Chapter 12

He hadn't meant to walk in the surf. He doubted if it had been Danielle's intent either. Given the need for vigilance, he was not pleased that he had missed the changing of the tide. Since the night was unbroken by moonlight and even the Others needed light to see, he had relaxed somewhat and that should have not be permitted: he should not have been caught unaware by a creeping tide. It spoke of lax discipline, inattention, inability to stay focused.

It also meant wet feet for some time. He had learned quickly that things were very slow to dry in the beach air and the sun did not easily penetrate the thick materials of his trackers. Since the dryer at the Hatch had been short lived, he was once more faced with gradually drying his footwear with the heat of his feet and ankles.

Quick to learn, quick to forget? Another reminder that he failed to retain hard won schooling rubbed against his shoulders, the straps of the rucksack cutting into his shoulders.

He knew from changing domiciles that books were heavy to move. Packing to leave university meant boxes of volumes and he was surprised by the small number of cardboard containers he had pushed to the wall compared to that of Essam. When it was time to leave, Essam had stood watching with a smile tugging at his mouth as Sayid had squatted to lift the one marked Maths. He could recall his roommate's laughter pealing down the hall as Sayid grunted as he landed on his seat, unable to raise the carton.

Little good did the memory serve him when he had jammed the examination booklets into his backpack before leaving the hatch. He had failed to consider the thin bindings as books.

With the straps pressing against his shoulders with each step, he had since acknowledged their true nature, initiating an ongoing debate with himself about their value on an island where the supply was finite.

His shirtless state weighed in on the valueless side of the dialogue. The canvas against his back rubbed skin with page edges that inexplicably would not lie smooth despite his two attempts to make them do so. Either the scrap of his shirt had provided more protection than he would have considered possible or he had not carried anything like the notebooks' granite points since the crash.

Dry shoes. Feet without blisters. Padded loads in softly worn rucksacks. Shirts more substantial than paper napkins. His mind listed that which he once took for granted – at least in recent memory.

He stopped the enumeration and instead briefly considered removing the shoes. He rejected the thought: wading would only add time to the long march; the footwear would be one more thing to carry. Instead he closed the gap with Danielle. He touched her wrist and moved their path from the waves' reach.

"We aren't too far from your camp," she said, stepping close, their arms brushing.

He smiled with relief at the news, and squinted in an attempt to see ahead. He abandoned the effort, instead looking around them. It would be good to release the tension of caution, as erratically as he kept it. He thought with a pull of longing for the comfort of his tent.

He glanced at Danielle and felt warmth touch him. He would need to expand the living area of his tarp hut. They were two people unaccustomed to sharing. He mentally smiled, thinking that space could be the easiest issue facing them.

Also facing him was Locke and the missing trio. He ignored the pang of guilt at not considering this concern before the mundane. A plan must be contrived to return Kate, Jack, and Sawyer to camp. Perhaps with Danielle's voice –

Her fingers gripped his wrist, a yank halting his movement. Sayid glanced ahead then back to the woman's face.

Her eyes were slits, her mouth pulled tight. "It's gone," her voice was low, tense.

"What?" He peered into the darkness, tried to see what disturbed her. He could discern the white of waves. Then darker shapes absorbing what little light…

Unnatural shapes. Of size. Of size to shelter the stranded.

Where was the signal fire? His chest tightened and he struggled with sand and Danielle's hold to rush forward. Where were they? Where was Hurley? Charlie? Claire and Aaron?

"Wait!" Danielle hissed, both hands now clamping on his arm, throwing her weight back to stop his charge. "It could be a trap!"

The words stopped his muscles. A trap – yes, a trap for the Others. Locke was crafty. He once believed him the answer off the Island. It was a snare laid by Locke.

Perhaps the caves were once again acting as a shelter; as they had when Danielle had warned them of the smoke.

He forced himself to relax, to breathe. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, Danielle's grip easing. As his muscles yielded, she slowly slid her fingers to his wrist, dropping one hand. "Sayid?"

"Yes." His voice rumbled deep in his chest, his fingers curling around hers. He met her eyes and squeezed her hand, anchoring the feel of her flesh to the need for caution, cunning, to override the scream at the back of his throat for speed, action.

They moved away from the beach, cutting diagonally to the tree line, then over so that they would be – should be looking directly into the camp. Now he required no reminder to watch each step, strain to hear beyond the surf, see into the night. He cursed his inability to fly and soar into camp, to pull the sun past the horizon, to hear the collective pulse of his friends. Sitting in the nest of trees demanded a patience he did not know that he possessed until finally, the dark yielded.

There was no sign of movement, no smell of wood smoke, no sound of a wakening village.

