Prompt 2: tomorrow
Title: Tomorrow
Author: swordznsorcery
Characters: Horace Goodpseed, Jacob
Summary: On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob.
Spoilers: For episode 3x20.
Tomorrow
On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob. It was a beautiful day, warm and bright, and he had taken his paperwork out to the bench that gave him a view of so much of his village. A village filled with people that he had known for years, led and guarded, and tried to keep safe. He had smiled at the sight of them, all busy about their work, just as they had always been. He was not sure when he had first noticed the stranger amongst them, but for some reason, he had not felt alarmed.
"Good day," said the man, rather pleasantly. He was dressed in white, and he had hair the colour of sunshine. Horace liked him. His clothes were homespun, and he had the look of a man who liked to live off the land. Horace had always wanted to live off the land. Somehow, the Dharma Initiative had managed to get in the way.
"Good day." He nodded his own greeting, wondering if he should not perhaps be concerned. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Horace was sure that he should have seen him walking into the village, and there were so many alarm systems nowadays. They should always know when somebody entered Dharma land. He smiled, however, and leaned back comfortably on the bench. There was no danger here. The stranger was vastly outnumbered. It might have occurred to Horace, had he really stopped to think about it, that nobody else had reacted to the man's presence. Everybody else was carrying on with their work, albeit more slowly now, more quietly, as though from further away.
"This is a very pleasant place," said the man, sitting down on the bench next to Horace. Horace nodded again.
"It is. We do our best." The gardens were not quite as he would have liked, but he kept promising himself that he would do something about that. This year, when things would be quieter. When they would finally end their troubles with the Hostiles; when all of their endless preparations finally began to pay off. When the Dharma Initiative became what it had always been intended to become - then he would start to plant things. Cabbages, and carrots, and perhaps tomatoes. They should grow well in the island's heat. Big and red and ripe, and ready to be picked at the height of next year's summer. Then Horace could stop relying on Dharma stories, and live the way that he wanted to. The way that he was supposed to. He could pretend that he was truly in harmony with nature, instead of trying to capture it, in some numbered Dharma bottle.
"Such a pleasant view," said the man, his voice deep and rich and warm. Horace smiled again. There was a mist rolling in across the grass, he realised now. Thicker than usual, and with the faintest, strangest scent to it, but he had been here too long to be curious. There were many strange things in the jungle, and they all had their strange scents. He had grown used to it over the years. He moved slightly, ignoring the mist, and the odd sense of creeping fatigue, in order to address the stranger more fully.
"I've not seen you here before."
"No. No I don't come this way often. Not these days." The man turned his head to survey the village, a curious expression on his face. Horace followed his gaze, wanting very much to ask who the man was, and yet strangely never quite managing to do so. The mist was thicker now, he noticed. He wondered if it was going to rain. "Perhaps I shall have make the effort now, though. Things are changing."
"They are." Horace had noticed it too. Things were changing everywhere. The island was different, although he could not quite put his finger on why. The Hostiles were different. He frowned politely across at his guest. "Have you been here long?"
"Time is a hard thing to keep track of." The man smiled. Horace smiled too. It seemed so hard to do anything else just now. He was drowsy, the sun shining down so pleasantly, the stillness and peace of the afternoon so very relaxing. He hoped that he did not look as though he were too much on the verge of sleep. He did not want to appear rude in front of his guest. "Still, I think we'll notice its passage more now, in the coming years. There's so much to do."
"There's always so much to do," agreed Horace, and his guest reached out towards him, laying a friendly hand upon his shoulder.
"But some years are more momentous than others." He looked away again, out across the village. "Are these all of your people?"
"No, there are others." Young Ben, off somewhere with his father - and how nice was it, thought Horace, to see those old hostilities laid to rest - a few others, scattered about. There were not many of them nowadays it was true, but there were enough. Enough to be a community. Enough to do their work. The stranger nodded.
"There are always others. In other places, other countries. Always more." He looked back towards Horace, and it seemed for the first time that there was a darkness in his eyes, like rain clouds gathering before a storm. Horace might have frowned, but he didn't. Instead he merely nodded.
"There will always be more," he said in the end, and his guest smiled at that.
"Always a reason to keep on building," he answered. "To keep on preparing. Everything keeps moving forward." He stood up, his hand falling away from Horace's shoulder. For some reason, Horace was sorry to have it gone.
