![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stefanie_beanTitle: Seasons in the Sun
Rating: T
Genre: Supernatural
Characters: Sayid, Shannon, Nadia
Relationships: Sayid/Shannon
Length: 1696 words
Series: Tales from the Bardo #5
Summary: Nadia brings a message of peace and forgiveness to Sayid.
Part Five of the Tales from the Bardo series, a collection of one-shots where the Losties make their way through the flash-sideways, struggling with themselves, their pasts, and their karma.
Seasons in the Sun
Sayid doesn't want to let go of Shannon's hand, even when Hurley pulls up to the White Hotel's circle drive and waits patiently for them to exit the Hummer. In the rear view mirror, Sayid catches a glimpse of Hurley's smiling face. It isn't until Hurley turns out of the driveway that Sayid realizes he didn't thank him for the ride.
In their room, Shannon kicks off her spike-heeled sandals, then sprawls across the bed with hair spread out like a golden fan, eyes full of clear invitation. Sayid hesitates because it's all too sudden, and he can't shake the last devastating flash, when his body turned to red mist in mere seconds, in a blast of smoke and flame.
The cool, gray room and the evening dark all soothe him. “Something from the mini-bar, perhaps?”
“Perrier. Lime, if they have it.”
No luck. Only juice, spring water, sugary mixers, and what seems like fifteen different types of alcohol. “No sparkling water, I'm afraid.”
Her lower lip forms into a pout, just as it did in between their earlier kisses. Before she can complain he says, “The bar in the lobby will most likely have some. Lime, you said?”
She beams a smile so bright that he would do anything for it. Anything at all.
:*:*:*:*:
The bar in the vast hotel lobby is closed, though. The front desk clerk explains, “The water taps are broken, sir. It'll be a few hours at best.” At Sayid's downcast expression he adds, “There's a small bar in the karaoke room. Limited selection, I'm afraid. Again, sir, I apologize.”
Down a long hallway, Sayid follows a voice screeching out something about “buying a stairway to heaven.” As he slips into the crowded karaoke bar, a familiar anxiety churns in his middle, instincts honed from when he killed all those people at Ben's behest. Back then he wore a mask, and thus everyone else seemed to hide behind a facade as well.
He's spent a lot of time in bland, tastefully decorated hotels just like this one, filled with sleek, expensive people, but this crowd is different. Their edges seem hard, and the women's makeup stands out stark on their faces. They stare at him with clinical regard, as if sizing up whether to pounce on him later.
When the singer mercifully stops mangling “Stairway to Heaven,” the karaoke host takes her place at the microphone. Everything around Sayid freezes like stopped film, and his nerves turn to ice. It's impossible; it can't be, yet it's her, in a trim black suit with a blood-red scarf around her neck.
Nadia.
“Come on, who's next?” Nadia says in a bright voice, scanning the room. “Sometimes we have talent scouts in the crowd. This could be your big chance.”
What is going on here? Shouldn't she be with her husband at the hospital? Or putting the children to bed?
As Nadia surveys the room like a searchlight, he wants to dive under a table, or climb behind the bar and cower there. Anything to avoid those piercing eyes, which he's convinced are seeking him out.
The crowd is too thick for him to push through, and the air of menace keeps him rooted to the spot. The women look like they have razor blades stashed in their puffed-up hair; the men are probably wearing brass knuckles, and not just as a fashion statement. Even a casual bump could start a fight.
Worse, Shannon is probably pacing the room upstairs, wondering where the hell he is.
Sayid breathes in slowly, just as he used to do before pulling the trigger. Perhaps someone else will volunteer. Perhaps Nadia can't see him in this sea of black leather and purple silk. Perhaps—
“You, sir,” Nadia says, staring at Sayid so fixedly that the people near him turn as well. “I'd wager you have a lovely voice.”
Another flash washes over him, this one so sad that he begins to tremble. Long ago, the two of them once sat on a moonlit hillside overlooking Tikrit, singing one old folk tune after another, and the blend of their thirteen-year-old voices rose to the pale stars. He shook with fear then, too: of the raw newness of being alone with her, the fear of being caught, of being too shy to even take her hand.
There's no way out. The crowd parts as he stumbles towards the song wheel onstage, but he doesn't recognize even one of the eight tunes named there. He can't pick a selection to save his neck.
With a small impatient tap of the foot, Nadia beams at the audience. “Let's give it a spin, shall we? Lady Luck will pick.”
The wheel comes to rest on “Seasons in the Sun.” He only gets a few notes to pull himself together before the lyrics appear on the overhead screen.
