A/n; muhaha. It's fruitscandii again. With another aimless fic. This shall be me second fic in the fandom. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer; I totally don't own Lord of the Flies. If I did, there would be Simon plushies and everyone would be pretty.
Jack Merridew was happy. It was a fierce, savage sort of happiness--the kind that people get when they're the leader of a hunting tribe that's loyal to you, and listens to your speeches, and throws feasts on a daily basis. At the present time the redhead wasn't out hunting. He was basking in the glory of being chief, of having skilled hunters that brought him food, of having a bed made out of the cleanest, most fresh leaves in the forest. He had his own special symbol of power--the hunting knife. It rested in his belt, glittering wickedly. The sheath that the new tribe had attempted to forge happened to have consisted of a bunch of leaves tied together at the stems. Under the fierce glare of the blaring sun, everything had a wicked glint.
Only one thing marred his happiness. He kept this thing hidden from everyone else, because they would laugh at him and strip him of this powerful title. Jack didn't know how long this thing had been there, but it frustrated him and caused him to have both wicked and delightful dreams at night. Sometimes he would speak the dreams out loud, causing questionable looks from Roger, who slept on his right, and Maurice, who slept on his left. Often in these nights the two trusted lieutenants exchanged puzzled glances over the Chief's sleeping body. They didn't know what was bothering their leader, enough to make him speak gentle phrases and smile in his sleep at times, while crying out in apparent agony and anguish in others. The two younger boys wisely said nothing about any of this, for fear of losing Jack's favor.
The thing happened to be Ralph.
Ralph was terrified. It was a dull, pressing sort of terror--the kind that people get when they know someone's out to get them and yet daily life went on, infuriatingly ordinary, except for the little needle in the back of your brain that pricks you to remind you that you're in danger. At the present time the blond wasn't hiding. He was trying to meditate his fear away, trying to meditate Piggy back into existence, trying to meditate himself onto a ship headed back to his home. His hands were empty--the conch had shattered, and Piggy's specs weren't within safe reach. The empty air in his palm usually occupied by the conch gave him a strange sense of loss. His time as chief had passed, along with the rules and bonds of civilization. Underneath the dark shadows of the forest, everything seemed so much more foreboding.
Only one thing caused this terror. There was no use in hiding it, because everyone knew it was there and would only humiliate him further if he tried to hide it. Ralph didn't know exactly when the full force of flat-out fear had hit him, but it was pressing him and caused him to have nightmares and sometimes dreams of home at night. Sometimes he would speak the dreams out loud, causing the night air to waver above his mouth, and the stars to shine, and the clouds to clear away. Often in these nights Ralph would wake up uneasily in the middle of a dream and take a walk on the moonlit beach. He didn't know why he was still fighting it, but wisely didn't wonder too much, for fear of going batty.
The thing happened to be Jack.
Castle Rock had taken on a whole new look after the new tribe set in. Most of the ground was splattered with leaves, pig blood, or war paint. The littluns didn't play on the beach anymore. They sat in a circle, making up nonsense war chants and beating their small, grubby fists into the dirt. They didn't know exactly what was happening, but Jack had been their leader, and when he left, they followed. Besides, Roger was a scary person and he threw stones if they didn't listen to him. They all saw what had happened to the fat boy when Roger was angry. Sometimes they dreamed about Simon, too, except they didn't know it was Simon. They remembered the bloody night in their subconsciousness, when the small beastie had appeared and been defeated.
From that moment, they never worried about the beastie again, but in their sleep, they cried and cried and shouted in high-pitched, tear choked voices that something was on a hill. They wondered what happened to Simon, the first time they had to get their own fruit. They wondered what happened to Piggy, when the white spiral horn went boom. They wondered what happened to Ralph, because they thought Chief looked lonely all by himself.
The Chief had not been himself the past few days. They caught him muttering strange words to himself, words that they didn't understand. They caught strands of a song that had not been sung since that morning so long ago, when they first stood together in a tightly huddled group at the airport. They saw the Chief in the forest by himself one day, doodling someone in the dirt, humming to himself, his eyes intense with--something. They didn't know what. The look in the Chief's eyes looked vaguely familiar, but they couldn't remember where they'd seen anything of the sort. They called a mini assembly of their own and talked about it by themselves.
"I think--" Johnny started, and those two syllables alone created a mad ruckus of words, tumbling out of the littlun's eager mouths, flowing rapidly out, happy to be free. Johnny grabbed a twig and waved it about, shouting with all his might for silence. After a while, the exitement died down and the small boys fell into their usual semi-circle, settling down comfortably to hear what Johnny had to say. "I think," Johnny began again, "That something is bothering the Chief."
There was a general cry of "yeah!" among the littluns. Johnny, reveling in this new sort of influence among his peers, raised his hands in the manner he saw Jack do. "Do you remember--" he fumbled for the right words for a moment "--that time we saw the Chief, all by himself?"
"Batty."
"He's batty."
"Like Simon!"
Another tangle of words, and Johnny yelled so much that his face turned red. On the top of the rock, Robert and Harold grinned amusingly. "They're happy," Robert stated, and Harold nodded his agreement. "Very happy."
Percival came for within the semi-circle, grabbing the twig from Johnny, who cried out indignantly and tried to get it back. Percival had to shout to make himself heard. "Who was he drawing?" His cheeks were pink from the attention and the sudden heat that enveloped the group.
For a moment there was a lull as the boys put their brains together to figure it out. From the glimpses each of them had caught, they put together a strange picture. They concluded that he had been drawing a very beautiful boy, with longish hair and a smile. The boy, once they finally made an image in their minds, was familiar. Each of the small boys racked their brains for an answer until all of a sudden, the answer came to Johnny. Happy to capture everyone's attention, he grabbed the twig from Percival's protesting hands and shouted, "Be still!"
Stillness was immediate, except for Percival, who burst into tears.
Johnny ignored Percival and drew himself up proudly, his paint beginning to smear with the sweat running down his forehead. His hair was damp with exertion. Then he opened his mouth wide, ceremoniously, and uttered a single syllable that set the entire assembly on fire with energy.
"Ralph."
end.
OK, OK. That was kind of random. Basically Jack was in a whimsical mood and was thinking about the earlier days of former glory. The littluns are deeper than you think. :) Hope you enjoyed!!