DHARMA, 1977

"Shhh," Annie's mom soothes. "Listen to me. Dad is going to be okay. He's hiding. We need to worry about staying hidden. That's all we need to worry about right now."

"What if he was found?" Annie whispers, barely audible over the rush of blood pounding in my ears. "What if—"

"Annie," her mother interrupts sharply. "We need to stay hidden and stay silent. This is not up for discussion. Do you understand me? If that thing finds us—" Mrs. Freeman cuts herself off with a gasp, reflexively bringing up both her hands to cover her daughter's mouth.

Someone just opened the door to the security room we've hidden in. Someone's in here with us.

I couldn't scream even if I wanted to. It's almost useless to blink because there's just too much stinging sweat running down into my eyes. Annie shivers violently in her mother's arms, crouched under a desk. Mrs. Freeman closes her eyes and silently mouths what I assume is a prayer, both her hands still pressed tightly against Annie's face to keep her from screaming. All I hear is the furious and frantic beating of my heart.

And then I hear the grinding of metal against the concrete floor. A long scrape, then stop. Scrape, then stop. Scrape, then stop. Whatever it is, it's getting closer. It passes by our hiding spot and keeps going.

At the far end of the room, the monster rips open a drawer and throws it across the floor. Blank papers and assorted security documents float down near us. It is a lifetime before I allow myself to take a shaking, silent breath. Mrs. Freeman still has her eyes closed. I don't know what compels me, but I lean just enough behind the desk to see where exactly the monster is. If it's not paying attention, maybe we can make a run for the door.

In all the many possibilities I prepare myself for, nothing comes close to the truth. The monster that triggered the emergency alarms, the monster that Annie's mother brought us here to hide from, the monster that has caused nothing but terrified screams outside the walls of our hiding place, is Miss Collins covered in dirt and blood.

With one final metallic scrape, she pulls a large silver axe next to her and leans it against the wall. She seems to be looking for something. Drawer after drawer, she flings papers and file cabinets around, muttering nonsense, hissing and snapping her jaw as blood runs down her chin and speckles the concrete. Her hair is impossibly long. It's so long, in fact, that it it takes me a second to realize she's not wearing a shirt. Or shoes. All she has on is a long skirt tied at the waist, splattered with red.

I don't understand what's going on, but I know we need to get out of here.

Mrs. Freeman yanks me back behind the table so hard I hit my head. It's just a small thud. Only a second long. Barely audible over all the noise Freyja is making. But it's enough.

We're all three running frantic, up the stairs, taking two at a time, pushing wildly with all our might against the stubborn doors that always need oiling. I can hear the scraping of the axe behind us, getting closer. And then we are free. Panting in the open air. Stumbling out onto the grass. Stumbling out onto a pile of corpses.

Annie's screaming. I don't do anything but stare at half of someone's body lying next to a slew of organs. I count six dead people before my brain goes fuzzy. Annie stops screaming, but it's only because she's fainted. Mrs. Freeman struggles to lift her up into her arms and stumbles off towards her house. I wish I knew where my dad was. I wish he were the type of parent that would carry me away from danger.

My brain screams to run, but my legs won't move. Instead, I turn and look at the outline of Miss Collins slowly shambling out of the doorway, axe resting up against one shoulder, and I think of everything she's taught us about the norsemen and their deities. There's Odin, Thor and Loki, Baldr, Hel, and the rest. But these norsemen worshiped none of them to the degree they worshiped Freyja—goddess of love and babies and food. Goddess of both life and death. War and peace.

But Miss Collings—Frejya—is peaceful. She's a teacher who spends her free time speaking with the norsemen to keep the peace between them and the Initiative. None of this makes sense. How can she be the goddess of war while also spending so much time keeping the peace? She's told me time and time again that all life is sacred, and now she's gone and killed most of the compound.

Was this always a matter of time? Has she spent so long as the goddess of life she's unable to hold back the death and destruction she's denied herself all these years?

She's close enough now for me to see that blood is gushing from more than just her mouth. It runs down her reddened eyes, pours out her nose and out of her ears. Her head rolls from side to side, like it's too much of a struggle to keep it upright. I want to say her name in a last ditch effort to remind her we're on the same side, but I can tell by the dazed look on her face that she has no idea who I am.

Fear overwhelms me, turns my entire body cold, until suddenly I don't feel afraid anymore. Isn't that what the norsemen believe? You get a straight shot into the afterlife as long as you aren't afraid of death?

So I stare, unblinking, up at the goddess of war, and I wait patiently to die.

"I'm going to be honest." Considering my voice is trembling almost as unsteadily as my hands, I'm probably going to slosh steaming hot tea all over my fingers, but I reach for the cup anyway. "I have absolutely no idea how I got here."

