Author's Note: The fairytale is "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" (also called "The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces"), and it is my absolute favourite story! Read it if you can, it's beautiful. The writing in bold is the writing in Hope's notebook (italics are still dreams). I'm running out of different writing tools, but hopefully I won't need any more, and this isn't too confusing. Review! Enjoy! Gitania

Memories of Hope

Chapter 12: To Serve and Protect

"…so the young man chose the youngest of the King's daughters to be his bride. They married the very next day, and lived happily ever after." Hope finished, closing the book.

"What happened to all the princes that lived in the underground rooms?" piped up Walt.

"Well," Hope whispered, leaning towards him for dramatic effect, "they stayed frozen forever in their boats on the underground lake, waiting for all eternity for the princesses to return and dance with them again."

Walt smiled at this, and the crowd at the caves prepared themselves for sleep, pleased with the closure of the tale. Those from the beach gathered into a tight group, and waved their goodbyes as they headed back down the path to their shelters on the sand.

What had started as a simple bonding tradition between Hope and Walt had spread through their little community, and now everyone living at the caves would gather each night to hear Hope read from the book of fairytales she had found in her suitcase. Rumours of what they called 'story time' had quickly reached the beach, and Hope was convinced that even Sawyer sometimes wandered to the caves behind some of the other beach-dwellers, hiding himself in the bushes to listen without being seen.

Boone smiled at Hope as she lay down beside him by the fire.

"Nice story," he said softly.

"Thanks," she whispered back, kissing him gently on the cheek. "I'm thinking of 'Cinderella' for tomorrow night."

Boone shook his head and laughed, "Not another one about shoes – you're such a girl! Why not one about a guy? I could go for 'Jack and the Beanstalk'. Hey," he said, suddenly remembering, "I meant to ask – how did the planting go today?"

"Good," Hope smiled sadly. That morning she had finally built up enough nerve to plant the forget-me-not seeds that were planned for her own garden in America. She had employed Sun to help her find a nice spot and assist with the planting, and somehow Hope thought that was as close as she could get to how it should have been.

Boone kissed her and smiled sympathetically, turning onto his back to sleep. Hope had never understood how he could sleep that way, but it suited her because she could lie comfortably on his chest and save her head from the hard ground.

Hope sat next to Boone's resting form and retrieved her old notebook from her battered white suitcase. She read about her past each evening now, trying to spur more memories to the surface.

'If I didn't know better I'd say mom is finally over my tattoo. She's stopped sighing every time I pull up a sleeve, at least. I didn't think something like "hope" could be so offensive to people – I guess she doesn't get art. Dad is touchy lately, especially about work. He won't say anything about it, but it's getting worse. He seems older; like that shiny badge that used to make him look so unbeatable is weighing him down and sucking the life out of him. Maybe he'll quit soon and become a school bus driver, or something. That'd be good. The uniforms are similar…'

Hope smiled at herself, picturing her father in his police officer's uniform. She had found a photograph of her family that Jack had alluded to when he and Locke found her bag, and she was slowly familiarising herself with the faces that looked out at her from behind the glass.

Her mother was beautiful. Probably in her late forties or early fifties, she had dark brown hair with pieces of grey starting to sneak through. Her eyes were a dark blue, and she wore the sad smile that Hope had seen so many times both in her dreams and on Sun's face. She often marvelled at how different those two women looked, and yet somehow Sun was the perfect stand-in for the role of Hope's mother.

Hope's father was a strong, intelligent-looking man. He seemed fairly tall, with a broad smile that made Hope smile along no matter how many times she saw it. His dark hair was thinning, and his eyes were darker than her mother's and deeper somehow.

But the face that caught Hope's attention the most was her own. Standing beside her mother with her father behind them to make a family triangle, Hope was often surprised by how small and unimpressive she looked. Since being on the island Hope had learned to make her own way and take care of herself. She and Walt now caught plenty of fish each day, and were teaching others to do the same. She had helped to build shelters, gather food, and defend the group from whatever waited for them in the jungle. The face in the photograph showed nothing of these experiences, and looked surprisingly young and meek. She wondered if it had been the island or her mother's death that changed her.

Hope settled down to sleep, conjuring the mental picture of her father in a blue policeman's uniform, sitting on the couch in their living room after a hard day chasing criminals and ridding their nameless city of sin and misdeeds. Despite the fact that she didn't know this man, Hope drifted into sleep feeling quite proud of him.

"I can't explain," said her father, looking terrified as he handed her a small pile of bills.

"But dad, I don't understand – why are you doing this? Where am I going?"

"Sydney, Australia."

Hope looked at him wide-eyed, trying to talk him out of the seemingly flippant decision.

"Dad…"

"No!" he shouted, immediately regretting his tone. He went on, more softly, "Honey, something terrible is going on, and I need you to do this for me. I have to try and fix this."

"Dad, this is for real." Hope tried desperately to reason with him. "Mom is dead, and now you're sending me away! What are you going to do here all by yourself? Why aren't you coming with me?"

Her father carried on, undeterred, "I've booked a hotel in Sydney for you, under an assumed name. As long as you're there, you're going to be Leslie Miller, do you understand? Your airline bookings are under the name of Robyn Forge – listen to me!"

Hope's mind was spinning as she tried to take in her father's wishes. She felt like a fugitive. Her eyes snapped back to her father when he raised his voice, and she realised she had followed him into her room. He was throwing her things into a large white suitcase and handing her the smaller version to use as hand luggage.

Suddenly he buckled, sitting heavily on the bed and dropping his head into his hands. Her father – her idol – was crying.

Her head spun as though she would faint, and she looked up to find herself back in the family garden, staring through the glass as her mother hit the floor. She screamed in anger and frustration, and slammed her hand against the window as the dream ended with the gunshot ringing through her mind.

Hope opened her eyes wide, and stared into the dying fire, thankful that she had not yelled aloud and woken anyone. 'What am I doing here?' she thought to herself. A sudden strange recollection filled her mind, and Hope rose to search through her suitcase.

She took out her notebook and flipped to a page near the middle. There was a perfect sketch of a policeman's badge, next to a passage written on the plane heading to Sydney. If she had drawn it during the flight, then where was the badge? She searched desperately through her belongings, trying not to wake Boone. As the sun rose and she had looked into every nook and cranny of the bag, she came to the realisation that only one person who would have taken it.

Like a crow, Sawyer was drawn to anything shiny, and even more so to anything that he could use as leverage later. He must have lifted it from her bag during story time one evening. Hope could have killed him for taking it – anything from her past was precious to her, but at the same time she knew she would need to stay calm and use her intellect in order to pry something precious from the greedy hands of their devil.