"Sometimes I wonder if the island likes it when we build things," he said, and his guest nodded slowly, his eyes roaming across the distant tree tops. He seemed to be looking for something.
"Perhaps you have to find the right thing to build," he suggested, then glanced back again towards Horace. "I must go now."
"Always something to do," said Horace politely, although he didn't really understand. The mountain of paperwork on his lap began to slide off, spilling into the gap on the bench that had been left by the stranger. He wanted to catch it, but he was too tired. Let it spill - he could always tidy it up again later. Instead he reached out towards the stranger, aware vaguely that he should offer to shake hands. They were still civilised men, after all, or so he supposed. "I'm Horace," he said. His guest smiled once again, but it wasn't the same smile as before. This time it was almost as though he were smiling at something else, or someone else, as though he were no longer really here at all.
"I know," he said, and the curiously rain cloud eyes turned one last time towards Horace. "My name is Jacob. Good luck to you, Horace." It seemed a strange sort of farewell, but then when everything else was strange about a man, why should his departure be any different? Horace turned his head to watch him leave, but something seemed to hamper his vision. The mist, perhaps. In the event, he merely stared out across the village instead, seeing what he had not seen before. They were all asleep, every one of them, sprawled on the grass and half-hidden by the mist. All of his friends, all of his colleagues, stretched out beneath the sun as though they had simply stopped. Horace would have shaken his head, had he not been so nearly asleep himself. This would accomplish nothing. There was so much to do. So much to clear, so much to plant, so much to grow. They had to start somewhere, if they were to have vegetables next year; if they were to shape this island into everything that it could so easily be. But the sun was warm, and the silence so relaxing, and the memory of Jacob was like a gentle hand across his mind. A gentle hand with darkness beyond it, like a creeping fear he was too tired to name. He might have tried to frown, but in the end he only smiled and closed his eyes. He would worry about everything later. Much later, when the sun had gone, and the mist had faded, and the world did not seem quite so strange. He would only close his eyes for a little while. It wouldn't really hurt to rest.
On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob. He had been dead for nearly twenty years before he found out why.
Author: swordznsorcery
Characters: Horace Goodpseed, Jacob
Summary: On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob.
Spoilers: For episode 3x20.
Tomorrow
On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob. It was a beautiful day, warm and bright, and he had taken his paperwork out to the bench that gave him a view of so much of his village. A village filled with people that he had known for years, led and guarded, and tried to keep safe. He had smiled at the sight of them, all busy about their work, just as they had always been. He was not sure when he had first noticed the stranger amongst them, but for some reason, he had not felt alarmed.
"Good day," said the man, rather pleasantly. He was dressed in white, and he had hair the colour of sunshine. Horace liked him. His clothes were homespun, and he had the look of a man who liked to live off the land. Horace had always wanted to live off the land. Somehow, the Dharma Initiative had managed to get in the way.
"Good day." He nodded his own greeting, wondering if he should not perhaps be concerned. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Horace was sure that he should have seen him walking into the village, and there were so many alarm systems nowadays. They should always know when somebody entered Dharma land. He smiled, however, and leaned back comfortably on the bench. There was no danger here. The stranger was vastly outnumbered. It might have occurred to Horace, had he really stopped to think about it, that nobody else had reacted to the man's presence. Everybody else was carrying on with their work, albeit more slowly now, more quietly, as though from further away.
"This is a very pleasant place," said the man, sitting down on the bench next to Horace. Horace nodded again.
"It is. We do our best." The gardens were not quite as he would have liked, but he kept promising himself that he would do something about that. This year, when things would be quieter. When they would finally end their troubles with the Hostiles; when all of their endless preparations finally began to pay off. When the Dharma Initiative became what it had always been intended to become - then he would start to plant things. Cabbages, and carrots, and perhaps tomatoes. They should grow well in the island's heat. Big and red and ripe, and ready to be picked at the height of next year's summer. Then Horace could stop relying on Dharma stories, and live the way that he wanted to. The way that he was supposed to. He could pretend that he was truly in harmony with nature, instead of trying to capture it, in some numbered Dharma bottle.
