Title: Silence
Rating: PG
Summery: There was a rustling in the trees, in the bushes, in everything, and Sun was no longer naïve enough to think that it was from the wind.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lost. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: So, I had a bad day. I'm not really sure why, but it's the general mood that I've been in and it really sucked. So I decided to channel my energy into another activity and I started writing and this angst fest is what came out. It was also written for psych_30, prompt #7: Nature vs. Nurture. This fic was nominated for 'Best Gen Fic' at lost_fic_awards for the month of September. :)



There was a rustling in the trees, in the bushes, in everything, and Sun was no longer naïve enough to think that it was from the wind. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the darkness around her, slowly coming into focus. She was able to make out a few things, the walls around her, the table next to her bed, the curtains that draped the window and held out the moonlight.

She lifted herself to a sitting position as slowly and quietly as possible, listening to the world around her, not just to the sounds of the room, but to the sounds of the island outside of her door: the ocean’s waves send a dull crashing sound cascading up the beach, the signal fire that always burned on the beach crackled, her son breathing steadily in a bed not far from hers. She thanked god for that most of all.

The rustling came again, louder, closer, and that was when she reached for the gun. She kept it above her bed, on two hooks screwed into the wall. It was a shotgun, the most imposing thing she’d ever seen and that was why she had picked it. It was almost too big for her to handle, but she’d had practice by now. She hadn’t had to fire it yet, but she knew she could (and would) if it became necessary.

Her bare feet made contact with the hard, wood floor but they did not make a sound. She had always been good at this, moving without being seen. People had never noticed her. Though they considered her beautiful, she faded neatly into the background and she was all too willing to take advantage of that now. She crept toward the door, gun held limply in her hand, but froze when she heard a small moan.

Her son rolled toward her, stretching his arms sleepily but quietly, just as she had taught him. “It is very, very important my son,” she told him. “That you always, always be quiet. No matter when, or where.” He had nodded, requesting no explanation. He still hadn’t asked.

She walked to him, kneeling by his side, and leaned closely, whispering into his ear, “Stay here.”

He reached for her face, turning it to the side so that he could whisper back into her ear, “Where are you going?”

She put her hand on top of his head, in his soft hair, and kissed his forehead. “I will be back,” she told him, kissing his temple and urging him back into bed, burying him under the covers. He didn’t fight her, staying perfectly still and as she stood, she smiled proudly.

Her face, her eyes, everything about her darkened as she made her way back to the door. She stood against the frame for a good long time, listening for the rustling. When it came, she reached for the lock on the door, pulling a strong piece of braded metal away from a large bolt, and dropping it.

With a palm on the back of the door, she pushed it and it opened slowly, without a sound. She held the gun level now, pointing it out the door ahead of her. She stepped onto the beach, the sand rough beneath her feet, her long white nightgown almost touching the ground. It flowed out to her right, caught by the wind. The moon cast a glow around her as she aimed the gun past the bushes, into the trees.

She could only see what the moonlight and the firelight would allow and that was not much, just the beach in front of her house, built from trees that had been cut and arranged into a small cabin, just big enough for her and her son. The trees remained draped in darkness, though they did even when the sun was out.

Sawyer’s words echo in her head. “Never fire until you have a target.”

He had told her this after she had convinced him to teach her how to shoot a gun. At first he had looked at her as if she had asked him the question in Korean instead of English. She knew what people expected of her, knew how meek and timid she looked, which is why had had anticipated Sawyer’s reaction before he had given it. But eventually he had given her an impressed nod, handed her a gun – which had been much heavier then she ever would have expected – and lead her off into a field that had been created when they had started to cut down the trees to build houses along the beach.

She keeps reminding herself of that now, that it just wasted badly need bullets to fire when you didn’t even know what you were firing at. She tried not to let fear get the better of her, but it was proving to be insanely difficult. So she concentrated instead on her anger, on how long it had been building inside of her with no release, and all of the sudden she was no longer afraid. She was enraged. She was consumed with ire and hatred and she mentally dared whatever was lurking in the woods outside of her home to step out and show itself so that she could demonstrate to it just how livid she was.

And it did.

A boar ambled out of the bushes just to her right. She tilted her head to the side, staring at it as if she was disappointed that it was just a boar. With a sigh she walked back into the house, setting the shotgun back on its hooks and grabbing a pistol instead. The boar grunted at her as she returned, stared at her long and hard, then charged her. She shot it before it got within five feet of her and it crumbled to the ground with a loud squeal.

Sun stood in her house for a moment, looking at her bed in the corner, her trunk by the door, the much smaller bed near hers, and the large lump in the middle that was her son. She smiled, pulling the blanket back, revealing the little boy beneath. He opened his eyes sleepily and looked up at her with a smile.

“Are the bad people gone?” he whispered.

“It was just a boar,” she replied, speaking this time, now that she knew it was safe. He sat up.

“Good,” he said, with conviction. It hurt her how much of Jin she saw in him, in his eyes, in his chin, in everything. But she pushed that away and gathered him up in her arms, resting him on her hip as she walked outside.

The sun had begun to rise over the ocean now and the water had started to sparkle. She smiled to herself, then at her son.

“Let’s go find your Uncle Locke,” she told him. “And we’ll all have breakfast.”

He looked at the boar, laying in front of the signal fire. He turned to Sun and asked, “Then can we go see Daddy?” he asked. He was too young to tell how much his request hurt her, but she had never been terribly good at hiding it.

“Yes,” she said, casting her eyes to the cemetery, to the cross that she knew belonged to her husband. “Yes, we can.”