"Here as in my house?" Jacob asks. "Or in the broader sense of here as in Earth?"

"Both."

Jacob raises his teacup in a silent toast and takes an equally silent sip. "So," he asks with a slight rise of one eyebrow, "what exactly is it you're hoping I can help you with?"

It dawns on me that I've left the Temple, but I have no memory of leaving. How did I know how to get to Jacob's foot? I've never had to walk here from the Temple before.

Oh no. I can't stay here for long. I need to attend that coming of age ceremony. What's going to happen if I don't show up? Will they reschedule? Will I ruin this poor boys life by not attending? Will his father hold a grudge? He'll be furious. I just know it.

Oh, God, what time is it right now? Have I already missed it?

I'm trembling and sweaty and it's impossible to think straight. Squeezing my eyes tight, I say the one thing that pops back into my overcrowded thoughts. "I have a son."

Jacob's eyes wander around the dark inside of the foot statue. "That was a comment. Do you have a question?"

"Who is his father?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do," I snap defensively. "You know everything."

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I'm flattered you think I'm powerful enough to be omnipresent."

I take a sip of tea to force myself to calm down before replying. "You honestly don't know?"

"As I've mentioned before, we're friends. I want to help you in any way I can. That just happens to be something I don't know. Ask me something else."

Chris is Ben's. He has to be Ben's. We're about to get married. Chris is the age he'd be if I gave birth after time-traveling. I must not have told anyone. That's why Jacob doesn't know. Why didn't I tell anyone? I guess it would be a little complicated to explain, but it's not impossible. Unless something happens after I travel back to the 70's? An issue of trust? How do I know I can trust Jacob? How do I know he's not lying to me?

Jacob places another split log on the fire. "Technically," he says, "you don't. Although, no, I'm not lying to you."

"Did you just—" I pause, teacup half raised to my lips. "Hold on. . . you can read minds?"

"Thankfully, no." Jacob laughs at the idea and shakes his head. "That would probably have driven me to madness by now. If anything, it's more like the world's weakest radio transmission. Never get more than maybe a word out of someone. You're the first person I've ever heard a full sentence from. So," he adds with a small shrug, "I suppose I can read yours. Not that I'm trying to. It happens without warning. Never know what I'm going to get. Sorry."

Interesting. I pause to see if Jacob has heard me think this word, but he doesn't respond.

Jacob was nobody's favorite character in the show, mostly because the writers didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was always more of an allegory than an actual character, which doesn't make for a very interesting life. I know about everyone else on this island—well, most of the survivors, anyway—but I cannot think of a single interesting fact about Jacob. All I know for certain is he accidentally killed his brother and he has intense mommy issues. Which, to be fair, who on this island doesn't?

I finish my cup in a final swig and place it on the smooth carved table beside me. "You've always had this power?"

"Long as I can remember. But like I said, I don't view it as a power per se. Nothing really useful in suddenly hearing someone think tuna or uh-oh."

"But you can hear me think in full sentences?"

"Not entirely, but this is definitely more than I've ever heard from anyone else."

"How close do you have to be to hear it?"

"Fairly close. Again, it works more like a worthless radio."

"Did this happen before?" He's so low energy, I honestly can't tell if he's surprised by this discovery or not. "Have you been able to hear my thoughts any of the other times we've met in the past?"

"Not like this," he admits. "I don't know what changed. Maybe you've become stronger after your rebirth?"

I'm so tired of being scared. I'm so tired of people speaking to me in half-truths and riddles. I just want to know the same amount as everyone around me. "Can I ask—I mean," I correct self-consciously. "May I ask you a question?"

"I assumed that's why you trekked all the way here."

I want to know. I need to know. But that doesn't make asking any easier. "Do you know how I died? I've been told I was murdered. Stabbed a bunch of times."

"Stabbed?" Jacob looks up with the most expressive look in his eyes and I startle, considering he's only ever had a completely blank expression until now. "You weren't stabbed. At least, that's not what Richard told me."

"Ben told me I was stabbed."

"Mmm," Jacob hums in thought. "That's what he remembers, but that's not what happened."

I lean forward so far I almost fall headfirst into the fire. "What do you mean?"

"It's my understanding that Ben's never been a reliable source of information as to the truth of your death. Memory is already such a fragile and unreliable thing, and that's without whatever horrors he saw before Richard got there."

Much like the spa night on Hydra, I'm overheating from anxiety. It was relatively cool in this foot when I first arrived, but now the air is stifling. "If I wasn't stabbed, then how did I die?"

Jacob takes a long sip, taking care to set the cup gently down on the saucer before setting it aside. "You were beaten."

"Beaten? Like, with a bat?" I frown when Jacob gives a slight shrug. "By who?"

