A/N: You guys. I have missed this story so much. I've thought about it *so often* over the past year (years?...yikes!), and the rest of the story it as it plays out in my mind. Happily, joyfully, I'm writing again. It doubt it will be quick, and there will probably be gaps between my posts that are too long, but I've written a future chapter that was just this *outpouring* of so many things, and I can't get enough of that space and time in the story. Every re-read brings tears, and...I can't wait to share it with you! I know that will help to keep me going because I need us to get there soon!
Thank you *so much* for your patience with me - and thank you for reading! 3 This is another chapter where Kathryn has a rough go of things, but bear with me here. It's tough being all alone on a strange planet, and without resources. ;) ;)
Twenty-five
When she made it to the other side of the mountain range, there was a touch of lingering warmth.
It wouldn't last, but as Kathryn descended from elevation, sheltered some from the prevailing winds, there were precious stretches of time during the day when the cold was not bone-chilling.
More than that, there was freely flowing water again — and abundant fish.
She still had to stop often as fatigue and the cold took their toll, but her daily progress was improving.
She'd perfected the quick and simple lean-to shelter now that she was below the tree line again, sleeping amongst leaves and dirt — mats of moss, her ragged animal skins. She still had some of her tools, and she often passed late-day hours making new ones, more to occupy her mind than anything.
Sometimes she tried journaling again, but the joy she'd once found in penning her thoughts and experiences was elusive now, at best. More often than not, the pursuit drew dark, despairing thoughts, pushing her terrifyingly close to what she knew was a terminal surrender to hopelessness.
At the end of the day, it seemed no longer a question, whether she would lose herself to the vast sorrow of her isolation — if it was not some other horror first.
Her recent illness was still a shadowy presence, abiding as a deep ache in her bones and sometimes waves of nausea and dizziness, reminiscent of her dark days in the cave. Who knew the long-term effects — the pathogens resident on the planet and how they would interact with her human anatomy. It wasn't the first time she'd fallen so ill since being on the planet, but it was definitely the worst sickness so far.
When she managed to sleep deeply enough now, sometimes she dreamed of a wide, turquoise ocean, of warmth, and of Voyager.
It was Voyager more than Earth, the place she thought of as home. She had laughed one day when she realized, given a choice right now — Earth, the place she'd spent years striving to reach, or Voyager stranded in the Delta Quadrant — she'd choose the ship. It was a captain wishing to be with her crew, and it was a woman whose heart and soul knew love. It was the truth of her — a breathing, tangible reality, woven now with a deep, indissoluble sadness.
So many days gone, and in the vast solitude of the nameless world, tucked in who-knew-what part of the galaxy, hope had no true form. When that reality could not be stayed — which happened all too often when she was still, hunkered down at dusk, or sleepless in the hours before dawn — she felt frighteningly unmoored, her sense of self adrift.
Still, she dreamed — and for now, she pressed on.
Following the stream, carrying dried fish, her animal skins and tools, Kathryn felt the wind shift sharply one morning, sweeping up in front of her with gathering force.
Sure enough, that night she woke to the sound of a driving rain and a deep, palpable chill.
She'd taken extra care with the shelter, but as the night wore on, the storm a steady, powerful thing, invading drips became small streams and it was impossible to stay dry.
The weather eased by first light, and with the darkness waning, Kathryn emerged, exhausted, to a cold, misting rain, and wind still bitter. It was hard to tell if the storm was ending or merely in a lull.
One thing was certain: the mountain range spanned a far greater distance this side of the peaks. It meant the slope was generally more forgiving — a gradual down that frequently plateaued — but also that she was spending more time at elevation than she'd hoped.
Of course, there could be anything beyond the range — it could end at a cliff, a canyon; there could be another big upslope. The planet was analogous enough to Earth so far, but at the end of the day it was an alien world with secrets and traits still unknown to her.
Kathryn shivered, tucked back down under the shelter's opening, wrapped the longer end of her tattered scarf in another loop around her neck. There would be no starting a fire on a day like this.
Some minutes later, she packed up what was worth carrying and set off in a southerly direction under the thin cover of alpine trees, willing warmth from her motion. Ignoring the numbness in her hands, the shivering in her core.
When rain picked up again in the early afternoon, she regretted her choice to leave camp, but it was too late now. She'd not make it back before dark.
As if the rain was not enough to contend with, as she pushed on the landscape became rockier, less vegetated, more sloped. She had to slow down, really concentrate to keep her footing.
The environ was transitioning, and before she knew it, the sparse canopy of the forest was gone, replaced by a wide, thick sky, and a harsh, rocky surface as far as she could see.
She realized she'd long been out of the forest, as it were, but when was it she failed to notice the trees were outright gone? Around her now, the landscape looked almost as if it had been stripped — all sharp boulders and dark, red-hued dirt.
The emptiness was unsettling — wrong, somehow.
Trudging on, she fought to push back her panic. She had to keep going.
One step at a time…
One step…step…step —
She slipped, catching herself with her hands as one knee slammed into rock and the contents of her basket spilled out. Her stomach lurched at the sudden stab of pain and she cursed into the void as she tried to push herself back up. Shifting her weight, she collapsed back on the boulder she'd stumbled on and tried to catch her breath.
The rain poured now, and it amplified the pain of her fall. Nothing seemed broken, but her knee throbbed, and when she examined her palms, she found large scrapes and a deep cut on her right hand. The angry red of the fresh wound diluted and washed away as quickly as it welled, so it was hard to tell how badly it was bleeding.
