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Ben was glad Jacob’s body had burned to nothing in the fire; the thought of seeing him lying there, with glassy eyes and a stab wound in his chest, was too much to bear. There was a feeling like a swelling tide inside his chest- manageable for now, but threatening to fill up too much and overwhelm him. Why? He wasn't sure, dead bodies had never been much of a bother before. Perhaps it was the thought of seeing that face lifeless longer than he had seen it living. To think, he had won the prize he had so long yearned for, the chance to meet Jacob, and it had ended like this...
In truth, Ben didn't know what he was feeling in that moment. His emotions were all wrapped up in a ball that burned in his chest, and none of them had a distinctive colour that he could place. If he were to try and look, would there be any kind of satisfaction? Jacob, after all, had allowed Alex to die, so for that Ben should be happy; but that particular quest of vengeance wasn't complete yet, and so he wasn't quite content with it. And all those swirling, rising feelings in his chest, what were they? Was he afraid, or disturbed, or both? The way the corpse had dissolved in the fire had been surreal, a true human would have cooked much more slowly and for much longer. But for some reason he couldn't summon up a proper state of fear or anxiety at the supernatural implications of it all. And underneath that, was there any guilt? He wasn't sure- had it been anyone else, Ben wouldn't have felt guilty, he never really did. Hell, he had strangled his lover to death and that hadn't made him as confused as he was now.
Fat load of good it had done, though. The man hadn't even stayed dead.
John Locke was up and walking, as strong and healthy as any living fellow. There weren't even marks on his neck to show for it. No trace upon him to display what had been done; no sign that could be read for the world to see: this man was murdered. And even if the knowledge were to get out, how could such a story be believed? John’s heart was beating in his chest. It was as though that night had never happened. It was as though Ben had never found him in that hotel room with the cord wrapped around his neck...no, that wasn't quite right. That was true, but not entirely true.
Something had changed.
What, he hadn't been able to put his finger on before. It had been a strange and inconsistent feeling, a prickling at the back of his neck. Like coming home to find that all of the decor- paintings on the walls, couches, vases and coffee tables- had been moved a few centimetres from their original places; an unclear and abstractly horrifying feeling. Even for someone who made a life in the shadowy places between truths and half-truths and lies, it had been a mystery.
Now, though, in the flickering light of Jacob’s funeral pyre, he thought he knew. It was the eyes- John’s eyes were different. They had been so clear before, so open, windows that shone like a spotlight into his heart. Honest eyes, and gullible ones, too. Ben had become very familiar with them, their colours beneath colours, the shapes they formed and the lights they drew in. But those eyes were closed off now. Something hard and cold had come between the blue of his irises and the thoughts in his head; Ben couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling right then, not really. And if he were to try and reshape those feelings- using words as the three sisters did thread, to remake the design of the universe in a more desirable image- he wasn't sure what would happen. He didn't think it would be the same as before, he didn't think John would obey. No. Now, it seemed that Ben was the obedient one.
Locke had a look of such satisfaction on his face, examining the inside of the statue like the world for him had been remade anew, cleaning the bloodstained knife with such lively vigour. Inhaling the air like he had been unable to breathe it before. He didn't stand like he used to either, the way he held his shoulders was somehow different. Ben observed these things, but felt nothing at the thought of them- or rather, managed to feel everything at once, all tangled up and messy in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure if he had the energy to care- no, that wasn't it, he didn't want to touch the mountain of snakes inside his head for fear that they would rise against him- no, that wasn't it, either. The symbols on the walls shifted in his eyes, and the fire burned too brightly. Was he going crazy? If he was, would it be a relief, or a horror?
Suddenly Ben thought he might be sick- and then the feeling went away again, replaced by a pain in his chest, and after that a numbness in his arms. Cyclical discomforts of every make and model. He felt the heat of the room, but he was also sure he was shivering. What was it that Jacob had said? His mind was fuzzy. Who was coming? Had that been a lie? Did it even matter? Somehow, Ben felt that it might not. Locke looked so...powerful right now. Invincible, almost. Completely unlike all those times from before, when Ben had tricked him, or shot him, or kissed him. He seemed almost like a different man.
