BONES AND ASHES
May. 23rd, 2010 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nymeria_dwBones and Ashes
(a Farscape fanfiction)
Author: Nymeria
Disclaimer: the Farscape universe and its characters do not belong to me - I'm just borrowing them for a little while.
Rating: PG
Settings and Spoilers: A short while after PKW
Written for TerraFirma's 44th Starburst Challenge
********************************************************************
"Make no mistake, cousin, you are going to die."
Seeing the usurper quail at the prospect of death gives Rygel the same satisfaction as seeing him humiliated and despoiled of the trappings of power.
The cell is dank and gloomy, located in the lowest portion of the palace's dungeons where the seepage from the lagoon creates so much humidity that it takes on a life of its own. Rygel glimpses it in the fungal growths dotting the walls and low ceiling, and in the tarnished ornaments surviving on Bishaan's once-regal robe.
And smiles.
He has been in places like this one, more than he cares to remember. Tortured, terrorized, stripped of dignity and sense of being. It's only right for Bishaan to have a taste of his own medicine.
"I will not beg for my life," the deposed ruler's voice sounds unsteady, despite his efforts, "but I would ask you that my end be swift, and…relatively painless."
"You…ask? You dare ask for what you always denied others?"
"Is a little mercy too much to plead from the victor?"
"Mercy." Rygel's tone is ice cold. "I have been to Skelnal, cousin, I have seen with my own eyes your kind of…mercy. If you've forgotten it, it will be my task to remind you."
With that he drives the throne-sled toward the cell door, signaling the guard to open it, and moves into the corridor without a single backward glance.
The figure lounging near the door rights itself at his arrival, fixing him with a quizzical stare the Dominar chooses to ignore.
"The quality of mercy is not strained, Sparky."
Rygel halts the throne-sled, glaring at the Human. "I have no time for your usual nonsense, Crichton. And what the frell are you doing here?"
"I thought you might need…well, moral support. Can't be easy dealing with him after all that's–"
"A Dominar can deal with anything! Even unwelcome eavesdroppers!"
Unfazed by the Dominar's ferocious scowl, Crichton quickens his pace to keep alongside the speeding throne-sled.
"What's with Skelnal? Isn't it one of your moons?"
"It was." Rygel halts before the sloping passage leading to the upper levels.
Looking at his companion's face he sees only the concerned openness that's so typical of this foolish Human. And it melts something hard and cold inside him. Not that he would admit it. "Come with me, let's get out of this smelly place."
"Lead the way, Ryg. We can both do with some fresh air."
The slight pat on his shoulder feels good, too.
The Royal Gardens are a place of beauty and enjoyment: great lawns dotted with flowered shrubbery, low trees where birds roost sending forth their musical chirps, fountains spraying thin jets of rainbow-colored water. And in the distance the Dominar's Lagoon, a breath-taking expanse of sea ruffled by low, softly rolling waves.
The Palace overlooks it all, soaring toward the sky with its rose-hued white walls and delicate spires, the vivacious banners and tapestries hanging out of balconies fluttering in the breeze.
The view soothes Rygel's soul: whenever despair or sadness threatened to overwhelm him in the past, he always recalled these gardens, burned into his memory and his senses in such a way that he could feel and smell them even in the worst of places. Being here, finally here, only increases their healing powers.
The Dominar points his companion toward a low stone bench, and moves the throne-sled to rest on the soft grass nearby. Looking over the lagoon, he struggles for the right words with which to begin, but they stick in his throat and refuse to come out.
"The moon. Skelnal." Crichton's low voice prods him gently. "You said was…"
"It used to be the Royal Family's residence for the cold season. It never lasts long, but cold weather can be uncomfortable, with strong winds and heavy rains, so Rygel the Second decreed that Skelnal, with its milder conditions, would be ideal for the purpose." Rygel sighs in recollection. "He had a residence built there, with beautiful gardens, even more gorgeous than these," his pudgy hand indicates their surroundings, "then with time the palace grounds were expanded to accommodate the whole Court and the dignitaries' families and servants. I spent many happy seasons there in my youth…"
"Then what happened?" Again the Human prompts him when the silence of recollection becomes too long.
"Bishaan happened."
The resistance to Bishaan's takeover had been stronger than anticipated: love and loyalty toward the Rygel dynasty were more deeply rooted than the vocal discontent that cropped up now and then might have led him to believe.
