Story 14 / Collection 7: Coming home

Call me by my name.

When Natarle woke up, the first thing that hogged her entire consciousness was the sharp, unbearable pain coursing throughout her whole body. Three shots was all it took to get her feeling like her physical existence was disintegrating.

Next, she heard the low voices of Fllay and Orga in casual conversation. They had noticed her waking up and immediately rushed to her bedside, with Fllay helping her sit up comfortably while Orga handed her a glass of water.

Apparently she had been sleeping for two days straight already.

But she was alive.

The last memory she had was of a monster escaping from his cage of steel. "Where's Azrael?"

Her two subordinates shared a brief look of understanding, and Fllay spoke. "He's locked up in the brig. The fighting ceased very soon afterwards, and most of the crew got brought back onboard. We lost some of them, but Ensign Andras and Ensign Buer are fine. Since the lunar base was completely destroyed, we're waiting for further instructions at this point."

The news was as good as it could be, considering the unfortunate conditions—though only half of the answer she needed. The anxious beating of her heart was loud in her ears and adding to the ache of her body, but she asked the dreaded question anyway.

"What about the Archangel?"

There was a flash of confusion on Fllay's face, then a realisation. "You're on the Archangel."

She assessed her surroundings; there was no way to tell. "What do you mean? If that's the case why are you two here?"

Orga shrugged with his hands still folded in front of him. "It was either here or the brig for me."

"They only threatened to throw you into the brig because you were being difficult." Fllay sent him a stern look of slight disapproval, before turning back to Natarle. "I notified Ensign Sabnak when the Director first pulled his gun out. The ensign was listening through my comms channel all that time, and came back to stop the Director. We then asked Captain Ramius for help, otherwise you would have bled out. I'm aware I probably hadn't thought through my actions clearly, but I just wanted to do something right for once."

In another lifetime, Natarle might have yelled at this girl for her insubordination, regardless of the implications if she just followed her orders. She smiled instead. "Thank you. I wouldn't be here now if it weren't for you, and Ensign Sabnak too."

Orga steered his attention away awkwardly with red-tinted ears, and a look of genuine appreciation appeared on Fllay's face.

She was about to ask Fllay if she had a chance to do what she came to the Archangel for, when the door opened without warning.

The room fell into dead silence as the ship's helmsman walked in.

For a moment Natarle was in pure shock, her mind blank as it tried to comprehend the simple reality of his presence. By the time she had noticed Fllay and Orga moving in unison to exit the room, it was too late to ask them to stay.

She kept her mouth shut, and as she watched him take the seat by her bedside, she felt her stomach sinking—like she was going into yet another battle, this time completely unprepared.

She was not ready for him.

She was not ready for the way he looked at her with so much held in those brilliant emerald eyes of his—the moisture filling his eyes like a dam waiting to break, with it an impending outpour of a million things he wanted to say to her.

Whatever he wanted to say, she had no right to hear them.

Another spasm of pain pulsed throughout her core, and she could no longer differentiate between the pain from her bullet wounds and the ache of her battered heart.

"Ensign Neumann," she said—a scant few syllables, yet leaving an incredibly painful lump in her throat.

His eyes first widened in surprise, then narrowed again in comprehension. "Natarle," he spoke her name as either a plea or a warning to close the distance she was putting between them.

She refused.

"What happens now? Am I a prisoner of war? As the captain of an enemy ship?"

"No, we're just trying to keep you alive," his eyes darkened, paralleling the tone in his voice, "despite your attempts otherwise."

He did not understand.

He was not there. He was not her. Azrael was a threat that had to be removed, and they were not supposed to see each other ever again anyway. It was the only option that made sense.

She kept her voice level, trying to reason with him. "It was the right decision. It had to be done."

"I understand its necessity, but not its inevitability. With all due respect, captain, I think it's the worst decision you've ever made. There must have been other ways. Without giving up your life."

The undercurrents of his anger were rising to the surface. It was fine, he had the right to be angry, for as much as he wanted, as long as he needed.

Let him expend his wrath and clear his head of the emotions that were confusing him right now, and after that, he would see why he should let go.

She stared straight into his eyes, trying not to flinch at the green flames he held within. "The alternative was your death."

"I wouldn't have blamed you. Yet even so, you ordered your crew to abandon the Dominion."

"Only because of circumstances." It was like the strings of fate had been pulled in just the right places, at just the right time; her personal wishes had nothing to do with it. "I had a mission. It was to take down this ship."

"At Mendel, we had a hard time, but that was already you going easy on us, wasn't it? You let us off, twice."

He needed to stop making excuses for her.

"Think what you will, but the facts don't change. I was going to kill you."

"It wasn't your decision."

But it was her decision.

She chose to follow her orders, even though they were orders to annihilate the Archangel.

