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stefanie_beanTitle: Briars Round the Heart
Chapter 4: Heart
Pairing: Ana Lucia/Libby
Characters: Ana Lucia Cortez, Libby Smith, Cindy Chandler, Mr. Eko, Hugo "Hurley" Reyes
Rating: M
Length: 2199 words
Status: Complete
Notes: Drama, romance, femslash, canon-divergent
Summary: Libby and Ana Lucia struggle with Island survival and a new relationship.
Chapter Index
Chapter 4: Heart
Libby dashes up the smooth earthen path which leads to the Swan Hatch, and every beat of her heart pounds out, Ana, Ana, Ana, in time with her footsteps.
A thin noise from the forest stops her short. It's too rich and full to be a bird. More like a cat, although Libby has never seen a cat on this Island. It pierces the jungle gloom again, clearer this time: a cry for help. Panic makes her hesitate, because she hasn't forgotten those seven weeks of terror after the crash.
Swallowing hard, she pushes through foliage towards the sound. Whoever it is, they're in trouble. The cry rings out again, the voice unmistakeable.
“I'm coming, Ana!” Libby shouts. “Hang on!”
Crumpled at the base of a steep cliff, Ana clutches her left ankle. Dirt and tears streak her face. “Am I ever glad to see you.”
Libby drops to Ana's side. “Let me look, okay?”
Ana lifts her jeans. Her ankle is only a little puffed up, but Libby knows that can be deceiving. “Can you stand on it?”
Hoisting herself onto Libby's shoulder, Ana says through gritted teeth, “I don't think so.”
Ana helpless is somehow not like Ana at all, and Libby tries to swallow her panic. “How'd you wind up down here in the first place?”
Ana looks away, almost as if she wants to lie. Finally the answer comes out in a whisper. “I saw... someone.” She shakes her head as if to clear away an unclean vision. “Someone who couldn't be here. No way.” Drawing a deep breath, Ana pulls herself together. “Must have been a trick of the light. Before I knew it, I tripped on a rock, wound up on my ass.” She grimaces, then says what Libby has been afraid to. “Broke my fucking ankle.”
Without an x-ray it's impossible to tell. “I'll go back to the beach, get Jack.”
Fear rings Ana's eyes, even as she manages a small laugh. “Michael's in the Swan. I think he could manage to drag my ass up this hill.”
Libby wants to kiss Ana, comfort her, but Ana's already retreated deep inside herself. “Okay, sure.”
* * * * * * * *
The Hatch's back door stands open. Some instinct makes Libby pause, like an animal who senses a trap but can't quite see it.
When the first gunshot rings out, she gasps, then slaps her hand over her mouth, praying to the great nothingness that whoever fired didn't hear her. The second one echoes off of the Swan Hatch's concrete walls.
Libby runs.
She doesn't stop until she reaches the bottom of the hill. The therapist, the helper, the failed doctor: all yell at her to rush to the Hatch, look for Michael, see if everyone is all right. She ignores them.
Ana has dragged herself behind some thick bushes. They crouch together in the foliage, arms around one another. They can't stay there forever, though. Finally Libby says,“I can make you a splint, help you up the hill.” She's not sure about the last part, though.
The jungle buzzes with heat as Ana sits, thinking. After awhile she murmurs, “Libby, you were right. Let's go find the Line.”
* * * * * * * *
That's easier said than done.
Even with her leg tightly wrapped and with a makeshift crutch, Ana finds it slow going. She leans on Libby, who staggers under her weight. On the second day they wander in circles, until Libby has to admit that even if she once knew where the Line was, she couldn't find it now to save either of their necks.
They have only Ana's Oceanic water bottle, and by the third day there are no streams. Ana's cheekbones stand out. Libby's mouth feels lined with sand. When Ana tries the trick of drinking water off a leaf, her lips turn beet red and swell almost shut.
They can't use the sun to navigate, because the thick trees only let in slivers of light, even at midday. The shade doesn't help, since no breezes move the thick, oppressive air.
They wander without direction. Libby wonders if they're in “the dark territory,” if the beach camp stories were true. Right after the crash, a black thing roared through the jungle like a freight train, tearing up trees. They see nothing like that; only an occasional dark smear across the tree tops.
On the morning of the fourth day, Libby can't pee. Even though Ana no longer needs her crutch, she just lies there staring at the dark green tree line. In a hoarse whisper, Libby asks, “Ana, when you fell down the hill... Who did you see?”
Ana's skin is stretched tight across her face, showing the skull beneath. Through cracked lips she whispers, “Nathan.”