And now Ben was the vulnerable one- truly vulnerable, not like all the lies and posturing from before, using the size of his eyes and John’s soft heart to bend the other man to his will. To think, someone who had pretended to be fragile so often, was now cracking like a crystal glass. In the end, you are what you say you are, little liar. Ben felt hot and cold all over, and he had no idea what his face looked like, he couldn't control his emotions or his expression of them anymore, and the worst part was that he didn't know why. Was it because he had killed Jacob, really, or was it because John was so...wrong?
Almost instinctively he reached for the taller man, seeking comfort from the terrible storm inside him like a child would. Pathetic, really, more like Locke used to be, trying to crawl into his lover’s arms as though doing so would somehow save him. Why was he acting this way? The writhing things in his chest were starting to look and taste an awful lot like panic-
In one step John closed the distance between them, pulling Ben into an embrace much more confidently than he ever had before. The smile on his face wasn't quite right- it was a little too self-satisfied, too unkind, but Ben only caught a flash of it before Locke kissed him, tilting his chin up with one hand and using the other to pull him in, as though Ben was a doll and wouldn't be able to figure out what to do on his own. His lips were terribly hot, Ben would have thought him feverish if he wasn't so dry, and he tasted like smoke. The way he did it- almost crushing the small of Ben’s back, acrid tongue invading his mouth- it was very possessive. His hands burned against Ben’s skin.
When he pulled away Ben was breathless- the kiss hadn't been long, but it had been very strong, almost violent. The passion of a victor, a warlord standing over newly conquered territory, wherein the statue was the castle and Ben the captured spoils. His imagination was getting away from him surely, with an image like that- his thoughts skittered out from beneath him like a plague of mice, he couldn't keep count of them and they did not obey him in the slightest.
Locke pulled Ben even closer, trailing hot lips across skin in a scorching line to meet his lover’s ear- he was so firm, like stone against the smaller man’s trembling. Ben felt tiny and pathetic in comparison. He had no control at all.
“You belong to me now,” Locke whispered, and the air from his lungs felt like little puffs of steam in the shell of Ben’s ear, and the sensation struck his body with a terrible wrack of shivers, like insects running up the ladder of his spine. “Not to him. Not to anyone else…”
Though no one had been named, Ben knew who he was speaking of, or at least he thought he did. Picturing it made him feel suffocated, and the heat of the embrace wasn't helping, but he hadn't the strength to pull away for air. Even if he had been himself, he somehow doubted that he would have been capable of making Locke do anything. On the subject of which...
“Why didn't he fight back?” The question forced itself from Ben’s mouth before he knew what it was; he couldn't help but feel that in saying it, he had somehow struck and glanced off the core of the horrible feelings in his chest, missing his mark by an inch. It hadn't been what he had meant to say, but it had been very close. What was he even aiming for? Someone help, I think I really am going crazy-
“He must have known he was beaten,” said Locke in reply, and his voice was intimate still, but more friendly, less sexually charged; he rocked slightly on the soles of his feet, holding Ben in a way that was almost domestic, as though they were both at peace and well-intentioned and ordinary, and the fire that lit them was not fueled by a corpse. And the answer to the question was unsatisfactory, it wasn't what Ben wanted to hear. He didn't know what he had wanted to hear. That Jacob hadn't fought, because he hadn't truly died? That was childish, and it couldn't possibly be true. Ben had killed a lot of people. He knew what it felt like.
“Now, Ben,” said Locke, pulling back so the pair could look each other in the eyes, lips close enough to kiss again. Ben didn't know if he wanted to or not. “I need you to go and get Richard for me, alright? I want to discuss something with him.” He spoke as one would to a child, but Ben hadn't the presence of mind to be humiliated by it.
“Alright,” he repeated in reply, and Locke kissed him on the forehead before releasing him, pushing him slightly towards the door. Where his lips had been the skin seared like it had been branded. Ben was halfway to the door before his brain kicked back in- not all of it of course, not enough to ask the kinds of questions he couldn't bring himself to think about- and he turned.