Many of the noble families of Hyneria had called him 'usurper' and refused to accept his rule, doing so with a reckless courage that had stopped him in his tracks. Bishaan reasoned that dispatching them as he had done with Rygel's wives, children and closest advisers, might have marred the public image he was so painstakingly creating, so he changed tactics.
The dissenters were offered a choice between being executed for treason or exiled to Skelnal, where they would remain for the rest of their lives. Or until they choose to recognize his rightful authority.
This way he would show his leniency to the ever-growing crowd of his supporters, and remove potential hotbeds of restlessness leading to an uprising.
For many cycles the exiles seemed to have passed out of knowledge, and memory.
There was no contact with them, except for the regular food and supplies shipments that were also Bishaan's way of ensuring their cooperation, since Skelnal's soil did not yield nourishing foodstuffs.
Peace, his own brand of peace, settled over the realm.
What the new Dominar had not factored in were Hynerian stubbornness and fierce determination…
"They found a way to re-establish communications with the rest of the Empire," Rygel continues, "and started to rally support among those who were growing dissatisfied with Bishaan's rule."
"He got pissed."
"Yes, he did. He blanketed the moon with interference, so they were cut off, but the seed had been sown and the unrest kept spreading. He tried to starve them, promising food only if they gave up their beliefs and forsook their followers. They refused." Rygel's voice cracks, and he lowers his gaze. "So Bishaan decided to eradicate the problem once and for all, in what he called 'exemplary fashion'. He ordered that not one stone was to be left standing on Skelnal. Nor anyone alive - sentient or animal."
"His version of the final solution… Shit!"
"I've been told that the glow of the fires could be seen from Hyneria, at night. He choose the moment well, when the orbit was nearer, because he wanted everyone to see. Damn him!" Rygel tears from his neck the collar of office he'd been fiddling with and hurls it to the ground. "All because of me! Me!"
As the necklace strikes the flagstones of a nearby path, the heavy center jewel breaks free of its casing and rolls on the grass a few times until it rests face up, glinting in the sun.
"Not your fault, Sparky. He was the one who pulled the trigger."
"They died in my name! Every adult, every child on that frelling moon died because I was not strong enough! Not good enough…"
Ash-covered ground and still, lifeless air meet him when he alights from the transport he insisted on piloting alone.
Gone are the grass, the trees, the flowers. Wherever his gaze roams there's just an endless expanse of brown and gray.
Gone are the soaring mansions, the statues, the fountains. Broken stones and dusty soil sprawl as far as the eye can see.
The pale and sickly sun-rays fail to warm the air that's as dead as the world under his feet.
Moving away from the transport, he tries to catch some familiar marker on the tormented landscape, finding none. His legs feel rubbery, his steps unsteady. He had expected the devastation, but somehow he never imagined it would be so complete.
The crack under his feet seems louder in the utter silence. When Rygel looks down he sees he's stepped on a skull. A baby's, tiny and delicate.
And he suddenly wonders if this is how his dead children look.
Falling on his knees beside the pitiful remains, he raises his face to the unfeeling sky, and howls.
"Rygel…" Crichton's low voice recalls him to reality, and he shudders, as if to dispel the remnants of the memory. "…how long has this thing been eating at you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Let me get this straight: you think that if you'd been a better Dominar, Bishaan would not have kicked you out or all those people would still be alive?"
"Yes."
"Then think again, Rygel, 'cause this kind of thing happens all the time - both to good and bad rulers. Or just ordinary people." John tilts his head, fixing the Dominar with a pointed stare. "Stop obsessing about it."
"Well, coming from you, that's some advice!"
"Yeah, it is. Because I've been there, and it's not a nice place to be." He draws the throne-sled closer to him. "You gotta forgive yourself."
"Ah, and do you happen to have advice on how to do that, too?"
"Sort of. Remember what I told you about mercy?"
"It made no sense, as usual. I gave up on your blatherings long ago, Crichton."
"Not mine. An Earth writer, one of the greatest. The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesses him that gives and him that takes…"
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Forgive Bishaan. Keep him locked up forever, if you want, but forgive him. Killing him will never free you of his sins, or yours."
Rygel considers the Human's words for a few moments.
"You know Crichton, I would never have imagined you in the role of adviser."
"You offering me a job?" John picks up the broken collar and gem, and hands them to the Hynerian.
"Would you take it?"
Crichton grins. "Don't know. Have to ask the missus first." Then he turns serious "And will you take my advice? About mercy, I mean."
Rygel raises his head toward the sky, searching for the faint shape of Skelnal, but his mind's eye sees only the ashes, and the bones. "I will...consider it, Crichton."
