"What Dreams May Come"
Jun. 21st, 2011 01:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
norcumiI get to blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mel_redcap for me writing stuff! So to recap: Mel is one of the folks responsible for writing Demon of Justice, in which Gundam Wing is crossed over with Oath of Swords. Lovely stuff. Go read it, though I'd suggest Oath of Swords, and possibly War God's Own, first (free e-books at those links, just FYI).
Why is this relevant? I finally caved and wrote fan fic of their fan fic. To explain that one, I need to go into spoilers.
In Chapter 32, they went and did something I totally get was necessary from a story perspective, but it made me sad. I thought I was accustomed to the idea of them killing off Bahzell, but it turns out that was probably my coping mechanism of delayed reaction since as more time went on and I was reading Oath of Swords again, I... had a scene. So given Mel and Christy's fans have already trotted down the theoretical lane of multiple universes and traveling down another leg of the trousers of time, and I've been really depressed and crazy in the head lately....
Mel and Christy's Chesmirsa started demanding I write a scene. So... yeah. Apologies to the incomparable Mel and Christy for me giving in to this, and writing what I can only think of as "an alternative trouser leg wherein I get to let my inner fangirl loose". Also apologies to everyone else for doing this on 2 hours of sleep and listening to way too much Battlefield. There will probably be typos. I no longer care, even though I probably will later. edited as of July 8 so as to deal with some typos.
What Dreams May Come*
He'd had enough fever dreams to recognize one when it left him feeling like a smoked haddock – a culinary travesty, really, but -
No, I really do smell fish.... Brankdark Brandarkson stirred restlessly as the pain from his leg started throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He knew he ought to play dead, but he couldn't help himself. It felt like the room was heaving about -
The ship – the Marfangers. He went limp with a touch of relief. Safe enough. Now if only he could remember what he was safe enough for....
Time passed, and he could feel the fever ebb and and rise like the tides, only far nastier. He had no idea how long it had been until a cool hand trailed light fingers across his brow, and he sighed in relief. The blazing heat of the fever trailed away, soothed by that wondrous hand, though he found himself feeling strangely even more distant. Almost asleep, really, but not quite, and that odd removal from the world made it... safer... to look at around.
And by all the gods, Light or Dark, it hurt.
Bahzell! It was easy to ignore the hand and its possessor, easy to pretend he was alone, and easy to realize he was safe enough to grieve. He wept freely, cursing when he had the breath, and was only relieved that his hands were dry and bandaged rather than covered with his friend's blood. Bazhell Bahnakson had always seemed so much larger than life – and hardly just in the literal sense! From the moment Brandark had seen a giant of a hradani in Churnazh's "court," gaping at the near dandified performance Brandark had perfected by then, he'd known this was someone to watch. Not so much for the dagger in the back or Rage challenge to the front – not with that inquisitive tilt to Bahzell's ears. The Hurgrun prince was curious, not offended. Oh, bewildered, confused, and a touch suspicious, but he'd been willing to approach Brandark politely enough later and ask what in Krahana's hells he'd imbibed lately. Far politer than any Navahken inquiry Brandark had ever encountered, even with that dry "little man" tacked on to the end.
Gone. Surely the world was a darker place without Bahzell lighting a way, grumbling every step that no, he really didn't want to do this, and surely this was not a smart idea at all, at all, now was it? But somehow it was right, and that was what had always mattered – that in the end, Bahzell Bahnakson had always done whatever was the right thing to do.
His tears still flowed, harder and more painful, and that hand smoothed across his brow again. This time, it seemed to soothe some of the pain in his heart, allowing the tears to slow to a trickle. "It is hard, Brandark," a woman whispered so softly it seemed as if she was not speaking to his ears but inside his very head. "I'm so sorry." Her voice was rich, smooth, and something about it resonated with him, as if he were his balalaika and all the strings had been plucked, and it was achingly almost in tune with something impossibly rich and wondrous.
And sad. It was the pain that was most in tune, that which was strangely most harmonious with him now. He'd heard this before, something beyond this voice in the most fevered fantastical moments of creation when he'd felt connected to a greater force. The strange harmony pulled at him, distracted his distant and wandering mind from the question of "what" and brought the half-formed question of "why" to dance on his lips. Thankfully the woman with the soothing hands needed only the shape of the question, since there was no way he could manage to push the words out.
Her hands were still cool, stroking slowly across his brow in a gentle gesture somewhere between a soothing caress and light, teasing tugs on his whole ear that kept him from drifting too far into despair. Callouses on the her slim hands seemed familiar, a pattern that he could almost make out, but her words -
Sweet gods, her words.
"I have lost a brother, too." It was not just the message, but the way she said it; a symphony of music trumpeting ancient loss and pain, swells of loneliness and an aching void carried by a bittersweet orchestra that was impossibly beautiful. It rang through him like a bell, silver sweet and sword sharp, somehow carrying an undercurrent hinting at combat, battles unimaginable. It was the most beautiful and most tragic thing he'd ever heard, a song lifting him up and holding him, letting him know that someone, something else truly knew, understood, and shared his pain.
This time, the tears didn't hurt as much.
She must have sung to him – he knew there was music, though played on what he did not know, nor did he care. It felt like peaceful, almost gentle hours or days, and he felt the hurt finally, softly, begin to ease.
Brandark opened tired eyes slowly, his ears giving a painful, inquisitive twitch. A slender human woman smiled at him gently, her brown eyes sad but caring. She gave another playful tug on his unwounded ear before standing. "We will meet again, Brandark. You're never truly alone. Remember that. Things will get better. Life will never be the same, it may not have the same joys, but it will get better than it is now."