As the song goes on, Nadia appears in his memory as the little girl who first ran from him in the school play yard, then stopped to peep out from behind the concrete climbing toy, too hot to touch in the bright sunlight.
The mental picture switches to his father looking up from the leather tanning vats, the hair burned off of his beefy forearms from chemicals. His father growled that his soft younger son had done his duty six months earlier and signed up for the Republican Guard, so what was Sayid's excuse? The harsh words ring as loudly in Sayid's ears as the day he said them. Both of us know your brother is a coward, and yet here you sit, still skinning sheep and cattle. You shame me. You shame this household.
A vision of Nadia the woman flits past him, her graceful form swathed in light pink satin, just like on the day of their wedding. He wants to reach for her, but he's fully caught in the music now, and she vanishes like mist.
When he finishes the final refrain, he barely hears the thunder of applause. The song wasn't joking, was it? It is hard to die.
As he steps down from the stage, he catches Nadia's eye and almost stumbles on the bottom step. Never has he seen eyes of that sort on any person. It's like gazing into the living heart of a volcano. This isn't Nadia. It can't be.
He's beyond terror. “Where is she? Where's Nadia?”
In a cool, even tone she answers, “In Paradise.”
A small crowd starts to collect, but he barely notices. “Is she... happy?”
“She is becoming the scholar she was meant to be.”
Her words carry no blame. His Nadia had studied the medieval Sufi poets before dropping out of graduate school to fight Saddam Hussein. One thread remains, though. “The children?”
“I am sorry, Sayid. You had no nieces or nephews.”
“Then who were...” His voice trails off as a slender young woman with eyes of vermilion fire comes to stand by Nadia's side.
“Hello, Uncle Sayid,” the young woman says, her voice a perfect rendition of his niece Eva's.
A youth close by her says, “Recognize me, Uncle Sayid? I'm Sam.” Yellow and orange flames dart from his eyes, which burn as brightly as the other two's.
Sayid's lips begin to form in prayer. Nadia and the small listening crowd don't disappear as he expects. He prays harder and louder, the Arabic flowing off his tongue in one supplication after another.
Nadia lets him finish, then says, “We're believers too, Sayid.”
“But you... but you are ifrit,” he whispers.
“And you are human. So?” When Nadia laughs, the group joins in, and to Sayid they no longer seem like enemies.
“You were a good 'uncle,'” Eva remarks.
“But that wasn't real.”
“Everything here is real,” Nadia says. “More real than anything you've ever known.”
The remaining listeners begin to drift away, their bodies dissolving into dark smoke as they go, and eventually the same happens to Nadia and Eva. Only the little red pinpoints of their eyes remain, until they wink out.
From behind the bar, Sam hands Sayid a twelve-pack of lime Perrier. “I work here,” Sam explains. “It's all right.”
When Sayid turns around for a final glance, he's entirely alone in the silent karaoke bar.
:*:*:*:*:
Letting himself into the room, Sayid braces for anguish, indignation, and a barrage of questions, but Shannon is curled up quietly on the couch, reading. She looks up from her magazine and smiles. “Someone came by when you were gone.”
He sets down the Perrier, suddenly alert. “Who?”
“Desmond. Remember him?”
“How could I forget?”
“He left something. Couple of things, actually.”
Sayid surveys the room, suspicious habits at the ready. “What did he leave?”
“Come look. I put them in the other room.”
On the bedroom dresser table sits a vase of pale yellow roses edged with coral. He leans over to catch their delicate scent, and Shannon joins him, close enough that their faces almost touch.
“Isn't it heavenly?” she says, breathing in deeply.
“Beautiful. Like you.”
He's about to kiss her when she touches a small envelope near the vase. “Oh, and this. An invitation to a memorial service or something.”
“What about your water?” His own mouth is suddenly dry, but not from thirst.
Her nose crinkles in mischief, and she sends him an inviting glance. “It can wait.”
Even though it's only a bouquet, roses seem to fill the space around them. Great ropes of blooms seem to hang from the ceiling, turning the room into a bower. The fresh scent bathes them in sweetness. When she strokes the edge of one petal with a finger, he feels it across his own skin.
“How long do we have before we leave?” he says, breathless.
“About an hour. I can think of a lot to do in that time.”
So can Sayid, as he pulls the drapes shut.
(A/N: The ifrit are a particularly fierce variety of the al-jinn (“genies”), and some are indeed Islamic believers. Here they serve as “wrathful” bardo entities. Again, thanks to The Leftovers for letting me borrow the hotel and karaoke bar. And once more, thanks so much to everyone who reads and comments.)
