#⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 ┊ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡𝘩 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡.

[flownintothesun]

     "𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐄," Ben deadpans, voice quick as he continues on into the jungle. He doesn’t miss a beat. If there’s one thing to be said for alcoholic fathers, it is that their sons develop the perfect poker face. “That would be silly, wouldn't it? It was merely a statement. Of course, if you were, you’re a better man than Jack takes you for. You like to read, don’t you, James? Tell me, in the classic love triangle, which type of guy gets the girl in the end?”

[flownintothesun]

    𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐒. The sky looks like rain. It’s looked like rain since the day before, and Ben knows better than to hope. Things rarely happen just because, they need a steady hand to make them so. What would he hope for, anyway? The Island is his home, and he it’s leader, chosen. The very same people who had chosen him had marooned him. Talk about loyalty.

    He lays on his back on the makeshift rowboat, watching the clouds and contemplating death. Three days without water can drive a man mad. He could last longer without food, but he has no desire to try and outlast death. Those are the kinds of things that happen in stories, and real life is certainly not that. A shadow passes over him, and he takes it for a cloud at first. Next is the rocking of displaced water, and the jeers of men. A ship.

    He scrambles to sit up, waving his arms. If there is a crew to join, there is a crew to manipulate and lead. He can make his escape and figure out how to get back to the Island from there, take his rightful place and dethrone Jack Shephard the mutinous group he once called his people. There are always new people, but the Island is his.

[flownintothesun]

     𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 has been swept out by the tide — the only part of him with a desire to leave the island: the little boy he’d once been  — scared and alone — and now, lost to sea, voiceless. They made no siren of him. They made nothing of him. What he wants, he takes. And without a soul, the smile that spreads across his face is malicious and cold. “you’re not God. Everything has a breaking point.” Here, he takes a half a step forward, lingering mid-way as though he’s changed his mind. But he simply looks up with unshakeable confidence, “Everything snaps,” foot comes down, twig cracks underfoot, “Under the right amount of pressure. I hope you remember that you chose the hard way. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

[flownintothesun]

     "𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐈'𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐃," Ben responds with a huff, stopping in his tracks, and turning to face his questioner. The grass swishes around his legs, and crunches under foot. “Have you ever considered that it might be in your best interest that you don’t know everything? Or are you going to torture it out of me, damn the consequences?”

[flownintothesun]

     𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘,  before one of them was doomed to get hurt. It’s all he can think as he’s knocked to his arse by a spattering of rubber bullets. The crowd disperses then; but some stay on, they hold the line. He’s supposed to be holding the line. Too many people getting hurt, too many people already hurt. It’s why they’re here, protesting in the street.

     “I’m fine,” he says with a wince, hand in the grit of the pavement as he pushes himself up, propels himself back onto the front lines even as pain and blood splits down his side. “Did anyone else get shot?”

[flownintothesun]

     "𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘?" Francis asks the next person who approaches and stares at the exhibit for longer than a second. He’s holding a steaming mug of herbal tea pressed between perpetually cold hands as he stares onward, perplexed. It’s lovely, as all art is — but he can’t help but to wonder when he looks at it, who is looking back at him. An artist puts their soul into their work, and it’s rather like deciphering a puzzle, when it comes down to it. Who are you? Who are you really? Human beings go through great lengths to hide who they are. He should know.

     After all, he has everything to hide — can’t afford to lay his hopes and dreams on the line. “I think that all art is calling out to someone. It’s just...hard to tell when you’re not the one it was meant for.”

[flownintothesun]

     𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐘 takes pause at the words granted to him. They sound like a threat. But then, most things do, these days.  He then considers if he is a loyal man. A loyal — well, something. Man, monster, it’s all the same when they play one another’s roles so well.

     If there is anything to be loyal toward, it is only the sea — ever changing, ever expansive. There is something caged within the maelstrom of his heart that yearns to be spat up — and yet, he ignores it as readily as he ignores his own reflection, unchanging in the mirrors — damned and cursed. Whatever rests at the bottom of the swirling calamity of his heart is what calls him here, what lures him in with its siren song. Looking for something, always looking for something. Frown of consideration turns into a smirk, his signature. Dimples are gone, and what’s left is cold, cruel as the watery grave. One becomes akin to that which he loves.

      “If I were a betting man, I’d place my coin on stubbornness being my downfall — though it’s just as likely I’ll never die. A pity that nothing seems to work out as we expected it would.”

[flownintothesun]

     𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐘'𝐒 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒: shift from greens to greys to blues with the changes of the weather. He’s too young to have reasonably earned the respect of those serving aboard his ship, and yet he has it nevertheless. Boots tap down on freshly cleaned wood of deck as he circles the man on his knees before him, nods at devoted sailor keeping guard.

     “Captain McCarthy,” Werthers begins, “We found this one prowling around the ship, near the plunder, if you catch my drift.”

     Two days ago, the Arcady had come into port with valuables from another sunken wreck. Beautiful things that catch the light in the right ways, remind his people why they practice the dying art of sailing for treasure. None of it, however, had spoken to Westley of ghosts that made any sort of difference.

