Following Orders

There was no chair this time. That was the first thing Oded noticed as he stepped into the room and the door swung shut behind him, the scrape of the key in the lock unreasonably loud, echoing from the concrete walls. He glanced about the room, eyes drawn to the far corner, and he walked towards it, stepping carefully around the fresh blood stains that littered the floor. He set down the items he had been carrying, the same food, drink and cleaning things as yesterday, and stared down at the prisoner. Once again he felt the sharp pangs of conscience pricking at him, and pushed them away forcefully, reminding himself that by his actions, this man had brought everything upon himself. That he was the enemy, and all kindness towards him should be a ploy, a useful tactic in gaining more information. Nothing more.

Sayid was curled into a ball, arms tucked against his chest, knees drawn up to protect his stomach, head hanging limply to rest against the cold stone floor. He did not look up, did not move as Oded knelt cautiously beside him, far enough away to be out of reach if this were some kind of trick, some kind of broken-wing ploy to make him let his guard down before Sayid bolted for the door. After a moment of stillness and silence Oded moved a little closer, his hand hovering over Sayid’s shoulder. The rise and fall of the prisoner’s chest was shallow, erratic, sometimes a few short breaths in a second, sometimes seeming to hold his breath, until his eyelids fluttered and with a half-gasp he sharply inhaled, almost choking.

“Sayid.” Oded called sharply, waiting for a response he didn’t expect to come. “Sayid!”. Still no answer, just that out-of-time rasp for air. With a sigh he reached down and braced his arms around Sayid’s upper body, hauling him upright in one swift motion and sitting him back against the wall, drawing a low pained moan from the prisoner. His shirt was ragged, and as Oded has suspected his stomach and ribs were starting to bruise badly, one mark across the lower portion of his chest showing the partial print of a boot-tread. Oded pulled his knife from his belt, began to cut away the remnants of the shirt in order to see the wounds more fully. Sayid stirred once again, head lolling to one side. His eyes opened a slit, and it was obvious how much the effort cost him. They fixed on Oded, on the knife, and Sayid made an attempt to pull away, succeeding only in drawing another ragged breath. Oded sat back, shifting to sit cross legged, holding the knife in his hand, well within Sayid’s view.

“I have not come to harm you, Sayid.” he said calmly, waiting until the prisoner managed to focus on him again. “I come to tend to your injuries. To do that, I need to remove your shirt. It will require less movement on your part for me to cut it off. Do you understand?” For some reason he couldn’t comprehend it seemed important that this man did understand him, that he was aware of what was happening. Logically of course, it would do them no good if the prisoner feared Oded. Were that the case, he would tell Oded nothing, and these visits would become a waste of time, or would serve only to keep him alive long enough that the interrogators could extract the necessary information from him. But for the first time, he wanted this man to understand him for his own reasons, even if he did not fully understand them himself yet. Pushing aside his thoughts he waited, watched as Sayid managed to fully open his eyes.

“Yes.” he croaked. His lip had been split open again, dried blood from it streaked down his chin, into his short beard. Around the tear they were dry, parched, skin peeling away. His eyes flickered to the floor, looking for something, and Oded saw them light on the bowl of water. Oded tucked the knife back into his belt and shook his head.

“This is better. Cold.” he stated, reaching for the jug pouring a small amount of liquid into the cup. He held it up towards Sayid, but the man’s hands stayed in his lap. Oded glanced down, knowing from a hundred times past what he would see. The ring finger of the right hand had been broken, and all four were swollen, half-curled awkwardly, only the thumb still holding it’s normal shape. The left hand seemed normal enough, although the fingers were still tucked down, and then Sayid turned it over. The middle joint was shifted completely out of place, pressed up against the joint of the first finger, an ugly lump under the blood stained skin. Just as his ribs had, this showed the mark of someone’s boot-tread, a clear reminder of where it had come from. Sayid looked up at him, dark eyes dulled with pain, a question that was not, could not be a plea, and Oded nodded. He set down the jug, shifted so he sat next to the prisoner, sideways on to the wall. He lifted the cup to the man’s lips, and Sayid tried to lean forward for it. He let out a hiss of pain, teeth clenched, and his eyes slewed towards Oded, more of that desperate veneer of pride falling away.