Series: Tales from the Bardo
Rating: T
Genre: Supernatural
Characters: Sayid, Shannon, Nadia
Relationships: Sayid/Shannon
Length: 1696 words
Series: Tales from the Bardo #5
Summary: Nadia brings a message of peace and forgiveness to Sayid.
Part Five of the Tales from the Bardo series, a collection of one-shots where the Losties make their way through the flash-sideways, struggling with themselves, their pasts, and their karma.
Seasons in the Sun
Sayid doesn't want to let go of Shannon's hand, even when Hurley pulls up to the White Hotel's circle drive and waits patiently for them to exit the Hummer. In the rear view mirror, Sayid catches a glimpse of Hurley's smiling face. It isn't until Hurley turns out of the driveway that Sayid realizes he didn't thank him for the ride.
In their room, Shannon kicks off her spike-heeled sandals, then sprawls across the bed with hair spread out like a golden fan, eyes full of clear invitation. Sayid hesitates because it's all too sudden, and he can't shake the last devastating flash, when his body turned to red mist in mere seconds, in a blast of smoke and flame.
The cool, gray room and the evening dark all soothe him. “Something from the mini-bar, perhaps?”
“Perrier. Lime, if they have it.”
No luck. Only juice, spring water, sugary mixers, and what seems like fifteen different types of alcohol. “No sparkling water, I'm afraid.”
Her lower lip forms into a pout, just as it did in between their earlier kisses. Before she can complain he says, “The bar in the lobby will most likely have some. Lime, you said?”
She beams a smile so bright that he would do anything for it. Anything at all.
The bar in the vast hotel lobby is closed, though. The front desk clerk explains, “The water taps are broken, sir. It'll be a few hours at best.” At Sayid's downcast expression he adds, “There's a small bar in the karaoke room. Limited selection, I'm afraid. Again, sir, I apologize.”
Down a long hallway, Sayid follows a voice screeching out something about “buying a stairway to heaven.” As he slips into the crowded karaoke bar, a familiar anxiety churns in his middle, instincts honed from when he killed all those people at Ben's behest. Back then he wore a mask, and thus everyone else seemed to hide behind a facade as well.
He's spent a lot of time in bland, tastefully decorated hotels just like this one, filled with sleek, expensive people, but this crowd is different. Their edges seem hard, and the women's makeup stands out stark on their faces. They stare at him with clinical regard, as if sizing up whether to pounce on him later.
When the singer mercifully stops mangling “Stairway to Heaven,” the karaoke host takes her place at the microphone. Everything around Sayid freezes like stopped film, and his nerves turn to ice. It's impossible; it can't be, yet it's her, in a trim black suit with a blood-red scarf around her neck.
Nadia.
“Come on, who's next?” Nadia says in a bright voice, scanning the room. “Sometimes we have talent scouts in the crowd. This could be your big chance.”
What is going on here? Shouldn't she be with her husband at the hospital? Or putting the children to bed?
As Nadia surveys the room like a searchlight, he wants to dive under a table, or climb behind the bar and cower there. Anything to avoid those piercing eyes, which he's convinced are seeking him out.
The crowd is too thick for him to push through, and the air of menace keeps him rooted to the spot. The women look like they have razor blades stashed in their puffed-up hair; the men are probably wearing brass knuckles, and not just as a fashion statement. Even a casual bump could start a fight.
Worse, Shannon is probably pacing the room upstairs, wondering where the hell he is.
Sayid breathes in slowly, just as he used to do before pulling the trigger. Perhaps someone else will volunteer. Perhaps Nadia can't see him in this sea of black leather and purple silk. Perhaps—
“You, sir,” Nadia says, staring at Sayid so fixedly that the people near him turn as well. “I'd wager you have a lovely voice.”
Another flash washes over him, this one so sad that he begins to tremble. Long ago, the two of them once sat on a moonlit hillside overlooking Tikrit, singing one old folk tune after another, and the blend of their thirteen-year-old voices rose to the pale stars. He shook with fear then, too: of the raw newness of being alone with her, the fear of being caught, of being too shy to even take her hand.
There's no way out. The crowd parts as he stumbles towards the song wheel onstage, but he doesn't recognize even one of the eight tunes named there. He can't pick a selection to save his neck.
With a small impatient tap of the foot, Nadia beams at the audience. “Let's give it a spin, shall we? Lady Luck will pick.”
The wheel comes to rest on “Seasons in the Sun.” He only gets a few notes to pull himself together before the lyrics appear on the overhead screen.
As the song goes on, Nadia appears in his memory as the little girl who first ran from him in the school play yard, then stopped to peep out from behind the concrete climbing toy, too hot to touch in the bright sunlight.
