My Brother's Keeper, My Brother's Judas
When Kate and I reach the infirmary, the lights in the isolation room have been dimmed to a soft twilight. At first, I think that Gilleasbachan must be sleeping, but when I approach, thinking to make sure he is not suffering any nightmare despite Carson's drugs, his eyes open. The drugs must be wearing off, for there is no longer the glassy, hazy apathetic look in his eyes, but the fright is creeping back in, heralding the return of memories.
"Mairghread," he whimpers through cracked lips and the oxygen mask.
"I'm still here, Gil," I speak softly, all too well aware that he probably has a fierce headache. "I just needed to get changed."
His hand, trapped by the weight of the cast, tries futilely to reach out and touch the fabric of my dress. I oblige by perching on the edge of the bed and putting my skirt fabric within his grasp. His fingers brush the silky material as though he were afraid it would disappear at his touch.
"Mathair used to wear dresses like this," he mumbles, his voice choked with the tears which run down his face. He continues to stroke the dusky pink cloth, twisting it in his fingers, holding onto it like it is the only thing that is keeping him here. "She loved rose. And green." He pauses, a haunted look in his eyes. "Never black. Never black."
The queen. "No, no, don't think about that, Gil," I whisper, leaning in close that I fill his vision. "You're here, with me. It's going to be all right. I promise."
"I can see her," he whispers back, terror sending his voice high. "She won't let me leave. She told me she'd never let me leave."
"Gil, she's dead. I killed her. We burned the body, scattered her ashes over the wide sea," I try to reassure him. "She can't come back. She can't hurt you."
The faintest glimmer of hope, barely a spark enough to light tinder on fire, shines in his eyes. "Promise?"
"Yes, I promise," I tell him, reaching out to touch his face. He flinches, but then relaxes, almost nuzzling into my palm. A comfortable silence falls between us for a moment, and then I have to ask, "Are you feeling any better?"
He leans back into the pillow, his hand still kneading my skirt. "A little." He nods towards the many bags hanging from his IV pole. "Dr. Beckett says this is food. He says I can't eat." He frowns. "Why can't I eat?"
Oh, damn. The subject I had hoped to avoid and knew I had to address has been broached.
"Gil, the queen…damaged your stomach. Dr. Beckett has to fix it before you can eat," I try to explain without any detail, but Gilleasbachan is having none of it. Kate hovers in the background, not intruding, but ready to jump in if things go badly.
"How damaged?" his voice has an edge to it—anger? Fear? I can't be sure.
I turn to Dr. Heightmeyer. "Can I borrow your tablet for a moment?"
"Certainly," she turns it on and hands it to me. For the moment, Gil ignores this new person in the room, instead focusing on me. I take the stylus and draw two figures in the drawing program. One, a simplified version of what the insides of a person should look like. The other, a simplified version of what his insides look like. "Gil, this is what a stomach should look like." I point to the first drawing. "This is what your stomach looks like." I point sadly to the second.
A look of mingled comprehension of horror and incomprehension of reality dances over his face.
Kate chooses this moment to jump in--distractions can be wonderful things.
"Gilleasbachan? Hi, I'm Dr. Kate Heightmeyer, the base's psychiatrist," she introduces herself as she stands on the otherside of the bed. Gilleasbachan looks at her with a mix of confusion and distrust.
"Psychiatrist?" he repeats the unfamiliar word slowly, his brow furrowed.
"Yes, um, I'm a doctor for the mind, like Dr. Beckett is a doctor for the body," she tries to explain, only relieving my brother's distress somewhat. "I know that you must be feeling confused and frightened, but I'm here to help you."
"How?"
"Well," Kate begins before looking around, realizing that this is going to take a while, and spots a stool. "May I sit?" Gil nods slowly, not quite sure what to make of this strange woman claiming to be a healer for the mind. "First of all, I'm here to listen. Anything you need to get off your chest—"
"Off my chest?" my poor brother is terribly confused at this point. What, to his mind, would he have to get off his chest but the blankets and his shirt?
Kate seems to realize her colloquial language will not help here. "Anything that's troubling you—if something scares you, worries you, hurts, it's my job to listen and try to help make it better. And then, I can prescribe medications to help, different kinds of therapy—"
"And these…therapies…medicines…they will get rid of the memories?" Gilleasbachan asks, unsure how he is supposed to react.
A look of regret comes over Kate's face. "No. I'm afraid not. But they will make the memories easy to deal with, so you can live a full and happy life."
Gilleasbachan closes his eyes, tears squeezing out between his closed eyelids. I do not need a mental connection to know what he is thinking—nothing will let him live if the memories are still there.
Kate may provide a stopgap, but I need to find someone to help me with the wraithian way of helping torture victims.
Kate continues to talk for a few more minutes, but I admit I stopped listening—her means may be effective for humans, but they never had to address someone whose torture included being killed and brought back to life for thousands of years.
Eventually she leaves me alone once again with my brother.
"Gil, I—" once again I try to broach the topic and try to explain the surgery to him, but I am fortunately saved by Dr. Beckett's entrance.
"Ah, Gilleasbachan, ye're awake. I take it ye've met Dr. Heightmeyer?" he claims the stool Kate just recently vacated. He offers a warm and friendly smile to my wary brother. "That's good then. So, how're ye feeling? Any better?"
"It's easier to breathe," Gil responds slowly. Damn that queen—even when he's perfectly safe, he can't get it out of his head that he has to be on his guard, all because of that damned queen!