Jacob stills, looking especially serious. "Is this you asking for answers?"

"I've literally been asking for answers this entire time."

He doesn't smile at my words. If anything, he only looks more serious. "Before you died, you visited me and said there would come a time when you would ask me for answers. But you were very specific about making sure you were ready for them. I'll only ask one final time. Is this you asking for answers?"

Without pause, I answer, "Yes."

Jacob stands, walks to a dark corner of the room, and opens a chest I hadn't noticed was pushed against the wall. In a sudden bright gleam of silver, he walks towards me and offers up a long metal axe the likes I've never seen before. "This is yours," he says, holding it out in offering.

I feel a snarl curl my lips up in angry disappointment. "The big secret I asked you to keep from me was an axe?"

"Your reasons are your own. Here, take it."

A biting cold digs into my fingers the second I touch the hilt, but as soon as I've wrapped both my hands around it, Jacob lets go. In an embarrassing blink of an eye, the full weight of the axe drops to the sand, bringing me down with it. I strain to at least pull it a little up off the ground. "Please tell me I'm not supposed to carry this around."

"You have a holster to carry it on your back. I'll show you how it works, but first," he says and holds up a worn journal that looks very similar to the one Harper gave me. "This is what I presume you wanted to keep secret."

I practically rip if out of his hand, flipping wildly through the pages at random. My mind is racing so quickly, filled with so much panic, that it takes a while to understand what I'm looking at.

I'm looking at nothing. I'm looking at absolute nonsense. Words strung together is some sort of crazy word soup. Letters so unintelligible, I'm not even sure what half of these words are supposed to be. I flip from one page to the next, stifling a horrified gasp at multiple papers warped and stained with dried blood.

"This was mine?" I manage to squeak out. "I wrote all this?"

Jacob just stares at me, so I start flipping through more incoherent ramblings. Long streaks of blue and black ink dip and swirl in manic lines from top to bottom of several pages, followed by sketches that prickle my skin with goosebumps. Horrible frantic sketches straight out of a nightmare—things that would always have frightened me, but now they paralyze me completely knowing this is what I have to look forward to in the future.

"To answer your question," says Jacob, "I don't know who killed you. I'm sorry. You seemed to think this journal would be of some help." He pauses, fixing me with a pitying softness in his eyes. "I see that's not the case."

This was it? This was my grand master plan to warn me of my impending doom? A journal filled with future-me's insane ramblings? How does this help me? How is this a warning worth telling me if it doesn't explain how to keep it from happening?

I try to suck in a lungful of air, but all I manage to do is bring a hand up to cover my mouth.

Two bodyguards wait for me outside the statue, but I don't know who they are and I definitely don't remember asking them to escort me here. Did I Berserk again? Or did I just disassociate? I hope I didn't hurt anyone.

We're deep into the jungle before I muster up the courage to speak to them. "I'm sorry for leaving so close to the ceremony. Are we going to make it back in time?"

The older of the two smiles. "Why would you apologize for such a thing? All that matters is that you attend. Eomer would reschedule to any day of the year if it would be more convenient to you. But," he adds, "I believe there will be no need for that. The sun has only just set. There is plenty of time tonight."

When we finally arrive back to the Temple, I'm relieved Gail seems to have calmed down from her earlier mood. But my relief doesn't last long as soon as she escorts me to my bedroom.

Pumba hops up from his bed next to the fireplace and rushes over to me. At first I think he wants comfort, so I lean down to pick him up, only to take a step back when he rams full-speed painfully into my shins.

"Ow, easy," I say, but he's quick to cut me off with a loud oink.

"You abandoned us!"

I look up at Gail as if she has any idea what Pumba's saying.

"You didn't tell us where you were going!" Pumba presses his wet snout against my leg, but he hops away when I try to pet him. "You said to stay near you, and then you left me without even saying goodbye!"

"I wasn't gone that long—"

I can hear it in his voice—the anger, the unfiltered fear. He's so upset, each honk lifts him up in a small bounce. "You're supposed to look after me! You said everything would be fine if I stayed close to you, and then you abandoned me!"

Again, I reach for him to no avail. If I could just calm him down, he'd realize he's safe here and this is all being blown out of proportion. "I'm sorry you were scared, but—"

"You're a liar!"

"Listen, please, I was just—"

"My real momma would never have lied to me!" Pumba emits an earsplitting scream and takes off for the partially opened door. With a final flail of his little body, he's squeezed through the opening and disappears.

Fenrir seems to be either afraid or embarrassed by Pumba's outburst. He doesn't move from his spot by the fire, melting against the stone floor like a puddle.

It isn't until I stand up that I realize my face is inflamed, though I'm not sure whether its from the realization that Pumba's anger is justified or from the shame of not being able to mitigate his fear. I have to clear my throat twice before I can ask, "Do you agree with him?"

