Chapter Twenty-five

Love blinds us to faults, hatred to virtues.

As Sayid walked back from the caves to do some repairs on the beach shelters of various survivors, he felt a presence draw up beside him. He turned to see Ana Lucia strutting along next to him, her hand resting casually at her hip, as it often did. She had learned much about self-discipline over the past couple of months, but she still made great efforts to appear nonchalant. But those efforts, Sayid thought, only made her look uncertain and defensive.

The Iraqi glanced at the hand on her hip, and his eyes followed her cocky stroll for a few steps before he refocused them on the expanse of beach before him. He didn't say anything. At least, he didn't say anything for another twenty steps, and then he wondered at her silent company and was forced to ask, "May I help you?"

She smiled. It was only half a sneer. There was amusement in that smile, and something very close to levity. "Are we at a service counter?" she asked with a laugh.

"I assume you want something from me?"

"Other than your company?" Ana's smile now lost all of its sneer, and she was looking at him with something like friendliness.

"Yes, I am certain there is something else," he said, his tone much harder than he had intended it to be. He had understood her slaying of Shannon was an accident, and he had declined to seek the vengeance Ana had offered him. But if she thought he could ever forget what she had done, she was sorely mistaken.

Sayid did not hate Ana; he had learned the impracticality of hate, and he had tried always to master that emotion, although he had not always succeeded. He thought now of how he had been unable to reign in his temper in those early days after the crash, when he had responded to Sawyer's insults with flailing fists, of how he had repeated the rage not so long ago, when Sawyer had crudely suggested that he and Nadia had been lovers in Iraq. But with Ana, he had been able to restrain any impulse to anger, even though she had wronged him far more than Sawyer ever had. Why had he succeeded with her, when he had too often failed with Sawyer?

He supposed there were at least two reasons why he had been able to master the anger. For one, he had seen in Ana the dormant qualities of a true leader. If only the dross of rashness could be purged, he thought, if only her touchiness could be chiseled away, she might be of real use to them. But more importantly than perceiving how her virtues struggled against her vices, he simply understood her. He understood her need to be always doing, rather than blindly following. He understood the empty, aching void her past failures had carved out in her soul. Had he not felt those things himself?

So he did not hate her, and he did want to see her realize her potential, but he certainly did not want to be friends with her, and he began to resent her present too-easy familiarity. Then he upbraided himself for his own resentment. How much of it was born of past anger, and how much was owing to his present misery? Ana would be an easy target for relief of the inner tumult that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Nadia and Nasser. He softened the edge in his voice, but he did not speak with warmth either: "We do not engage in frivolous conversations, you and I. There is always an object. So what is your object?"

Ana looked at the ground as she walked, and her voice did not sound hopeful as she said, "I was hoping you would be willing to train me with one of the rifles. I'm a pretty good shot with a handgun--"

Sayid saw Ana wince sharply, and he could imagine how she was cursing herself for the poor choice of phrasing. He suppressed any urge to make a snide comment.

Hastily she continued, "But I know you are better than I am with the rifle, and I want to be as accurate as a I possibly can be, to prevent any…accidents…and…damn, Sayid, I never really said I was sorry. But I am. Sorry."

Sayid only nodded as they walked alongside each other. It was good to hear her say it, but it didn't really help now. He had grieved for Shannon, and he had grieved deeply, but that wound wasn't fresh anymore. There was a new love that caused his soul to ache now, a love that might or might not be lost to him, depending on what Nadia finally decided. Consumed with these thoughts, Sayid did not hear Ana when she asked, "Can you forgive me?" but he did hear her follow with "I suppose not."

Blinking he looked up at her. "You suppose not what?"

"I suppose you can't forgive me."

"I hold no real grudge against you anymore. Recklessness and intent are very different things. And I have other thoughts to plague me now." With these words, he strode on ahead of her and attempted to bury his restless mind with physical labor.