Eleven

Time passed slowly in that little room, or at least, I think it did; I had no method of keeping tabs on it. I fiddled with the hem of my dress and waited for something to happen. Finally, when the silence pressing on my ears grew unbearable, "Jack—" I began, but didn't finish. What was there to say? There was no reply where I'd been expecting one. "Jack?" Still nothing. I leaned forward, feeling around for him. "Jack?" my voice rose. Had I fallen asleep? Had they taken him while I was sleeping? "Jack!" At last, my fingers happened upon something that was not ground. I heard a yawn and the thing I'd touched moved.

"Kate?" Jack questioned. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around his neck, mainly because I was afraid of accidentally poking him in the eye, and sighed in relief.

"I thought they'd taken you," I told him shakily.

"Sorry," he apologized sleepily, "I must've drifted off."

"It's okay," I smiled faintly. He moved, presumably to crawl to the wall to lean against it, but his hand landed high on my thigh. He didn't seem to realize just what he was touching, and I was glad of the concealing darkness that hid my flush from him. "Um," I said awkwardly, "Jack…"

"What?" he asked, still completely unaware. He moved again, though, and his hand left my thigh.

"How are you doing?" I asked pathetically. Brilliant, Kate, I told myself sarcastically, he'll never guess that you're covering something up.

"Fine," he replied, and I blinked in surprise. He'd fallen for it? No way. "You?"

"Good," I lied. I was anything but good—I was scared, so scared that I felt sick. I leaned back against the wall and clasped my hands together to stop them from shaking. "What's going to happen to us?" It was a stupid question I couldn't stop myself from asking. I knew just as well as he did what was to come.

He took a moment before replying with such forced optimism there was an audible strain in his voice, "Nothing. We'll get out, don't worry." I was silent, waiting for him to tell me the truth. Finally, he spoke quietly and with a voice that was as unsteady as mine, though he tried to hide it, "They're going to burn us."

Someone once told me not to ask questions I didn't want to know the answer to. I should've listened.

As the knot of fear tightened my stomach into a hard ball of nausea, I shifted sideways and leaned against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He let out his breath in a pained hiss. "Kate—" I drew away, realizing I'd been putting pressure on his injured shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he pushed himself into a more comfortable position. "Come over here." Carefully, I crawled around to his other side and leaned against him from there. He put one arm around me and I held onto the coarse fabric of his shirt. I wanted him to tell me again that it would all be okay, that he knew how we could get out and live happily ever after, that we weren't going to die in the most painful way I could think of.

"Oh god," I whispered, panic setting in. "Oh god." My breathing accelerated with my heart rate. I didn't want to die. I'd always gone about my life thinking that I wasn't afraid of death, that I deserved it anyways, but now that I was faced with it— Oh please, god, I don't want to die! "We need to get out of here. We have to go!"

"Kate," he said, trying to calm me, "Kate, listen to me."

"We can't die here!" I was hysterical. I knew it, but I couldn't stop. "I don't want to die!"

"Listen to me," he was still speaking, his voice low and almost completely buried under mine. He had his hands on my shoulders, attempting to still me and slow my breathing. "We're still okay. We're still here. They may not even kill us—something could happen. It won't be for a few more days."

"Why are you so calm?" I demanded, "They're going to burn us! Aren't you scared?" Why did I want to know that? It would only frighten me more once he admitted to being afraid, and so I was very glad when he didn't answer, and vowed once again to obey whoever it was that had told me not to ask questions I didn't want to know the answers to.

Jack pulled me back to him, sensing that my near violent hysteria was coming to a close, and gently held my head against his chest with a hand in my tangled hair. Being so close to him, I could hear his heart beating quickly and I could feel the almost non-existent tremors goings through his arms. Maybe those were just the echo of my very noticeable shaking, or maybe he really was trembling. I tightened my grip on him, whispering, "I don't want to die."

"No," he agreed, "neither do I."

I stayed up against him, listening to his breathing, for a time I couldn't measure. I became gradually aware of a pain in my stomach and identified it as hunger. When had the last real meal I'd had been?

"When we get out of here," I said suddenly, "I'm going to eat a really big plate of pasta. With parmesan cheese and butter."

"I would kill for a steak," he added softly, "With salad and pasta."

"Mmm," I liked my lips unconsciously, "And some of that nice French bread Danielle used to bake. What was it called?"

"Baguette," he told me. "Baguette with basil and tomatoes…" he trailed off, bother of us lost in dreams of delicacies we'd rarely had.