Oded felt he should say something, make some acknowledgement of the situation, of Sayid’s request to him. But the prisoner had not used words to make it, and so Oded would not break the silence to show he understood. He transferred the cup to his left hand, right shoulder against the wall. He slid his hand behind the man’s head, fingers catching in the tangled curly hair, and helped support Sayid’s head as the cup once again came to his bruised lips, tilting a small amount each time, Oded watching like a hawk to make sure it was not too much at once. When the cup was empty he placed it on the floor, refilled it, not wishing to move his hand from Sayid, not wanting to jostle him, cause him further harm. He realised as he raised the cup once more that Sayid would not look at him, had not looked at him once since Oded had touched his hair, gaze instead fixed on the far wall, on the blank concrete, on the puddles of his own blood in the middle of the room, on anything but his captor.

Once this cup was empty and Oded made to refill it Sayid tried to shake his head, the movement light against Oded’s hand. He settled for pressing his lips together, clearly refusing any more, and Oded put the cup on the floor, pulled the bowl of water nearer and picked up the cloth. Softly he ran the cloth across Sayid’s swollen mouth, feeling the man flinch as the rough material caught the ragged edge of his wound.

“I am sorry Sayid. I shall be as gentle as possible.” Oded soothed, voice low. Sayid blinked, this time not even trying to nod. He obviously wanted to say something, lips parted, and Oded took away the cloth. Sayid looked up at him again, a wave of pain washing across his features.

“Why?” he asked, eyes rolled up to watch Oded. The question was too close for Oded’s comfort, too near to his own thoughts, and he wiped at Sayid’s bloodied lips again, hand shifting around to cradle the side of his face, trying to avoid pressing against the worst of the bruises, turning’s Sayid’s jaw gently from side to side, checking to see nothing was broken.

“Because I do not wish to harm you.” he finally answered, when the silence had stretched from contemplative to uncomfortable, suspicious. Sayid closed his eyes, making no protest as Oded continued to clean him, continued to wash away the blood, exposing more and more of the damage. The injuries to his face seemed to be reasonably superficial, scrapes and bruising, the interrogator’s efforts evidently having been concentrated lower. The thought reminded Oded of what he had been doing, and he took his hand away from Sayid’s face, reaching once more for his knife. “Sayid.” he called, not wanting the man to panic again, make things more difficult than they already were, make his task any harder. Sayid’s eyes opened, unfocused for a moment before he managed to fix them on Oded.

“I understand.” he replied quietly, glancing down at the knife. Oded set the knife against the tattered material, removing it easily, pulling the rags away and dropping them to the floor.

The injuries were perhaps not as bad as he had first guessed, the bruises and blood he had seen through the rips almost the extent of the wounds. Cloth back in hand, barely dampened, he skimmed it down one side, drawing a bitten-off groan from the prisoner, a tremor that ran through the tense muscles. A few of the ribs were most certainly cracked, quite probably broken, and he tried to put as little pressure on these area’s as possible, trickling water over them in an attempt to cool the over-heated skin. He noted almost idly that it was several shades darker than his own, the muscles well toned underneath the bruising. This man was obviously used to physical work, and Oded wondered exactly what kind of soldier he had been before he was captured, what his duties were. Perhaps, if the fates had a sense of irony, his job was to do what Oded now did, to care for the wounded? Or perhaps he had been one of the ones who caused such wounds, one of the Republican Guard’s famed interrogators. Either way, it mattered little now, and as Sayid held his breath, Oded tried to clear his mind of all but his task.