Libby pulls herself to her feet, swaying and dizzy. She knows now why in so much art, in so many stories, Death is shown as a person. Her death seems to grin at her from behind the bushes, watching. Waiting.
With her last ounce of strength, she pulls herself to her feet. In a croak that barely rises above the mocking birdsong she cries out, “Hey, Others! You wanted us before, we're here now. Come get us, you bastards.”
She runs out of voice but with dry mouth screams it silently over and over, until she's felled by a curtain of black.
* * * * * * * *
Libby is convinced she's dead, because a fountain of cold water pours over her face, her neck, into her parched mouth. It's pure and sweet, the best water she's ever tasted.
“Easy now,” says a woman's gentle voice. “Just a few sips at a time.” She sounds young, and even though Libby has no tears, her eyes sting at the corners.
“I know them, Vanessa.” This woman's voice is older and rougher. “They're from the plane.”
Libby forces her eyes open. She sucks greedily at the canteen in front of her, but the older woman pulls it back.
“Not so fast.”
Vanessa pours water over Libby's burning head. She looks tender as an angel, her dark hair like a halo made of night.
In panic Libby flails around. “Where's Ana? What have you done with her?”
“Nothing,” Vanessa says, pointing to where Ana lies curled on her side beneath a tree. “She's resting.”
“You remember me, don't you?” There's a laugh in the other woman's voice. She studies Libby intently, light brown eyes shining in her dark face. The breeze shakes the shell bangles which are woven into her long cornrows.
Libby rummages through memories cluttered as an overstuffed drawer. “Nancy. You're Nancy. They took you on the first night.” She takes several more sips and says, “How did you get away?”
Nancy laughs. “Who says I did?”
“But they're... they're Others.” Never mind that Libby had cried out to be taken by them, and here they are.
“'Others?'” Vanessa says, puzzled. “Other whats?”
* * * * * * * *
Three years pass. To Libby, it feels as if she's lived in this quiet coastal fishing village all of her life.
She and Ana share a sun-bleached yurt full of tackle, hooks, and spears. Their bed is made of coarse sailcloth stuffed with dried seaweed, dented in the center from where their bodies entwine together night after night.
Libby has never been so happy.
One day John Locke walks into their camp, carrying a dead boar. He throws it onto the sand in front of the village, as if in tribute. Ana and Libby hide in their yurt, not wanting to answer questions. Not wanting to be caught.
Half the village leaves with Locke, but not Ana and Libby. They know about Jacob, have heard tales of him for three years. Neither of them have any curiosity about him. Whoever Jacob is, whatever he is, he didn't help Ana with her leg or drag her out of that canyon.
Three days later the villagers return, faces frozen in anger and despair. Locke isn't with them. No one speaks of him, nor Jacob either, and those who stayed behind don't ask.
The sea bream are running thicker than ever, and once more the boats put out to sea.
* * * * * * * *
A month after Locke's mysterious appearance and vanishing, Libby works at the sea-side salt flats. The sludge in the drying pond has to be raked across the shore, and it's hard work. Crystals of pink salt glitter like jewels across the surface. Tired, she puts down her wooden rake.
Across the village, Ana is helping Franz and a few other men from the plane repair a boat. No one has talked about the crash for years. It's as if they have forgotten it, except in dreams.
As Libby wipes her sweaty face, she gazes out at the horizon, expecting to find it as blue and unbroken as on every other day.
Except for this one. Out to sea, sun glimmers on white sails. As Libby stares, uncomprehending, the sails catch the wind and rush the boat to shore.
Farther down the beach, Vanessa drops her own rake and shouts, “Ship! Ship!” Libby follows close at her heels.
The warning cry relays along the beach. Heads poke from yurts, and those hanging up octopus let them flop onto the sand. Nancy shoulders a rifle, as does Ana, and a few men do the same.
The sailing ship stops a little too far from shore for Libby to make out who's on board. Soon the putt-putt whirr of a motor breaks through the rhythmic slap of waves.
The raft bears two figures, and one almost makes Libby's heart stop. It's him, big as life, wild hair flapping like a curly brown flag in the wind. Hurley.
She doesn't recognize the other man, but Ana must, because she cocks her rifle squarely at him. Sun reflects off his round glasses, and he wears a patient expression, almost bored, as the waves carry the raft almost up to the strand. The small man cuts the engine and lets the surf take it the rest of the way.
“Henry!” Ana barks out like the cop she used to be, a lifetime ago. “Stop right there, you son of a bitch!”
Hurley looks confused. “Henry?”
