Title: Those Who Favor Fire
Author: cofax
Email: cofax7@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just tell me, please.
Spoilers: Infinite Possibilities: Icarus Abides
Summary: Space would be too cold for him.
Note: This is the obligatory post-ep for Icarus Abides. Angst within,
no other warnings apply.
Beta by Vehemently and Melymbrosia, other notes at end.
Feedback makes me do the wacky. Send it to: cofax7@yahoo.com
Those Who Favor Fire
By cofax
September 2001
He'd always had so many frelling stories.
Stories about his childhood, growing up in sticky green heat,
swimming naked at night in phosphorescent surf, recreating with the
soft-smelling girls of his homeworld.
Stories about his friends; about his family, his myriad pets, his
ever-broken vehicles, his school, his bizarre country.
Aeryn rolled out of the bed and stretched as she had done upon waking
ever since she had been in the creche. That is, every time that she
didn't wake to an alarm that had them racing to Command, naked but
for their boots. She dug in her pack for clean clothes; there was
little that wasn't black.
Sometimes, late during the sleep cycle when she was on watch in
Command, or sleepless on the terrace under the light of strange
stars, he would tell other stories. Slouched boneless in one of the
few comfortable chairs, he would pour them both drinks and watch her
with eyes that had seen so little of the universe, and tell dark
stories. Stories about wandering souls mourning their own deaths or
avenging other crimes; stories of heroes punished for good deeds with
the vengeance of the gods.
She'd challenged him more than once. "Why do you tell these stories,
Crichton? They're nothing more than the superstitions of a primitive
people." "Why tell them to *me*," was what she had meant.
"Everyone needs stories, Aeryn. Even a Peacekeeper chick with the
biggest fucking gun in this end of the galaxy." And he'd smiled, and
drained his drink. But she'd seen a shadow in his eyes, and realized
only now, so much later, that he'd needed someone else to hear them.
Even D'Argo had heard of the Zelbinion, but until Crichton told her
the story, no one else in a hundred thousand light-years would know
the story about the king who killed his father and married his
mother.
She pulled the black vest on over the white shirt. It would have to
do: he'd told her more than once that his own people wore black for
mourning, but that other humans sometimes wore white. So she would
wear both. He'd approve, but then he had never really cared what she
wore, except when she wore nothing at all.
She cut off that thought and strode across the chamber to braid her
hair, bootheels tapping arrhythmically. They would let him go in an
arn. There had been less argument from Crais about her plan than she
had expected. While Crais had, reluctantly, grown to respect him,
Crichton hadn't been a Peacekeeper, so there was no need to comply
with Peacekeeper tradition. And space would be too cold for him.
Near the end, before she knew it was the end -- although how could
she *not* have known, the most she had ever expected was an arn here
and there -- near the end, he had lain awake beside her and talked
about death.
Not *his* death: he'd never really believed in it, even after he'd
died the first few times. What he talked about was how humans
believed some people were born to die in one way only. Some were born
to 'hang' -- and she'd wondered aloud how such an execution technique
would work on a Pitrek, with its surgically hardened exoskeleton, and
this had naturally led to a wrestling match, and then -- then to
things she couldn't bear to linger on. She was a Peacekeeper, trained
to death, but some things were beyond her strength. This she had
learned from him as well.
Others were born to drown, and she let him see her shudder as he told
the story of the vessel hunting a leviathan of the seas of his own
world. And then, as the arns dwindled to the waking cycle, and her
eyelids drooped, he talked about fire, about how a person's death was
often thought to match his life. "Better to burn out than to fade
away," he whispered against her ear, and hummed a snatch of music.
No, never the cold of space for him.
"Officer Sun." Crais' voice came over the comm, an unexpected but
welcome formality.
"I'm ready," she said, and picked up the bag from the bed. She had
stuffed the clothes inside it yesterday, her eyes blind with rage.