“They said you would not speak again today.” he said, almost idly, as though the statement mattered little to him. “Why is that, Sayid?” his voice was soft, persuasive, the voice of a trusted friend. He knew it was almost hypnotic, knew the power of it, the way it worked almost without reason to make men answer him. He had never understood it, but he had seen it’s work many times, and was thankful that it brought quick answers and so a swift end to his captive’s pain.

“I will not answer their questions.” Sayid replied, answering with out answering. Was it Oded’s imagination, or were Sayid’s eyes a little more glazed than before? He put it to the back of his mind as he rinsed the cloth, applied it once more to Sayid’s body.

“Why, Sayid? They are simple questions, and you know the answer to them.” still low, persuasive, and this time Sayid managed to turn his head enough that the tired dark eyes met his, although it drooped painfully against his shoulder.

“Would you, Oded?” Sayid asked, mimicking Oded’s constant use of his name. It brought a small smile to Oded’s lips, seeing someone recognise one of his techniques for what it was, and he made a note not to underestimate this man again.

“It is so little they wish to know.” he replied, half-ignoring the prisoner’s question. “It would be so easy for you to tell them. If you did, you would be set free.” This was yet another half-truth, and Oded despised himself for it. If Sayid answered these questions, there would be more. And more, and more, and if he did not answer those, then there would be more beatings, more persuasion. When they finally decided they had all the information they could get from him, he would be released, that was not a lie. Released onto the streets, a broken husk of a man who would more than likely die before the sun had rose and set three more times. The look Sayid fixed him with told him that the other man knew this, and that Oded’s evasion had been seen, and noted.

“I will never betray my people. Nor will the others. You would be as well to kill us now, and cease wasting your time.” This made Oded pause. Surely Sayid knew that he had been the only one captured alive…the rest of his team had fallen under a hail of bullets, only a single soldier who had made it past the gates and into the city main captured and brought here. The rest had been slung at the side of the roads, left for the children to strip and the animals to feed on. Surely Sayid had witnessed the destruction, or had been told of it by his interrogators since his arrival.

“Sayid, have they not told you?” Oded began, reaching for Sayid’s right hand, wrapping his hand around the palm and gently wiping the broken fingers, straightening them as best he could. Each stroke of the cloth, each movement brought more sounds of pain from Sayid, each one almost held back, released only when it became too much to bear.

“Lies.” the word was spoken softly, determined. “They have no doubt told the others the same of me.” Oded shook his head, pausing, simply cradling the hand between his own as though that could offer some small measure of comfort.

“I am sorry my friend. You were the only one brought to us.” Sayid snatched his hand back, the fingers jerking against Oded’s as he did so. His ragged howl reverberated through the room, sharp grief and choking anger and bleak despair all wrapped up in a coat of pain.

“I am not your friend.” he snarled, voice breaking. “Get out!” he tried to lash out at Oded, made it no further than reaching towards him before his hand fell back down to his side and he screamed again. Oded stood, took a step back, watched as Sayid shuddered under the sudden onslaught of pain.

The door grated open behind him and Oded turned to find the guard from outside standing at the edge of the room, gun drawn. Oded held out a hand, stopping him.

“No.” One single word of command, and the soldier froze, his eyes flicking towards the prisoner, as Sayid curled up again in the corner, knocking over the jug, ignoring the cold water that poured over him as he screamed, horrifying raw sounds that no human should ever make.

“But…” the guard began, and Oded shook his head, starting towards the door, sweeping the guard ahead of him.

“No. He will do more to himself in these few short hours if left alone than you could hope to do in the rest of the week. Leave him. Leave him be.” Oded continued to walk down the corridor, drawing the guard with him, the younger man feeling inexplicably unable to leave his side. As he kept up the idle chatter, Oded prayed he was doing the right thing. If he was, only time would tell. And if he wasn’t, time would do more than he could ever hope to undo. Time claimed all.