Title: The Voice Within
Author: Larq a'Guairen do Ahvriny and her kith, al'Laine Aranielle id Larq
Summary: Aeryn's reflections of her past during a silent endeavor with Crichton.
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters are owned by Jim Henson, The Hallmark Network, and the Sci-Fi Channel. However, the Opaldoran text is mine. No infringement is intended.
Rating: G
Category: General
Feedback: Send your comments or constructive criticism to larq003@hotmail.com or to allaine003@hotmail.com
Archiving: Put it anywhere…just email me first and tell me where it is (so I can have a look-see!).
Spoilers: None
Dedication: This is dedicated to all the Farscape fans, especially those who have great love for Aeryn Sun. But most of all, I dedicate this to Farscape's cast and crew who have dedicated a part of their lives to the success of this project. Godspeed in your journey to excellence. Claudia Black, we recognize your talent and as an indication of this truth, this fic is dedicated to you as well.
***
'Caldochenti al danium saviae cal id offalian dein gradis, carnaris id lotica vadis danae syd aqui orachent laftal yvonne...'
'Sound the trumpets of war and with the fiery claymore of life, thrust the living with its blade that they may rest below the ashes...'
***
Have you ever listened to the weeping of a child? Have you ever heard the chokes that served as raiment for an ample stage of tears and the death of purpose? No…never…I will never know your joy, nor the trumpets of your heavens, your paradise, nor of the beguiling grin of life that sets with the sun's flight to the confines of the horizon. I will never know…
"Aeryn." Silence. "Aeryn!"
She blinked, irritated to have been snapped so easily from her reverie. "Oh…what do you want?"
"Is something bothering you?" The gentle quality to Crichton's voice did little to ease her anxiety.
"No. Nothing."
The man opposite Aeryn Sun offered a belligerent shrug. "Yeah, right. And pigs fly…"
She ignored the curiosity in his voice.
In a battlefield, there is nothing but death. Death and his blatant battlements of fate; he makes do with his curved scythe, a menace at the beginning of a rich harvest, and rents lives like barley, scattering blood as the farmer scatters his seeds. You will never know my pain, nor of the putrid oil that skims the surface of purity, the guilt that slides across ice as blade sails across a frozen lake. You will never know of the boughs that sustain the unsullied tree, or of the leaves that I had once nurtured to endure the frost of winter. Never. Never.
"Aeryn..." Silence. "Aeryn!"
"Yes."
"Care to pay more attention to what your doing? Look...ahhh! You welded the wrong plate! Aeryn, what the frell is bothering you?"
Aeryn failed to comprehend the gesture of concern. "Hezmana! Just frelling ignore me, Crichton! I know my Prowler better than you do!"
"Okay, okay. Ice-butt Peacekeeper and her Wonder Horse, Prowler," Crichton muttered, turning back to the console with a backward glance.
Once, Death lent me his cloak and gave me his scythe for safekeeping and, bent under this overpowering ability to take what was not mine to keep, I bathed planets with men's blood and washed my hands in the black river that flows from darkened peaks. And so, with this remnant, the motherless innocent wept upon my feet, the misshapen widow snivels behind her ebony veil, the men emerge with nothing but the lunacy of lost loves. Who, of all the beings in the universe, would want to wade their hands in a bog infested by leeches?
"Aeryn, snap out of it." There was a pause as Crichton silently took in the tear that had somehow limped its way to her cheek. "God. Aeryn, honey, are you okay?" He reached for the liquid diamond with the hands of a miner...
No. Don't touch me.
Her hand quickly wiped the tear from her cheek just before he instinctively touched her face. "Nothing you should worry about Crichton."
"'Nothing I should worry about.' Oh wonderful. And I'm suppose to believe that? Cut the crap, Aeryn. Talk to me. What's wrong?" His voice was gentle, like the soft symphony of nature as snow descends from the heights.
Frell you Crichton and your frelling humanness.
His blue eyes pleaded for an answer but she halted her tongue and trained it to utter words that would somehow pierce him despite its neutrality.
"I don't have to tell you anything."
It was a no-nonsense tone and Crichton immediately got the message. He could not help the grin that peeked its humor from under his brows.
What does he see in me?
"Hey Sunshine. I'm right here if you need me, alright?"
Why does he even bother?
She snorted. Though, as the microts passed, there was a sign upon her lips that told of a crescent moon against the backdrop of dusk.
Perhaps the days were scrawled upon a stone, scratched by fingers; their nails torn from their places and their tips stripped of their flesh. Indeed, Death's hidden face seemed to smile from beyond the gloom as he hid once more into the confines of my mind, awaiting the clarion that sounded the summons for his sweltered hands to rile against the strength of my insides. He, after all, wished my surrender to the thick, blackened night of blame. But this John Crichton suppressed the sigh that gave life to the beckoning call and instead, sealed the lips and blew his own, whimsical melody. He never fails to amuse me and in a way, he was the constant comet of goodwill that showered upon me the crystals of a joyous laugh, and the rain of a smile.
***
'Ildoranin cul Liumnae'
'The Life of Nature' -derived from Opaldoran text
...Fall not into the trap of the pot brimmed in gold
For tender light, silver-hued, from the moon doth unfold
Upon the surface of a burnished blanketed lake
Which gold-strung dances upon a summer's leaf doth take
Poor clouds hang upon the upholstery of the heavens
The tears from its vault a hefty grievance
But when they fall down the cheeks of frosty Space
They caress cool Air with careless grace...
***
-The End
