting long shadows along Richard's long face where he sits with his back to ancient pillars bearing their carved implorations to gods lost in confused time. His arms are crossed against him and he feels a chill despite the island heat. A thin, reedy voice – the voice of a child with years yet before he's a cold-eyed man – rises behind him. A crack in the sound as it spirals to find no grasp against a slab ceiling.
It is screaming.
No, Richard thinks to himself, his mouth flexing with all the protests he won't utter. That's a shriek. The difference lies in the amount of fear versus pain, and there is so much fear in the crying voice. Richard's seen the ritual many times and heard many screams, though for all his experience with it, he still can't sense in the sound and the tortured flesh what the Master can – sense the infection. It all just sounds like tears and hurt to him.
Now he seldom remains in the chambers during the rite.
He has no idea if the boy is passing the man's test. He has hope; faith, even, that the boy will come through the other side of this dark moment, but he doesn't know. It's rare to bring a child like this, but so too are the circumstances, and Richard has a flicker of worry. I let the woman decide for him. He couldn't choose. We chose. He shifts against the carved stone. How could he? He was dying.
This is still not his free will.
Not for a second did Richard doubt Jacob's decisions, but he could doubt his own. Frequently. As Widmore's brashness grows and the distance between him and Eloise expands, Richard doubts. As Dharma's continued presence pushes against their boundaries and the strange dark beast in the jungle grew more agitated by this imbalance, Richard doubts. In more meditative times, he might even admit to a fear.
But not a fear to match the wails that rise to him through dim doorways and flickering flames. The little voice is growing hoarse, exhaustion creeping in. He's got to be nearly done in there. The boy can't take much more than that. Richard feels a little ill, the human's instinctive response to a child's torment. He tries to ignore it – failing – believing in the rightness of the ritual. Believing it keeps everyone safe.
Right? Right. He reasserts this as a truth and feels a bit calmer for it.
A shadow passes by, one of the women with a load of blood-stained cloth for washing. She never looks up at the sound of a boy's fear, and her face is serene. She believes with her whole heart. She has no doubts within her at all, a gift of faith found easier in a more transient life. Richard watches her for a moment, unsettled once again, thoughts turned to the years he's lived and the years he's left to live. Will he, with the knowledge of ages, always be the one to carry Jacob's doubts for him? He's afraid so, the burden left to him to bear. His gift, his duty. He refuses to call it a curse.
One more wail, one that fades into a softer cry and Richard knows, instinctively, that the ritual is over. Relief passes through him – whatever fate the temple's master claims for young Ben, at least the pain is over – and he sinks a little into himself. Gooseflesh and sweat pops along his tanned, dark arms, the release of an hour's worry and more.
I told them the boy wouldn't remember any of this. I hope I told them the truth.
Richard comes out of his thoughts and gets to his feet as the temple master steps into the room and flicks a hand to him, beckoning. He pauses, wanting to be prepared for what will greet him. He tries to keep his voice stable and neutral. "Is he clean? Will he survive?"
The master looks at him for a long moment, then nods once. He beckons again, even as the gooseflesh prickles once more along Richard's arms. It is time for the boy to rest.
~*~
Evening draws closer now, the sun settling into orange fire in the sky, and Richard watches over the pale child. From time to time others come to him to ask a question and then slip away again, satisfied or troubled or puzzled with what he has to give for advice. Few ask after the boy. He's not quite yet one of them. He's still an unknown, but their manners are mild and they leave also juice and bread for the child should he be hungry later.
The boy's skin is nearly translucent with sweat and weakness and the loss of blood and the bindings across the chest blaze white like a brand. Richard knows what lies underneath, a gunshot knitting itself together into fresh flesh, a gnarled memory of what should be a forgotten thing.
The boy twists in his sleep now and again, restless and silent otherwise.
He wakes once, the twitching body going still as the conscious mind takes over. The eyes flutter open – bright, bright blue of youth – and fixes on Richard's dark ones. They're clear, but not quite seeing, and they begin to flicker again after a moment, confused. Lost. Richard hesitates, then puts a hand on the boy's cold arm in an attempt to comfort. "You're all right, Benjamin. You're with friends."
The eyes fix on him again, sharpen, stare. For a moment, Richard believes he sees every memory of recent pain flit through the blueness – but that can't be true. Right? - and forces his face into a gentle smile.
The boy's lips part and a cracked, husky sound emerges. "I had a nightmare."
"So you did. It's over now."
The pale little brow creases. "No it isn't," he whispers, and he clenches his eyes closed. A minute later, the face releases and the boy falls back into troubled sleep.
Richard continues to sit with the boy, thankful he's asleep again so quickly. He is without advice for the first time. He has no answers, no response. Instead, he tries to console himself with faith.
I trust you, Jacob. Let all this be in the service of the right path.
There's nothing else left to say.
~fin