(a Farscape fanfiction)
Author: Nymeria
Disclaimer: the Farscape universe and its characters do not belong to me - I'm just borrowing them for a little while.
Rating: PG
Settings and Spoilers: A short while after PKW
Written for TerraFirma's 44th Starburst Challenge
********************************************************************
"Make no mistake, cousin, you are going to die."
Seeing the usurper quail at the prospect of death gives Rygel the same satisfaction as seeing him humiliated and despoiled of the trappings of power.
The cell is dank and gloomy, located in the lowest portion of the palace's dungeons where the seepage from the lagoon creates so much humidity that it takes on a life of its own. Rygel glimpses it in the fungal growths dotting the walls and low ceiling, and in the tarnished ornaments surviving on Bishaan's once-regal robe.
And smiles.
He has been in places like this one, more than he cares to remember. Tortured, terrorized, stripped of dignity and sense of being. It's only right for Bishaan to have a taste of his own medicine.
"I will not beg for my life," the deposed ruler's voice sounds unsteady, despite his efforts, "but I would ask you that my end be swift, and…relatively painless."
"You…ask? You dare ask for what you always denied others?"
"Is a little mercy too much to plead from the victor?"
"Mercy." Rygel's tone is ice cold. "I have been to Skelnal, cousin, I have seen with my own eyes your kind of…mercy. If you've forgotten it, it will be my task to remind you."
With that he drives the throne-sled toward the cell door, signaling the guard to open it, and moves into the corridor without a single backward glance.
The figure lounging near the door rights itself at his arrival, fixing him with a quizzical stare the Dominar chooses to ignore.
"The quality of mercy is not strained, Sparky."
Rygel halts the throne-sled, glaring at the Human. "I have no time for your usual nonsense, Crichton. And what the frell are you doing here?"
"I thought you might need…well, moral support. Can't be easy dealing with him after all that's–"
"A Dominar can deal with anything! Even unwelcome eavesdroppers!"
Unfazed by the Dominar's ferocious scowl, Crichton quickens his pace to keep alongside the speeding throne-sled.
"What's with Skelnal? Isn't it one of your moons?"
"It was." Rygel halts before the sloping passage leading to the upper levels.
Looking at his companion's face he sees only the concerned openness that's so typical of this foolish Human. And it melts something hard and cold inside him. Not that he would admit it. "Come with me, let's get out of this smelly place."
"Lead the way, Ryg. We can both do with some fresh air."
The slight pat on his shoulder feels good, too.
The Royal Gardens are a place of beauty and enjoyment: great lawns dotted with flowered shrubbery, low trees where birds roost sending forth their musical chirps, fountains spraying thin jets of rainbow-colored water. And in the distance the Dominar's Lagoon, a breath-taking expanse of sea ruffled by low, softly rolling waves.
The Palace overlooks it all, soaring toward the sky with its rose-hued white walls and delicate spires, the vivacious banners and tapestries hanging out of balconies fluttering in the breeze.
The view soothes Rygel's soul: whenever despair or sadness threatened to overwhelm him in the past, he always recalled these gardens, burned into his memory and his senses in such a way that he could feel and smell them even in the worst of places. Being here, finally here, only increases their healing powers.
The Dominar points his companion toward a low stone bench, and moves the throne-sled to rest on the soft grass nearby. Looking over the lagoon, he struggles for the right words with which to begin, but they stick in his throat and refuse to come out.
"The moon. Skelnal." Crichton's low voice prods him gently. "You said was…"
"It used to be the Royal Family's residence for the cold season. It never lasts long, but cold weather can be uncomfortable, with strong winds and heavy rains, so Rygel the Second decreed that Skelnal, with its milder conditions, would be ideal for the purpose." Rygel sighs in recollection. "He had a residence built there, with beautiful gardens, even more gorgeous than these," his pudgy hand indicates their surroundings, "then with time the palace grounds were expanded to accommodate the whole Court and the dignitaries' families and servants. I spent many happy seasons there in my youth…"
"Then what happened?" Again the Human prompts him when the silence of recollection becomes too long.
"Bishaan happened."
The resistance to Bishaan's takeover had been stronger than anticipated: love and loyalty toward the Rygel dynasty were more deeply rooted than the vocal discontent that cropped up now and then might have led him to believe.
Many of the noble families of Hyneria had called him 'usurper' and refused to accept his rule, doing so with a reckless courage that had stopped him in his tracks. Bishaan reasoned that dispatching them as he had done with Rygel's wives, children and closest advisers, might have marred the public image he was so painstakingly creating, so he changed tactics.
