Shards: Advent

3. Advent O Radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum, super quem continebunt reges os suum, quem Gentes deprecabuntur: veni ad liberandum nos, jam noli tardare. There is an immediate need for caution. He is still new to them, as yet untried under the weight of his new role, and the history of his predecessor drove deep scars into the patterns of island life. It might take a great deal of time and patience before his rule makes real headway. It's not like the ancient life, where a good chisel and some spare time means a king's name is wiped off the board. Pity, really. It would make things easier. That said, Ben muses. If his gambits pay off, if his words strike bone, if he can push... just... right... well. It's a lot of 'ifs.' It will make for an unsettling life, even with the deck stacked in his favor. And there is still a child to consider. He pauses for a moment and reflects. No, he does not regret her adoption. There is much to come, and it will be small moments that must remind him of his own humanity. What he needs in all other regards to be is something else. Coldness. His lips purse as he watches flames flicker and die in the campfire. He amuses himself with a small notion of grandeur, wondering if every would be tyrant felt that so acutely – the need to separate, the necessity of being above, or more, even if one knew full well the costs, the heaviness of your own mortality. Partly, he understands why Widmore sought warmth off the island. He might even envy it, a little. But Ben's used to being lonely, used to being the unwanted one. Save it for a time of introspection. There's other issues at hand. At his feet, the bundle whimpers. Ben tears his thoughts to the present, takes his studied, intent gaze from the fire and drives it at the burlap. On the other side of the little pit stand three of his new confidants. He's wariest of Tom, but Tom's not up to anything right then but some cautious weightshifting. Bea stands beside, waiting patiently, and then there's Isabel. He grimaces inwardly at the thought of her, though his face doesn't turn away from the squirming form in the large sack. There's a problem for another day in the shape of that severe woman, though he doesn't venture a guess how far off that day is. If he can hold it together now, then there's little this ersatz enforcer can do to threaten his position. “Tom?” He knows the report, Ethan whispered it all to him earlier, but there are patterns that like following. The burly man clears his throat. “Caught her going through the rest of Charles' stuff. Had a bundle of paperwork, a knife. Said, uh...” He paused, clearly uncomfortable. Bea gave him a sharp knock to the ribs with her elbow. Ben decided to let it pass as if unnoticed. “Said when we grabbed her up that we'd made a huge mistake lettin' you take over. Claimed Jacob ain't told anyone shit.” He shrugged abruptly, then fell silent. Ben let silence fill a long moment, then laid his words carefully over an even, modulated tone. “She dared to try and speak for Jacob.” It's declarative, not a question. It has the effect he wanted – the burly man winces and Isabel's face turns in disapproval. Ben jerks his head up to regard the trio. “It isn't for me to judge or forgive,” he starts, causing a ripple of surprise among the onlookers, whose eyes can be found glistening beyond the firelight. “Let the island speak to the matter, if it will.” He smiles disarmingly, softening his brittle blue stare. “If I am such a mistake, then I will submit to the island's decision.” The murmurs continue to rise – mutters argue whether his words are proper submission to Jacob, or some admission of weakness. There is no clear concurrence. He gestures towards the burlap sack. “Take her into the deep jungle and let her go. If she survives the night, if she is not... taken, then she can do as she likes. Go free, take me captive until

Widmore is returned -” at this his pauses and looks around at the shocked noises. “Well, obviously there has been a mistake if her crime is forgiven. What else can I suggest?” Ben smiles again, briefly. There is a time to play by fear, and that will be soon enough. For now, survival through doubt is the better sale. He finishes. “But I believe the island will judge as I might feel, could I judge. Charles Widmore broke the rules. Jacob's wishes must stand.” He enunciates the final words. They cannot deny Jacob, even though they might doubt Ben. The trio confers for a moment, and then it is Tom who picks up the burlap sack with a grunt. It will take a little while for him to make the trek inland, even with help. The woman in the sack – Ben decides that he will not ever again think of her name, pretends that he has in fact already forgotten it – whimpers slightly. He might have felt compassion for her fate, but he can't now. He gave that away the moment he put Widmore on a submarine. He allows himself a slight sigh, and looks at the shapes in the dark, each to each. He knows Ethan's eyes, and nods once, in seeming recognition. And he meets Richard's, whose dark gaze blinks at him not at all, and whose expression is grim and unreadable. **** It is past noon of the following day when the patrol returns with the broken body and the scraps of burlap. Ben's expression betrays no surprise, although he chooses to show the briefest hint of pity. The woman's body is beaten and torn, the brutality of her apparent judgement cast in ruby clarity. Many of the people – his people now, he reminds himself – look at Ben now with no doubt left, no hesitation. The island's made its will clear, as far as they're concerned. They will stand with him. Perfect. “It was Jacob's will,” he murmurs softly, that hint of pity still coming through. One of the youths looks at him with sympathy. After all, who wants to send someone to their death? “Poor girl.” He gestures in the direction of the temple, his expression compassionate. “Bury her, please. She was still one of us.” Ben turns away, for there is still much to do, and much to reorganize. The crowd drops behind, and then Ethan draws close, smiling. “You handled that well,” says the younger man. Ben shoots him a dark look, then drops his glance to the man's hands and their dirty, ragged fingernails. “Learn to clean your hands better.” Ben shakes his head. “You can only be out hunting boar so many times.” Ethan laughs, and it's a sound that unnerves him, everything about Ethan has unnerved Ben at least once. There's a ragged copy of Puzo's 'The Godfather' in his bag, and the character of Luca Brasi succeeded in giving Ben one of his rarest acknowledged nightmares. Ben is relieved when Ethan breaks his course, leaving the young leader alone to hide inside his home. Alex is playing outside, and Ben is free to pull the ragged wooden doll from its hiding place. “Happy birthday to me,” Ben mutters to himself. “I've gone and ensured myself a throne.” His tone tastes sour in his own mouth. He puts the doll away again and pours himself a drink, his thoughts ticking away in the warm dark while the childish strains of “Ring a Ring o' Roses” repeats outside. The song chills him for a moment, and then he steels himself again against it, and against all emotions. He can do little more. ~Fin (ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own. The Latin text is an O antiphon used in the Catholic advent tradition and corresponds to December 19th. Translation is handily available on Wiki and the use of its Latin version makes me look all snooty and

edumacated, which is such a lie that it's unreal) 2009/15/4 - MDS