She couldn't destroy them as she wished: it had been hard for him to
find enough to wear lately, and the Human on Moya, should the two
crews ever meet up again, would need them. She left the chamber
without a glance at her reflection. It wasn't something that mattered
anymore.
They gathered in the docking bay: Crais, Stark, and Rygel. It was
hardly a fitting farewell, and she missed Zhaan and D'Argo
desperately for a moment. Crais said a few words; she didn't hear
them. When he was done, Aeryn handed the Human's bag to Stark: she
didn't want it with her. Then she climbed into the cabin of the
transport pod. Crais stepped forward, but Stark held him back. She
met the Banik's eyes briefly then turned her attention to the
controls.
She barely noticed the others leave the airlock and the outer doors
begin to open; all her attention was focused on her cargo. He had
never said what he expected as his own death; probably he had hoped
to die in bed, surrounded by children of his own people. She
thought, though, that like herself he had stopped looking forward
some time ago.
Well, he had died in fire after all, the fierce burst of photons as
deadly to him as flame had ever been to Moya. He had died in fire,
and he would leave them in fire as well, his body spiraling into the
gravity well of a middle-aged yellow star.
She freed the well-wrapped bundle from the transport pod's clamps,
and watched it drift away. Slowly at first, then faster, as her jets
kept her in place against the star's draw. Only when she could no
longer see that dark speck against the brilliance did she turn the
pod away.
Back to Talyn; back, perhaps, to Moya, where someone with the same
eyes and the same hands would try to tell her stories she already
knew.
***
END
Notes: first dip into a new ficdom; hope y'all like it.
Many many thanks to Vehemently, who caught my commas and canonical
inconsistencies; and to Melymbrosia, who proved to me it could be
done, and who made me justify my choices; and to Nestra, for last-
minute reassurances. And, always, all my love to Yes Virginia,
without whom none of this would be possible.
****
I'm the darkness in your daughter
I'm the spot beneath the skin
I'm the scarlet on the pavement
I am the broken heart within
--- Yes Virginia I am ---
http://cofax.freeservers.com
Author: cofax
Email: cofax7@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just tell me, please.
Spoilers: Infinite Possibilities: Icarus Abides
Summary: Space would be too cold for him.
Note: This is the obligatory post-ep for Icarus Abides. Angst within,
no other warnings apply.
Beta by Vehemently and Melymbrosia, other notes at end.
Feedback makes me do the wacky. Send it to: cofax7@yahoo.com
Those Who Favor Fire
By cofax
September 2001
He'd always had so many frelling stories.
Stories about his childhood, growing up in sticky green heat,
swimming naked at night in phosphorescent surf, recreating with the
soft-smelling girls of his homeworld.
Stories about his friends; about his family, his myriad pets, his
ever-broken vehicles, his school, his bizarre country.
Aeryn rolled out of the bed and stretched as she had done upon waking
ever since she had been in the creche. That is, every time that she
didn't wake to an alarm that had them racing to Command, naked but
for their boots. She dug in her pack for clean clothes; there was
little that wasn't black.
Sometimes, late during the sleep cycle when she was on watch in
Command, or sleepless on the terrace under the light of strange
stars, he would tell other stories. Slouched boneless in one of the
few comfortable chairs, he would pour them both drinks and watch her
with eyes that had seen so little of the universe, and tell dark
stories. Stories about wandering souls mourning their own deaths or
avenging other crimes; stories of heroes punished for good deeds with
the vengeance of the gods.
She'd challenged him more than once. "Why do you tell these stories,
Crichton? They're nothing more than the superstitions of a primitive
people." "Why tell them to *me*," was what she had meant.
"Everyone needs stories, Aeryn. Even a Peacekeeper chick with the
biggest fucking gun in this end of the galaxy." And he'd smiled, and
drained his drink. But she'd seen a shadow in his eyes, and realized
only now, so much later, that he'd needed someone else to hear them.
Even D'Argo had heard of the Zelbinion, but until Crichton told her
the story, no one else in a hundred thousand light-years would know
the story about the king who killed his father and married his
mother.
