A/N: I apologize for the amount of time this chapter took to write. It was incredibly difficult; I wrote and edited and rewrote, and honestly I'm still not pleased with it. Since I envisioned this story happening years after the events of Lord of the Flies, I didn't think much about what had happened directly after except in terms of events. I meant to move quickly from then to the "present," but I had to at least establish some of the issues that make up the rest of the story, like the, you know, small and relatively unimportant conflict between Ralph and Jack and all that it entails. :) So, I had to work backwards a bit with this chapter, and I worry that I didn't "de-age" this struggle properly and that Ralph is expressing thoughts a little too sophisticated for thirteen (although much of the thinking is due to the reminiscing of his older self), although on the other hand Ralph has every reason to have seriously matured, not the least of which is the whole lost innocence thing.
Erm...I know I'm rambling on and most everyone has wisely stopped reading this note, so I'll just sneak off here. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. Enjoy. :)
- - -
The redhead had always had a presence. It draped over everything around him like a heavy, suffocating cloth. That was how Ralph knew, when he felt his breathing become shallow as if something were physically restricting it, listening to the rustle of leaves at the entrance to the small cave. I could sense when he was coming. Always. And then Jack was there, gloating, a self-satisfied smirk painted on his face like the mask of red and black. He seemed to fill the room, and he merely stood there, filling it, and staring at the huddle on the back floor of the cave that was Ralph.
The silence stretched out for so long that it felt fake, almost scripted. Hero at the mercy of the villain, act two, scene one. Ralph found himself staggering to his feet although his mind was screaming at him to stay still, make yourself small, keep quiet. He forced himself to meet the menace in the blue stare evenly.
"What took you so long, Jack?" Ralph listened the absurd question spilling out of his mouth with faint surprise. If Jack was also surprised, he showed no sign of it.
"There was no need to rush, was there?" Ralph was not expecting the offhand tone, and somehow it made him even more uneasy. Jack's voice held the undercurrent of mocking venom that it had gradually acquired as their relationship deteriorated. As Jack began to hate him.
"No, there wasn't." Ralph agreed mildly more for the sake of saying something than because Jack's comment called for a response. He knew that Jack had expected to find him cringing and whimpering in terror or hysterically demanding to know what Jack intended to do with him, and in spite of the cold ache of fear in his stomach, Ralph felt tremendously smug about doing neither. How many would stand and look their would-be murderers in the eye? Yes, you must be a bit mad for it.
"Have you been comfortable?"
"Not really, no."
"Good." Ralph was shocked at how close Jack's frank delight at his discomfort came to making him laugh. There was something so relentlessly mad (there it goes again) in the scene that it inspired hilarity. Jack's doubtful intentions aside, they were having a relatively civil chat, considering that not so many days ago Jack was chasing him through a jungle with a spear and a threat of a stick sharpened at both ends.
But he didn't, did he? And why not? Because I begged. You're strong, Jack, but you're not smart. I had your measure. I knew what you wanted. And it didn't cost me anything to give it to you. A little dignity, maybe, but it's nothing I wouldn't have lost if you had sacrificed me to the Beast and put me on display like a pig. Like that pig.
Ralph was suddenly, embarrassingly aware that his legs were trembling. He gave in to instinct and sank slowly back down to the floor, wincing as his damaged muscles protested the movement.
Jack noticed the wince.
"Oh? Does it hurt, Ralph?" He asked with mock concern. Ralph inwardly marveled at how quickly Jack could regress at times from vicious hunter-chief to the childish, attention-seeking bully he was when they first arrived on the island.
"Yes." Ralph replied simply, looking down at his folded hands. He could feel Jack's eyes moving over him furiously, searching. He thinks I'm still fighting him for something. He thinks this is a new ploy. Round two. The thought made Ralph smile. Jack seized on it. He swooped down on him - Ralph distantly noticed how swift and bestial Jack's motions were - and twisted his fingers through Ralph's hair, jerking his head painfully back. In spite of the events leading up to this moment in his life, the betrayal, the killing, the chase, Ralph was shocked at the raw fury in Jack's face.
"What is so damned funny?" He hissed. Ralph swallowed convulsively.
"Jack," his voice was remarkably steady, "you've won. What did you expect? Yes, I'm hurt. You've won. You're the chief," Ralph finished quietly. Ralph supposed he ought to be ashamed of the admission, but he wasn't. It was the truth. He had been locked away. His body was exhausted. Viscerally, at least, he had been conquered. An astounding range of expressions was flitting across Jack's face over the course of this, but it settled into a painfully familiar one. The cave floor changed to hot, rough sand, the walls stretched and softened into the shadowy edges of the jungle, and the dull gray light deepened into the rosy glow of a fading sun. Jack was looking at him as he had many times when they were still a tribe, still friends, still lost schoolboys. A mixture of exasperation and grudging respect, amusement and resentment. Jack's fingers loosened their grip on Ralph's fair strands.
"You're impossible, Ralph." Jack scoffed and his expression hardened again. Ralph came back with a jerk to his rock prison. "You never do what I want you to." Ralph's hackles rose, but he forced himself to stay blank. It's a survival game. He thinks it's a power game, but I know it's a survival game. Jack let go of his hair completely and stood up. He remained for a moment, considering the boy curled on the floor before him. "Yet, anyway." Jack added with a return to his former eerily pleasant tone. A moment later he was gone. Ralph didn't realize how tense he had been until his muscles abruptly relaxed as soon as the object of his anxiety left the room. Animal instinct, Ralph thought distantly. His fingers traced an ugly, inflamed wound on his forearm. He thought on the past. On laughing and splashing and playing and Jack, lighthearted, beside him. And now, his body jumped on edge in his mere presence. What had happened in between?
