Title: Repose
Summary: A very personal encounter with Moya's crew.
Archiving: This remains where I put it. If you want to save it, go on ahead, but I will not tolerate its reproduction without my permission, nor will I permit the posting of it in any site other than www.fanfiction.net.
Rating: I give it a go for anyone who so happens to have a very unhealthy, very obsessive interest in Farscape.
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters do not belong to me, nor will they ever. No infringement is intended. Larq al Lilienne, however, is mine.
Dedication: This is for all the hardcore Farscape fans. I hope Farscape, in its entirety, brings as much comfort at wretched times and the most blissful of moments to you as it does to me.
Author's Note: A lot of you might not understand what the whole log is about but just to fill you in, it generally tells of a darker time in my life and how a certain TV show gave light to all the obscurity. Crazy as that may seem, please take it as it is. Constructive criticism and your comments are highly appreciated.
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Larq al Lilienne, the Seeker of Truth. Personal Log. Stardate 02.05.01:
The pain sears through the flesh. It devours that part which lives in you, snatching with it all the shattered sanity from an Aurora Chair. For all its worth, it made me whole as well, denying its purpose with ferocity. I am reminded that I live, that the service of which my life is made, along with its inadequate yet shrill cries of sorrow, still exist; that all that has been inflicted upon me was with worthy cause.
I speak solely because my life was denied the shredding of Death's jaws; simply because my life, in its entirety, has been spared. Not by the Peacekeepers -certainly not!- but by a greater power, by a God whose gift is unshakable faith and a belief wrought by my own hands. All this since I was ripped from the pregnant womb of my race, my planet, the Zion that is the heart of my fervour.
Though His hand is but unseen, His instruments, youth unsung, have been revealed. Their eyes, flames fed with the chill of experience, bore me down with stories hidden from knowledge of each other's souls.
I witnessed the entranced Soulmates whose movements were in constant motion to deny each other but whose eyes danced upon a rickety stage of unexpressed love. I saw the Companions: one man's tenderness and the other woman's pain, walking an aisle bedecked with sweet blossoms. I saw the non-existent Virgin of Religion, the King of insurmountable Pride, the Scribe whose books were the stars. I saw the orbs for which their lives were consecrated, the cerulean seas, the earth whose color emulated tanned skins.
I had thought that my fate, in its tragedy, could not be surpassed but the clear pictures of a different time flashed their untamed passions at me and I knew that beyond the sighs of torture, there is that flowing river of hope.
Oh! Cruel Fates! The visions I see will be my undoing for whence did these images come? Perhaps from the ability endowed upon me by my Master; perhaps, from the strength of these people's convictions. I do not know.
What do I know? Other than the haunted howls of the Chair, the pinch of the wrongdoer, the rattled sounds of a poisonous snake? All that I have known was that unwanted prize of a diffident service to an enemy whose hunger consumed my own. How I loathe and more than loathe! Those dark-clad warriors of smooth visage! How I hate and more than hate! Those dark features chiseled from stone! And they call themselves gods!
Yet of course, the wait is worth its own reason for being. Laughter is sorrow's end and joy, anxiety's haven -a meadow of uncut grass and untouched buds that have, with the coming of blissful joyance, gone ajar to welcome age.
Then, there was that tremendous presence, a presence of unprecedented comfort, of a favored quilt woven in soft cotton hundred-fold that the skin's frantic cold is but a past whose memory was not given the noble honor of seeing. It reached out to me with the fingers of a child and I saw, as we all see, the windows of a soul that have never ceased to be…for the child is the product of its own fountain of youth.
Moya…
Moya was her name that sprung forth from lute and harp, a whisper that brushed past the ear as it made known to me her many joys and the unerring grief that came with it.
What was I to do? I could not merely respond to her in whispered sighs nor could I take what was not mine to keep: that rooted trust of unscented purity.
Oh! Woeful day! How I, the cur of villains, the subservient prisoner of pain unhindered, could muster unfounded dignity from the ashes of a summoning smile. A smile that had eroded off a featureless face. Yet, it was that face, the direful countenance, that shown melted adamantine in the face of penal fire, for I was that fire…the burning punishment whose loft had been set aflame by his enemies. I would have raised my vengeful sword but nay, the face seduced the pyre of hate and made me heel to ice and snow.
Oh! The memory erased, undone, the net left unwoven! And I, whose minds' fragments flew at immeasurable pace, wept.
Moya…the music of it is a dagger set upon the wind, its hurried flight a shimmering blur, its passing a relief. No sharp end bit at my flesh for instead its hilt, wrought from swollen chains, sought my hand and a blade whose lustrous cruelty was set to steal my spirit, instead became my defense.
That the gods would hear my prayers…that this vessel of fiery hope could wash the universe with a deluge of ardor and unlikely faith…that its crew, as it did me, would impart the better half of their souls.
-End Log-
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