Sayid Jarrah (dontcallmeabdul) wrote in surviving_815,
Sayid Jarrah

  • Mood:

Call to prayer.

When: Late night.
Where: Down the beach.
Who: Sayid, anyone else.

Sayid left Evie and Ridley amused, but quickly refocused. As he got away from the light of campfires, he pulled the shirt Ridley had given him over his head. It was long in the torso, a little tight in the shoulders, and the deep green, he thought, was an unusual color, but it served its purpose.

He walked maybe a hundred fifty meters down the beach, past the furthest tent. He could no longer hear Evie’s chatter or the crackling of fires. There was only the never ending pounding of the waves, a dull and rhythmic sound in the back of his skull. The moon was only a faint sliver and, within the next few nights, it would disappear entirely before reemerging in the reverse. He had noticed it slimming in the past week and that he had paid it any attention at all was perhaps indicative of his recent state of mind. And it had been a long time since he had put in the effort.

He found a place where the sand had been blown smooth, where the ground was not so littered with debris, and swung his gray rucksack around so that he could reach in and pull out a water bottle. He sat, pushing up his sleeves above his elbows, and rinsed his arms and feet with the water, pausing to wipe his head with a damp hand. Then he stood, sleeves falling back to his wrists, and began reciting under his breath the words he’d heard over and over since he was young, for once not having to rapidly translate in his head as he bowed, straightened, knelt, and bowed, falling back into old rhythms.
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