The fabric of her former uniform tore easily, tattered and threadbare as it had become. She wrapped and tied the small strip around her hand, hoped it would stop the bleeding and keep the wound from re-injury.
The terrain ahead was more of the same, and the rain showed no sign of stopping; this would not be her last fall in these conditions.
Crisis mitigation mode came automatically, her mind almost absently working the ingrained process she'd employed countless times in her life. But as much as that kind of problem-solving was a part of who she was, here, now, she couldn't summon the necessary calm. Examining the situation only beget a feeling of helplessness; thinking of options only brought further panic.
She could feel the shades of her former life, her former self — could almost picture herself standing on the bridge of Voyager, radiating the cool collectedness that had always helped to reassure everyone around her. She remembered what that was like, how it felt — the adrenaline, the exhilaration, tucked perfectly into her high-functioning, force-to-be-reckoned-with being.
But back then, she hadn't been alone. Ideas had come from around the room, a flurry of brainstorming and problem-solving, and she could feel that, too — the invigorating debate and discussion, and the pride she'd had at her crew's resourcefulness and intelligence. As much as she had been the heart and soul of the ship's forward motion, setting the tone for everyone around her, she had flourished encircled by such a capable group, and she had thrived with the steadfast support gifted by those closest to her.
All of it went together; pieces of a whole, now irreparably shattered.
Here, now, there was nowhere to turn, no one to lift her up.
Dread filled her, a leaden weight. (How long before dark?)
She stared at her belongings, scattered about. Tools mostly. One stick-and-sinew-bound bark-paper book, askew, waterlogged, ink running off in small darkened streaks. Her bowl, hand carved and asymmetric. Her pathetic attempt at a bone knife, now a meter away, having tumbled downward. The remains of her phaser, a dead relic of the life she'd lost.
None of it was useful — none of it mattered. None of it would help her.
And truly, she thought — nothing would.
Her shoulders fell slack at the weight of it.
The rain continued to blanket her — the cold cut to the bone — and she trembled.
She trembled from the cold, from despair, from the absoluteness of her circumstances.
She trembled, tears mixing with rain, her animal skins a hopeless, waterlogged weight that smelled of decay, offering no warmth, no hope.
She trembled and ached from the work of it, until it became the only thing she could focus on. The rhythm. The vibration. Head bowed, her vision floated and blurred, and her thoughts numbed, dulling to just the shaking.
Despair had become paralysis and then —
Ant then, there were no more tears.
A breath in.
Out…
Somewhere, in a part of her being that brushed only tentatively against consciousness, she knew—
This is what surrender looks like.
And when the trembling ceased, that would be that — it would be too late.
But the truth was, it was "too late" the moment she crashed down on the planet. It was "too late" the moment she'd been taken, ripped away from her life and everything she had lived for. It had been too late for many months running.
No tears. It was just…too late.
The words floated, drifting around her in a way that wasn't good or bad; they just were.
And then, there it was, birthed into her consciousness — and she looked upwards as it came to her — the idea that too late was, in fact, something of a relief.
At some point, she would drift off. The weariness, the hypothermia would win out. And then…
And then — all of this — would…just…
End.
And that…
Wouldn't be so bad.
She settled into the thought — let it be.
A breath in.
Out…
It wouldn't be so bad…
And then, from the depths of memory, she saw herself in a wide field of spring wheat, knee-high…flat land spread out around her. Morning sun about two fists above the horizon to the northeast, long light and shadows teasing the dew leftover from night. The earthen smell of life and vitality — the land alive — was a warm shroud…
She was safe and the universe was open — it welcomed her dreaming, her hopes, all that she had been. Folded them perfectly into her surrender; a swirl of colors now.
The rising sun was warm against her face. It was the time before becoming, and she was ready — more so now than ever. It was time to leap.
But then, invading her perfect space, dimming the sun, the breeze — a voice. Deep. Echoing across too much time and distance — familiar and not, pulling at her. Insisting that she listen.
No!
She tried to fight, to block it out. Anger welled and the voice said: pull yourself together!
She refused outright, turned away. Tried to get back to the sun and the wheat. But the voice got louder, bidding that she listen.
Pull yourself together and survive!
There was no judgement in the words, no cruelty. It was all concern — a desperate pleading, really.
You have to survive!
Damnit, Kathryn!
And then — cold. Trembling.
Tears. A sob, choked back.
Rain, covering her indefinitely.
There was no peace here. How could she live for this?
And yet.
Awakened, she gathered her things back into the basket. Secured the strap over her shoulder, and stepped forward into the deepening evening, only the slightest hint of daylight diffusely illuminating the clouds at the horizon.
She had no plan, no ideas to propel her.
She had no purpose; just a ghost, a memory.
Her mind was empty — she was just taking steps. Aimless. Not thinking much about falling again, or anything at all.
She almost missed the small, rocky recess set into an outcropping of conglomerate rock. But then she saw it, blinking; it wasn't a mirage.
Semi-alert now, she climbed over two large boulders and slid down the rest of the way to the outcropping, squinting at the recess in the dim light.
It was low — wider than it was tall.
She shifted her supplies, crouched down and reached out, leaned forward — it was an opening; she couldn't feel a wall on the other side.
She crawled into the space, feeling her way in the dark. Suddenly, the rain was no longer on top of her.
Her basket scraped against the rock above her, but a meter in she found she could almost sit upright.
She pressed deeper into the space on shaky hands and knees and when she found a back wall, she collapsed and huddled up against it. Spent, hypothermia threatening, she fell out of consciousness almost instantly.