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Dappled Shadows

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( III : Of A Lightness )

Back in Britain, there was a big commotion going around about blood. Well, actually genes. Jack clearly remembered his teachers avidly talking about the subject; something along the lines of "you-gee-nics". The belief that all people had different types of blood, and different types on inherent abilities.

He sneered, wiping a bit of red from his cheek. If only they were stranded here on this island, they'd understand the truth. Yes, people were all given different abilities from birth. That much, no one should have been able to argue with. But in the end, blood was blood. Was blood. And it was the same blood that covered the ground in the war, the same blood that fell from the pig, and the same blood that covered his body.

The rags that accounted for his attire were now stained. But Jack didn't mind-the stench of blood was soothing. Strangely so, actually, but soothing nonetheless.

A chase. A squeal from a pig. The rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins. And then the white butterfly that was success-slipping from his grasp. There was a tree, there was a pig, and now...? Now, there was blood. Blood on him, blood on the ground, and blood from him. The other hunters had crowded around him, asking if he wanted their help, asking if he wanted them to do anything.

Jack growled at the thought of those whimpering fools. What he really wanted was for them all to go away.

He hated this, really, truly hated this.

There was a slash, whether from the branches of the tree or the tusks of the pig, he would never know. But it was from the slash in which his blood was dripping out of. The grass beneath his feet was already stained red, and he wondered, vaguely, how much blood was there in a human body.

Heaven seemed rather far away, but Mother did always say that it was to keep out those who weren't worthy.

A chuckle, then a ragged gasp. He must surely be going mad. All too quickly, the sharp blade of grass cut into his bare back, and he wanted to wince at the wound that was being prodded. But doing that would mean he had to move-and he was too tired for that. Far, far too tired. He closed his eyes; just for a rest.

It was then that Simon's small form emerged from the trees. He had heard the hunters' shrieks. Something about a huge pig, one that had felled Jack. It was natural for his choir head to not accept help from others, but it did lead to the others cleaning up his mess. Simon stared solemnly at the other boy. Blood painted his body, and made him look like an ethereal being. He kneeled down, lightly placed a hand over the other's chest.

Simon released a breathe when the beating of a heart was felt-ever steady, ever strong.

Wasting no time, he pulled off his shirt, and ripped a long piece of cloth from the fabric with great difficulty. He was not made for physical work, but then again, neither was Jack. Gingerly, he wound the bandage across the older boy's chest, using an arm to keep his upper back from touching the grass. For the first time, Simon was aware of the drastic difference in their body temperatures. Where Jack was burning, like the flame of his spirit, Simon felt icy-but dry in comparison.

Jack was clearly larger than him, as proved when the fabric that could have easily covered Simon's waist only served to wrap itself around Jack three times. Simon pulled tightly on the knot, so as to secure it, and watched as the blood stilled to small drops.

A shiver ran down his spine as he realized his own hands were now coated red.

"...Simon...?" Jack whispered with a dry voice. He hoped that he was not seeing things, as the loss of blood was making his head feel light. The light that bled through the trees gathered around the younger boy's head, making him look like an angel. It wasn't until the light laughter fell upon Jack's ears did he realize that he had voiced his opinions aloud. The heat rose to his face, but Simon didn't point that out.

It was just one of the many reasons why Jack didn't mind Simon helping him out. But the gears in his mind were working slower than usual, and the other boy was simply begging the question.

"Why do you always do this?"

There is no immediate answer, and Jack has to strain his ears to hear the one that Simon gives.

"Because you deserve it."

The way Simon says it just makes it all make sense. If it were anyone else, Jack would've snapped at them. Would have told them to stop pitying him, to go away. Would have called them pathetic, and then called himself pathetic when they left. But it was Simon, and being with Simon made him wonder about the theory of blood. He'd never seen the other boy bleed; and he wonders if it'd be golden, like the light around his head.

Jack says a thank-you, one that he'll never say again. Later, he can blame the blood loss for the lightness of his head-the lightness that he feels when Simon smiles, shyly, like always.

For the first time since they've met here, Simon stays. Their hands are not touching, and it's really more like calmly watching, but Jack is satisfied.

There is a voice-in his head, telling that this will not last. Telling him that he does not deserve any of this, and soon, they will never have this place anymore. There is a quieter voice, one that's been buried for ages, that wants to see Simon bleed-wants to be the one to make Simon bleed. There is a part of him that really needs to know whether or not the other boy's blood is red (like everyone), or some color that it like the light that surrounds him.

Jack ignores it, for Simon is here, is here with him.

For now, that is all he needs.

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