A/N: Alright, I've been lurking on FFN for years, but this is the first fic that I've actually submitted. Yay for first-timers, eh? Um, yeah. This is a LotF fic - pretend that the boys were never rescued. This is based off the absolutely creepy, awesome book, not the crummy movie that came out in the nineties that I have yet to see. Uh, there will be eventual slash, but I'm not telling who it will be between just yet...

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. They belong to a certain very lucky William Golding.

Enjoy...

Ralph was dashing wildly across the hot sand, running for his life and his dignity and everything that he had ever stood for. The screams and howls of the savages behind him grew louder and louder as they gained ground on him, and Ralph knew that his battered, abused, and bloody body would give in at any moment. It was catching up to him now; it was closing in; it wouldn't leave him alone and now it was all coming back to haunt him. You'll get back. Ralph's bare feet thudded dully across the beach, the grains of sand abrading the fresh cuts that covered the soles. Like a crowd of kids. He could feel the hot blood flowing freely from the torn flesh on his chest; it still felt as if there was a wooden spear stuck somewhere in his ribs. We're going to have fun, alright? Ralph didn't realize that his step had faltered until the sand came rushing toward him. The boy hadn't any time to bring his bruised, tired arms out to break his fall, and soon, he was face-down in the dry, gritty soil.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back, already feeling the bruises that were beginning to spring up. Ralph refused to open his eyes. He had known long ago that he was defeated, and, as footsteps drew nearer, his fears of failure were only reinforced. I tell you, there isn't a beast! A husky voice that had lost much of its accent tore through the thick silence.

"You are defeated."

They were the first intelligible words that Ralph had heard from the tribe in a long time. With all their screaming and shouting and hooting, he had begun to wonder if they remembered how to speak correct English at all. When he offered no reply, Ralph felt the tip of a spear jab lightly at his chest.

The voice he recognized as the chief's, though only through distant, ancient memories, spoke again. "What d'you say to that?" He shifted his weight somewhat, leaning on the spear and increasing the pressure against Ralph's chest. "You know you have something to say."

When Ralph finally forced his eyes open, he was assaulted with the bright afternoon sunlight glaring down upon him. A figure that towered above him moved forward, blocking out the burning rays. He couldn't tell who it was, at first. Too many layers of paint and grime covered his face and body, but eventually, after what seemed like forever, Ralph identified the savage as being Jack, the Chief, the monster who had killed Simon and Piggy and would finally bring Ralph himself to his doom. At first, all he could do was emit a deep, raspy chuckle in his throat. Everything was so cruel, so ironic, so terribly stupid and funny all at once. You'll get back. Like a crowd of kids. We're going to have fun, alright? I tell you, there isn't a beast!

His mouth dry and scratchy, Ralph spoke at last. "And what do you want me to tell you?"

The savage once known as Jack sneered. The paint and clay was flecking off his face, but he didn't seem to notice, and even if he did, he certainly didn't care. At last, he had his quarry, his prey, the pig that he had wanted to kill for months on end. The white and red and black markings on his face had little value. "You know what I want you to say," he said, nudging Ralph's bruised ribs with his foot. "Tell me that you were wrong and that I was right. Tell me that I'm chief and that you never should have been. It's that simple, you know."

Ralph squinted up at the boy standing above him. "Why does it matter?!" he spat. "You've won the game, you're chief. I was wrong. Now kill me already. I know it's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

The painted youth considered this for a moment, running a hand through his long, tangled hair. "You're right," he said with a toothy grin. "You're right, Ralph. No, wait, you're wrong, you said so yourself!" He allowed himself to laugh at his own poor attempt at humor.

"You have a spear pointed at my chest," Ralph grunted. "You've got me pinned to the ground. You've been hunting me all day and you've got me." He swallowed the blood that had accumulated in his otherwise dry mouth. It was bitter and tinny, but the taste of it made him strangely hungry. "Won't you just kill me already? Where's Roger with his stick sharpened at both ends?"

There was some kind of muttering from behind the chief, and Ralph took it to be the sadistic hangman of the tribe.

