Ch. 1

His name is Jacob.

He talks to the sea. "Purposeless," he tells it one day. He crouches on a rock; he is a shy creature, even to the sea in all its overwhelming vastness, even to the bleak grey sky. Wind whips his blond hair about his head. A grimace stains his face in this weather. He is weary. Sand has been caught in every crevice of his being, grit beneath his nails. Alas, that this is his life.

Jacob stands. "No," he says, this time to himself. He does not wish to complain, even inwardly, or even to the sea herself. This is but a weaker moment, and he must remove himself from it. The protector of the light of the island may not be exempt from occasional doubt; nevertheless, Jacob knows he must not dwell in those deep recesses of existential depression. No, not even he.

And so he watches them.

They are like a colony of ants. No - they are like a pack of wolves. No, not even wolves. "They are humans," Jacob decides, throwing away all inklings of simile. "They are what they are." This is right and true. And he watches them as such. The human survivors of Flight 815 grope in the darkness for any sliver of hope, but they do not understand what they are doing. They do not know where they are. They build shelters, they give themselves menial tasks, they fix radios. Such denial is so predictable. Jacob cannot fathom the extent of their resolve. He knows naught but the island as home. He truly does not understand the survivors' desire for the lives they had led off the island.

But he almost wants to understand. He watches. He quietly observes. These ones are currently more fascinating to Jacob than his own people, the alleged "Others," a term coined by Rousseau and adopted by the Flight 815 survivors. These people are stubborn, and they are intelligent. They are strong - stronger than Linus thinks. Jacob does not care to share this with Linus, not even through Richard. If Jacob were a painter, this would be his "blue period." He doesn't want to talk to anyone... except for the sea. All he wants to do is watch.

And he wants to watch her.

She washes her long brown hair in the ocean, the same ocean to whom he whispers and in whom he confides. Does she detect morsels of Jacob's secrets floating about like soft tendrils of seaweed as she dips her hands in the gentle waves to wash her face? Does his voice carry over water to her ears? He almost wishes it were so, and at the same time he hopes harshly that his fear is unnecessary. He knows the island is magical. He is not at all certain he can tame its powers. In fact, he knows it is likely that he can't.

But it does not hurt him to watch. He turns away from indecency, for he is respectful. But when she is not indisposed, he likes to peer at her eyes, green as olives; and he traces her elbows with his gaze; and he notices how the corners of her mouth deepen when she smiles.

She is the one he most observes. He knows her name; he dares not even think it. He is so distant to her that it feels wrong to pronounce but one single syllable in his own mind. He cannot even trace her name in the sand.

Lunch today is papaya, of course. One cloven fruit rests ready on his wooden plate. His gaze is no longer on her but on the pink flesh of his food. He eats it slowly and with much mindfulness. When he is finished he stares out at the ocean, a common scene to his eyes. Today is the day he, at last, gradually extends his arm to grasp a nearby stick. His fingers slide around it; he lifts it up. The smooth sand before him is a perfect canvas for his thoughts. He carves these thoughts - no: this thought, this single burning word - into the yielding sand.

Kate.