A few notes about this – my beta reader, Daizymaizy, and I, posed ourselves a challenge, of who could write the better fanfic about an assigned topic. Go check out her story, which should be up by tomorrow, called ‘Messiahs.’

And just a note to anyone who’s particularly religious in any way, this is not meant to be sacrilegious – if something like this bothers you, then don’t read it.

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Everyone believed it to be a lost cause – not that it was necessarily one unworthy of his time, far from it – but to go out, with the intentions of saving Claire from the jaws of death, was suicide, and Jack had warned him not to do anything irrational. The withdrawal, it was playing tricks with him, with his mind, making him think he wanted to be hero, wanted to save Claire – but that was all nearly over now, it must have been. It’d been days since he burned the drug, and ever day after that, though painful to behold, was one step closer to the day when his thoughts would be on his obsession no more – it was difficult at first, the increasing pains in his fingers, sharp and quick, which left as soon as they’d come. Some nights, he was chilled to the bone, as a great frost had descended over the island and engulfed them all – he would wake up thinking how the rest of them could possibly bear it, them remembered that only he felt it. Other nights were like fire, a burning surge of flesh – the fever came upon him so strong, left him so hyperventilated that he felt he wouldn’t be able to get his clothes off fast enough.

But there came a time, a specific hour that he could quote even, that he felt the fog dissipating – every day he felt better, and renewed, every night’s sleep left him more rested. It was the clearest he’d ever been thinking, when he made the decision to follow her to the beach – his mind, free of all distractions, focusing only on her, it was as if he’d been underwater his entire life, and had only first tasted the sweet breath of air, of life – it was exhilarating and painful at the same time, but not a moment was to be missed.

He blinked hard, fighting off the need for sleep that washed over him like forceful ocean waves, beating against his head – combined with the still-lingering effects of his withdrawal it was causing quite a painful stir in his head, one that threatened to tear him apart. His conscious raged, angry with himself, angry with everyone around him who stopped him for running headlong into the jungle to search day and night for Claire, if that was what it would take – a power surged through his legs, willing for them to move, his arms positioned to hoist himself off the ground – he was ready, he would go, now, right this minute, no one would stop him – not one person would get in his way – not Kate, not Locke – not even Jack, who acted as if he knew everything, and though he probably did it gave him no reason to be so uptight. He would have gone, but something in his mind pulled him back – a fishhook in his flesh, keeping him there, keeping him weak and alone – and afraid, not for himself but for Claire, so afraid that he might never see her again that he might burst from the thought of it, and forsake all bonds to save her.

Jack had said it was post-trauma, which made him unable to speak more than a few syllables at a time – the shock, of losing Claire, and of being dead, if only for a few minutes – his body would no doubt feel numb for some time, his brain locked in a harrowing paralysis. But he felt far from this – a new awakening, the rebirth of a pure, clean self, which looked and felt the same to him – the end of a long sleep, an insightful dream that brought new understanding to his life, and events that occurred around him but had no effect until now – tabula rasa, blank slate.

It was similar to the feeling that he felt after confession, as if everything bad about him were washed away – the drugs, which were long gone by now, had been the worst part of him, and he were now alone to sort through it all himself – it hurt at first, to wake up and add to the hours since his last fix, to know them exactly, down to the last minute – the last second, even. He had given it up, for his guitar, for himself – for Claire. He had kicked the habit, if only to be worthy of her, worthy of her goodness and virtue – he had wanted to scream it out to the world, so that they would all know what he had went through, and what he still had to go through – what he was willing to go through for her, and her child. A child that was not his, nor would ever be his – but, a child whose life he could a part of, and though it might never carry his name, it would carry his heart, his love – for he could love it, knew he could, knew he already did as it slept within her womb. He would love it, just as he loved Claire, as purely and fervently as was possible to him.

Like Joseph for Mary, he thought, remembering the story told to him so long ago in Church – the child had not been his own, and he held that against her, at first – she’d claimed to be a virgin still, but was clearly not. And he himself had avoided Claire at first, like he did all pregnant women, as well as most small children – he’d had many lovers in his time, could have planted his seed in any one of them and not know it – if he were to encounter one of them, he would have received claims that the child was his. Children were not his obsession – they were drooling, idle things, little brats that whined in supermarkets, and cried oceans of tears over a simple wound. The life of a family man, with his own slobbering brood of imps – not the life for him at all.

But like Joseph, a change had come over him as well – one that was unexpected and unprecedented, a change of heart, perhaps, and the knowledge that when he looked upon Claire, looked upon her swollen stomach and smiling eyes, that a little piece of him wished to be that child’s father – for it had no other. And though Claire was a far cry from the Virgin Mary, she still had a sense of innocence about her, as if she had not asked for this burden, had not deserved it in any way – but was willing to carry it, for it meant the world to her, and was so precious a being that she was prepared to give anything for it, even her own life if it were so desired. She was brave, and had to be as such – for herself and her child, such bravery she felt that it was impossible for him to feel otherwise, to feel the same as her. To help her carry this burden, and love her as she deserved to be loved – no one had called upon him to do this, but it was a given, an understood variable that affected them both – and would change their lives for the better.

This island, though no Bethlehem, may perhaps function in the same way. The trees, the forest – though they might never get off, and would die there, their story unknown to the world and to be told many years later by their flesh-eaten bones – this place was an enigma, where extraordinary things happened that could not be explained or deciphered. A mystery to them all, but one that was exciting to discover – fate had stayed its willful hands, and had almost seemed to have chosen that they would live, had brought them all here for a purpose, one that was unraveling before their eyes. The island seemed to breathe beneath their feet, its veins pulsing to each and every one of them, giving them life and meaning, taking away their pain, the pain of their past lives – Jack, whose father he had heard only little about, and was dead, could forget him, forget the pain, and look forward to something else – Michael and Walt, though brought together by a family death, were meant to meet, meant to share this time together – even he, destitute and addicted, could find comfort in this, having already done extraordinary things. The drugs were gone, he was free of them, free of their shackles – free of his pocket deity.

Claire could be free, if only she allowed herself to be as such – he could tell, though she said no words on the subject, that the father of her child was still held in her thoughts. She still remembered him, still thought of his touch – the touch that had caused all her pain, but would end up being her salvation. He was gone but not forgotten, living on through the child, a ghost of her past that she had set free from her life – and though it might had been in anger, there might be no anger between them now. They would leave well enough alone, and never meet again – a peaceful existence for them both, distant from each other as was best.

He looked up, the stars above him shining like minuscule diamonds in a sea of darkness – there would be no star that shone far and wide, with the light of the sun, hanging over the heads as the birth of Claire’s child drew closer – no star to attract the attention of any wise men, traveling from afar and being gifts of great value. Two thousand years from now, their images would not be plastered on greeting cards by the thousands, would not be molded into plastic forms that glowed in the front yards of every urban neighborhood, would not be crafted by Sunday school students, using popsicle sticks shoddily held together by glue that he knew the children would rather eat instead – but if their trials and hardships were to be remembered by only one person, then that would be enough for him.

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In case you couldn’t tell, the topic was to compare Charlie and Claire’s relationship with that of Mary and Joseph, from the Bible.