The mental picture switches to his father looking up from the leather tanning vats, the hair burned off of his beefy forearms from chemicals. His father growled that his soft younger son had done his duty six months earlier and signed up for the Republican Guard, so what was Sayid's excuse? The harsh words ring as loudly in Sayid's ears as the day he said them. Both of us know your brother is a coward, and yet here you sit, still skinning sheep and cattle. You shame me. You shame this household.
A vision of Nadia the woman flits past him, her graceful form swathed in light pink satin, just like on the day of their wedding. He wants to reach for her, but he's fully caught in the music now, and she vanishes like mist.
When he finishes the final refrain, he barely hears the thunder of applause. The song wasn't joking, was it? It is hard to die.
As he steps down from the stage, he catches Nadia's eye and almost stumbles on the bottom step. Never has he seen eyes of that sort on any person. It's like gazing into the living heart of a volcano. This isn't Nadia. It can't be.
He's beyond terror. “Where is she? Where's Nadia?”
In a cool, even tone she answers, “In Paradise.”
A small crowd starts to collect, but he barely notices. “Is she... happy?”
“She is becoming the scholar she was meant to be.”
Her words carry no blame. His Nadia had studied the medieval Sufi poets before dropping out of graduate school to fight Saddam Hussein. One thread remains, though. “The children?”
“I am sorry, Sayid. You had no nieces or nephews.”
“Then who were...” His voice trails off as a slender young woman with eyes of vermilion fire comes to stand by Nadia's side.
“Hello, Uncle Sayid,” the young woman says, her voice a perfect rendition of his niece Eva's.
A youth close by her says, “Recognize me, Uncle Sayid? I'm Sam.” Yellow and orange flames dart from his eyes, which burn as brightly as the other two's.
Sayid's lips begin to form in prayer. Nadia and the small listening crowd don't disappear as he expects. He prays harder and louder, the Arabic flowing off his tongue in one supplication after another.
Nadia lets him finish, then says, “We're believers too, Sayid.”
“But you... but you are ifrit,” he whispers.
“And you are human. So?” When Nadia laughs, the group joins in, and to Sayid they no longer seem like enemies.
“You were a good 'uncle,'” Eva remarks.
“But that wasn't real.”
“Everything here is real,” Nadia says. “More real than anything you've ever known.”
The remaining listeners begin to drift away, their bodies dissolving into dark smoke as they go, and eventually the same happens to Nadia and Eva. Only the little red pinpoints of their eyes remain, until they wink out.
From behind the bar, Sam hands Sayid a twelve-pack of lime Perrier. “I work here,” Sam explains. “It's all right.”
When Sayid turns around for a final glance, he's entirely alone in the silent karaoke bar.
Letting himself into the room, Sayid braces for anguish, indignation, and a barrage of questions, but Shannon is curled up quietly on the couch, reading. She looks up from her magazine and smiles. “Someone came by when you were gone.”
He sets down the Perrier, suddenly alert. “Who?”
“Desmond. Remember him?”
“How could I forget?”
“He left something. Couple of things, actually.”
Sayid surveys the room, suspicious habits at the ready. “What did he leave?”
“Come look. I put them in the other room.”
On the bedroom dresser table sits a vase of pale yellow roses edged with coral. He leans over to catch their delicate scent, and Shannon joins him, close enough that their faces almost touch.
“Isn't it heavenly?” she says, breathing in deeply.
“Beautiful. Like you.”
He's about to kiss her when she touches a small envelope near the vase. “Oh, and this. An invitation to a memorial service or something.”
“What about your water?” His own mouth is suddenly dry, but not from thirst.
Her nose crinkles in mischief, and she sends him an inviting glance. “It can wait.”
Even though it's only a bouquet, roses seem to fill the space around them. Great ropes of blooms seem to hang from the ceiling, turning the room into a bower. The fresh scent bathes them in sweetness. When she strokes the edge of one petal with a finger, he feels it across his own skin.
“How long do we have before we leave?” he says, breathless.
“About an hour. I can think of a lot to do in that time.”
So can Sayid, as he pulls the drapes shut.
(A/N: The ifrit are a particularly fierce variety of the al-jinn (“genies”), and some are indeed Islamic believers. Here they serve as “wrathful” bardo entities. Again, thanks to The Leftovers for letting me borrow the hotel and karaoke bar. And once more, thanks so much to everyone who reads and comments.)
Series: Tales from the Bardo
(no subject)
Date: 2018-05-17 12:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-05-24 07:49 pm (UTC)