"We were just worried," Fenrir says. "Since you always tell us where you'll be. You rushed away so quickly, and they wouldn't let us leave to follow you."

I want to comfort him, but I don't know how. Good job, asshole. Look what you did. Pumba hates you now, and Fenrir won't even look you in the eye. Do I pet him? Apologize? I don't even fully understand what I'm apologizing for. No, that's not true. I made a big deal about staying near me, and then I left to talk to Jacob without even thinking about bringing them with me. Pumba's right, I suck.

I am suddenly unbelievably tired.

Clearing my throat again does little to relieve the rapidly growing pain. "I'm sorry I worried you two. I hope you know I would never abandon you. I just. . . had to run a quick errand is all, and then I came right back. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

Fenrir slinks over and licks my hand, and it seems all is forgiven. At least with him.

"Can you please go find Pumba and convince him to come back? You have such a good nose," I praise, smiling as his tail begins to wag. "I know you can find him."

"You found your axe," Ben comments flatly. "Good for you."

I adjust the dead weight on my shoulder and wish Gail would come back. She's the one who told me to bring this stupid hunk of metal. After dressing me in a layering of dark cloth and fur, braiding my hair, painting my face with intricate thin black lines, and showing me where to stand for the ceremony, she disappeared, leaving me alone with a tired and irritable Ben.

Ben and I stand atop one of the open balconies overlooking a torch-lit courtyard where Eomer and his son Andor are preparing for the ritual. From here, I can see most of the crowd gathered on various levels below us and circled around the courtyard itself for the best view. Another uproar sounds from the crowd below as the younger teen boys hoot and holler and shove each other excitedly. Even though the party is outside, the voices of all these people combined rise to deafening levels. Everyone is talking to someone about something.

Gail has prepped me for every other social gathering I've attended on this island, but nobody prepared me for what this ceremony entails. I lean against the balcony railing and watch as a group of teenagers laugh raucously, pushing and shoving in an ever-increasing physical match.

When Eomer raises his arms to make an announcement, I expect the crowd to quiet down somewhat so I can hear what he's saying. Instead, the group explodes into ear-splitting chants of what sounds like an owl's hoot.

Ben stands directly beside me, but I don't turn towards him when I ask, "What is he saying? I can't hear anything over all this screaming."

"I think he's thanking you for being here. He's looking up here now. You should wave."

I'm trying to piece together what Ben's saying, but his words sound like an unintelligible hum next to the screams and cheers and whistles. "What?" I yell over the noise.

"Wave at them," he yells back.

"What?" I finally turn to look at him and point to one of my ears. "I can't hear you!"

Ben grabs my wrist and flings my arm up until it's fully extended above my head, holding it there until the impossible happens—the shouting somehow intensifies. I watch as a particularly boisterous group of boys all simultaneously blow me a kiss. It is only when someone tosses Eomer what looks like a bamboo pole that Ben releases my wrist and takes a seat.

What's with the bamboo? Are they going to play a round of father-son golf? Host a limbo competition? I smile, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. How low can you go? Hope it's low enough, or we won't consider you a man!

Eomer twirls the pole around once in his hand before gripping it tightly like a baseball bat and swinging it full-force into his son's chest. Andor immediately buckles, dropping to his knees as the crowd cries out in sympathy pain.

I can't immediately move. I can't scream. I can't run. I can't even blink. My eyes dart to a group of young boys gathered near the edge of the onlookers and watch as they break out into laughter as Eomer brings the pole down hard on the back of his son's spine.

Sweat is already pooling in-between my fingers when I turn to Ben and try and ask, "Why is this happening?" and "What is the point of this?" at the same time and end up screaming, "What this?"

He yawns, evidently too tired to make fun of my misspeak. "Typically, a coming-of-age ceremony represents—"

"No," I try to clarify, panic rising in my voice, "what is the point of this? Eomer's just beating him!"

"Yes, that's the point."

"Why doesn't Andor fight back?"

Ben doesn't look shocked at the sight of the violence. He motions for me to take a seat next to him so he doesn't have to yell. "This ceremony is not about fighting back."

"Then what does this accomplish?"

"Fear of death is a mortal sin," Ben explains in a completely putout rush. "If you no longer fear pain, you've won half the battle. That's what this Temple is primarily used for."

"For beating children?"

A roar so loud it vibrates my ribs echoes throughout the darkness. I look back down just in time to watch Andor attempt to stand, only to receive a sharp crack of bamboo across his back, sending him sprawling out on the floor.

"For endurance training," Ben continues as soon as we can at least somewhat hear each other again. "You start as soon as your mother approves it. Usually no later than ten. That means Andor has been training for—" Ben pauses again to yawn. "About six years. I know it may look bad, but I guarantee this is nothing for him at this point."