They waited, watching as the sun scattered the darkness, uncovering the fragile blackened skeleton of the signal fire, low and scattered. The hoax of shelters, now walls collapsed into one another, the gently flapping scraps of the water tarps fluttering around their frames called to mind an infinite desolation.

His imagination peopled the area – Jin poking at the fire by his tent, warming water for Sun; Hurley and Charlie engaged in an ongoing debate in front of the fire, Hurley with breakfast in hand; Kate starting out for her morning constitutional. He blinked and the beach was empty once more.

He rose, once more knowing that he was heartsick, feeling Danielle at his shoulder, appreciating without knowing it her silence, her lack of touch.

Where were the survivors?

He dropped the heavy backpack to the sand, the irony that he had forgotten it sweeping through him, and picked his way slowly, with exaggerated care to stand outside the trees. The sun was gentle on his face and felt as a beacon to any watching for his return – any return. Here he was.

The silence remained unbroken. No darts whizzed to drug him; no bullets to maim; no Locke to challenge.

He took a step and was abruptly aware of his empty hands. He turned and scanned for a stick of size. Of course this close to the beach there was none. The fires had been fed the easy wood what felt like ages ago.

He faced the camp and moved deliberately to the ruined fire ring, checking from his left to the right. Nothing moved save his hair across his face. Nothing broke the sound of the surf.

He knelt and needlessly touched the sand inside the stone parameter, seeing as he did so Bernard delineating the circle with the rocks so it was uniform in size and form; Rose providing more amusing commentary than assistance. The blackened bits of fuel were brittle and cold - like the sand – and left a thick mark on his fingers that did not require that Sayid focus to see, his eyes sweeping slowly the nearest shelter: Claire's.

He straightened, rock in each hand, and drew closer to the distressed habitat. He paused then flung the egg shaped orb as close as he could to the center of the remains, muscles tensed for flight as the abrupt clattering cracked the stillness.

Nothing stirred. No traps were unveiled. No maddened Others launched an attack designed to capture or kill.

He moved closer to the pile of wood and tarp, circling warily. He shifted the remaining stone to the right hand, fingers wrapping tightly about it; arm at his side, primed to release.

The roof was in pieces, allowing some of the larger and stouter furniture to be identified as such by the different heights of tattered coverings. The cradle crafted by Locke was visible in the far corner. Its presence was deeply disturbing.

He crept nearer, now straining to hear. No drone of flies. He dropped the stone and walked to the corner. He lifted the tarp draping the bed for a full view. Taking a shallow breath, he looked through the rails.

The relief made water of his muscles, and he resisted the buckling of his knees. The cradle was empty.

He permitted himself a moment of gratitude and a glance to where Danielle stood before he began to carefully pick through the hut's remains. Some personal items mingled with the litter. He did not know how to inventory to determine if the wreckage happened after Claire and the baby left or was a result of the leaving. It would not have been practical to drag the cradle along on any hike to safety.

The memory of Shannon dragging the suitcase of her dead brother's clothes slammed into him. Practicality did not always play a role in flight.

The fears of not so long ago, when he sprinted to find Aaron washed over him. The destruction about him was the embodiment of "run, hide, or die". It occurred without black smoke or plans for dynamite, without rafts, or mysterious hatches.

Despite the span of time, despite changes wrought both internal and external to him, his fate – the survivors' fate, he amended quickly, his stomach clenching- seemed sealed on this island. Parachutes with food and liars, planes with caches of drugs, these could fall out of the sky, but there was no winning. They would never leave the island.

He stared at the debris covering the sand at his feet. Wreckage on the beach, like the plane. Repetition.

He lifted his head, looking to the next shelter – Locke's – then over his shoulder to where Danielle stood, her arms wrapped about her, not appearing to have moved. They regarded each other steadily, then she snagged his rucksack and crossed the sand to the fire ring, her graceful movements jarringly at odds with the ugliness around him. She dropped both packs carefully, took a stone in each hand, and walked to the edge of detritus, her gaze locked onto him.

He frowned deeply. "It makes little sense for us both to be at risk at this task."

"I disagree." Her voice was calm, almost serene.

"Danielle, there could be traps –"

"If this is to be the end of you," she said softly, the peacefulness in her tone soothing him. "Then it is to be the end of me." She looked past him and back, then continued. "I am tired of surviving alone, Sayid. I have had enough of it. It will be with you or it will be not at all."

He studied her face. She lifted her chin slightly, as if underlining her words.

The memory of her skin under his hand curved his fingers. He could recall the feel of her breath on his neck, the taste of her mouth. The pleasure of their conversations in the hatch and his surprise at her attempt to defend him washed through him.

He nodded slowly. "Yes. I agree." He looked about him and pried a sizeable pole from the remains. He reached for the stone and straightened.

They picked their way to the next pile.