"Good, good," Dr. Beckett smiles encouragingly, beaming as though breathing easier were a huge accomplishment. He notes it down in my brother's chart. "What about the pain then? Do ye need something for it?"
Suddenly, Gilleasbachan freezes—in his eyes I can see that he has been transported back to the hiveship, back to some room with the sadistic queen. The heart monitor starts beeping rapidly—I reach out, taking his face in my hands once again, gently touching my forehead to his, linking minds with him in the hopes of bringing him out.
A misty space, like I meet my father in, but this space is dark, confining. There is no comfort here.
"Gilleasbachan!" I call out, trying to draw himself out. I myself seem to bring the only source of light to this place—I exude a soft, moonlight radiance. Why, I can't even begin to imagine.
"Mairghread?!" he cries back to me and I try to follow the sound of his voice. "Stay away!"
I slow my pace, but do not stop. "Why, Gil? Why should I stop? I'm only trying to help—you don't need to be afraid anymore."
"No, you shouldn't be here!" his voice is louder now, and tinged with panic.
"No, she shouldn't," a seductive, specterly voice purrs. "You're mine!"
I break in at last, my poor brother tied in his own mind, his arms bound behind his back and pulled up to an invisible ceiling. The queen stands before him, ghostly and immaterial to my eyes, but to Gilleasbachan, who must have had the queen constantly invading his mind, I imagine she is as solid as I am.
"No," I march up to the ghost and stare her in the face. "You are dead. I killed you. Be gone!"
She hisses at me, shrieking, "Never! He is mine!"
"Nothing is yours now—you are a pile of dust!" I shout back before walking right through her to Gilleasbachan. I reach behind him and pull the ropes loose—they turn to scraps of hemp in my hand. I catch him as he falls, gently lowering him to the floor. "Oh, Gilleasbachan, these things are dead and gone—forget them!" I whisper to him as he stares up at me in shock. "Come back with me." He shakes his head, afraid—this was his world, without it, he is lost. "Come. There is life yet to be lived, my brother."
Gently, I draw him into my own mind, which although not pristine is far brighter than his mind. I let him rest a few moments, but realize that Dr. Beckett must be growing concerned.
"Gil?" he looks up at me, startled but no longer with fear in his eyes. "Are you ready to go back? Dr. Beckett just wanted to know if you wanted something to dull the pain."
He nods and we slip back into the physical world.
Where there are alarms and people running around like mad.
"STOP!" I shout, fearful that such commotion will scare Gilleasbachan all over again. "BE QUIET!" I growl loudly—once again, there are great advantages to having a wraithian voice—when I shout, people listen.
"Ah, lass, ye gave us quiet a scare," Carson shoos the nurses out and silences the alarms when he sees that everything is relatively alright. "Is everything alright?"
"Bad memories," I whisper back, remembering afterward that it's futile to whisper in the presence of a wraith—we can always hear you.
"Ah," Carson nods. "I understand." He turns back to Gilleasbachan, who is looking somewhat—what's the earth term? Shell-shocked?—his eyes are flitting all over the infirmary. "So, did ye want something for the pain? There's no need tae be uncomfortable."
Gil jerks like he received a shock, studying Dr. Beckett for a moment as though he's trying to remember if he can trust this man with the strange accent before whispering, shyly, "Yes, please."
Carson smiles and lays a hand on my brother's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Finally," he jokes to me, "A patient willing to admit to pain!" before grabbing a syringe from the cabinet on the wall and slowly injecting it into the IV port. "There," he unlocks the syringe and tosses it in the biohazard bin. "That should at least take off the edge." He sits on the stool again, his hands on his knees, watching for the signs that the painkillers have started to work their magic before he broaches the topic I'm so afraid of. But there's no way around it—it can't wait for his psychological healing, and just doing the surgery without telling him would be even worse.
"Gilleasbachan, I think yer sister already told ye about the state of yer intestines," he begins, his voice gentle even if his words are hard. "But I don't think she told ye how we're going to fix them."
My poor, poor brother, he is so confused, so tired, so worn, so afraid. "What?"
"Gil," I whisper, squeezing his hand in a sign of reassurance, "Dr. Beckett is going to have to operate tomorrow."
"Operate?" the word is foreign, unknown. If only he never had to know it.
"Aye, operate," Dr. Beckett seems to be at a loss—how do you explain surgery to someone who has never heard of such a thing? "Dr. Biro and I will go in, put things back the way they're supposed to be."
Good. Simple, doesn't really explain the details…
"Go in?" Gilleasbachan's trembles slightly—damn it, he understood the meaning of Carson's words. "Cut me open? No. NO! Mairghread, you promised! You promised!" he sobs hysterically, his hand wringing my dress.
"Gilleasbachan, please, calm down! I promised you no one would hurt you anymore! No one will! You won't even know Dr. Beckett did anything—by the time you wake up, it will be over—no pain, I swear!" I try to reassure him, but he is past the point of hearing. Monitor's squawk and Carson quickly injects a sedative into the IV. Eyelids slide over glassy, terrified eyes—eyes accusing me of hurt and betrayal.
For once, I wish I did not know so much earth culture, for an all too concise descriptor comes to mind, worse than the words "traitor" or "betrayer"—Judas. In being my brother's keeper, I am my brother's Judas.
TBC
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! As you can see, reviews make me write more quickly, so please let me know how you liked it! More soon, I promise--I have a few days holiday, so I should have plenty of time to obey my muse.