My jaw hangs open in horror as I try to process what he's saying. "All these dads get together and beat their sons to prepare them for an even worse beating when they're older?"

Ben shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly. "It doesn't take very long to become desensitized. Well," he winces, pausing to tilt his head at the commotion down below. "That one probably hurt. He's not supposed to get that close to his skull. A concussion is not the end-goal." I don't notice I'm staring until Ben looks over at me and asks, "What?"

"They did this to you, too?"

"No one is exempt if they want to live among your people."

If Erik descended from a line of Jarls, that probably means he's been training his entire life. "Erik still seemed pretty terrified of death the last time I saw him."

Ben barks a laugh and rubs his tired eyes. "To be fair, fear of you is a little different than fear of death."

"You still seemed terrified at the prospect of a spinal tumor."

"That's because I—" He catches himself, even through his apparent exhaustion. "That's different."

"How?"

Ben brings up a hand to rub at his eyes. "Can't you please just watch the ceremony? It's almost over."

"This isn't right."

There's a moment's pause, and I think the conversation has ended. Without warning, Ben reaches over and punches my arm.

I've never been punched before. Not properly. Nothing beyond a girly smack in class to get my attention. It's so sudden and shocking and genuinely painful, I just stare at him in confusion.

"Did that hurt?"

"You just hit me," I whisper in disbelief, bringing up a hand to rub the throbbing pain away. "Yes, it hurt."

"Well," he says, already turning away to focus his attention back on the ceremony, "it wouldn't have hurt if you'd trained like the rest of us."

As if my self-defense instincts are delayed beyond reason, it's a few seconds of deliberation before I reach over and punch his arm as hard as I can.

"See?" He smiles smugly. "Barely even registered. Are you. . ." Ben's bloodshot eyes widen slightly as he turns fully in his seat to gawk at me. "Are you crying?"

I swipe at my face and sure enough my hand comes away wet, my cheeks already dampened with a silent stream of new tears. I'm so confused and scared and hurt that I can't speak. I can't ask why he's doing this. I can't tell him to leave me alone. All I can do is stare at him. His shape blurs more and more as the tears come quicker, waiting for his inevitable apology.

All he says is, "Can you please not mention this to Gail?"

From over the roar of the excitable crowd, one voice pierces the noise and makes Ben shoot up from his seat. "Benjamin Linus! What did you do this time?" Gail's blurred form hurries towards me, swiping away stray hair from my face and cradling me against her chest. Her worried expression turns to fury as it locks on Ben. "You absolute wretch. Why can't I leave you two alone without you upsetting her?"

"Of course I'm upset," I say, breaking away from Gail's smothering. Ben sinks in his seat just the tiniest bit, slumping under Gail's stare as he waits for me to tell her the details. I wipe my face and cough. "This ceremony is upsetting. You expect me to sit here and watch this and not be upset? Why didn't you tell me this was going to be applauded child abuse? Why did you think I would want to watch this?"

Gail attempts to regain her composure, but it's evident she's surprised I'm angry at her. "I understand this can be a little upsetting to watch the first time," she stumbles to explain, "but these boys have been—"

"Training their whole lives. I know and I don't care!" It's too loud, too hot, too claustrophobic. I'm hyperventilating and I don't know how to stop. "I don't want to be here," I scream with a crazed resolve only anxiety can bring. "I don't want to be here!"

"You can't leave," Ben interjects. "Do you have any idea how insulting that would be?" Gail tries to cut him off, but in a surprising show of defiance, he completely ignores her. "Cora, if you don't go down there and offer your congratulations, you are going to ruin that poor boy's life."

"How?" I refute stubbornly. "How will it ruin his life?"

"Because you're here," Ben answers. "The rest of us just had to contend with the thought of you watching and approving our ceremony from the great beyond. But you're physically here now. So if you don't at least make an appearance at his celebratory dinner, it's going to look like you—" Ben stops talking, looking away from me at the new sound coming from the arena.

And by new sound, I mean absolute silence. Even Gail looks spooked at the drastic change in audience atmosphere, so I walk over to the balcony to see what happened.

Andor lays sprawled out on the ground, motionless. His father stands off to the side, waiting, watching. He's not even holding the bamboo rod anymore. Nobody so much as coughs a noise.

It feels odd whispering when just seconds ago I had to scream to be heard over all of the noise. "Ben, what's going on?"

"It's over," Ben answers in an equally hushed tone. "If he can stand up unassisted, the ceremony is over."

"What happens if he can't stand?"

I watch Ben's throat bob as he nervously swallows. "He'll get up."

