Farscape Land Big Bang - POSTCARDS FROM THE AFTERMATH

[nymeria_dw]

Fourth and final fanfiction for the Big Bang Challenge
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters don't belong to me, I'm just borrowing them for a few microts...



POSTCARDS FROM THE AFTERMATH  (PG - 13)



His eyes and ears from all over the ship feed him a constant stream of information on the status of repairs and the whereabouts of the crew, and he goes over each little detail with the same level of scrupulous attention.  

The situation is going back to normal, bit by bit, and his satisfaction mirrors Moya's constantly improving feelings of well-being after the harrowing times they went through. Again.   

Perceiving his train of thought, Moya fires an inquiry through their private bond.   

*What about you?*

#I am… well enough.#

*Still, something bothers you…*

#It does, yes.  I feel we are on the verge of change and… it frightens me.#

*I know. But sometimes change is for the better. We must draw comfort from that knowledge.*

#What does not comfort me is that we might lose what we have now.#

*Or we might gain something new. Let's take what reassurance we can from that hope.*

What she sends through their link has no definition, not in words at least, but it's caress and comfort and strength, all at the same time, and he sends it back with his love, as they bask in the shared connection and its healing warmth.

"Are you well, Pilot?"  The voice is almost jarring in its sudden… well, intrusion, but he acknowledges the care behind it, and welcomes it.

"I did not perceive your arrival, Noranti." She can be very quiet when she wants to. "And I am… in reasonable form, thank you."

The old woman runs her hands over the console, face soft and dreamy. "Yes, you are both mending, as we all are.  Now that Crichton's spirit has come back, we can move forward once more."

"His… spirit?"

"His consciousness, if you want." The old woman waves a hand in the air, indicating that such details are unimportant. "What makes him alive, the gift from the Divine Eternal…"

"You said it came back.  Where had it gone?"  Despite the huge differences between her and Zhaan, Pilot enjoys such conversations with Noranti: if it's one of her good days, they might prove interesting, even enlightening.

"In the Between." The reply is delivered in a matter-of-fact voice, as if stating the obvious.

"I… see…" But he doesn't. Not really.

"The space that divides this plane from the next, silly!" She pats one of his claws, chuckling softly. "Where we dwell when we are unsure of our path."  A small frown, then the lined face distends in a pleased smile. "I knew he would be back though, his journey is not over yet.  Not for a long time."

"You mean he was… hovering between life and death?" It's what they all feared, but giving substance to those thoughts is unsettling. "And that he was… pulled back?"

"Or pushed…" Noranti is now grinning in that crafty way of hers, the one that means she's not sharing everything.

*Zhaan… Maybe she is the one who  sent him back…*  Moya's wistfulness sings quietly through the bond, and he replies with hopeful agreement.

"Yes, you might be right!" The Traskan claps her hands once, in childish glee.

"You–  you heard us?"

"Perhaps." Her eyes look downward, lips quirking in a secretive smile as the magenta glow from the center of her forehead pulses in the Den's semi-darkness.

"Who are you, Noranti?" Pilot's request is a quiet whisper, wonder laced with a thin thread of fear. "What are you?"

"Oh, I'm still discovering it!" Again the gentle pat on his claw. "But I'll let you know as soon as I find out…"
With a flourish, and a swirl of ill-smelling rags, she turns about and walks out of the huge chamber.

*Yes, she's a strange one. But we have nothing to fear from her.*

#Perhaps.#  It's the same word Noranti used, and Pilot shares a mental smile with Moya. Yet the questions, the endless questions, remain…




You got a lot of life to lead, John. Do big things.

His eyes open on the curved bronze ceiling, and he's instantly awake - no transition, no sleep-induced wooziness: it's been like this since he came back from the coma, or whatever it was.  And most of the times it's that particular memory that wakes him up.

Aeryn is asleep beside him: in the low half-light of their quarters John sees the shadows under her eyes emerge in stark relief, and he feels a renewed pang of guilt, and love, for all that she went through in the few days of his… absence, on top of everything else.

Raising himself on one elbow, he glances toward the baby's crib, then smiles. The little runt is sleeping peacefully, small fists raised at the sides of his head as if he were ready to take on the whole universe. And frell them all.

With a contented sigh, John lies back down trying to recapture the lost thread of sleep, but as he does so, the last part of the dream plays once more behind closed eyelids.  

D'Argo.  The sharp pain of that loss will take some time to abate, and he knows it will leave a dull ache that will stay with him forever.    

You're the closest friend I have.

You could've done better.

Nowhere in the universe.

DK had been a marvelous friend, as close as a brother, and John still mourns him, but they never shared what he shared with D'Argo. They had never faced death, laughing at it with the giddiness of those who have nothing to lose.

In the end, that's how he and the Luxan had parted, with a joke and a laugh - and somehow this both hurts and comforts him.