“What are you going to discuss?” he asked, and Locke smiled at him with one eyebrow raised, the sort of look one would give a sweet, but errant dog. But then, that was what Ben had become, wasn't it? A dog. He had sworn to obey, like any good pet would. And he would do it too, for the island, for Alexandra…
“That's between Richard and I,” said Locke, and Ben swallowed down the injustice of it; he was banned again, it seemed, from the adult’s table. Wasn't killing Jacob supposed to have put an end to that? But he couldn't bring himself to argue. Somehow, Locke had replaced Jacob in his head. That kiss- the gentle one, on his forehead- had been very patronizing, hadn't it? Wag your tail some more, and you’ll get a treat.
The night air outside would have been refreshing- he hadn't noticed just how stifling the air had become, inside the statue- if not for the fact that he was swamped with glaring eyes and questions; it was too much, he didn't want to deal with it, he didn't think he could, so he ignored them all and sought out Richard only, with his finely put-together appearance and dark eyes. The advisor who had higher status than the chief. At times, Ben had hated him for it, but he wasn't sure if he hated him now. The entire world felt unsteady beneath his feet.
“Locke wants to speak with you,” Ben said, and for an instant he was allowed to feel the bitter satisfaction of a task completed- good boy, like what he used to call John, a lover and a pet- before Richard’s face twisted with rage and something else, something like desperation. He grabbed Ben and shoved him into the sand- Ben hadn't the strength in that moment to protest, and his chest hurt when he landed, and there was someone lying next to him…
It was a corpse, the body of-
...
Oh no. Oh dear.
This didn't make any sense. Two and two were five, the earth was flat, and the sun pulled round it by a man in a flaming chariot. For a moment all Ben could do was stare- and then all the pieces that had been tossed into the air started coming down again, forming a new image in his mind, marked by that soft, slack face and peacefully closed eyes. Understanding, like the sun parting through storm clouds.
Oh love, I've done you a disservice, haven't I?
How could he have thought that man in the statue to be John Locke? He was wrong in every way. With the real one to compare him to here, dead though he was, Ben could see that easily. That other man was much too proud, too imposing, too dark. His eyes were too unyielding- the shape wasn't right, and neither, now that he thought of it, was the colour. His skin hadn't been the right texture, the temperature had been all off, the pressure of his hands on Ben’s body too firm and too demanding. The way he held himself, the way he walked, the shape of his lips and shoulders and head- really, the imposter looked almost nothing like John Locke at all. A very poor copy he was, at the end of it. Ben was rather ashamed of himself for not having seen it sooner.
And even as he thought this, he felt the ball of snakes in his chest loosen, the wild tangle of emotions dissipate. Was that what had been bothering him, all this time? It seemed so- with this revelation, the world made sense again, and Ben’s thoughts no longer skipped and jumped in his head, grasshoppers on a broken windowpane, things were being put back into place where they belonged. That thing in there with the burning lips, whatever it was, wasn't Locke. It had never been Locke. Locke had died like he was supposed to.
People were making a commotion in the distant place that was the world outside of poor John’s dead face, and Ben found himself being hauled up again and dragged; but he didn't care. He was back to himself again, he was in control of his own head, what a relief that was. And was he not in control of his actions, too? He had sworn to his daughter that he would obey John Locke, and he was going to honour that oath unto his grave, for her sake more than anything. He would not lie to her. And so...
...there was no one left alive who could tell Ben what to do, and be sure he would actually do it.
If Ben was a pet, his master was a dead man, and he now ran about the fields with his collar torn away, bowing to or biting those that he chose. What a marvellous revelation that was. That man in there, whatever he was, shapeshifting devil or deity of the dark, had no more hold over him than anyone else, but- and this was very important, this was the winning piece, what Ben lived for- he didn't know that.
That didn't mean that Ben wasn't scared- no, now with his emotions all back in their proper places and forms he could tell that he was terrified, and at a loss for what to do next. There were a good number of unknowns, variables that stampeded like wild horses, and he had no clear goal or destination. But at least he felt somewhat better now- killing Jacob, that hadn't really been so important, had it? Somehow he knew it hadn't been.
And as for the man in the statue- the new man in charge- whatever was to be done with him, would be done later. Ben just had to think about it some more.