He just has to stand up? But by the looks of it, that's much easier said than done. Andor's entire upper body shakes like he's freezing, but he doesn't manage to push himself up very far from the dirt. His chest heaves once, twice, then he tries again, this time managing to push himself to his knees as we all watch in complete silence. It's a slow process, but he eventually manages to stand, swaying slightly, then righting himself.

He's barely had time to straighten his spine before the roaring returns and everyone is running to lift Andor up and body surf him through the audience.

"Gail," Ben yells over the noise and wipes a thumb under my eye. "Can you fix this paint in a hurry? It's all smeared."

"I'm not hungry," I blurt out. What I want to say is, I'm starving, but I'm also going to throw up from anxiety, and I would prefer to do that alone, thank you. "I don't want to go to the dinner."

"Then don't go to the dinner," Ben answers. "But you need to talk to Andor while there's still an audience. It won't count if nobody sees you do it."

"Okay." I can do that. Congratulate him and GTFO. "Okay."

Ben wipes off the paint I ruined with my tears and Gail proceeds to re-paint the lines under my eyes as quickly as she can.

"There," she says. "Just make sure not to touch it. Won't be dry for another few minutes, but we don't have that kind of time if you want to catch Andor before those boys carry him out of the courtyard."

I'm expecting to be pushed and shoved and melded into the excited crowd, but as soon as one man sees me and inclines his head, it starts a chain reaction until a path is formed for me to approach the center of the courtyard. Andor's friends don't seem to have noticed I'm here and continue to tease him about how hard he fell down for the first hit.

"I for one was impressed." I ignore the rowdy boys and walk right up to Andor as a hush falls over the group. "You took that like a true warrior." I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me like I've reached into his brain and shut it off manually.

What am I supposed to do now? I congratulated him. Was that enough? Ben seemed genuinely worried I would mess this up. Better go all in just to make sure.

Much like most people are, Andor is taller than me, so I have to reach up and tilt his head down so I can kiss his forehead. I ignore how uncomfortable I am and smile at him as his face inflames the deepest shade of red I've ever seen. Nobody says anything. "Well, uh. Carry on, boys. And congratulations again, Andor. I hope you don't mind that I won't be at the dinner. I need to rest for the journey tomorrow."

Finally finding his voice, Andor stumbles over a few different sentences before giving up and offering a meek, "Thank you, my lady."

As I turn to make a break for my room, I smile when I hear one of the boys say, "Aw, come on, that's some bullshit. Lucky bastard! I had my ceremony just last month. Do you think she gives retroactive blessings?"

I hold tightly to Pumba and Fenrir, curled up on my lap, staring into the void. I'm overjoyed Pumba was willing to hear me out, but I'm still sick with anxiety over what I just saw at the ceremony. I'm so embarrassed Gail and Ben saw my breakdown that I haven't been able to eat, which is freaking me out. Usually, my anxiety lessens by gorging on some good food, but even the thought of the vegetarian stew Gail brought me makes bile rise up my throat.

They must think I'm pathetic. A worthless weakling. I cringe at the thought of crying so easily. As horrifying as this all is to my American sensibilities, it seems to work fine for the norsemen. Culture shock is absolutely kicking my ass.

Maybe I can do something about it? Talk to the right people to wean them off such barbaric and violent rituals? Would they be insulted at the idea? Or would they be open to the idea by virtue of me being the one to recommend it?

I have so many questions that I need to write down before I forget them, but when I reach for my notebook, I don't find it.

Great. Just great. Where did I leave it? Where do I remember last seeing it?

The mural. The Pokemon mural. I was holding it when Ben showed me the painting. And then. . . yes, that's when Christopher showed up and we went. . . down the stairs to the creekside to talk. I ran away after that, but I didn't have it at Jacob's. It must still be by the creek.

"Hey boys," I whisper to a drowsy Fenrir and Pumba, "I'm going to go down to the creek to get my notebook, okay? You can come if you want, but it honestly looks like you sleepyheads are ready to pass out." I tuck them into the foot of my bed and say, "I'll be right back. Promise. Okay?"

The night is cool and quiet now that the party has ended and the men have all retreated to their rooms. I try to retrace my steps using what I remember of the artwork on the walls to guide me back to the Pokemon mural, but I soon begin to worry that this temple is much bigger than I anticipated.

Just when I think about swallowing my pride and knocking on a random door to ask for help, I see him sitting on a bench. For a split second he looks frightened, but he immediately relaxes as I walk closer. His mouth twitches into a small grin. I frown in return.

"You can cut the act." I scan the area for my notebook, but I don't see it. "I know you're not happy to see me."

"Of course I'm happy to see you," he says. "I thought you were Gail at first, and that would have been much worse."

