Disclaimer: I own nothing. Thank you Ron Moore & David Eick.
Five histories, and one present
…If poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake. – Robert Penn Warren
1671, arranged marriage
When Lee turned seventeen, his parents set out to select his bride.
His father's wars had kept him in the East so long that he knew little of the eligible families in the neighborhood. He left the choice to his wife, and after months of gossip, negotiation, and prayer, she settled upon the young Thrace girl, daughter to one of the court musicians. The Adama lands would ensure the child a more comfortable life than her parents could hope to provide, and in turn her father's entertainments might open doors for the Adamas in circles higher than the petty gentry.
Lee had never met her, never even seen her. The seventh of twelve children, she had been farmed out young to live with relatives fifty miles farther into the countryside. Her parents predictably reported her as fair, industrious, healthy and chaste. They did not, however, include the typical compliment: "demure." Lee suspected that particular silence spoke volumes, but said nothing to his mother on the subject.
The banns had been posted on the church door for two weeks, and the anxiety churning through his stomach was becoming overwhelming, when they received word that the match must be broken off. Young Kara, it seemed, had been no keener for these nuptials than he, and proved considerably more effective in her protest. She had taken a horse and a set of her cousin's clothes and ridden off in the direction of Liverpool. Her note suggested that she intended to try her luck shipping out to sea.
For the first time, Lee thought he might like to have met her.
1916, dogfight
They spiraled up together, locked tight in a race for altitude – for life. Both pursuing and pursued, they banked hard, each trying to slip far enough above and behind the other to break the circle and line up a kill shot. Lee's propellers were barely two hundred feet from the rudder of the German's plane, and he could almost see the bastard's face as they revolved. The clouds were light, the sky a brilliant blue.
The bloody Eindecker had ambushed him in an attack-run perfectly aligned with the sun, catching him blind and strafing his undercarriage. He'd turned into the barrage and latched on like a bulldog, chasing as hard and fast as he could. They had danced for ten minutes now, longer than any engagement he'd ever flown. It couldn't last.
At the top of their arc his Avro reached its limit, shuddering around him as the engine lurched and the nose dipped insistently downward. Desperately, he wrenched the stick hard over, zig-zagging as he began to plummet, but it wasn't enough. The German aimed true and machine gun rounds punched through his leg and then across his instrument panel. He lost control and the wind screamed with him as he went into freefall.
It was over, except not quite, because it would take him almost a minute to hit the ground. There was nothing to do but watch it happening, and to hell with that. Though terror and pain closed his throat he threw his head back and lifted both arms up and out, letting the sky fill his hands and his eyes. Looking up, his gaze caught on the black crosses painted along the Eindecker's hull, and he watched in surprise as the plane drew closer. Its unknown pilot was diving alongside him, almost matching the acceleration of gravity.
His killer had become his honor guard. A final tribute, insane but perfect.
He kept his eyes on those shining wings all the way down.
1431, witchcraft
Short-cropped hair and a flash of armor were all he'd seen of her.
His company – archers among a mass of foot soldiers – had been stalled outside of Orleans for months when she arrived, and the sight of her demoralized them further. The Dauphin was clearly beyond all hope if he was recruiting peasant girls to lead his troops.
It was said she had visions, heard voices that would lead them to victory. She promised their people a homeland free from the slash and fire of English occupation. In borrowed armor, atop an untried steed, she took the offensive and rode screaming into battle. The roar and blaze of her, shining and mad, shocked the troops into frenzied courage. Lee fired over the throng to strike the men who aimed at her, his arrows brushing close to her raised arm. Where she led their army followed, and Orleans lay conquered within a week.
The next few months were a mad dash, a ceaseless rush of movement from siege to siege, battle to battle. A golden time, despite the blood and cruelty and exhaustion. He stood outside the cathedral in Reims, crushed in the disbelieving crowd, and watched his king crowned ruler of all France.
It was her victory, that crown. The green fields they'd reclaimed with blood had been her gift. He believed in her as he believed in nothing else.
They lost her in a pointless, tiny skirmish. He hadn't even seen it happen. She was captured, imprisoned, and sold. Illiterate as he was, he begged for news from every traveler on the road. The ugly rumors spread, the tales of witchcraft – a thin disguise for English vengeance.
