Following Orders

They had all but broken him that morning. This time, when the interrogators had put their questions to Sayid, he had given them answers. His full name, his unit, where they were stationed, how many there were. And his duties. Oded had heard the last from the men in the canteen, as he prepared himself a quick lunch before going to visit Sayid.

Normally he did not ignore the others, but neither did he invite their company. He saw nothing he could have to say to them, no way to connect with men who lived taking pleasure from another person’s pain.

But today he had overheard them discussing the morning’s work, and one of them had turned, recognised him, asked if he was the one assigned to play friend to the captive in cell seventeen. Oded had agreed that indeed he was, and asked if they had learned anything from him yet. The men had told him everything that Sayid had told them, and voiced their opinions of how satisfying it was to be able to give someone exactly what they deserved. That for once, “this one” as they referred to him, would appreciate the skill that went into their work. All the while Oded listened, and thought, and tried to ignore the sound of hope dying.

Now he stood over Sayid, and a fine trembling of rage ran through him. The prisoner was half sprawled in the corner of the room furthest from the door, propped up against the wall like some grotesque parody of a child’s doll, legs splayed apart, bent at the knees, his head hanging down, chin resting against his chest. His arms were wrapped around his stomach, pressed tight against the muscle, half-hiding from sight what looked to be a dangerous amount of blood, smeared across the skin.

Oded knelt down, deposited the usual food, drink and cleaning things on the floor beside him. He took Sayid’s chin in his hand, turned the man’s face towards him. Sayid murmured something too soft to hear, one eye opening, looking up at Oded. The other eye was too swollen for the lid to do more than flutter, blue-green bruises standing out against the dark skin, a layer of dried blood turning the whole area a sickly wine-purple. He swallowed, coughed a little, and repeated what he had been trying to say, this time loud enough for Oded to understand.

“I am sorry.” Oded felt himself tense, knew Sayid must have felt it as the hand that gripped his jaw tightened, and the prisoner made a small pained noise as strong fingers dug into his already-bruised flesh.

“For what?” his words were cold, tight, and he picked up the rag, dipped it in water, wiped it across Sayid’s cheek with none of his usual care. Sayid’s open eye slid shut, breath hitching as the rough material scraped across his skin.

“For” he began and had to stop, drawing another laboured breath. “For yesterday.” another pause, another ragged gasp as Oded pressed down, any trace of tenderness that had been there the day before obliterated by anger. “You are not the one who killed my friends.” Sayid finished softly. He shifted his hands a little, trying to find a position that gave them at least a small amount of rest, and Oded found his gaze being drawn downwards, almost against his will. Sayid’s hands were in much the same condition as yesterday, the damage almost painful to look at, but Oded could not pull his eyes away from them.

It was so hard to believe that those long slender fingers that must have been almost elegant before they had been so abused, had administered a thousand punishments just like the ones Sayid had suffered at the hands of his captors. Every bruise and mark on his body, every sound of pain and fear, didn’t add up to a hundredth of what this man must have done before he had been brought here.

Oded felt the stir of hatred settle low in his belly, coiled and waiting. He finished cleaning Sayid’s face, watching with a strange, detached sense of pleasure when the prisoner bit down on his already sore lip hard enough to draw blood as he tried to hold back moans of agony. Yes, let him suffer, as all those he tortured must have suffered, let him experience for himself what he had done, all the harm he had caused. Let him suffer, and if it saved others, it was worth it. Oded told himself this over and over as he cleaned the prisoner, washing away the blood and dirt until all the was left was untainted pain.

Sayid’s eyes had shut once more, and he missed the ugly sneer that twisted Oded’s lips as he reached for those hands, scrubbing over them, drawing more soft whimpers from the prisoner. The blood across his stomach turned out to be from his hands, a chain of small, round cigarette burns that trailed from his hip up across his chest the only new marks on Sayid’s torso.