It's almost a disappointment that it didn't take very long to get used to the same old bullying I've put up with my whole life. His insults don't even hurt enough to cause physical pain anymore. I ignore him as I pass by his bench seat in search of the journal. I left it here. I know I did.

Ben's voice is so soft, I barely hear him over the distant crashing of the waterfall. "I'm a little out of sorts lately." It takes a second for him to roll his head over to look at me. "Sorry."

For as much as I'd like to flip him off and cancel this whole treaty plan—war be damned—I feel slightly less angry when I get a good look at him. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

"Thank you. For earlier today," he clarifies. "Not for the insult, although I'm sure it's warranted."

I lean down to check closer to the creek, but I'd need a lantern to get a real view. Sighing, I give up the search and resign myself to starting over with a new notebook as soon as tomorrows scavenger hunt is over.

"You're welcome, I guess." Walking up beside his seat on the bench, I cannot keep myself from frowning. "Although, you've racked up quite the list of favors you owe me. This is, what? The fifth time I've covered for you?"

"Please," he interjects, sounding insulted. "I owe you two favors, at most."

Even though he probably can't see me in the flickering of the nearest torch, I fix him with an unamused smirk. "Fine. I'm calling on one now." Ben shifts away from me when I take a seat next to him on the bench. "I want you to answer my questions to the fullest extent of your knowledge."

"Oh goodie," he mumbles.

"Do you trust Gail?"

He looks up at this, startled. "You left me under her care before you died. I don't really have a choice."

"Is there anyone you don't trust? Anyone I should know about?"

"Where is this coming from?"

"Why did it take so long to discover Dolores had tried to kill me? I killed her parents. That should have made her suspect number one."

I think Ben rolls his eyes, but it honestly might have just been a flickering attempt to keep his eyelids open. "There's absolutely nothing unique about her situation. You killed a lot of peoples parents." He twitches awake, as if paranoid he's said the wrong thing. "You have beautiful eyes."

"What?"

"Your eyes," he repeats. "They're very beautiful when they're not bleeding."

"Thank you?"

I honestly can't tell if the dark circles under his eyes are remnants of the beating he got from Erik or if they're from lack of sleep. Ben doesn't seem to notice me staring at him. More than once he twitches awake to swipe at something that isn't there.

"Ben, you should go get some sleep."

All of his movements are incredibly slow, as if to prove he's reached his limit. Ben blinks, his head unsteady on his shoulders. He gives no indication he's heard me. I think he just fell asleep.

"Hey," I call, but still no response. Despite the angry voice telling me to leave him out here to rot in the moonlight, I'm calm enough now to think about what my grandmother would want me to do. I lean closer to make sure he's breathing, and he looks worse the closer I get. "Are you drunk?"

By the tone of his voice, he wants to be intimidating, but it's hard to look threatening when your eyes are flickering in a losing battle to stay open. "I haven't slept in almost four days, Cora."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Great, is there some other threat he hasn't mentioned yet? Someone else that wants to kill me? Destroy his people? Is Widmore still a thing? Is Widmore still alive?

"Why not?" I repeat.

Ben brings a hand up and rubs at his eyes. "Because I'm trying to spare your feelings."

"Like that's ever stopped you before. Spare my feelings about what?"

He doesn't sigh—by the looks of it, he doesn't have the energy it would take—but his answer is so drawn out, it feels like a sigh. "About how all of this is your fault."

There's a cool breeze tonight that whips right through my dress. I cross my arms over my chest. "What's my fault?"

"I used to have nothing but nightmares the first year after you died. They spaced out after a few years, and it's been a while since I've had one at all. But ever since your rebirth, it's all I dream about." Ben stares straight ahead, although I'm not sure his vision is clear enough to actually see anything. "I hoped at first this was a good sign. Maybe seeing you in person again would spark a memory to prove my innocence, but all it's done is make it impossible to sleep throughout the night."

"You dream about my death? Have you remembered anything? Even the tiniest thing?"

Ben scrunches his eyebrows together in what looks like a mixture of confusion and anger. "No, Cora, as I've stated a thousand times before, I don't remember what happened that day, so I just dream about absolutely everything else." His eyes only grow more resentful when I stare back with my own confused expression. "Everything else you did. To us. To the Initiative. To. . . You're being serious," he says, still sounding slightly suspicious. "If this is some kind of game, I don't find it amusing."

He waits for me to answer, but I don't understand if he's asking a question or making a statement. It doesn't matter anyway. Without a word, he stands, grabs my sleeve, and tugs me back up the stairs.

"Where are we going?' I ask as we twist and weave through corridors. I only truly begin to worry when we descend a staircase into an underground passageway. "Ben, where are you taking me?"

"Behold," he shouts sarcastically, slingshotting me in front of him. "Your wondrous legacy."