"Pizza," I said, recalling the almost-alien food that I hadn't had since months before the plane crash, "And entire one, large size, with Italian sausage and pineapple." He didn't question this new food, despite that he'd probably never even heard of pizza, let alone pineapple. I wondered if he'd even been listening, or if his mind was completely elsewhere, out of this awful cell and back in our little house on the fringes of town, with Danielle and me, healing people like he had all his life.

Had it been all his life? He must've had parents; surely he'd mentioned them before? I thought back, but could come up with nothing. It made me realize how little I knew about him. I whispered his name to ask him about himself, but he didn't stir and I knew he was hiding himself in dreams of happier times.

We were startled out of our separate reveries by the cell door banging open. I scrambled backwards instinctively and felt Jack tense up as heavy footsteps loomed toward up. A large hand grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet. I struggled as much as I could, twisting and jerking, flailing at and trying to bite whatever got within my reach.

"Jack!" I screamed. He was scrambling to his feet and soon he was fighting against my captor as well. The man who held me managed to get a hand all the way around my throat, squeezing until I sobbed for air. Jack, unaware, continued to fight, and I became aware that there were two men in there with us.

"Stop!" ordered the man choking me, "Or she dies right here." The scuffling noises stopped, and then there was a loud thud and a grunt of pain that sounded like Jack. The grip on my neck loosened and I sucked in welcome breaths.

We were forced out of the cell and into a room so bright it stung our eyes, even after we'd squeezed them closed. We were shoved down into stone chairs and a man with a knife approached me. I shrank away but another man held my shoulders, keeping me in place. Hanks of my hair were grabbed and sliced off until it was as short—though more uneven—as Jack's. A glance across the room told me the same thing was happening to him. The knife returned to my hair, now scraping along my scalp unrelentingly. Tears mingled with rivulets of blood as they trickled down my face. The knife bit into my head again and again, often removing more skin than hair. I cried out.

Finally, the ordeal was over. When I opened my eyes, blood fell into them, stinging and making me close them again. I was pulled up out of my chair and I let the guard lead me blindly, my will to fight broken. We stopped and my clothes were ripped off me. I wrapped my arms around myself and waited for the guard's body to descend on mine. It didn't. Instead, a piece of cloth was thrown at me. I wiped my eyes of my blood and squinted them open to find a dirty white shift lying crumpled at my feet. The guard tossed another to Jack, and though I noticed that he was naked, it didn't even occur to me to take the chance and check him out.

I picked the shift up and pulled it carefully on, wincing as it dragged across the cuts on my head. Despite my efforts to keep it from touching me, it was stained blotchily red when I managed to get it all the way on.

The guard brought us back to our cell, slamming the door behind us and locking it without a word, returning us to darkness. I collapsed against Jack almost immediately. We stood together for a moment, neither of us moving, until he put his arms about me.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

No. "Yeah," I replied. "I think so. What about you?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice slightly unsteady.

"Is that… standard practice?" I asked quietly.

He hesitated before answering, "It's been a long time since anyone was convicted of witchcraft."

"Danielle—" I began.

"Danielle was accused of witchcraft," he interrupted, "Her execution was her trial. They probably tried us while we were gone and decided we were guilty. That's why we're not getting our 'fair' trial."

I was silent, frightened that I was feeling almost envious of Danielle. I wanted to drown, not be burned. No. I didn't want to drown. If I could choose between the two, I would pick drowning. I shook my head to clear it of such morbid thoughts and winced as the cuts on my scalp scratched against Jack's shirt.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

"Nothing," I said. He didn't need to hear about my traumatized mind's strange musings.

I pulled away and sat down on the ground, gingerly running my hand over my head. The skin felt foreign, and not just because of the lumpy cuts that were already beginning to scab. I'd had short hair as a child, maybe when I was eight or nine, but that was a long time ago and though it had been a buzz cut, I was not bald. I felt self-conscious, even though it was too dark to see, and I supposed that was what Juliet had been aiming for.

Jack went to join me on the floor, but ended up sitting on my foot. I let out a little cry of pain as the pressure twisted my injured leg and he quickly moved.

He apologized profusely. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said, "It's just my leg." With short laugh, I added, "Again."

"How's it doing?" he asked, all serious.

"It's fine," I said, and when he was silent, obviously knowing I was putting up false bravado, and I amended, "It hurts."

"Can I see it?"

"Good luck," I chuckled.

"I mean—" I could hear the smile in his voice and the movement as he shook his head. "I meant, can I check it out, feel it for any swelling."

