Jin draped a small token of warmth over the shoulders of his shivering, drenched wife, and her fingers rested lightly on his, acknowledging the silent gesture of dedication. Sayid stood in the darkness, several feet away, and watched. There seemed to be something in his throat he could not swallow, and the fetid taste of shame coated his tongue like a film.
Jin had been right to insist that they return to camp, to insist that his pregnant wife not be left a moment longer on treacherous waters. But Sayid's mind had still hovered beneath the cloud of a hotly desired revenge, and he had reached for a victory beyond his grasp.
Tariq had been right, Sayid thought. He was a disgrace. He had not then been willing to grab at the gun in the American soldier's belt. He had not been willing to die merely in order to take down a few of the enemy. Today. however, he had been willing to destroy the lives of friends for that very purpose. Once he would not sacrifice his life for his honor, but today he could not even sacrifice his ego for his companions.
The hard edges of his teeth scraped against one another, and he considered that his history had been one long line of failures. He had sought a solitary revenge when he should have enlightened an entire group. He had brought this couple here, to this shore, where they now caught their hurried breaths in the wake of overwhelming danger. It was only by some gracious twist of fate that he was not responsible for their slaughter.
Sayid saw Jin kiss Sun's cheek, and he felt his own nails dig into his labor-callused palms. Jin had been the better man in more than wisdom: the Korean had protected his woman; he had succeeded in pulling her from the watery depths safely to shore. The wet body Jin held in his arms against his chest was a soft, living, breathing thing.
Sayid had loathed the submission that military service required. He had longed to escape the drudgery of the ranks and to rise to the top of the heap, to work his way into a prestigious position in the Intelligence Division where men would be forced to follow his whims instead of vice versa. Yet he had labored so long in the shadow of his father that when Omar praised his work, for a moment he only half-believed his superior. "You were good in there." "Was I?" Was I?
It had been a daily struggle to crush the niggling insecurity with a rising arrogance, to lay low the doubt with the bludgeon of an unexamined self-confidence. But he had succeeded. And now here was the product of that success: A stolen sailboat. A nearly broken-hearted husband. An almost murdered mother-to-be. Hands holding nothing but air.
Sayid thought now of how he had once striven to honor his father, to fill the role that his older brother Taslim had abandoned. Taslim had become the family joke. He had thrown himself into religious devotion, which, to a largely secular father, could not seem like anything more than a foolish escape. Sayid remembered, as a boy, imitating his father's mocking grin as their old man watched Taslim at his desk, pouring over the Koran. He remembered letting the small scoff escape his mouth, echoing the sound that had just fallen from his father's lips.
But when his father left the room, and Taslim looked up and caught his younger brother's eyes, Sayid felt his smile fade, and he experienced a sudden guilt, mingled with a condescending pity, contrasted by a strange, unfamiliar sense of uncertainty.
"You think me weak, Sayid," his brother said softly, "because I can admit that there is something greater than myself."
Sayid had not responded to those words. His eyes had fluttered away, to some corner of the room. But though he could hide his eyes from his brother's searching gaze, he could not close his ears off from Taslim's voice. "Perhaps someday, Sayid, you will learn that true freedom is to be found only in submission."
Sayid did not turn back his eyes. He forced out a haughty breath and said, "Simply consulting a dictionary will tell you the two words are antonyms."
Yet now, as he stepped forward and made his admission, he felt an unexpected sense of relief begin to tease his spirit. He could not speak directly to Jin. He could not face the Korean, but he hoped the man would understand; after all, his culture understood shame all too well. Knowing Jin probably comprehended his words, he apologized nonetheless through Sun.
When he turned to head back towards the camp, followed by two souls he did not deserve to lead, Sayid knew the firm footprints he was making on the shore would soon enough be lost in a scattering of wind-swept sand, leaving no permanent impression.
He thought of Taslim and of his words. He thought, perhaps, that dictionaries were sometimes wrong.