Dear Readers:

This is an old story I wrote years ago. I wrote it, if I recall correctly, after the second season, before we knew how Lost ended, so it is basically a post-rescue, A/U in which most of the main cast members have made it off island. This novelette was originally the second part of a two-part novel called "Courtship," which I recently had to remove from the archive because I was salvaging parts, as I sometimes do, for my "real life" fiction. As I didn't touch the second half, however, I'm currently re-editing and re-posting it.

** You can find my "real life" novels online at Amazon. I write under the penname MOLLY TAGGART. Current titles include Roots that Clutch, Off Target, and Out of Rhythm, but there are more to come. **

MARRIAGE

"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing
how blind that I was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
They're in each other all along."

- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet.

Chapter One

Sayid sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if Shannon had lived, if they had both been rescued from that island. He would still have sought out Nadia, if only to ask for her forgiveness, but he would not have courted her. He had vowed never to leave Shannon, and he could not think of himself dishonoring such a vow. He supposed he would eventually have married her.

And yet, when he thought of it, he could not envision their life together outside of the island. How would Shannon, for instance, have reacted to his return to the religion of his childhood? After the island, he had cloaked himself in Islam like a comforting old blanket, and he was surprised to find it brought him the peace he had surrendered all hope of experiencing. Shannon certainly would not have converted, though she may have tolerated his own private practice; but there would have been a part of his life he could not share with her, a community he was tied to from which she was cut off.

Then again, he thought, would he have ever come back to Islam if Shannon had not been shot before his eyes, if the last salve for his conscience had not been ripped violently from him, leaving his soul naked before Allah? Probably not. He would have paid occasional lip service to the faith of his fathers, and he would have prayed from time to time. But he would not often have attended a mosque; he would not have bowed at every dawn, at every mid-day, at every late afternoon, at every sunset, and at every night fall; he would not have studied the Koran by lamplight on those nights he could not sleep. He would have been a different man. Not a bad man, but a different man.

Sayid shrugged to himself. He was sitting in the garage—poor Nadia had not been able to park her car in there since they had wed—tinkering with bits and pieces of radios that lay strewn about on a workbench. It was not for his profession; he just liked to take things apart. He enjoyed the pleasure of making things work once more, delighting in the knowledge that whatever is broken down can always be built up.

He heard the door to the house open and felt Nadia draw up behind him. When the warmth of her arms surrounded his shoulders, he put down the radio and the screwdriver he held. He placed a hand on each of her arms, and he leaned back against her. She bent to kiss the top of his head. "Sayid," she said, "it's getting late. I do not know how much longer I can stay awake."

"It is not yet 8:30," he said.

"It's 9:45."

He let go of one of her arms and reached for the watch he had laid on the table. She was right. The time had slipped away from him again.

"You do not have to wait up for me, Nadia," he said.

She leaned in and kissed his neck; she knew how much he loved to have her tease that precise spot. "Must I be blunt, Sayid?"

"I see," he replied, turning to sweep her into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and their lips joined in a deep kiss. When they drew apart, he asked, "Then you are feeling better? I had thought you were still unwell."

"No, I am well," she said, stroking his cheek. "Though I have discovered the cause of my illness."

"And what is that?" he asked, beginning to trail kisses from her cheek to her shoulder.

"I'm pregnant."

For a while he just kept kissing her. At length, however, her words seemed to penetrate the fog of desire that had fallen upon his mind, and his lips froze on their way back up to her cheek, just at the hollow of her neck. He drew away. "You are…you are…what?"

"Pregnant."

"I thought…You had said…I thought you could not…"

"I thought so too. Apparently, I was mistaken."

"Oh." His hands fell away from her hips. She had to draw her arms tighter around him to remain steady.

"Oh?" she repeated. "Is that all you have to say? Are you upset?"

"No, Nadia, no. Certainly not." And now his arms surrounded her again, drawing her close. "I am only…surprised."

It was but three days ago that, for the first time, his stepson Sigh had called him "Dad." The boy had not even seemed to notice the shift; the word had just begun tripping naturally from his tongue. But the change had struck Sayid powerfully. He was just now beginning to feel like a father to Sigh, and here his wife was telling him that he was now also to be blessed with a child of his own—their child.

He kissed her softly. His left hand drifted from her hip to her belly. "How far along?"

"Five weeks."

"Boy or girl?"

She laughed. "How would I know, Sayid?"