She chose to not question the Alliance until it was too late.

She chose to start a relationship with him in the middle of a war.

She made the wrong choice from the very beginning, and now he was being haunted by the consequences of a bad decision. Had it never crossed his mind—like it had crossed hers so many times already—that perhaps they were not each other's destination?

"You're only saying this because you're still not seeing it. There's no way forward for us. Whatever we had was only for three months; it's alright to let go."

"Natarle." He called her name again, with purpose and pain in the way he stressed every syllable that had her in a chokehold. "I know the hurdles we're facing. Call me selfish, naive, unrealistic, but the thought of letting go had never crossed my mind. Not even once."

But he should, if he knew what was good for him.

She had proved that when love and duty were placed on a scale, she would sacrifice her love for the sake of her duty.

She was the kind of person who would scream in her mind out of the pain in her heart, and her fingers would still reach for the trigger.

In fact, her fingers were already on the trigger, ready to shoot, if not for circumstances forcing her to change course and sparing his life in the process. There was no way to know now what her final decision would have been, and this unanswered question would take root in their hearts and slowly poison them. In the end, they would part ways all the same, only with a longer lapse in time and a deeper hatred for each other.

"Your feelings will change with time. I don't want to be here to watch it happen."

He grabbed her by her wrist with an abruptness that caught her unawares; she expected it would have hurt, but his hold was restrained—firm and gentle, insistent without putting more strain on her body—and the only thing that did hurt was still her heart.

The tone in his voice told another story of his state of mind—all the rage he held back from the grip of his hands was being released through his words. "You don't get to dictate how I feel; it's not up to you. I know what I want. It has to be you. There's no one else for me."

For one fleeting moment Natarle could see the desperation in his eyes, then the vision of him started to blur, accompanied by a warmness around her eyes that had them in a pinch.

She closed her eyes for a long second, reining in the tears that threatened to fall.

"I could have died."

"Then that'll be it for me too."

"You'll meet others."

"And they won't matter."

"We'll fall apart."

"You can choose to let go, but I'll hold on no matter what. You can't make me stop loving you."

He was so very stubborn.

"Natarle."

There it was again—the call of her name, as though if he tried enough times, she would say his too.

She bit onto her lip, a palpable restraint that ensured she would not. His eyes would not leave her.

"Natarle."

Again.

He would be a fool to keep waiting.

She was not going to give in, but it did not seem he was about to relent either, and their noiseless tug of war persisted until a loud buzz finally interrupted them. He let out a repressed growl, before getting up from his seat towards the intercom. When he patched the caller through, she heard the captain of the Archangel. "I thought I'd find you here. I'm sorry, but I need you on the bridge."

The moment of silence that filled the air was so tense, it felt like the beginnings of a storm. His voice was cold, "I'll be there."

When Arnold came back to her bedside, she could feel the anger lingering behind his forced composure.

"Natarle."

"Ensign Neumann."

His brows scrunched up into an unrepentant frown—she recognised this look, but it was too late—he held her uninjured shoulder with one hand and her face in his other, and met her lips with his own.

He was so gentle that it only agonised her more, but it was alright; he could have what he wanted.

Let this be the goodbye they both deserved.

A goodbye to remember him by, along with those emerald green eyes, filled with wistfulness when he finally let her go—engraved in her heart as her most painful scar from this war.

And his last words, however beautiful, would no longer matter.

"Whatever has happened or will happen, my answer is the same. Only you."

Side story: The way away from home

When Arnold heard the news from his captain, he despaired at the notion of being a plaything for fate.

The Alliance had sent a ship to escort the Dominion back, and Natarle was about to be taken away from him before he had the chance to even hold her properly.

He always knew their current arrangements were temporary, and the ending of a war was laden with complexities. It was never going to be easy.

But this was different. She was walking away on her own terms. In the end, it was not his decision to desert the Alliance, but her decision to hunt him, that she could not forgive.

She kept leaving. Physically, emotionally, and he could not hold her down.

This was Alaska all over again.

He could not understand what he had ever done to make her believe that she was only an impermanent stop in his life, but it was so ingrained in her mind that she felt the need for a defence mechanism, rushing to leave him before he had a chance to do the same.

And once again, fate opened the doors for her.

The Alliance's shuttle was to arrive any moment now, and the only options left for him to consider were whether he would hand her over himself or let someone else do it.

He waited outside her room with Fllay and Orga as a woman from the medic team went through the process of preparing her for her move, changing her bandages one last time and getting her changed into something more presentable.

The door opened after a considerable wait, and as soon as the medic came out to announce her readiness, he went in.

She was sitting on the bedside with an indifferent expression as she watched him enter. "Ensign."

