nymeria_dw (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nymeria_dw) wrote2010-08-03 10:42 pm
nymeria_dw) wrote2010-08-03 10:42 pm
Entry tags:
AERYN'S JOURNEY # 27 - TERRA FIRMA
AERYN'S JOURNEY - Terra Firma
(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
Setting: Season 4 Episode 13
=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*
Strange place. Strange people.
Me? On a planet full of billions of you?
You would've fit in on Earth. Just fine.
It was not true even then. As it's not now, for both of us.
John was a very different man when he said those words, one that still held on to the hope of going back to his home, finding that things had not changed while waiting for his return.
There is no going back, ever. A lesson I've learned the hard way.
He knows better, now. I have seen the regret and the sadness since our first foray on his home planet, when he had to confront himself and his past, and the sorrow that came with it.
That's my mother. She died…four years before I left. Now I'm gonna talk to her.
The same regret and sadness he tries to hide now, joking and laughing with family and friends, who act happily unaware of his shifting moods and restrained fears, only to watch him in worry when he's not looking.
Strange place. Strange people.
They welcomed us - after a fashion - yet keep us strictly monitored in this place that despite its lavish comforts is still a prison, and I am suddenly reminded of the fake Earth the Ancients recreated for us, of the glass cage where we were kept confined, and on display.
It's not so different now, with us being the object of both suspicion and curiosity, although the method of display has changed. This strange contraption, this television, is used as an information device, but what I see on it is troubling: the slant imparted on the many interviews we give often makes us appear quite different from what we are, makes our words sound ominous. What's more, it looks like these people's only connection with what's happening around them.
Disturbing indeed.
Not all of them are wary of us, of course. John's relatives have embraced us like family, often claiming we made the difference in his survival while he was…away. The truth is much more complex than this, but John doesn't disprove their convictions.
He says little, actually, making himself scarce, hiding in a bubble of silence in a way that's quite unlike him.
I had thought - hoped - that in these familiar surroundings he would open up more, be more like the old John Crichton and allow us to start building back the broken connections, but I'm still unable to reach him. He does not reach back.
All my attempts, these past monens, at figuring out what he wants and how to give it to him, have fallen through, forcing me to play a waiting game - not something that comes easily to me - to give him the time and space he needs. To no avail.
"Would it be better if I stayed here?" What do you want?
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I'm clearly not fitting in." Not with relatives and friends. Or women that seem very familiar with you and take you away for solar days.
"You're fitting in as well as any of us are." There's a fleeting glimpse of the man I used to know, sharing for a moment the sense of isolation we all feel. But it doesn't last long.
"Whatever. It's…up to you."
The invisible wall is back, the one behind which John has taken residence: I see flashes of him sometimes, like now, hints of the old warmth and concern and care, but they disappear behind this barrier that slams down suddenly like a pressure hatch, the old John Crichton losing day by day the will to overcome it.
So my endurance wears away, too, in the face of his remoteness, and what makes it worse is that we're here, on his homeworld, the place where he always wanted to take me.
I wouldn't…want to do that. To go back alone.
I wouldn't want you to.
But that's exactly what happened. We're both alone here, neither of us fitting in, in this strange place where restrictions bear down on me like a crushing weight. I miss space, I miss flight and freedom. I miss my old self.
Being something else does not become me, and it's not working anyway.
"Saturn! I'm really lookin' at Saturn." The childish glee of the man - the real one - I've come to like and respect is infectious. We both understand this kind of awe on a very basic level. "I'm farther from Earth than any human's ever been."
"Actually - no." The camaraderie comes easily because he has the same straightforward, open approach his son used to have. Maybe that's why I feel this sudden need to know more, to try and get answers to my many questions.
And he seems to be reading my mind. "You have feelings for John don't you?"
"Does that shock you?" Racial purity. Contamination. We are not so different in this respect.
"No." As simple as that, spare and direct. "I believe he has feelings for you too."
"He did. Now I–" I don't know anymore.
"Now– he's home. That's one of the things he's gonna have to sort out. Just give him time."
Time and patience. Zhaan's remedy for every trouble. Pity that I never had much patience to start with. I sense that time is running out, as well.
Strange place. Strange people.
Like this woman I was ready to confront, prepared for a skirmish that would win me some answers, now that I'm determined to chase them down instead of waiting for them.
What I found, instead, were openness and candor. Like a breath of fresh air.
"John and I were in a relationship." Openness and candor, then. It's the best way, and it feels comfortable after holding back so long. "It was complicated."
"John and I had a much simpler one. Just…good casual times. Well at least, that's how it was before."