It ended in fire, of course. They burned her body twice, so that the ashes would offer no material for relics. Lee thought them fools.
She would never be forgotten.
1803, funeral song
Smallpox swept through the Carolina woods that autumn, and he lost his wife and child.
He had been traveling through the wilderness for weeks, stalking deer, otter, and duck – the last game he would be able to collect before winter. It was cold the night he finally guided his heavy-laden mare back home, but there was no light through the cabin windows and no smoke curling from the chimney. He found his wife's body inside on the bed, covered in welts, her rigid limbs locked around their silent daughter.
It drove him nearly mad. But after losing two days to rage and grief, he dug their graves and sewed their canvas shrouds, and handled the bodies more than he should have, half-hoping to catch the disease. It was a reckless and sinful desire, and as he prayed over them in the fading light, he was struck with the fear of damnation. Better to burn every relic and scrap of their shared mortal life than to renounce hope of meeting them again in the kingdom of heaven. He cleaned out the cabin with smoke and hot wax, burned the blankets and clothes that might carry the pox, and resigned himself to surviving.
Many were not so fortunate. The epidemic spread along the frontier, and fully a third of the white families succumbed to disfigurement or death. It was far worse among the neighboring Cherokee; in a matter of weeks whole villages became little more than open graves, and the few survivors wandered away, dazed and directionless.
Lee took to the woods most evenings. He dreaded company, unable to quell the anger that every expression of sympathy seemed to spark in him. One night, he was crouching under the oaks when he heard a solitary voice raised in song. The words were meaningless – he had never mastered the Cherokee tongue – but the music struck to his heart.
It was a woman's voice, ragged and hoarse, powerful in pain. She was keening, raw and angry, and yet the song itself lifted her grief toward something holy. Lee was caught by the sound. All his life he had thought of Indians as dirty and savage, but this…
This song came from a human soul as kindred to his own as ever wife or child or sister could be.
He listened and cried for her.
1200 BC, Troy
The war that began with her blood would end with his.
Leander Hector, tamer of horses, fought well but without hope. Each day he stood before the walls of his embattled city, held off disaster with sword and chariot, and caught the glint of sunlight by the sea. Achilles lingered by the ships, his armor bright and spotless. The distant glare of sun on metal burned behind Hector's eyes, even at night.
That shining armor would light him and his people to their pyres. They had no future.
Yet still he fought. His brother's lust was a poor cause for so much sacrifice, but no claim of gods or men could overcome the bond of family. Not in King Priam's court.
In Agamemnon's realm, it had been different.
The Achaean king had ransomed his ships, becalmed and rotting in their harbor, with his own flesh and blood. He had let his priests carry his fair-haired daughter to the water; stood by as they lifted their knives.
She offered her life to Poseidon. Some said she had been willing, her courage fierce and blind.
Her broken body had bought a fair wind, a fresh start. The fleet had sailed, and on these distant shores it would claim its victory.
When Leander thought of his future, all he could see was her past. His life would pour out to the dust, as hers had to the sea.
And this war, this hideous war, would stretch between them.
2011, collision
Kara Thrace apparently didn't exist.
Or at least, her phone didn't exist. He'd double-checked the number on his contact sheet a dozen times and wasted four days trying to catch her in.
She was never in.
Then, on his way to nowhere in particular, he almost got run over by a lunatic blonde in a car quite emphatically red.
"I hope you're insured," he managed, voice uncomfortably high as he dusted off his suit and inspected the damage to his sedan. He supposed he hadn't really needed that fender.
"You should be paying me for putting this clunker out of its misery," the blonde informed him, running critical eyes over both man and vehicle.
"License." Lee held out a hand.
There was a dangerous pause. "Please," he added.
"Since you ask nicely," she groused and slapped her card into his hand.
He stared down into his stinging palm and saw a familiar name.
"Kara Thrace?" He shook his head, laughing a bit. "Fancy meeting you here. I've called you about a dozen times."
She frowned.
"On business," he clarified. "You should update your contact info."
She shoved her hands in her pockets. "Phone's dead. I didn't know anyone was trying to get hold of me."
She tilted her head. "Been waiting long?"
Lee looked at her and thought: you have no idea.