The small man shrugs. “An old alias.”
Hurley struggles out of the raft. “Hey, Ana Lucia, how about you chill with the gun, okay? We come in peace.” He approaches her so closely that his big stomach almost collides with the barrel of her rifle. “Hey, Libby,” he adds with a smile.
The villagers gather around them, silent and watchful. “Hello there, Ben,” Nancy says. “It's been awhile.”
“Ben?” says Ana.
“Ben Linus.” He holds his hand out to Ana, who recoils as if it was a snake.
Libby barely registers this. The sailing yacht bobbles closer to shore, as safe as it can approach without running aground. There's something familiar about it...
It hits her. It's her boat, or once was. And how did she miss the tall figure leaning on the main mast? Dexter, or was it Des— something? Desmond, that's right. The man she had bequeathed the boat to, after David's death. Sailing around the world for love, he'd said, or some such nonsense.
Was it nonsense? She herself had come halfway around the world to find love. Libby puts her hand gently on Ana's rifle, and Ana lowers it.
Far away, on the Elizabeth, three figures come up from below.
“Ana, look,” Libby breathes, pulling on Ana's arm. “Look out there.”
“Oh, my God, it's Cindy. And that's...” Ana's voice trails off, choking with emotion.
“It has to be Emma and Zack,” Libby answers, versicle and response, just like in the High Church service at St. Luke's. She turns to Hurley, tears gathering in her eyes. “How?”
“And how the hell did you wind up with him?” Ana points at Ben with her finger this time.
“Long story, dudes,” Hurley says. “Desmond and Cindy can fill you in on the ride home. If you want one, that is.”
“Home?” Ana echoes, as if the word has lost its meaning.
“You're from LA, right? Both of you?” He says it so gently that Libby chokes down a sob. “Well, you're in luck, 'cause that's where ol' Desmondo is heading.”
On the deck of the Elizabeth, the two kids jump up and down, waving.
Ana lets her rifle fall to the sand. “We never thought we'd see them again.”
Libby folds Ana in her arms, pulling her head to her breast as she chants, “It's all right. It's going to be all right.”
Hurley doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. He beams a smile so bright that it can stop tears.
Brushing away the wet streaks on Ana's face and her own, Libby says, “Come on, Ana. Let's go home.”
(The end)
(A/N: Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this final chapter, which diverges from canon so that Ana and Libby can have their happily-ever-after.)
Chapter 4: Heart
Pairing: Ana Lucia/Libby
Characters: Ana Lucia Cortez, Libby Smith, Cindy Chandler, Mr. Eko, Hugo "Hurley" Reyes
Rating: M
Length: 2199 words
Status: Complete
Notes: Drama, romance, femslash, canon-divergent
Summary: Libby and Ana Lucia struggle with Island survival and a new relationship.
Chapter Index
Chapter 4: Heart
Libby dashes up the smooth earthen path which leads to the Swan Hatch, and every beat of her heart pounds out, Ana, Ana, Ana, in time with her footsteps.
A thin noise from the forest stops her short. It's too rich and full to be a bird. More like a cat, although Libby has never seen a cat on this Island. It pierces the jungle gloom again, clearer this time: a cry for help. Panic makes her hesitate, because she hasn't forgotten those seven weeks of terror after the crash.
Swallowing hard, she pushes through foliage towards the sound. Whoever it is, they're in trouble. The cry rings out again, the voice unmistakeable.
“I'm coming, Ana!” Libby shouts. “Hang on!”
Crumpled at the base of a steep cliff, Ana clutches her left ankle. Dirt and tears streak her face. “Am I ever glad to see you.”
Libby drops to Ana's side. “Let me look, okay?”
Ana lifts her jeans. Her ankle is only a little puffed up, but Libby knows that can be deceiving. “Can you stand on it?”
Hoisting herself onto Libby's shoulder, Ana says through gritted teeth, “I don't think so.”
Ana helpless is somehow not like Ana at all, and Libby tries to swallow her panic. “How'd you wind up down here in the first place?”
Ana looks away, almost as if she wants to lie. Finally the answer comes out in a whisper. “I saw... someone.” She shakes her head as if to clear away an unclean vision. “Someone who couldn't be here. No way.” Drawing a deep breath, Ana pulls herself together. “Must have been a trick of the light. Before I knew it, I tripped on a rock, wound up on my ass.” She grimaces, then says what Libby has been afraid to. “Broke my fucking ankle.”
Without an x-ray it's impossible to tell. “I'll go back to the beach, get Jack.”
