Chapter Ten

Note: I started "Raising and Army" before episode 2.15 aired, so my timeline may be a bit off. But, in this story anyway, the last 9 chapters occurred in a space of two days, between episode 2.14 and 2.15, and chapter ten now takes place more or less simultaneously with the events of 2.15.

Sayid had not heard the commotion Claire raised when she discovered Aaron was sick. He had slept deeply and had arisen early in the morning. He now vainly hoped that a long run would turn his thoughts away from the blood that had stained Nadia's photograph and from the image of those perceptive eyes, which he had buried again at the bottom of his backpack.

He did not particularly care for the present dull exercise—the monotony of the sand beneath his feet, the burden of the sun against his back, the lack of an immediate goal, the aimlessness of it all—but he pressed on because he knew it was necessary that he be fit to run when needed.

Eventually, he stopped running and began his return journey in a languid stroll. He paused about half a mile outside of the camp, stripped to his boxers, and plunged into the surf to cool the sweat that had coated his body like an unpleasant film.

Sayid did not go far into the water. He knew he was not a skilled swimmer: he had never before needed to be. He supposed now was as good a time as any to seek improvement, but he would not strain himself. They had already lost one castaway to the ocean's wide grave, and death was too great a price to pay for pride…even now, even after circumstance and the will of the Others had stripped him of most of what had made life worth living.

Sayid had known grief and anger and that numbness that overtakes the soul when the dawn seems so distant as to be irrelevant. But the will to survive had not been dulled within him; it was not weak now, despite the fact that he himself did not expect to reach that horizon where the dim light of day might be slowly growing.

When they had crashed on the island, it was at first the thought of seeing Nadia that had fueled his desire to endure. But that seven-year hope he had finally surrendered when he freed himself from Danielle's dungeon. He had possessed good reasons to do so: his love for her had been an inspiration, but it had also been a shackle, and if he had continued to hazard his life upon it only to be disappointed…

It was well that he had moved on, that he had loved again. Or was it? His affection for Shannon had given him a direction and a meaning too; it had provided him with someone to protect, but that purpose had proved no more permanent than his quest for Nadia. Everything in life was finite, of course, and nothing was permanent but death. And since death was the one established variable, if he fought it, he would have a purpose as long as he lived.

These were not conscious musings that beset him as he swam. He did not generally eschew introspection, for he believed, as Sun Tzu had said, that if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. At the moment, however, he was not inclined to acknowledge these thoughts, which ran instead like an invisible undercurrent in his mind. He drew himself by his arms back toward the beach, more clumsily than he would have liked, and then waded onto shore. He had no towel and intended to merely sit until the sun had dried him, but when he saw Ana approaching from the direction of the camp, he hastily pulled back on his sweat-dampened clothes over his cold, wet skin.

He felt himself stiffen into a professional pose. It was not that he had been precisely relaxed before that point, but he had been somewhat at sea, and not just literally. "Did you speak with Kate?" he asked as soon as she was within earshot.

She had been concentrating rather fiercely on her own footfalls and now looked up with a frown. She waited until she had drawn closer to him to respond. "Kate's gone with Claire."

Sayid's brow furrowed. "Gone where?"

Ana shrugged. "No one gets the full story around here. But it's something to do with Aaron, and they're looking for that French chick."

"Rousseau?"

"Yeah." Ana fidgeted with the stick she carried. She didn't know why she had begun to carry it again. She had access to a hunting knife now, and that would be more comfortable to tie against herself and likely more useful, but somehow she had begun to feel naked without the plain weapon that was fastened seamlessly to her side. Eko had done well enough with nothing more.

"Two women have gone out deep in the jungle, alone, and unarmed?"

At the words "two women" Ana pursed her lips and her eyes darkened slightly in defiance; Sayid noticed her hardening expression, but he was oblivious of its inspiration. "It is utterly foolish," he concluded.

"They aren't unarmed," Ana shot back, surprised to find herself instinctively defending Kate and Claire. She had thought the act was stupid, too, but she wasn't about to admit that to Sayid.

"And what did they bring?" he asked, eyeing her, she thought, condescendingly. "A stick?"

"A gun."

This had the effect she desired: Sayid was clearly taken aback. "How…"

"I was right," she said, and the self-satisfied tilt of her head irked Sayid, though he tried not to let it. "All Kate had to do was ask Sawyer. He gave her a handgun."

"One."

"Yeah, well, getting the rest of the guns from him is going to have to wait, I guess, until Kate gets back."

If Kate gets back, they both thought, though neither of them said it.