Each one of these was cleaned with a sharp twist of the cloth, letting a little cool water trickle over each, the action somehow savage in its meticulousness. The breathless gasps that fell from Sayid’s lips were ignored, and Oded wondered if Sayid had ignored the sounds his victims made, or if he had responded, taunting them. Somehow it was easier to hold his silence, until he had finished tending to Sayid’s wounds and reached for the cup, filling it to the brim and pressing it against the bloody lower lip.

“Drink.” he demanded and Sayid’s working eye opened, tilted to fix on him, helplessness clear. For a moment Oded paused, torn, but for no more than a moment before he wondered just how many innocents had passed through Sayid’s hands, how many had looked into those drowning-dark eyes and known that the sight would be their last.

Then he shoved his hand behind the other man’s head, not so much supporting it as forcing it forward, tilting up the cup at the same time. Water trickled out the side of Sayid’s lips, tinged pink, before he began to swallow convulsively, throat working quickly. But it was too much at once, and he began to choke. In disgust Oded jerked the prisoner’s head back, grimacing at the pained expression that crossed Sayid’s face.

As the hand tightened in his hair Sayid cried out, pain on top of pain finally too much for him to bear. The sound was not loud, broken by the half-sob that caught in his throat, more the piteous moan of a wounded animal than any real protest, but it cut straight through Oded, and suddenly he could do this no more.

He eased his hand away, resting Sayid’s head back against the wall, other hand trembling around the cup as he sat back, heart pounding and mind racing. After all he had seen, all he had done, it had been this that finally caused him to sink down to their level. He had taken real satisfaction, real pleasure in the pain of another human being, and had justified every single gesture to himself as he did it. Had become as bad as those he shunned, perhaps worse, for at least those men had been tasked to do this by their superiors. He had been sent to show kindness, and had failed.

Eyes half-closed, he reached out and smoothed back the sweat-matted hair, fingers brushing gently across Sayid‘s temple, gliding softly over the marred skin.

“Forgive me Sayid.” he whispered.

“Can you forgive yourself?” Sayid asked quietly. His eye was open again, and he strained to look up at Oded’s caressing hand, lips half-parted, but whether in fear or surprise Oded could not tell. Still Oded stroked his hair, telling himself that the gesture was meant to calm Sayid, to win back the trust of the prisoner. Not to comfort himself, remind himself that he could show tenderness. Not that at all.

“I thought you deserved it.” he continued, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Because-” Sayid began, voice rasping, then almost doubled-over as he began coughing. Oded caught him by the shoulders, held him upright, on hand rubbing circles on his back as the other splayed on his chest, holding him steady.

As the wheezing subsided he drew his hand out from behind the other man, resting him back against the wall, but the other hand remained where it was.

“Thank you.” he said softly, then continued “Because I am the enemy?” he asked, and his lips twitched in what might have been a smile. Oded shook his head, wishing that he could reach once more for the hatred that seemed to have fled so few moments ago, wrap it around himself and take the easy route out of this.

“Because of what you do. What you are.” he answered, the sentences short, hinting at a truth he was not yet ready to put into words. “They told me, this morning. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of your usual handiwork?” he intended the question to be bitter, a cruel dig, but instead it sounded sad. Sayid stared at him, one good eye fixed on Oded’s and Oded suddenly felt he was being measured, judged. The other man suddenly looked more weary than he had before, the kind of tiredness that took more than sleep to be rid of.

“We all have our orders.” he replied quietly, and started to cough again. As Oded automatically moved to support him, to ease the harsh choking, he realised that he had not yet stopped touching Sayid, that his hand had been pressed against the too-warm skin even before Sayid’s breathing had become so laboured. He shook his head at himself, rubbing Sayid’s back once more.

“Water, please?” Sayid asked, gasping for air, cracked lips parted. Oded nodded, hand going to support his head. Then he changed his mind, moving a little closer, leaning over Sayid.
He knelt up, pulling Sayid’s unresisting form quickly towards him, and sat back in one smooth movement intended to cause the man as little pain as possible. The dark, tightly curled hair brushed against his chin as he rested the back of Sayid’s head against his chest, supporting the slender body with his own.

