Title: Zion, 3 a.m.
Categories: Drama/Angst
Rating: PG- 13
Summary: "Some people could argue that we've won. But I have to live with myself, and with him, and I know better. I know that for us it will never feel like a victory."
Spoilers: Only the fact that the post-Revs universe may not be so wonderful after all.
Thankyou's: To my two lovely betas. Guárdenme el secreto. :)
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Zion, 3 a.m. At least that's how it feels like. I won't get up and find out. Anyway, it's ages until what we call morning. In this city that we call our home. In this limbo that we call peace. Nothing moves. No sound except for Morpheus' slow and even breathing next to me. Too even. Too still. This calm is piercing me. I'm quietly, soundlessly choking.
It just seems too soon. War heroes and battles are remembered, but life goes on. Or so I'm told.
I hate silence. Silence forces me to remember. To think about everything that's been lost. Everyone who has died. And my ship. My baby. There are times at night when I wake up and think I'm still on the Logos. And I lie awake holding my breath, expecting to hear the familiar humming of the engines, steps on the corridor, the sounds of whoever has the night shift. But then Morpheus moves in the bed next to me, or light creeps in, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the room. And I remember.
And I'm mortified for feeling so bad about it. Especially since so many people have died. Widows and orphans lie awake this very moment thinking about their lost ones, and here I am, mourning over a stupid ship and feeling ashamed of myself. I know we all have more significant things to consider and that a ship shouldn't matter that much, but it does. Much to my remorse, it does.
Morpheus' grave and adult grief has nothing to do with me; I'm just a little girl crying over her broken toy.
Sometimes I look at him and I wonder how he manages to live with himself after having lost everything. True, some people could argue that we've won. But I have to live with myself, and with him, and I know better. I know that for us it will never feel like a victory.
Now the city is slowly slipping back into its routine. People go about their business and sometimes I find it hard to realize that everyone's life hasn't changed like ours has. Even the ones that have suffered the greatest losses seem to be making a supreme effort to carry on as if nothing ever happened. Maybe we're the only ones who can't seem to find a place in this postwar scene. Which only validates my theory that we shouldn't be here at all.
I know exactly what Morpheus means when he says he wonders if there was any point in us surviving. Was that meant to be? I don't think so. And I don't think he is so sure anymore either. Maybe it's just because captains are supposed to go down with their ships. Who knows. But I can definitely relate to that.
Not that it really matters if I can relate or not. Another thing that I've come to understand is that this is his own grief and he'll never share it with me. Maybe it's his revenge for what he perceived as a betrayal on my part, such a long time ago. I don't think he's ever forgiven me for not being a part of his crusade. He must think that if I couldn't share his faith, now I can't share his grief either. I guess I'll never know. I simply don't ask anymore.
We're over that. Now he just lies next to me pretending to be asleep, and I know it, but I pretend to believe him. There's just nothing to say anymore. I know that he's thinking about them. His crew. His children. He wishes they were still alive. Or maybe he just wishes he was dead as well. I know sometimes I do.
It's still ages until what we call morning.