"And now?" I can't ignore the trace of wistfulness creeping up in her voice. "He's been spending time with you." Almost running out of the house as if it was on fire.
"I think he's been testing himself. Working out what he really wants. It's not me."
"He doesn't want me either."
"I think he does." Like John's father, she seems certain of it, as if there were obvious clues that I missed. "He said…there was nothing going on. He said that several times."
"That's bad."
"You have a lot to understand about humans. Sometimes when we repeat a lie– it means that we're trying to convince ourselves of the truth." Come back when you get your story straight. "And that is…that he still loves you. Very much."
John's father said to me that if he didn't know better, he'd think I was human.
Well, I'm not. I am me. And it's time I remembered it.
"Do you want me to go back to Moya?"
"We've already talked about this. It's entirely up to you."
Not this time, John.
The time for passivity has ended. The waiting is over, discarded with the soft clothes that did not become the soldier I am. Back in my comfortable leathers, I am ready to end this battle, one way or another.
"Fine, I'll go with what you prefer. Look I'm not trying...to pressure you John. I'm actually trying to take the pressure off." My voice wavers as I remember a similar situation and discover that being on the other side of the fence does not make the pain less devastating. Full circle. Say goodbye to my face. "Would you…be happier…if I wasn't here on Earth? You don't have to justify it or explain it. Just give me an honest yes - or no."
There is something. Not a trick of the light caused by the tears I won't even bother being ashamed of. Something alive, in that studiously dead look, that wants to reach out and…
And dies, killed by a blood-curling scream.
"Noranti. What's this?"
Good as it is being back on Moya, I am not going to relax until I solve this mystery.
Once I saw the small object being used against that creature, I realized I'd seen it before: just in glimpses and furtive handlings, but enough to recognize its ubiquitousness. And to understand I have been remiss in my duties. Well, no more.
Starting with the old woman, and her evasive lack of replies. "Well I think you made it."
"It's for Crichton."
Tell me something I don't know, you witch. "What does it do?" The need to grab her throat is almost overpowering. "What - does it - do?"
"It's to help him move on. Surmount his feelings and forget."
Her parting sneer says it all.
He's been testing himself. Working out what he really wants.
Sometimes when we repeat a lie– it means that we're trying to convince ourselves of the truth.
Or running from it.
Not anymore.
(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
Setting: Season 4 Episode 13
=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*
Strange place. Strange people.
Me? On a planet full of billions of you?
You would've fit in on Earth. Just fine.
It was not true even then. As it's not now, for both of us.
John was a very different man when he said those words, one that still held on to the hope of going back to his home, finding that things had not changed while waiting for his return.
There is no going back, ever. A lesson I've learned the hard way.
He knows better, now. I have seen the regret and the sadness since our first foray on his home planet, when he had to confront himself and his past, and the sorrow that came with it.
That's my mother. She died…four years before I left. Now I'm gonna talk to her.
The same regret and sadness he tries to hide now, joking and laughing with family and friends, who act happily unaware of his shifting moods and restrained fears, only to watch him in worry when he's not looking.
Strange place. Strange people.
They welcomed us - after a fashion - yet keep us strictly monitored in this place that despite its lavish comforts is still a prison, and I am suddenly reminded of the fake Earth the Ancients recreated for us, of the glass cage where we were kept confined, and on display.
It's not so different now, with us being the object of both suspicion and curiosity, although the method of display has changed. This strange contraption, this television, is used as an information device, but what I see on it is troubling: the slant imparted on the many interviews we give often makes us appear quite different from what we are, makes our words sound ominous. What's more, it looks like these people's only connection with what's happening around them.
Disturbing indeed.
Not all of them are wary of us, of course. John's relatives have embraced us like family, often claiming we made the difference in his survival while he was…away. The truth is much more complex than this, but John doesn't disprove their convictions.
He says little, actually, making himself scarce, hiding in a bubble of silence in a way that's quite unlike him.
I had thought - hoped - that in these familiar surroundings he would open up more, be more like the old John Crichton and allow us to start building back the broken connections, but I'm still unable to reach him. He does not reach back.
All my attempts, these past monens, at figuring out what he wants and how to give it to him, have fallen through, forcing me to play a waiting game - not something that comes easily to me - to give him the time and space he needs. To no avail.
"Would it be better if I stayed here?" What do you want?
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I'm clearly not fitting in." Not with relatives and friends. Or women that seem very familiar with you and take you away for solar days.
"You're fitting in as well as any of us are." There's a fleeting glimpse of the man I used to know, sharing for a moment the sense of isolation we all feel. But it doesn't last long.