"Such a pleasant view," said the man, his voice deep and rich and warm. Horace smiled again. There was a mist rolling in across the grass, he realised now. Thicker than usual, and with the faintest, strangest scent to it, but he had been here too long to be curious. There were many strange things in the jungle, and they all had their strange scents. He had grown used to it over the years. He moved slightly, ignoring the mist, and the odd sense of creeping fatigue, in order to address the stranger more fully.
"I've not seen you here before."
"No. No I don't come this way often. Not these days." The man turned his head to survey the village, a curious expression on his face. Horace followed his gaze, wanting very much to ask who the man was, and yet strangely never quite managing to do so. The mist was thicker now, he noticed. He wondered if it was going to rain. "Perhaps I shall have make the effort now, though. Things are changing."
"They are." Horace had noticed it too. Things were changing everywhere. The island was different, although he could not quite put his finger on why. The Hostiles were different. He frowned politely across at his guest. "Have you been here long?"
"Time is a hard thing to keep track of." The man smiled. Horace smiled too. It seemed so hard to do anything else just now. He was drowsy, the sun shining down so pleasantly, the stillness and peace of the afternoon so very relaxing. He hoped that he did not look as though he were too much on the verge of sleep. He did not want to appear rude in front of his guest. "Still, I think we'll notice its passage more now, in the coming years. There's so much to do."
"There's always so much to do," agreed Horace, and his guest reached out towards him, laying a friendly hand upon his shoulder.
"But some years are more momentous than others." He looked away again, out across the village. "Are these all of your people?"
"No, there are others." Young Ben, off somewhere with his father - and how nice was it, thought Horace, to see those old hostilities laid to rest - a few others, scattered about. There were not many of them nowadays it was true, but there were enough. Enough to be a community. Enough to do their work. The stranger nodded.
"There are always others. In other places, other countries. Always more." He looked back towards Horace, and it seemed for the first time that there was a darkness in his eyes, like rain clouds gathering before a storm. Horace might have frowned, but he didn't. Instead he merely nodded.
"There will always be more," he said in the end, and his guest smiled at that.
"Always a reason to keep on building," he answered. "To keep on preparing. Everything keeps moving forward." He stood up, his hand falling away from Horace's shoulder. For some reason, Horace was sorry to have it gone.
"Sometimes I wonder if the island likes it when we build things," he said, and his guest nodded slowly, his eyes roaming across the distant tree tops. He seemed to be looking for something.
"Perhaps you have to find the right thing to build," he suggested, then glanced back again towards Horace. "I must go now."
"Always something to do," said Horace politely, although he didn't really understand. The mountain of paperwork on his lap began to slide off, spilling into the gap on the bench that had been left by the stranger. He wanted to catch it, but he was too tired. Let it spill - he could always tidy it up again later. Instead he reached out towards the stranger, aware vaguely that he should offer to shake hands. They were still civilised men, after all, or so he supposed. "I'm Horace," he said. His guest smiled once again, but it wasn't the same smile as before. This time it was almost as though he were smiling at something else, or someone else, as though he were no longer really here at all.
"I know," he said, and the curiously rain cloud eyes turned one last time towards Horace. "My name is Jacob. Good luck to you, Horace." It seemed a strange sort of farewell, but then when everything else was strange about a man, why should his departure be any different? Horace turned his head to watch him leave, but something seemed to hamper his vision. The mist, perhaps. In the event, he merely stared out across the village instead, seeing what he had not seen before. They were all asleep, every one of them, sprawled on the grass and half-hidden by the mist. All of his friends, all of his colleagues, stretched out beneath the sun as though they had simply stopped. Horace would have shaken his head, had he not been so nearly asleep himself. This would accomplish nothing. There was so much to do. So much to clear, so much to plant, so much to grow. They had to start somewhere, if they were to have vegetables next year; if they were to shape this island into everything that it could so easily be. But the sun was warm, and the silence so relaxing, and the memory of Jacob was like a gentle hand across his mind. A gentle hand with darkness beyond it, like a creeping fear he was too tired to name. He might have tried to frown, but in the end he only smiled and closed his eyes. He would worry about everything later. Much later, when the sun had gone, and the mist had faded, and the world did not seem quite so strange. He would only close his eyes for a little while. It wouldn't really hurt to rest.
On the day that Horace Goodspeed died, he was visited by a man named Jacob. He had been dead for nearly twenty years before he found out why.