"I would like a little girl," he said, "with her mother's eyes and her mother's courage." He bent down to kiss her stomach. "But I would settle for a boy," he concluded.

Nadia buried her fingers in his hair and drew his face back to hers, demanding his mouth. When his hand strayed to cup her breast, she broke the kiss and whispered, "Let's go to bed."

He lifted her from his lap and took her hand. He followed as she led him back to the door, away from the strewn remnants of fractured radios, through the living room, up the stairs, and past Sigh's bedroom to their own. They heard the child stirring in his room and paused in the doorway for a moment until he had quieted. They passed through the entrance, and Sayid quietly closed the door behind them.

Tonight both were content to unite in relative silence, their motions unhurried, their usual passions calmed by tenderness. Later, when she lay spooned in his embrace, he spoke. "I love you, Nadia," he said quietly. He kissed the back of her neck and murmured, "Thank you for giving yourself to me…for giving me a stepson…and now, for giving me another child."

She rolled over to face him and wound her arms around him, laying her head gently upon his chest. "I love you, too, Sayid. Not as a child loves…not anymore. I never knew that I could love you quite like this."

They fell asleep like that, wrapped together in a peaceful embrace, dreaming no more of the past but only of the future.

Those pleasant dreams did not last long for Nadia, however. Within a week, the nightmare had returned—the one she had dreamed almost nightly before Sayid had returned to her—the one in which she was being tortured for the first time by the Republican Guard. She had dreamed the nightmare only twice since their marriage, and she had awoken in a cold but silent sweat the first time. She had told him nothing.

The second time, however, he had shaken her awake from a fit of screaming, and he would not relent until she had told him the subject of her terror. She saw the guilt drown the warmth of his eyes as he recalled his own part in similar past sins, and she regretted telling him.

Tonight, therefore, when she awoke with a gasp and found him still asleep, she did not rouse him. She slipped quietly from the bed and drew a robe tightly around herself. The weather was warm, but still she shivered as she walked out onto the balcony that adjoined the master bedroom. She sat in a plastic chair, drew her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. Tonight, the dream had been different. Tonight, the blood had poured not from her feet or her hands, but from her womb. She felt the tears wet her cheeks, but she would not allow herself to sob.

She heard the door slide open and closed and listened to the pat of her husband's bare feet on the cement. He sat in the chair next to her. The outside light was off, and she hoped he could not see her tears in the light of the moon.

He must not have, for there was only a casual concern in his voice when he asked, "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

She thought she could not reply without sounding choked, and so she only nodded. He thought she saw him smile, but she could not tell for sure.

"I can help you with that," he said softly, and she knew from his tone what he was suggesting, but as he stood and walked near to bend to kiss her, he saw the tears on her cheeks. He halted halfway to her lips. "Nadia, whatever is the matter?"

She almost said, "Nothing," and then she thought how foolish such a denial would be. Sayid was her husband. She was not afraid of baring her soul to him; she had always been direct, as had he. If she hesitated now, it was only because she did not want to see the guilt rise again to mar his beautiful features. So she said only, "I am worried about the baby." That much was true, and it was more important than the dream.

He drew her from the chair and sat in it himself, pulling her down to cradle her on his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder against his neck. His strong fingers tenderly wiped the tears from her cheek. "Why are you worried?" he asked quietly.

"Because…I am not a young woman anymore, and this was such a surprise, such a blessing. If we lose this child, there may never be another."

He drew her close. He did not know what to say to her. Nothing he said would ease her worries, whether they were well founded or not. So rather than attempt to dismiss her concerns or assure her of what she could not effortlessly hope, he merely asked, "What can I do?" Doing, after all, was what he did best.

He did not know what task she might suggest to him, but he was prepared for any effort. He had not anticipated her simple response: "Make love to me."

He did not ask, "Are you sure?" He did not ask, "How will that help?" He asked only, "How would you like me to make love to you?"

As he guided her back into their bedroom, she told him what she desired, and his careful ministrations drove the dream from her mind.

Afterward, when they lay intertwined with one another, she asked him, "Tell me about the people on the island."

"The people on the island? Why?"

"Because I love to hear your voice. And in order to get you to talk, I know I must give you a topic."

He lazily stroked her side. "Which of them would you like me to talk about?"

"Start with the good-looking blonde."

"Claire? I have told you everything about her." Claire had been one of the few to offer Sayid consolation and understanding after Shannon's death. She still continued to maintain her friendship with him by writing letters from Australia and calling from time to time.