“Easier this way.” he explained, and raised the cup slowly, allowing a small amount of water to seep between Sayid’s lips before lowering it again, watching intently. There could be no danger of overwhelming him this time, causing further harm. He lifted the cup once more, trying to ignore the trembling that passed through the prisoner into him, the way that Sayid’s body fitted against his. He lifted the cup once more, until Sayid managed to shake his head.

“Thank you.” This time the words were less rasped, less shaky, and Oded reached for the soup and bread, holding them where Sayid could see them, offering what he knew would be, must be taken, but pretending there was a choice anyway. Even after a week here, a week of being half-starved and beaten, locked in a dark room, treated like the lowest of caged animals, there was still dignity about this man.

Oded did not know what it was, did not understand it, or pretend to. But there was something here, some sense of…self, perhaps, that showed through even under everything else. It saddened him, and he wondered what it would have been like to meet Sayid under different circumstances. Perhaps if Sayid had been born in this country, instead of Iraq. Or if there were peace between their two nations. What then, would have they have said to each other, or done?

“Are you ready to eat something?” He felt as much as saw the small nod, and he rested the bowl on Sayid’s legs, breaking off a small amount of the bread, soaking it in the broth and raising it to the other man’s lips. As Sayid’s tongue darted out to catch a drop that spilled, it brushed against Oded’s fingertips, and Oded froze, managed not to pull back, but only just. The other man didn’t seem to have noticed, too intent on his food, and Oded reasoned that after all that had happened to he prisoner over the past week, one more unexpected touch was not the end of the world.

He continued his task until most of the soup was finished, and nothing remained of the bread. His legs were beginning to go to sleep, tucked under him as they were, and his work here could be considered finished for the afternoon. But still he was unwilling to go. Perhaps it was shame, guilt over his earlier actions, the cruelty he had so easily meted out. That still disgusted him, made him doubt himself, and he knew tonight that it would haunt his dreams, come to taunt him in the darkest hours of his sleep.

But perhaps a small part of it was Sayid’s ease with him. The other man’s willingness to accept the gentle comfort of human contact, of touch that for once did not bring pain. Most of the prisoners he worked with shied away from him, even when they seemed to trust him. Even when they begged him to help them escape, still they did not, would not touch him. Yet Sayid had made no protest when Oded had held him, not today, rested back against him even now without a comment on the strangeness of the situation.

“I planned to quit, you know.” the words were so soft Oded almost missed them, caught up in his own thoughts.

“Excuse me?” he asked wondering what Sayid meant.

“They…kept my co-operation because of my sister. She…if I had deserted, they would have gone after her. So I did my work, held my silence.” his voice was flat, lifeless, and he inhaled deeply before continuing. “She was…is…to marry soon. He is taking her to America. Beyond their reach.” He licked his lips, head bowed. “I wanted you to know that.” he finished in a hushed whisper. Oded said nothing, could say nothing. Without him realising it his hand was over Sayid’s wrist, fingers tracing across the bones, and the movements began to form small spirals, almost delicate.

“Thank you.” And suddenly he meant it. It should have been nothing, yet another excuse made, another lie told by an enemy, finally tested beyond what they could endure, begging for mercy. But somehow, he knew it was true. Perhaps it was the despair in the other man’s voice as he finished. What would they do to his sister now that Sayid was captured, was perhaps spilling their secrets? What happened to the sister of yet another dead soldier? Perhaps it was that. Or maybe it was that he suddenly needed it to be true. Needed someone to tell him some truth, share some part of themselves with him that was not motivated by pain or fear or desperation. Just willingly given, from the lips of a friend.

“What hold do they have on you, Oded?” the question was too much, too bluntly asked, and he eased away from Sayid, resting him back against the cold stone as gently as he could, knowing it was still not enough.

“I…I must go now. I shall be back tomorrow, my friend.” Sayid looked up at him, unreadable, and Oded found himself at the door before he realised he had moved, speaking to the guard with his eyes still fixed on Sayid.

Too many questions. Why do you do it? How do you live with yourself? Too many words. Thank you. Tomorrow. My friend.