Arnold could not help but grudgingly admire how perfectly composed she was, her stare neutral and professional, leaving no trace of the conversation they had earlier. How irritating.

Eying first the wheelchair next to her bed, then the medic waiting by the door, he wordlessly moved to stand in front of her, making sure that his back was facing the door—enough to block those bystanders' line-of-sight.

"Allow me," he muttered. With no care for any approval, he slid one hand behind her knees and wrapped the other around her back, not letting her grimace of reluctance dissuade him as he picked her up. He allowed himself to hold her for just seconds longer than necessary—letting the warmth and weight of her body settle into his mind as memories to console himself in the months to come—before easing her into the wheelchair slowly, carefully, deliberately, with just enough time for him to steal a kiss on the top of her head under the eclipse of his own shadows.

And he knew hope was not lost when her response was not to push him away, but how her body stiffened, lips trembling, eyes wide yet not daring to make direct contact with his, and hand still lingering to his touch.

"I'll find my way to you. When I come, don't run."

o-o-o

The people from the Alliance had arrived just shortly before they made it to the dock.

The first thing Natarle noticed was the familiar face of the man a few years older than her, standing in impeccable military posture as he waited for them. It had been a while since she had seen him, his dark hair, his solemn violet eyes—a reminder of home.

She greeted him. "Captain Badgiruel."

"Lieutenant Commander Badgiruel," he nodded at her, then at the two others behind her, "Ensign Sabnak, Officer Allster."

Her brother's tone was level and professional, just as she expected. What she did not expect was him being here.

She wondered how much of what happened with the Dominion and the leader of Blue Cosmos had already travelled back to the ears of those back on Earth, and how quickly was judgement going to come for her.

"Lieutenant Commander Ramius, I am Captain Alexander Badgiruel, and on behalf of the Alliance, I would like to thank you and the Archangel for providing assistance to the Dominion crew."

He exchanged a few courteous but empty words with the captain that entered Natarle's ears only as white noise; her awareness was wholly monopolised by the insistent gaze from those emerald eyes on her, like green ivy gripping onto the iron gates she raised around her heart.

With time against them and distance between them, one day, he will learn to let go.

Her brother had turned around and started walking towards the shuttle, and she felt herself move, her wheelchair being pushed from behind to follow his lead.

She was going home.

She was leaving this ship for the last time.

o-o-o

"I'll take it from here, Officer Allster. Thank you."

Alexander responded to the redhead's undecided look with a polite smile, then took the handles of Natarle's wheelchair and pushed her towards the front of the shuttle by a window seat, where they would have quietness and privacy.

She was silent during the whole duration, apprehension filling the purple eyes that would not meet his own.

He took a quick scan at the damage done to her—there were bandages peeking out from her neckline, and by the way her clothes creased, he could tell there were more parts of her body wrapped in bandages than not.

She noticed his stare. "I'm sorry," her apology came—so much regret condensed in two short words—and he knew it was for a multitude of things.

Family. Honour. Dignity. All the repercussions that were to come because of her single act of disobedience.

She was still so young, yet carried so much.

His baby sister, only twenty-four years of age, already more scarred in every sense than he was as a thirty-one year old soldier.

"There's nothing to apologise for," he told her in a soft voice. "You did well."

She lowered her head again, and almost immediately, droplets of tears floated from her eyes and filled the air around her.

He reached for her head and patted on it gently, soothingly. "You did very well, Natarle. Let's get you home now."

For a while she was inconsolable, and Alexander remembered how she used to be a crybaby when they were children, only for her to bury that part of herself once she stepped into her teenage years, as a forfeiture for her ambition to follow in their father's and his footsteps.

Yet twice now since Alaska he had seen her fall apart.

The first time was when she was home, waiting for her next assignment after the disaster of JOSH-A—it was understandable, because she believed all her ex-crewmates were dead.

This time, he comprehended. It was more than that.

He waited with patience for her to recollect herself, before asking in a delicate manner, "It's the one with the blue hair, isn't it?"

She blinked at him, then shifted her focus outside the window, avoiding his attention. "I- I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not blind, Natarle," he let out a knowing smile. "Everyone else was focused on my conversation with the ship's captain, but he never once looked away from you."

There was a long pause before she spoke, "It doesn't matter. I'll never see him again. As long as he's alive—that's all I need."

He saw the forlornness that brought shadows to her pretty face and contradicted her feigned tone of detachment, and he decided to keep his thoughts to himself. "If you say so."

This baby sister of his, never quite honest to herself, always pretending she could do without the things she wanted the most. But the way her sights were trained on the Archangel—shrinking smaller and smaller in the distance that it was almost just a white speck in space now—had betrayed her.

She looked like she was leaving home for the last time.

[Prompt title 19: ファーストネーム / First Name]