"I want you to beg," said Jack.

"For what?"

"For your life," he responded, pushing his spear into Ralph a little more. A bruise was forming under its wooden tip, and the fair-haired boy grimaced slightly; it wasn't however, the most painful thing he had felt that day. "I want you to beg to be spared. I want you to beg for us to let you into our tribe. I want..." He paused, and the savage that was once Roger came forward, into Ralph's blurry field of vision. The boy was gripping another boy, a younger one, on his bare shoulder, his fingers nearly digging into the flesh.

Ralph screwed up his face, trying to make out who the younger boy was. He decided that it was one of the twins, but whether it was Sam or Eric, he didn't have a clue. The twin cried out as he was shoved forward, but silenced himself as soon as Roger's spear was pointed at his back.

The chief continued. "I want you to beg for Sam's life."

"That's not fair!" Ralph shouted weakly. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing," Jack responded truthfully. "But he'll have to pay for everything that you've done wrong."

Sam whimpered quietly as Roger jabbed his lower back with the sharpened stick.

Jack's logic made no sense to Ralph, and for a moment, all he could do was close his eyes and wish he was somewhere else. He wished he was back in England, back at his estate with his father, where all the wild ponies roamed freely. He wished he was sitting in front of the fireplace, the warm, contained glow of the flames illuminating the book about trains that he wanted to badly to read again. Ralph wished he was back at school, even, listening to the strict, deep voice of the headmaster. Anything but this, anything but being at Jack's mercy with Sam's life in his hands.

"Beg," muttered Jack, stirring Ralph out of his longing daydreams. "Beg for his life and yours."

"Kill me," he said, "but leave Sam alone! Do what you wish to me. Torture me, beat me, maim me, drown me, starve me! But leave Sam out of this!"

Jack scratched his chin in thought, and when he took his hand away, more of the face paint had disappeared. "Torture, huh?" He shot a sidelong glance to the savage – Roger – that was standing beside him. When the hangman gave him a rare grin and a nod, Ralph could feel a shiver snake down his spine. "Alright then," Jack said at last, allowing himself to smirk, "Alright. You said it, you've sealed your fate. Roger, let Sam be."

Ralph heard a sigh of relief come from the twin as Roger took his spear away, followed by a whispered "Thank you, Ralph."

"Get up on your feet." He felt Jack remove the point of the spear from his chest, but Ralph had no will to get up. His limbs felt like gelatin, and the soles of his feet were cut and welted beyond anything he had experienced before. Did he really have to get up? Wouldn't the savages find more pleasure in watching him shrivel and die, suffer like a wounded pig, than just killing him outright? Who was he fooling? Of course they would, and they'd torture him in front of everybody. With a grunt, Ralph lifted himself to his full height, but not for long – almost immediately, he doubled over and began to retch. The contents of his mostly-empty stomach were soon lying in a steaming pile on the clean, white sand of the beach.

Jack watched the scene with a smug grin, but said nothing.

When he began to heave again, Ralph could only hope that his entrails would come flying out from his mouth – maybe then he would die and not have to be humiliated in front of Jack and Roger and Samneric and Maurice. To his disappointment, the only thing that came up was blood, and lots of it. Drops of red stained the perfect white below him. Ralph let out a strangled cry and spat one last time, before returning to his full height and hesitantly stepping toward Jack.

"Hurry the pace up," he said with a scowl that was half-masked by his face paint. "We've got a long way to go."

Ralph looked up and was horrified to discover that a half-burned forest stood between him and the place where the tribe had made its encampment. His mouth tasted bitter and disgusting, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than a drink of fresh water to rinse it all out. "I need something to drink," he croaked. "My mouth tastes horrible."

"Sucks to your mouth," the chief grumbled, raising his spear slightly and pushing Ralph along. "Get moving. You knew from the start that I wasn't going to be nice to you, so why bother asking? Roger and I are going to have our fun with you this evening, and then we'll see what will happen next."

Ralph spat again and quickened his pained pace.

A/N: End of chapter one! What do you think so far? Feedback is greatly appreciated...