     He pauses, the beginnings of rain sliding down his nose and the freckles there, “Get inside, Werthers, get everyone inside,” he calls the last part louder for his crew to hear as they begin to scatter, “The weather is about to take a turn. And you,” he offers the other his hand, helps them to their feet, “You don’t look like a pirate, nor a treasure seeker. I’ve quite the affinity for stories, but I’ve little enough time for thieves. Why are you here?”

[flownintothesun]

    𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 — and he’s left with naught but the memory of comfortable fleece and a fireplace in his room that never seemed to go out. It’s a far cry from Mrs. Albright, the landlady, telling him that if he refuses to turn the heat on, he’ll have to ‘start burning those books he loves so much’ to keep warm. There are other ways, he thinks, shifting from foot to foot as the violin bow dangles out of a half-gloved hand. Music can transport one anywhere, if one has a mind for it, “Yes, this one’s mine,” the song-like lilt of his accent hangs heavy on him still, “Although, it’s a tough crowd,” he laughs as the children nearby toss snowballs in good fun, “Perhaps I’m better sticking to the classics.” Like his parents had said, when they had listened to him play at all, once upon a time.

[flownintothesun]

       𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋 is the only sound for moments in an otherwise silent room. He doesn’t seem to notice the mechanical ticking, his attention devoted to his companion, wrapped up in his arms. He does not dare to move, but instead runs long and cold fingers through their hair, doting on them as though he is a painter, his fingers are the brush, and they are his masterpiece. Broken is okay. Things are hard, and the world is cruel, “It’s all right, darling. Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see. I won’t let go, I’ve got you. I will keep you safe.”  

[flownintothesun]

     𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃, 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 that can’t decide if they are angry or tired. It’s not the first time he wonders if his fickle moods have tempted the sea. It’s both a sad thought, and one that makes him feel less alone. He sees the motorboat coming, always sees them coming. Why can’t they all just leave him alone?

     Lighthouse flickers in the distance. “There’s no shelter here for you,” he calls out, “Shore is northeast. Follow the light, and stay within it.”

     His grip tightens around his tin whistle. Better for stray fisherman to come across The Arcady now, when he’s lost in the throes of grief, rather than of rage. One life, he might spare, if it means he can disappear into oblivion again. It’s just that once they’re on board, all they want to do is take, and make him into something he’s not. And he’s tired. So very, very tired.

[flownintothesun]

          "𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; but if you get too close, you’ll see I’m just the ghost haunting it.”

[flownintothesun]

    𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐋𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐒 and it will be getting dark soon. Westley wonders if he’ll be able to see the stars proper from here. It’s not like out on the sea, he thinks. When there’s a landmass, the light pollution blots out the beautiful night like ink spilling across a page. And it all matters so terribly little anyway. A mutiny has worse ways of ending  —  but these aren’t the old days and the sailors aboard his ship, his Arcady have left him stranded on an island far enough from its original landmass that even he questions his ability to swim it.

     Shoes are held in sandy hands as he walks the line of the shore. He’s not stupid enough to try and swim it just before a storm  —  not without knowing the currents and the tides. They hadn’t really left him much of anything  —  just the clothes on his back and the compass around his neck that somehow still spins even when it’s waterlogged. It’s been broken for as long as he’s had it, but the theory is that the thing doesn’t point north anyway, it points to purpose...to destiny.

     For what little he’d know about any of that, anyway.

[flownintothesun]

   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 cut out at the fingertips with a kitchen knife, threading, but they work. To feel the music, he must truly feel the music; the way the bow slides against the string, the strings pressed into callous fingers.

   It is a cold day in early December. The outskirts of the city are not quite the city, and they have their own town square, brightly alight with all of the colors of the holidays. Lights twinkle on a large tree placed front and center in the shopping district. People rush by, arms full of shopping bags and excited whispering. But there is no music. Not yet. That’s about to change.

    He plugs the violin into a borrowed amplifier near a cafe to keep as warm as he can. He leaves the case open, just a few meters away in case anyone feels generous. ‘Tis the season, or so he’s heard.

    One breath, exhaled into steam, and the violin whirs to life. The second the bow touches strings, he is lost to the bend and sway of his own body, his own dance, at the mercy of his music. He plays like someone who has so much to give to the world, although he can’t even give a penny.

[flownintothesun]

     "𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖," Captain calls from the bow of the ship, curls blowing due east in the wind. “Your bullets, and your guns.”  Language tastes dusty on tongue, unpracticed. It claws and scratches and hitches in his throat. It must truly make him a legend, if vowels taste the same as old books smell.

      He turns, unchanging and fearless — looks his companion up and down. Features are undefinable — something akin to agitation, anger maybe? Sadness, misery? Something deep, something lost...like the sea stretched out for miles before them as the shoreline fades from view.  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

[flownintothesun]

        "𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 feels like running after something that keeps moving away into the distance while I stay in the same place.”