She pulled the black vest on over the white shirt. It would have to
do: he'd told her more than once that his own people wore black for
mourning, but that other humans sometimes wore white. So she would
wear both. He'd approve, but then he had never really cared what she
wore, except when she wore nothing at all.
She cut off that thought and strode across the chamber to braid her
hair, bootheels tapping arrhythmically. They would let him go in an
arn. There had been less argument from Crais about her plan than she
had expected. While Crais had, reluctantly, grown to respect him,
Crichton hadn't been a Peacekeeper, so there was no need to comply
with Peacekeeper tradition. And space would be too cold for him.
Near the end, before she knew it was the end -- although how could
she *not* have known, the most she had ever expected was an arn here
and there -- near the end, he had lain awake beside her and talked
about death.
Not *his* death: he'd never really believed in it, even after he'd
died the first few times. What he talked about was how humans
believed some people were born to die in one way only. Some were born
to 'hang' -- and she'd wondered aloud how such an execution technique
would work on a Pitrek, with its surgically hardened exoskeleton, and
this had naturally led to a wrestling match, and then -- then to
things she couldn't bear to linger on. She was a Peacekeeper, trained
to death, but some things were beyond her strength. This she had
learned from him as well.
Others were born to drown, and she let him see her shudder as he told
the story of the vessel hunting a leviathan of the seas of his own
world. And then, as the arns dwindled to the waking cycle, and her
eyelids drooped, he talked about fire, about how a person's death was
often thought to match his life. "Better to burn out than to fade
away," he whispered against her ear, and hummed a snatch of music.
No, never the cold of space for him.
"Officer Sun." Crais' voice came over the comm, an unexpected but
welcome formality.
"I'm ready," she said, and picked up the bag from the bed. She had
stuffed the clothes inside it yesterday, her eyes blind with rage.
She couldn't destroy them as she wished: it had been hard for him to
find enough to wear lately, and the Human on Moya, should the two
crews ever meet up again, would need them. She left the chamber
without a glance at her reflection. It wasn't something that mattered
anymore.
They gathered in the docking bay: Crais, Stark, and Rygel. It was
hardly a fitting farewell, and she missed Zhaan and D'Argo
desperately for a moment. Crais said a few words; she didn't hear
them. When he was done, Aeryn handed the Human's bag to Stark: she
didn't want it with her. Then she climbed into the cabin of the
transport pod. Crais stepped forward, but Stark held him back. She
met the Banik's eyes briefly then turned her attention to the
controls.
She barely noticed the others leave the airlock and the outer doors
begin to open; all her attention was focused on her cargo. He had
never said what he expected as his own death; probably he had hoped
to die in bed, surrounded by children of his own people. She
thought, though, that like herself he had stopped looking forward
some time ago.
Well, he had died in fire after all, the fierce burst of photons as
deadly to him as flame had ever been to Moya. He had died in fire,
and he would leave them in fire as well, his body spiraling into the
gravity well of a middle-aged yellow star.
She freed the well-wrapped bundle from the transport pod's clamps,
and watched it drift away. Slowly at first, then faster, as her jets
kept her in place against the star's draw. Only when she could no
longer see that dark speck against the brilliance did she turn the
pod away.
Back to Talyn; back, perhaps, to Moya, where someone with the same
eyes and the same hands would try to tell her stories she already
knew.
***
END
Notes: first dip into a new ficdom; hope y'all like it.
Many many thanks to Vehemently, who caught my commas and canonical
inconsistencies; and to Melymbrosia, who proved to me it could be
done, and who made me justify my choices; and to Nestra, for last-
minute reassurances. And, always, all my love to Yes Virginia,
without whom none of this would be possible.
****
I'm the darkness in your daughter
I'm the spot beneath the skin
I'm the scarlet on the pavement
I am the broken heart within
--- Yes Virginia I am ---
http://cofax.freeservers.com