"No," Nadia said, snuggling a little closer to her. "The man."

"Charlie?" he asked in disbelief. No doubt there were many women who found Charlie attractive. Claire herself had striven to be one of them, but at length she had reluctantly told the musician she wanted nothing more than friendship, and she was currently enjoying living unencumbered by any romantic relationship. But Sayid did not think Charlie—wispy, chatty Charlie—was the kind of man his wife would find attractive.

Nadia laughed and caught his hand, drawing his arm around her waist. "No, the other one with the sexy southern drawl."

"Sawyer?"

"Yes, Sawyer."

He drew her possessively closer, and she snuggled her back against his stomach. "I am not sure, Nadia, that I quite like the idea of you using the words sexy and Sawyer in the same breath. Is it your opinion that Sawyer is good-looking?"

"Not an opinion, really. It's merely an observation of fact."

"Hmmmm…." he murmured. "Sawyer was a con man before the island. Of course, we were all something before the island. And we were all something else when we left. I am rather surprised he came to our wedding reception."

"You did not get along?" she asked. "Why?"

Because I tortured him, he thought. "We are very different men. But still he came to the reception. He has no family, no friends in this world. I think the people on the island were the closest he ever got to family. Maybe that is why he came."

"He remained rather aloof," Nadia observed. "Although he did talk quite a bit to Claire, until Charlie drew her off. And he asked your friend—Jack, was it?—about a woman."

"Kate. She is the fugitive Jack married in prison. Sawyer fancied her too."

"You really did encounter an interesting array of people on that island."

"Yes," he said, "and they all played a part in changing me."

"Especially Shannon," she said quietly. They didn't talk about Shannon much. Nadia had asked many questions when they were first courting, and there had been that moment when she had discovered the photograph, but she had not mentioned Shannon since then. Nor did Sayid explicitly mention Bashar, though Nadia's first husband was inevitably present in day to day conversation because of his son Sigh.

"Yes," he replied finally. "She opened my heart to the possibility of love when I had closed it off to the world. She regarded herself as worthless. Loving her made me understand how you could care for me even when I was nothing in my own eyes. It made me realize that there is a time to feel and be moved by the wounds of guilt, but also time to press on."

"Do you miss her?" Nadia asked.

Sayid was surprised by the question. He wondered if she was jealous of what little time he had spent with Shannon, in the same childish way that he was a little jealous—however much he scolded himself for the foolishness—of the years she had been with her husband Bashar, before the man had died, leaving her a single mother.

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes. Do you miss Bashar?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

It did not seem possible to draw her any closer against himself, but he did. Sayid was a reserved man, but one of things that made his marriage to Nadia feel so right was that he was not reserved with her. He did not fear speaking candidly to her; he knew she was not the kind of woman to seek offense or to play games. If he accidentally injured her, she would not make him guess the cause of her pain—she would tell him directly, and she would give him a chance to mend the situation. He therefore did not fear telling her anything. "I feel guilty sometimes, Nadia."

"For what?"

"When I think that it is only because Shannon died that I am here with you."

She didn't say anything. She just took his hand and laced her fingers through his.

"I did love her. And losing her in that violent way…it tore at my heart; it broke my spirit for a time. But, if she had not died…you would not be in my bed tonight." His hand stole down to gently caress her naked belly. "My child would not be growing in your womb."

"You would have married her," she said simply.

"Yes."

"I know the guilt you feel, Sayid. I feel it too when I think of Bashar, when I think that if he had lived, you and I would not have had this…this marriage that we have. It is not that I was not happy with Bashar."

"I would have been happy with Shannon. But it would not have been like this. You were meant for me, Nadia. I was meant to end up here, with you in my arms. But the journey…it had its sorrows and its joys. The sorrows pierce deeper."

"Allah cannot forge steel except with fire."

He considered this quietly for a time. Then he kissed her shoulder softly. "You feel it too?" he asked. "How unique this union is?"

"Yes," she whispered.

For a while they were quiet. He stroked her arms gently, then her side, her hips, the top of her legs. He pressed his lips against her ear, and his voice was low, the way she liked to hear it. "Nadia," he said, "I want you again."

She turned eagerly to him. Though their conversation had not soothed her into sleep, this second round of lovemaking did, and when at last she drifted off with her head against his chest, the nightmare did not return.