Do big things.

Aeryn shifts in the bed, moving closer to his side and he takes her in his arms, chin resting on the top of her
head.

Do big things.

The memory of that deep voice lulls him slowly back to sleep.




The blade does not look as big or as heavy as the first time he touched it, in what seems like another life.

It's your blood ancestor's Qualta blade. My father's father used it in the Siege of Rekmek.

Jothee had not cared much for the blade then, nor for its history. Or the man proudly showing it to him.

He wanted you to have this.

Some residue of his more youthful, irresponsible self, feels like hurling it away: he does not want a piece of metal, it's such a poor substitute for the person, for the connection they had barely started to form after so many… false starts.

Jothee smiles dryly, hand caressing the polished surface of the blade, a part of his brain taking in the cunning blend of form and function, the rest seeing only his father's face, hearing his voice.

It's all he has left: a few memories, and this weapon.

Maybe, he reflects bitterly, they were destined never to come together, never to know each other as father and son: too young to understand, or remember much, he had been robbed of his childhood to live a life of slavery, only to be later rescued from it by a virtual stranger. One who had tried so desperately to reach out to him but had slammed against an unyielding wall of self-loathing and denial, and been hurt in the process.

Jothee had needed to find himself first, before he could face his father again, and once he had, they had at last been on equal ground, had finally something in common they could share and build on.

I'm proud of you, son.

Yeah, it's all genetics, Father. It's like the Luxan lottery.

Despite his self-deprecating words, despite the heat of battle raging around them, Jothee had felt a wild surge of elation, the mental 'click' of something sliding in place and locking permanently, waiting only to be built on.  

Following the usual pattern of his life, it had not lasted much.

Did he suffer?

Are you kidding? They suffered!

It's a proof of his change in mind-set that he can use the pride from this knowledge to balance the pain, to fill the huge gap in his soul left by the loss.

The blade gleams golden in the Leviathan's soft ambient light, like a message of love and approval from the other side.

Jothee straps the scabbard to his back and slides the blade inside. It feels comfortable now, it feels like a part of him.




"Are you sure it's what you want?"

"I said I'd go to Hyneria. So I'll go to Hyneria."

"I heard you the first time, Chiana. But is that what you really want?"

"Ya don't want me around, say so!" She turns around in anger, ready to leave, and Rygel moves the throne-sled to intercept her.

"That's not what I'm saying! Sit down and listen, just for once in your life!"

Chiana complies and crashes down into a seat, the sullen curve of her shoulders conveying tiredness rather than insolence.  

This is what worries Rygel more than anything else: her pugnacious spirit seems to be damped.  Worse than that, it looks extinguished, and he fears that something vital has been lost forever.

"What I mean," he strives for an even tone, "is that it was D'Argo's idea, not yours."

"Well, it's my idea too, now."  

The old Chiana would have looked him square in the face, saying the words with impudent defiance.  The new one whispers them softly, eyes unfocused, face turned away. Rygel goes for a more direct approach.

"Girl, it's not like you to simply follow. I want you to be absolutely certain of your decis–"

"I'm not– not following!" She's angry now, the rebellious light shining once more in her eyes.  "I want to do this. It's– it's like a…" The last word comes out as an incomprehensible mumble.

"A what?" Rygel is hopeful now: the heated reaction showed him she's still there, ready to bounce back from the well of mourning. And it's enough.

"Legacy." The whispered word is rooted in strength. "D'Argo's legacy. It means– it means part of him's alive. That he's not– not gone forever."

"I see."  Just for once, Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth weighs carefully his words, afraid of breaking this fragile balance. "This has changed you, Chiana, you know? You seem more... grounded that before."

She barks a short laugh. "That's what he said, too. Jothee I mean. That I didn't seem like such a young girl anymore."

"Pain and loss do that to you." He knows.

"I was hurt before." Chiana sounds angry now. "I lost before. What's–  what's so different now?"

"You are." Rygel sighs. "And not just you: we all changed. Remember Zhaan saying that we were all taking a spiritual journey aboard Moya?"

"Yeah. Wish she were here now. I– I miss her advice. I miss her."

"So do I girl, so do I." He closes the distance between them, taking her hand between his two small ones. "I'll start making arrangements for my return to Hyneria, then. And Chiana..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad to have your company."

"Just–  Just don't expect me to be all humble and– and kneel or whatever they do to show you respect!"

"Of course not.  I'll settle for something easier."

"What's that?"

"Be my friend.  I'll need one where I'm going."

"That–" there is a suspicious wetness in her eyes, but Rygel chooses to ignore it, for her sake. "That I can do."

"Then it's a start."




#I will be sorry to see them go.#

*A part of them belongs here, they will be back. And we will wait for them.*

#Like Crichton says, we will keep a lamp burning for them?#

*Yes. To light the way.*