"Whatever. It's…up to you."
The invisible wall is back, the one behind which John has taken residence: I see flashes of him sometimes, like now, hints of the old warmth and concern and care, but they disappear behind this barrier that slams down suddenly like a pressure hatch, the old John Crichton losing day by day the will to overcome it.
So my endurance wears away, too, in the face of his remoteness, and what makes it worse is that we're here, on his homeworld, the place where he always wanted to take me.
I wouldn't…want to do that. To go back alone.
I wouldn't want you to.
But that's exactly what happened. We're both alone here, neither of us fitting in, in this strange place where restrictions bear down on me like a crushing weight. I miss space, I miss flight and freedom. I miss my old self.
Being something else does not become me, and it's not working anyway.
"Saturn! I'm really lookin' at Saturn." The childish glee of the man - the real one - I've come to like and respect is infectious. We both understand this kind of awe on a very basic level. "I'm farther from Earth than any human's ever been."
"Actually - no." The camaraderie comes easily because he has the same straightforward, open approach his son used to have. Maybe that's why I feel this sudden need to know more, to try and get answers to my many questions.
And he seems to be reading my mind. "You have feelings for John don't you?"
"Does that shock you?" Racial purity. Contamination. We are not so different in this respect.
"No." As simple as that, spare and direct. "I believe he has feelings for you too."
"He did. Now I–" I don't know anymore.
"Now– he's home. That's one of the things he's gonna have to sort out. Just give him time."
Time and patience. Zhaan's remedy for every trouble. Pity that I never had much patience to start with. I sense that time is running out, as well.
Strange place. Strange people.
Like this woman I was ready to confront, prepared for a skirmish that would win me some answers, now that I'm determined to chase them down instead of waiting for them.
What I found, instead, were openness and candor. Like a breath of fresh air.
"John and I were in a relationship." Openness and candor, then. It's the best way, and it feels comfortable after holding back so long. "It was complicated."
"John and I had a much simpler one. Just…good casual times. Well at least, that's how it was before."
"And now?" I can't ignore the trace of wistfulness creeping up in her voice. "He's been spending time with you." Almost running out of the house as if it was on fire.
"I think he's been testing himself. Working out what he really wants. It's not me."
"He doesn't want me either."
"I think he does." Like John's father, she seems certain of it, as if there were obvious clues that I missed. "He said…there was nothing going on. He said that several times."
"That's bad."
"You have a lot to understand about humans. Sometimes when we repeat a lie– it means that we're trying to convince ourselves of the truth." Come back when you get your story straight. "And that is…that he still loves you. Very much."
John's father said to me that if he didn't know better, he'd think I was human.
Well, I'm not. I am me. And it's time I remembered it.
"Do you want me to go back to Moya?"
"We've already talked about this. It's entirely up to you."
Not this time, John.
The time for passivity has ended. The waiting is over, discarded with the soft clothes that did not become the soldier I am. Back in my comfortable leathers, I am ready to end this battle, one way or another.
"Fine, I'll go with what you prefer. Look I'm not trying...to pressure you John. I'm actually trying to take the pressure off." My voice wavers as I remember a similar situation and discover that being on the other side of the fence does not make the pain less devastating. Full circle. Say goodbye to my face. "Would you…be happier…if I wasn't here on Earth? You don't have to justify it or explain it. Just give me an honest yes - or no."
There is something. Not a trick of the light caused by the tears I won't even bother being ashamed of. Something alive, in that studiously dead look, that wants to reach out and…
And dies, killed by a blood-curling scream.
"Noranti. What's this?"
Good as it is being back on Moya, I am not going to relax until I solve this mystery.
Once I saw the small object being used against that creature, I realized I'd seen it before: just in glimpses and furtive handlings, but enough to recognize its ubiquitousness. And to understand I have been remiss in my duties. Well, no more.
Starting with the old woman, and her evasive lack of replies. "Well I think you made it."
"It's for Crichton."
Tell me something I don't know, you witch. "What does it do?" The need to grab her throat is almost overpowering. "What - does it - do?"
"It's to help him move on. Surmount his feelings and forget."
Her parting sneer says it all.
He's been testing himself. Working out what he really wants.
Sometimes when we repeat a lie– it means that we're trying to convince ourselves of the truth.
Or running from it.
Not anymore.
no subject
no subject
T.F. is, I believe, one of the most loved - and 'visited - episodes of the show, maybe because it has the feeling of being too short for what we wanted it to be.
That's where fanfiction comes in handy...