(no subject)
That night, John Locke had a dream.
He lay his head down to rest in the shade near the shore, hanging a tarp over head, jacket pillowed under his cheek. He listened to the tide roll in, waves swelling and abating, lulled by the simple familiarity of it. He slept restlessly, never quite waking but never quite calming entirely. Mumbling words, truths and lies, and struggling to blot out his father's face.
You are nothing, John Locke. You'll always be nothing. You are not my son.
In his mind, he stood on the beach, strong and silent, faces floating in and out of focus in front of him. Jack, left to his own devices on an island he understood little about, walking blindly through the jungle, leading them all to their deaths. Henry Gale with his perfect lies, his perfect deception, all those truths hidden behind his eyes. And finally, his own form, bent over by the shore, digging his hands in the moist sand, claiming the island -- this new island, as his own.
He woke with a start, grey eyes snapping open before he drew in his first gasping breath -- the last crushing weight of revelation drifting away. Awake now, John Locke stood on the shore, gazing into the distance shape of the Dawn Treader on the horizon. Gazing toward his new destiny.
"Thank you," he murmured quietly. The island had spoken. Finally, he knew what he had to do.
[OOC: Whether anyone will actually let him make the journey yet or not, John Locke has decided there's something for him on our new island. Open to all, come talk to him, help him, or even stop him from stealing a rowboat and making the trip himself. ST/LT always welcome.]
He lay his head down to rest in the shade near the shore, hanging a tarp over head, jacket pillowed under his cheek. He listened to the tide roll in, waves swelling and abating, lulled by the simple familiarity of it. He slept restlessly, never quite waking but never quite calming entirely. Mumbling words, truths and lies, and struggling to blot out his father's face.
You are nothing, John Locke. You'll always be nothing. You are not my son.
In his mind, he stood on the beach, strong and silent, faces floating in and out of focus in front of him. Jack, left to his own devices on an island he understood little about, walking blindly through the jungle, leading them all to their deaths. Henry Gale with his perfect lies, his perfect deception, all those truths hidden behind his eyes. And finally, his own form, bent over by the shore, digging his hands in the moist sand, claiming the island -- this new island, as his own.
He woke with a start, grey eyes snapping open before he drew in his first gasping breath -- the last crushing weight of revelation drifting away. Awake now, John Locke stood on the shore, gazing into the distance shape of the Dawn Treader on the horizon. Gazing toward his new destiny.
"Thank you," he murmured quietly. The island had spoken. Finally, he knew what he had to do.
[OOC: Whether anyone will actually let him make the journey yet or not, John Locke has decided there's something for him on our new island. Open to all, come talk to him, help him, or even stop him from stealing a rowboat and making the trip himself. ST/LT always welcome.]