It's the largest painting I've seen yet, spanning from floor to ceiling and stretching from left to right into the darkness not lit by our flickering torch. I'm standing atop a mountain—at least, I think it's me. It's difficult to tell because I've been painted to have a polar bear's head tilted back in a roar. Each hand is raised up, holding something. Heads. Disembodied heads. I'm holding disembodied heads up by their hair. And I'm not standing atop a mountain. I'm standing on a massive pile of random body parts.

I turn to look at him at the same time an offended laugh bursts out of my throat. "This is obviously not me."

"So you don't remember? Well, allow me to bring you up to speed. This is you," Ben clarifies. "And do you want to know how I can confirm that? Because I was there. I watched as this exact scene unfolded before my very eyes."

There's something missing. A mistake. Something he's not telling me. Surely there's something he's not telling me. "What do you remember of me before I died? Before," I don't have the courage to look at the mural again. "Before all this happened."

Ben squints at me in the dark. "What's the absolute worst thing you can think of?"

I'm not even insulted at the question, just horrified. "I'm the worst thing you can think of?"

"Did you grow up with fables? Cautionary tales? Monster stories?" he continues without apology. "You are our monster. You're without a doubt the worst thing that ever happened to those of us who lived with the Initiative. I for one can't sleep, and Annie has a perchance for. . . a bit too much wine. And Dolores," he adds with an amused huff. "Well, Dolores just tried to kill you."

"I. . ." Stumbling for a response, I think back on the times I've heard his people talk about the monster. "What about the smoke monster?"

"What about it?" Ben huffs again, shaking his head like I've just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "You honestly think we're afraid of whatever that thing is? We can hide behind our sonic fence and keep our families safe. But you? Nothing can keep you out. Nothing can protect us from you. But don't worry," he adds snidely, "my people have all done a thorough job of explaining death to our children, so when you inevitably turn on us again, at least our deaths won't come as a complete shock to them."

I have no time to think about what he's said before he begins another tirade.

"Those of us who survived were mostly children who either hid and were spared the carnage or have blissfully repressed the memory." Ben takes a step closer, and I can physically feel animosity wafting off of him. "But Annie and I were in the thick of things the day you destroyed our people. We saw everything. We were among the few lucky enough to remember exactly what you are."

Too many anxieties flood my head at once, and I scramble to think of something to say. "Why are you letting me look after Alex?"

"And what exactly was I supposed to say? No? So you could find a reason to unleash your anger on us all a second time?" Ben shakes his head again, looking even more enraged as his hisses out the rest of his speech. "Everything I've done has been to give Alex something I never had—a trauma-less childhood. And if that means I have to kowtow to your demands and pretend like everything you say is a good idea, then that is the price I am willing to pay for my daughters sake." It happens again—a shift in his eyes. Like he's waking from a dream and trying to piece together where he is. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, I'm just so tired."

I point behind me at the art. "Is everything you just told me true?" There's a part of me that holds on to the hope that he'll tell me this is all an elaborate prank, so my stomach sinks with disappointment when he nods yes. "Then there's nothing you have to apologize for." If even half of what's painted on this wall is true, of course he has night terrors. "Do your people have any sleeping medicine?"

"Sedatives," he exclaims in an overly sarcastic whisper. "How have I never thought of sedatives?"

"I'm just trying to help."

Ben cuts me off, somehow finding the strength to raise his voice. "By not listening to me? I told you the problem is not falling asleep, it's staying asleep." He closes his eyes and sighs. "I'm sorry."

He's right, and I can feel my face burning with unwarranted indignation. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. All I know is if you don't sleep soon, you're going to die."

"That's looking more and more appealing every day."

I know he's being hyperbolic, but there's a hint of truth in his statement that makes me sad. I don't know how to help him, but he's right. This is my fault. I owe it to him to think of something.

"Ben?" I'm going to help him. As soon as I think of something, I'm going to help him. But first, I want an answer to a question I've had since we first met. One I haven't been able to figure out myself. A question he would never answer if he was well rested and of sound mind. "Has Gail been telling you to flirt with me?"

"That's incredibly rude, you know." I don't get the chance to ask what he means before he smiles. "Asking me questions you wouldn't otherwise ask me if I wasn't impaired." I don't know what to say, so I just stand, shifting my weight from one foot to the other before he finally answers, "She ordered me to be amicable."

And just like that, I'm flooded with a rush of calm. It's comforting to get confirmation that this is nothing I don't have years of experience with. Men used to flirt with me to get to my friends. Ben has been flirting because he's just following orders. Being around him doesn't seem so scary anymore.

"Where's your room?" I tap his shoulder when he starts slumping forward. "Hey, where are you sleeping tonight?"

Of all things, he looks scared. "Why?"

"Lead the way. I have an idea."