Fear rings Ana's eyes, even as she manages a small laugh. “Michael's in the Swan. I think he could manage to drag my ass up this hill.”
Libby wants to kiss Ana, comfort her, but Ana's already retreated deep inside herself. “Okay, sure.”
The Hatch's back door stands open. Some instinct makes Libby pause, like an animal who senses a trap but can't quite see it.
When the first gunshot rings out, she gasps, then slaps her hand over her mouth, praying to the great nothingness that whoever fired didn't hear her. The second one echoes off of the Swan Hatch's concrete walls.
Libby runs.
She doesn't stop until she reaches the bottom of the hill. The therapist, the helper, the failed doctor: all yell at her to rush to the Hatch, look for Michael, see if everyone is all right. She ignores them.
Ana has dragged herself behind some thick bushes. They crouch together in the foliage, arms around one another. They can't stay there forever, though. Finally Libby says,“I can make you a splint, help you up the hill.” She's not sure about the last part, though.
The jungle buzzes with heat as Ana sits, thinking. After awhile she murmurs, “Libby, you were right. Let's go find the Line.”
That's easier said than done.
Even with her leg tightly wrapped and with a makeshift crutch, Ana finds it slow going. She leans on Libby, who staggers under her weight. On the second day they wander in circles, until Libby has to admit that even if she once knew where the Line was, she couldn't find it now to save either of their necks.
They have only Ana's Oceanic water bottle, and by the third day there are no streams. Ana's cheekbones stand out. Libby's mouth feels lined with sand. When Ana tries the trick of drinking water off a leaf, her lips turn beet red and swell almost shut.
They can't use the sun to navigate, because the thick trees only let in slivers of light, even at midday. The shade doesn't help, since no breezes move the thick, oppressive air.
They wander without direction. Libby wonders if they're in “the dark territory,” if the beach camp stories were true. Right after the crash, a black thing roared through the jungle like a freight train, tearing up trees. They see nothing like that; only an occasional dark smear across the tree tops.
On the morning of the fourth day, Libby can't pee. Even though Ana no longer needs her crutch, she just lies there staring at the dark green tree line. In a hoarse whisper, Libby asks, “Ana, when you fell down the hill... Who did you see?”
Ana's skin is stretched tight across her face, showing the skull beneath. Through cracked lips she whispers, “Nathan.”
Libby pulls herself to her feet, swaying and dizzy. She knows now why in so much art, in so many stories, Death is shown as a person. Her death seems to grin at her from behind the bushes, watching. Waiting.
With her last ounce of strength, she pulls herself to her feet. In a croak that barely rises above the mocking birdsong she cries out, “Hey, Others! You wanted us before, we're here now. Come get us, you bastards.”
She runs out of voice but with dry mouth screams it silently over and over, until she's felled by a curtain of black.
Libby is convinced she's dead, because a fountain of cold water pours over her face, her neck, into her parched mouth. It's pure and sweet, the best water she's ever tasted.
“Easy now,” says a woman's gentle voice. “Just a few sips at a time.” She sounds young, and even though Libby has no tears, her eyes sting at the corners.
“I know them, Vanessa.” This woman's voice is older and rougher. “They're from the plane.”
Libby forces her eyes open. She sucks greedily at the canteen in front of her, but the older woman pulls it back.
“Not so fast.”
Vanessa pours water over Libby's burning head. She looks tender as an angel, her dark hair like a halo made of night.
In panic Libby flails around. “Where's Ana? What have you done with her?”
“Nothing,” Vanessa says, pointing to where Ana lies curled on her side beneath a tree. “She's resting.”
“You remember me, don't you?” There's a laugh in the other woman's voice. She studies Libby intently, light brown eyes shining in her dark face. The breeze shakes the shell bangles which are woven into her long cornrows.
Libby rummages through memories cluttered as an overstuffed drawer. “Nancy. You're Nancy. They took you on the first night.” She takes several more sips and says, “How did you get away?”
Nancy laughs. “Who says I did?”
“But they're... they're Others.” Never mind that Libby had cried out to be taken by them, and here they are.
“'Others?'” Vanessa says, puzzled. “Other whats?”
*
Three years pass. To Libby, it feels as if she's lived in this quiet coastal fishing village all of her life.
She and Ana share a sun-bleached yurt full of tackle, hooks, and spears. Their bed is made of coarse sailcloth stuffed with dried seaweed, dented in the center from where their bodies entwine together night after night.
Libby has never been so happy.
One day John Locke walks into their camp, carrying a dead boar. He throws it onto the sand in front of the village, as if in tribute. Ana and Libby hide in their yurt, not wanting to answer questions. Not wanting to be caught.