The dissenters were offered a choice between being executed for treason or exiled to Skelnal, where they would remain for the rest of their lives. Or until they choose to recognize his rightful authority.
This way he would show his leniency to the ever-growing crowd of his supporters, and remove potential hotbeds of restlessness leading to an uprising.
For many cycles the exiles seemed to have passed out of knowledge, and memory.
There was no contact with them, except for the regular food and supplies shipments that were also Bishaan's way of ensuring their cooperation, since Skelnal's soil did not yield nourishing foodstuffs.
Peace, his own brand of peace, settled over the realm.
What the new Dominar had not factored in were Hynerian stubbornness and fierce determination…
"They found a way to re-establish communications with the rest of the Empire," Rygel continues, "and started to rally support among those who were growing dissatisfied with Bishaan's rule."
"He got pissed."
"Yes, he did. He blanketed the moon with interference, so they were cut off, but the seed had been sown and the unrest kept spreading. He tried to starve them, promising food only if they gave up their beliefs and forsook their followers. They refused." Rygel's voice cracks, and he lowers his gaze. "So Bishaan decided to eradicate the problem once and for all, in what he called 'exemplary fashion'. He ordered that not one stone was to be left standing on Skelnal. Nor anyone alive - sentient or animal."
"His version of the final solution… Shit!"
"I've been told that the glow of the fires could be seen from Hyneria, at night. He choose the moment well, when the orbit was nearer, because he wanted everyone to see. Damn him!" Rygel tears from his neck the collar of office he'd been fiddling with and hurls it to the ground. "All because of me! Me!"
As the necklace strikes the flagstones of a nearby path, the heavy center jewel breaks free of its casing and rolls on the grass a few times until it rests face up, glinting in the sun.
"Not your fault, Sparky. He was the one who pulled the trigger."
"They died in my name! Every adult, every child on that frelling moon died because I was not strong enough! Not good enough…"
Ash-covered ground and still, lifeless air meet him when he alights from the transport he insisted on piloting alone.
Gone are the grass, the trees, the flowers. Wherever his gaze roams there's just an endless expanse of brown and gray.
Gone are the soaring mansions, the statues, the fountains. Broken stones and dusty soil sprawl as far as the eye can see.
The pale and sickly sun-rays fail to warm the air that's as dead as the world under his feet.
Moving away from the transport, he tries to catch some familiar marker on the tormented landscape, finding none. His legs feel rubbery, his steps unsteady. He had expected the devastation, but somehow he never imagined it would be so complete.
The crack under his feet seems louder in the utter silence. When Rygel looks down he sees he's stepped on a skull. A baby's, tiny and delicate.
And he suddenly wonders if this is how his dead children look.
Falling on his knees beside the pitiful remains, he raises his face to the unfeeling sky, and howls.
"Rygel…" Crichton's low voice recalls him to reality, and he shudders, as if to dispel the remnants of the memory. "…how long has this thing been eating at you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Let me get this straight: you think that if you'd been a better Dominar, Bishaan would not have kicked you out or all those people would still be alive?"
"Yes."
"Then think again, Rygel, 'cause this kind of thing happens all the time - both to good and bad rulers. Or just ordinary people." John tilts his head, fixing the Dominar with a pointed stare. "Stop obsessing about it."
"Well, coming from you, that's some advice!"
"Yeah, it is. Because I've been there, and it's not a nice place to be." He draws the throne-sled closer to him. "You gotta forgive yourself."
"Ah, and do you happen to have advice on how to do that, too?"
"Sort of. Remember what I told you about mercy?"
"It made no sense, as usual. I gave up on your blatherings long ago, Crichton."
"Not mine. An Earth writer, one of the greatest. The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesses him that gives and him that takes…"
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Forgive Bishaan. Keep him locked up forever, if you want, but forgive him. Killing him will never free you of his sins, or yours."
Rygel considers the Human's words for a few moments.
"You know Crichton, I would never have imagined you in the role of adviser."
"You offering me a job?" John picks up the broken collar and gem, and hands them to the Hynerian.
"Would you take it?"
Crichton grins. "Don't know. Have to ask the missus first." Then he turns serious "And will you take my advice? About mercy, I mean."
Rygel raises his head toward the sky, searching for the faint shape of Skelnal, but his mind's eye sees only the ashes, and the bones. "I will...consider it, Crichton."
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(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-23 08:43 pm (UTC)I must admit that our little Hynerian is a constant source of inspiration, and that it's always a pleasure and a joy to write him.