Chapter Eleven
For the first time in over seven years, Sayid had not thought of Nadia for weeks. Yet now, as he stood beside Locke in the clearing of the jungle where they awaited the return of Desmond, a sickening sensation of redoubled loss rose within him. Why had Desmond reminded him of the photograph he had recovered from the ruins?
Sayid had let Nadia go that day in prison; he had not followed; he had let her go alone into the harsh world so that he might spare his family. And he had let her go again in the fires of Rousseau's; he had let the flames consume his passion and his idolatry and his dreams, even while it failed to consume the photograph. The second time, he let her go to spare his sanity, the sanity Danielle had sold to buy a desperate hope that brought her only isolation. And then he had seized hold of something new, something tangible, something entirely unpredictable, something he swore beneath the angry torrents of a storming sky that he would never let go. And he hadn't let go. But she had been wrenched from him nonetheless.
He was grateful when Charlie trudged into the clearing, swinging his arms haphazardly at his side, his face contorted with annoyance at being forced to follow without explanation. Sayid was grateful to turn his thoughts to the present once again, where he need not think about what might have been but only about what must be done.
"What happened?" Charlie asked.
Sayid prepared himself to speak, relieved to have something to say. But Locke preempted him. "Eko is dead."
The laconic response irritated Sayid. Locke was once again aiming for profundity. He might have explained further, but instead he spoke enigmatically like a master who was prompting his disciple to ask further questions. Sayid would not wait for Charlie to humor the man. "We found his body in the jungle. We buried him yesterday." Yesterday? He realized the strangeness of the word. Charlie would have to wonder why they had not told a soul, why only Desmond had returned to camp, and what they had been doing loitering about the jungle all night. But none of that was Charlie's concern. "How did he die?" the musician asked.
"The island killed him," Locke intoned.
Sayid suppressed a heavy sigh. It is certain that misery loves company, but so too does annoyance. The Iraqi had never liked Charlie better than now, when the Englishman sputtered with exasperation, "What do you mean, 'the island killed him'?" And then Charlie's voice rose with his color as he repeated, "What do you mean, 'the island killed him'?"
"You know what it means," Locke said, finally abandoning the Socratic method in favor of a semi-direct answer. "With the doctor gone, the camp's on edge enough without people having to worry about what's out here in the jungle."
Sayid was no longer concerned with the exchange; instead, his attention was diverted to Desmond, whose eyes were darting rapidly to and fro like those of a disturbed animal. Locke continued to issue instructions, but Sayid did not hear them. He observed Desmond intently but unobtrusively from out of the corner of his eye. It was Hurley, however, who spoke first. "Dude, are you okay? Hey, guys…what's wrong with Desmond?"
The Scotsman began to fly through the jungle, again in animal-like agitation, a wolf answering some unheard cry. Sayid followed, and, when they reached the shore, he watched the man frantically disrobe before plunging into the ocean.
"What is he doing?" the Iraqi exclaimed in helpless bewilderment. For days events had been spiraling out of control, and he had been trying to wrest some small semblance of order from the wreckage. But now Desmond's wild strangeness had sent him reeling yet again. He watched as the Scotsman grabbed hold of something in the water and began to pull it towards shore. Claire. Instinctively, Sayid cast a sympathetic glance at Charlie and watched the man take off toward the incoming pair.