After three years, Ralph still could not say he was sure.
Erm...I know I'm rambling on and most everyone has wisely stopped reading this note, so I'll just sneak off here. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. Enjoy. :)
The redhead had always had a presence. It draped over everything around him like a heavy, suffocating cloth. That was how Ralph knew, when he felt his breathing become shallow as if something were physically restricting it, listening to the rustle of leaves at the entrance to the small cave. I could sense when he was coming. Always. And then Jack was there, gloating, a self-satisfied smirk painted on his face like the mask of red and black. He seemed to fill the room, and he merely stood there, filling it, and staring at the huddle on the back floor of the cave that was Ralph.
The silence stretched out for so long that it felt fake, almost scripted. Hero at the mercy of the villain, act two, scene one. Ralph found himself staggering to his feet although his mind was screaming at him to stay still, make yourself small, keep quiet. He forced himself to meet the menace in the blue stare evenly.
"What took you so long, Jack?" Ralph listened the absurd question spilling out of his mouth with faint surprise. If Jack was also surprised, he showed no sign of it.
"There was no need to rush, was there?" Ralph was not expecting the offhand tone, and somehow it made him even more uneasy. Jack's voice held the undercurrent of mocking venom that it had gradually acquired as their relationship deteriorated. As Jack began to hate him.
"No, there wasn't." Ralph agreed mildly more for the sake of saying something than because Jack's comment called for a response. He knew that Jack had expected to find him cringing and whimpering in terror or hysterically demanding to know what Jack intended to do with him, and in spite of the cold ache of fear in his stomach, Ralph felt tremendously smug about doing neither. How many would stand and look their would-be murderers in the eye? Yes, you must be a bit mad for it.
"Have you been comfortable?"
"Not really, no."
"Good." Ralph was shocked at how close Jack's frank delight at his discomfort came to making him laugh. There was something so relentlessly mad (there it goes again) in the scene that it inspired hilarity. Jack's doubtful intentions aside, they were having a relatively civil chat, considering that not so many days ago Jack was chasing him through a jungle with a spear and a threat of a stick sharpened at both ends.
But he didn't, did he? And why not? Because I begged. You're strong, Jack, but you're not smart. I had your measure. I knew what you wanted. And it didn't cost me anything to give it to you. A little dignity, maybe, but it's nothing I wouldn't have lost if you had sacrificed me to the Beast and put me on display like a pig. Like that pig.
Ralph was suddenly, embarrassingly aware that his legs were trembling. He gave in to instinct and sank slowly back down to the floor, wincing as his damaged muscles protested the movement.
Jack noticed the wince.
"Oh? Does it hurt, Ralph?" He asked with mock concern. Ralph inwardly marveled at how quickly Jack could regress at times from vicious hunter-chief to the childish, attention-seeking bully he was when they first arrived on the island.
"Yes." Ralph replied simply, looking down at his folded hands. He could feel Jack's eyes moving over him furiously, searching. He thinks I'm still fighting him for something. He thinks this is a new ploy. Round two. The thought made Ralph smile. Jack seized on it. He swooped down on him - Ralph distantly noticed how swift and bestial Jack's motions were - and twisted his fingers through Ralph's hair, jerking his head painfully back. In spite of the events leading up to this moment in his life, the betrayal, the killing, the chase, Ralph was shocked at the raw fury in Jack's face.
"What is so damned funny?" He hissed. Ralph swallowed convulsively.
"Jack," his voice was remarkably steady, "you've won. What did you expect? Yes, I'm hurt. You've won. You're the chief," Ralph finished quietly. Ralph supposed he ought to be ashamed of the admission, but he wasn't. It was the truth. He had been locked away. His body was exhausted. Viscerally, at least, he had been conquered. An astounding range of expressions was flitting across Jack's face over the course of this, but it settled into a painfully familiar one. The cave floor changed to hot, rough sand, the walls stretched and softened into the shadowy edges of the jungle, and the dull gray light deepened into the rosy glow of a fading sun. Jack was looking at him as he had many times when they were still a tribe, still friends, still lost schoolboys. A mixture of exasperation and grudging respect, amusement and resentment. Jack's fingers loosened their grip on Ralph's fair strands.
"You're impossible, Ralph." Jack scoffed and his expression hardened again. Ralph came back with a jerk to his rock prison. "You never do what I want you to." Ralph's hackles rose, but he forced himself to stay blank. It's a survival game. He thinks it's a power game, but I know it's a survival game. Jack let go of his hair completely and stood up. He remained for a moment, considering the boy curled on the floor before him. "Yet, anyway." Jack added with a return to his former eerily pleasant tone. A moment later he was gone. Ralph didn't realize how tense he had been until his muscles abruptly relaxed as soon as the object of his anxiety left the room. Animal instinct, Ralph thought distantly. His fingers traced an ugly, inflamed wound on his forearm. He thought on the past. On laughing and splashing and playing and Jack, lighthearted, beside him. And now, his body jumped on edge in his mere presence. What had happened in between?
After three years, Ralph still could not say he was sure.