TITLE: Bow Down Before No Man
CHAPTER: 1
AN: I take full responsibility for any changes in canon, timeline and the fact Jun and John wouldn't know each other. A timeline that for me is more difficult to track than an algebra problem. So just enjoy... Maybe, it'll be a good story. Thanks for dropping by.
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." —Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version (KJV)
If he keeps his eyes focused on the infant in his arms, he won't see the raw earth piled next to the grave or smell the dank, cold stench of death creeping up from the dark hole. People weeping quietly surround him, their emotions threatening to smother him with their need. The odd line of his white dress shirt and black suit around his wrist feels strange and restrictive. He flexes his large hands over the infant and holds her closer.
Overhead, birds call from trees fresh with the new growth of spring. The smell of freshly mown grass and roses close his throat with a cloying perfume. The wildflowers she loved tempt him to look up as they bow and sway in the light breeze. This is exactly the kind of day his Lara had loved. He swallows hard that dark pit is not the place for her. The baby begins to fret, so he retrieves the pacifier, and she accepts it impatiently.
The scarred, work-worn hands that hold his daughter so lovingly remind him of days past. He'll never forget the long and often brutal days fighting alone or with a team of Spartans. He'd lived his life on the battlefield and slept in the frozen blindness of cryo-sleep. He is no longer that man. He will never stop thinking of himself as a soldier, but in his heart, he is no longer a Spartan. Those were the days before he'd learned the love of a woman or the tender scent of a newborn. Although, there are things he's still not accustomed to, and he is proud to have found his place in this community.
The priest says something to him he doesn't catch. The man's been droning on and on for thirty minutes. What do his words, or any words matter now? They will not bring her back. What can replace the smile that was just for him, the warm body that soothed away the nightmares and the hands that caressed away the pain? Nothing can replace the woman who gave up her life to give him this beautiful little girl staring up at him so innocently.
He focuses his eyes on the man suddenly standing in front of him. Only because the priest just called him by name. He wishes they would all just disappear, but they won't because his wife has family here on Vodin, and he is following their wishes.
"Mister Aiken?"
He remembers what he's supposed to do now and walks slowly to the graveside. The bouquet of wildflowers he'd forgotten about fall from his fingers into the grave. It's an empty gesture at best, but it's what her family wanted. They expect him to say a few words, but there is nothing he can say to her now that he has not said before. And Lara can no longer hear him when he tells her how beautiful their little girl is and how much she changes almost hour by hour.
Three days ago, a smiling nurse handed him the infant, and he'd held her up for his wife to see. Their eyes met over the squalling and kicking new life they'd created, and he'd never known such a perfect moment of happiness. Then something changed in her eyes, and he'd watched it with growing confusion. The medical staff began to move very quickly while the smile on her face turned to fear, then terror. Their moment of joy replaced with anxiety.
The last words he heard from his wife were, 'let me hold my baby'. Then her outstretched arms dropped to the bed. Had she even heard him say, I love you before the medical team shoved him out of the room. She hadn't been able to hold her daughter before they made him leave. There he stood outside the door, listening to frantic shouting of the medical team.
An hour later, the doctor walked out of the delivery room. Her surgical gown bloody and her cap soaked with sweat. She hadn't needed to tell him anything, he already knew. The specter of death had been his companion for many years. He thought he'd left it behind, but it had found him again. His daughter screamed and writhed in his arms.
They beckoned him into the room where his wife lay silently on fresh, clean sheets. One of the staff had taken the time to smooth her hair back from her face. After the rigors of childbirth, she appeared so calm and peaceful. The animated expression is gone, the smile and her laughter. The wonder in her eyes when she placed his hands on her belly as she told him about the pregnancy.
Somewhere in the background, the doctor said something about hemorrhaging. How sorry they were at their inability to save her. The baby was a healthy girl.
He had done this to her. He'd gotten her pregnant, and he had killed her. That had been thirty-six hours ago. He'd endured three long days of family and friends trying to comfort the grieving father. Now he must say a final goodbye to this plain wooden box, which inexplicably holds his the body of his dead wife. There hadn't been enough time for him to understand the miracle of their lives together, and now she is gone.
When he's ready, and when he can, Randall Aiken steps into the crowd of mourners to hide the grief he can no longer control. They offer what solace they can to the tall silent man who literally fell into their lives and became such a valued member of their community. For ten years, he'd lived with them and helped them recover from the Covenant attack. Ten years of peace and quiet and contentment.
"I'll always take care of you," he whispers into the soft scent of her pink blanket. She's barely three days old, her name is Natalie, and she's the daughter of Spartan Randall-037.
After a few moments of watching his daughter contentedly sucking on her pacifier, his brother-in-law lays a hand on his shoulder and nods toward a stand of trees. He follows the man's gaze to the sight of two men crossing the grass, between headstones, toward the graveside. They are very tall and very familiar and — bloody hell — have no reason to be here.
His daughter begins to cry when his hands convulse around her small body.
The priest raised his hands over the crowd, "Peace be with you."
The mourners respond appropriately while Randall Aiken abruptly hands the child, he has not willing let go of for three days, to her aunt.
Anger overrides grief as he strides toward the two men. When they see him, they stop to wait for Aiken to approach. The fewer people around, the better for this conversation, so they pause beneath an old gnarled tree, half-dead from a long ago lightning strike.
The two men are very tall and resemble each other in a way that might make you think they are related. They wear similar polo shirts, dark fabric stretched over hard muscles. The blue jeans look new and stiff, as though they aren't worn very often. Their hard, lean faces reveal nothing of what they are thinking. Their stance is anything but respectful mourners at a graveside. They are men of action. Alert, constantly assessing their surroundings and remaining still does not come easily.
"I suppose I should be impressed it took two of you to come for me," Randall Aiken spoke first when he got close enough. His words grind out of his throat and shatter like shards of glass. The two men take a step back at the fury pointed their way.
"We both came because we need you to understand the importance what we have to tell you and remind you of your responsibilities."
"Bollocks!" Aiken spat, trying and failing to keep his voice level. "The only thing that's important right now is my little girl. I should knock you flat for interrupting Lara's funeral."
"Sorry about your wife."
Randall swiveled his head toward the second man with sandy brown hair and dark brown eyes. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose is completely out of place on the lined face of a man who's known only violence and loss.
"Are ye now?" Randall snorted a laugh that sounded more like a threat. "And I might believe you, John, if I'd ever witnessed a moment of genuine emotion out of you."
"That's not fair or proper. It was the way we were raised… you were the one who left us." The other man said, stepping forward.
"Get to the truth of it, Jun. Halsey sent you here to do what? Drag me back? Have the pair of you come to get me feeling guilty enough to come crawlin'?"
John spoke again, "We need your help, Randall."
"Now then," Randall said loud enough to cause a few heads to turn in their direction, "the both of you clear out. I won't come with you, and that's the end of it. I have a wee lass with no mother to take care. This is my home and my family. If I hear the word mission out of either one of you, it'll be a fight."
Jun raised his hands, "We're not the enemy, Randall. We need your help and…" He stopped talking and looked at John. When John nodded, he continued, his voice quiet and intense. "Those ONI pricks know you're here, and they're coming for you, Randall. Seems they haven't gotten the full value of their investment out of you."
Jun managed to catch the fist Randall aimed at his face.
"We bow down before no man." Afterwards (the two Spartan from the entry above) when they came to the Persian King's presence, the guards ordered them to fall down in homage and when they refused, force was used, the Spartan's resisted and this was their reply to the King.