Half the village leaves with Locke, but not Ana and Libby. They know about Jacob, have heard tales of him for three years. Neither of them have any curiosity about him. Whoever Jacob is, whatever he is, he didn't help Ana with her leg or drag her out of that canyon.
Three days later the villagers return, faces frozen in anger and despair. Locke isn't with them. No one speaks of him, nor Jacob either, and those who stayed behind don't ask.
The sea bream are running thicker than ever, and once more the boats put out to sea.
A month after Locke's mysterious appearance and vanishing, Libby works at the sea-side salt flats. The sludge in the drying pond has to be raked across the shore, and it's hard work. Crystals of pink salt glitter like jewels across the surface. Tired, she puts down her wooden rake.
Across the village, Ana is helping Franz and a few other men from the plane repair a boat. No one has talked about the crash for years. It's as if they have forgotten it, except in dreams.
As Libby wipes her sweaty face, she gazes out at the horizon, expecting to find it as blue and unbroken as on every other day.
Except for this one. Out to sea, sun glimmers on white sails. As Libby stares, uncomprehending, the sails catch the wind and rush the boat to shore.
Farther down the beach, Vanessa drops her own rake and shouts, “Ship! Ship!” Libby follows close at her heels.
The warning cry relays along the beach. Heads poke from yurts, and those hanging up octopus let them flop onto the sand. Nancy shoulders a rifle, as does Ana, and a few men do the same.
The sailing ship stops a little too far from shore for Libby to make out who's on board. Soon the putt-putt whirr of a motor breaks through the rhythmic slap of waves.
The raft bears two figures, and one almost makes Libby's heart stop. It's him, big as life, wild hair flapping like a curly brown flag in the wind. Hurley.
She doesn't recognize the other man, but Ana must, because she cocks her rifle squarely at him. Sun reflects off his round glasses, and he wears a patient expression, almost bored, as the waves carry the raft almost up to the strand. The small man cuts the engine and lets the surf take it the rest of the way.
“Henry!” Ana barks out like the cop she used to be, a lifetime ago. “Stop right there, you son of a bitch!”
Hurley looks confused. “Henry?”
The small man shrugs. “An old alias.”
Hurley struggles out of the raft. “Hey, Ana Lucia, how about you chill with the gun, okay? We come in peace.” He approaches her so closely that his big stomach almost collides with the barrel of her rifle. “Hey, Libby,” he adds with a smile.
The villagers gather around them, silent and watchful. “Hello there, Ben,” Nancy says. “It's been awhile.”
“Ben?” says Ana.
“Ben Linus.” He holds his hand out to Ana, who recoils as if it was a snake.
Libby barely registers this. The sailing yacht bobbles closer to shore, as safe as it can approach without running aground. There's something familiar about it...
It hits her. It's her boat, or once was. And how did she miss the tall figure leaning on the main mast? Dexter, or was it Des— something? Desmond, that's right. The man she had bequeathed the boat to, after David's death. Sailing around the world for love, he'd said, or some such nonsense.
Was it nonsense? She herself had come halfway around the world to find love. Libby puts her hand gently on Ana's rifle, and Ana lowers it.
Far away, on the Elizabeth, three figures come up from below.
“Ana, look,” Libby breathes, pulling on Ana's arm. “Look out there.”
“Oh, my God, it's Cindy. And that's...” Ana's voice trails off, choking with emotion.
“It has to be Emma and Zack,” Libby answers, versicle and response, just like in the High Church service at St. Luke's. She turns to Hurley, tears gathering in her eyes. “How?”
“And how the hell did you wind up with him?” Ana points at Ben with her finger this time.
“Long story, dudes,” Hurley says. “Desmond and Cindy can fill you in on the ride home. If you want one, that is.”
“Home?” Ana echoes, as if the word has lost its meaning.
“You're from LA, right? Both of you?” He says it so gently that Libby chokes down a sob. “Well, you're in luck, 'cause that's where ol' Desmondo is heading.”
On the deck of the Elizabeth, the two kids jump up and down, waving.
Ana lets her rifle fall to the sand. “We never thought we'd see them again.”
Libby folds Ana in her arms, pulling her head to her breast as she chants, “It's all right. It's going to be all right.”
Hurley doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. He beams a smile so bright that it can stop tears.
Brushing away the wet streaks on Ana's face and her own, Libby says, “Come on, Ana. Let's go home.”
(The end)
(A/N: Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this final chapter, which diverges from canon so that Ana and Libby can have their happily-ever-after.)