"Sure," I agreed. "Where are you?"

"Here," he said. I stretched my arm out to feel around for him and made contact with his hand that he'd raised to find me. I swung myself around and led his hand to my leg, where he trailed it down along it to find my calf. I shivered, his touch not meant to be sensual but being it all the same. The shift didn't cover much, so he'd made a line all the way from well up on my thigh to my ankle.

He managed to find the puncture wound. His fingers probed about gently, applying slight pressure in certain places. A moment later, he let go of my leg and I instantly missed his touch.

"It feels fine," he informed me. I tried to feel glad.

"Jack—" it was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"Yeah?" he questioned. Ah, might as well get it over with. You are going to die shortly, anyway. It's not going to matter, no matter what he says.

"I love you," I blurted simply. There was a short silence while he was very probably collecting his thoughts that I'd blown all to hell by admitting what I just had.

"Kate…" he murmured. I could sense rejection coming and, being the coward I was, decided to cut it off before he could say it.

"It's okay," I said, "I don't mind if you don't feel the same for me. Really, it's o—" My voice shut off when two large, strong hands set themselves on either side of my face. Jack? What are you—

And then his lips were on mine. I melted into him instantly, leaning forward and managing to get my arms around his neck. I let down all my walls for this moment, allowing myself—for once—to be fully present and unguarded. He'd better appreciate it, I thought wryly. I was baring my soul to him and he stood there with the dagger of rejection, easily able to slice me in half. But when we broke apart for air, he shooed away my fears.

"I love you, too," he told me softly.

The moment was over far too soon. The door whipped open bathing us in light and displaying two very entwined persons to a rather embarrassed guard. He wasted only a second before demanding that we get up and come with him. Reluctantly, I disentangled myself from Jack and together we stood.

Slowly, we followed the armed man into the corridor and up several narrow staircases, and out door to a large courtyard. Five more soldiers met us there and brought us through the growing crowd of citizens to a raised platform. We were forced up the steps onto the podium and pushed against the tall wooden stake in the centre.

Oh god.

Fear surged through me. This was it. We would burn, right here, right now.

Oh god ohgodohgod…

I stood petrified as ropes were strung around us, binding us to the pillar, and only after they'd been tied tight did I finally recover control of my brain and begin to struggle. I strained against the cords, but they held strong and I failed to even free my arms.

"Kate," Jack said quietly, "Kate, it's no use."

"Don't tell me it's no use," I hissed, and kept fighting, desperation growing. My voice rose and broke as I repeated, "Don't tell me it's no use!" I writhed for another moment and then fell still with a defeated sob. Jack said nothing more and gradually a very strange feeling of calm washed over me, like a huge bank of clouds.

I read a book once, back in school when I was ten or eleven. It was in French, a language we were all supposed to learn but one I'd never been any good at. There was a character, the monsieur cramoisi (whose name I, to this day, have never understood—directly translated, it means crimson mister) who was called a mushroom because he had never smelled a flower, never looked at a star, and had never loved anyone.

As bundles of twigs were stacked around the podium, some overflowing onto our bare feet, I was no longer afraid. I was not crimson mister , I was not a mushroom. I'd smelled a flower and I'd looked at a star, and I'd been in love. I managed to find Jack's hand and squeezed it tight. I had been in love.

The crowd fell silent as a torch was dropped into the wood. Flames leapt up surprisingly quickly, spreading up toward us. The heat grew as air whooshed past us to feed the fire. As I began to feel light-headed from a lack of oxygen, the skin of my legs started to peel. I opened my mouth to cry out but no sound came, and then the world went black.

I opened my eyes to see trees above me. I blinked several times and squinted into the light, my mind completely blank. Where was I? I put a hand to my forehead and noticed I was wearing a shirt I hadn't seen since…

Since Jack and Danielle had taken it from me in exchange for a dress. Everything rushed back and I remembered. I remembered everything, right up to the burning. The burning. I should be dead. I looked around at the tropical jungle surrounding me. This sure didn't look like hell.

Slowly, I got to my feet, fighting off waves of dizziness, and staggered in a random direction. Soon, I heard what sounded like the ocean and headed for that, and before long I burst through the edge of the trees, rubbing my wrists that were red and raw, though I didn't know why. There was a man sitting on a rock, twisted around to look at something on his back. He turned as my feet crunched dried leaves and fallen branches, and my eyes widened.

"Excuse me!" called Jack, "Have you ever used a needle?"

L O S T