Ah, the fever clearly had not totally broken, because she dissipated into motes of dancing lights that sparkled briefly before disappearing. Deciding that this was his body's way of telling him that even his hallucinations wanted him to rest, Brandark slumped back and let himself sleep.
He did not dream, at least. When consciousness came slowly to him, his bleary eyes found a dancing wisp of blue bobbing across the room. He stared muzzily at it for at least an hour, taking comfort in the warm glow it shed. When he finally blinked and rubbed his eyes clear, it was almost reassuring to find that his blue companion was a porthole, the bouncing blue actually the sea and sky shining brightly outside.
He'd made it to the ship. Brandark slumped back in relief. He'd made it to the ship – he hadn't hallucinated that, at least. Marfangers, and hopefully on the way to Hurgrun. Hope felt strange, but not unwelcome.
The ache he felt instead was strange, but not as bad as he thought it might have been. He recalled vague snatches of fever dreams – mostly music, but that was not too unusual. He might never be a bard, but music had always sustained him.
Damned leg wound. So much of this doesn't feel real. Never wished I'd been more hurt instead of less, I just....
He felt alone. He felt as if he could turn to his side – only with great pain – and see Bahzell there – but there was only an empty bunk. Somehow, whispers of a hallucinated symphony of shared loss kept the pain from being too great. Brandark felt hollow, but not empty. =*Things will get better*=, he reminded himself, shaking odd cobwebs from his head. And I won't let you down, Bahzell. "You did not die for nothing." He settled back with a sigh, eyes narrowed up at the ceiling. Bahzell had asked him to warn Bahnak, Hurgrun. As miracles went, it was a bit of a long shot, but Brandark Brandarkson was hardly about to let that stop him. The song inside him swelled, and he took in a deep breath. Time to see if he could summon his hosts – he had to warn the Horse Stealers. Brandark gave a firm nod. Bahzell hadn't died for nothing. Bahzell had died, and so Brandark had better damned be sure to live – it "wouldn't do at all, at all," to force Bahzell to come back from the dead just to kick his arse. His chuckle was rusty, but getting better. You would do it too, wouldn't you. He gave the ceiling a flippant salute with his ears, and called for room service.
~end~
mel_redcap for me writing stuff! So to recap: Mel is one of the folks responsible for writing Demon of Justice, in which Gundam Wing is crossed over with Oath of Swords. Lovely stuff. Go read it, though I'd suggest Oath of Swords, and possibly War God's Own, first (free e-books at those links, just FYI).Why is this relevant? I finally caved and wrote fan fic of their fan fic. To explain that one, I need to go into spoilers.
In Chapter 32, they went and did something I totally get was necessary from a story perspective, but it made me sad. I thought I was accustomed to the idea of them killing off Bahzell, but it turns out that was probably my coping mechanism of delayed reaction since as more time went on and I was reading Oath of Swords again, I... had a scene. So given Mel and Christy's fans have already trotted down the theoretical lane of multiple universes and traveling down another leg of the trousers of time, and I've been really depressed and crazy in the head lately....
Mel and Christy's Chesmirsa started demanding I write a scene. So... yeah. Apologies to the incomparable Mel and Christy for me giving in to this, and writing what I can only think of as "an alternative trouser leg wherein I get to let my inner fangirl loose". Also apologies to everyone else for doing this on 2 hours of sleep and listening to way too much Battlefield. There will probably be typos. I no longer care, even though I probably will later. edited as of July 8 so as to deal with some typos.
What Dreams May Come*
He'd had enough fever dreams to recognize one when it left him feeling like a smoked haddock – a culinary travesty, really, but -
No, I really do smell fish.... Brankdark Brandarkson stirred restlessly as the pain from his leg started throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He knew he ought to play dead, but he couldn't help himself. It felt like the room was heaving about -
The ship – the Marfangers. He went limp with a touch of relief. Safe enough. Now if only he could remember what he was safe enough for....
Time passed, and he could feel the fever ebb and and rise like the tides, only far nastier. He had no idea how long it had been until a cool hand trailed light fingers across his brow, and he sighed in relief. The blazing heat of the fever trailed away, soothed by that wondrous hand, though he found himself feeling strangely even more distant. Almost asleep, really, but not quite, and that odd removal from the world made it... safer... to look at around.
And by all the gods, Light or Dark, it hurt.
Bahzell! It was easy to ignore the hand and its possessor, easy to pretend he was alone, and easy to realize he was safe enough to grieve. He wept freely, cursing when he had the breath, and was only relieved that his hands were dry and bandaged rather than covered with his friend's blood. Bazhell Bahnakson had always seemed so much larger than life – and hardly just in the literal sense! From the moment Brandark had seen a giant of a hradani in Churnazh's "court," gaping at the near dandified performance Brandark had perfected by then, he'd known this was someone to watch. Not so much for the dagger in the back or Rage challenge to the front – not with that inquisitive tilt to Bahzell's ears. The Hurgrun prince was curious, not offended. Oh, bewildered, confused, and a touch suspicious, but he'd been willing to approach Brandark politely enough later and ask what in Krahana's hells he'd imbibed lately. Far politer than any Navahken inquiry Brandark had ever encountered, even with that dry "little man" tacked on to the end.
Gone. Surely the world was a darker place without Bahzell lighting a way, grumbling every step that no, he really didn't want to do this, and surely this was not a smart idea at all, at all, now was it? But somehow it was right, and that was what had always mattered – that in the end, Bahzell Bahnakson had always done whatever was the right thing to do.
His tears still flowed, harder and more painful, and that hand smoothed across his brow again. This time, it seemed to soothe some of the pain in his heart, allowing the tears to slow to a trickle. "It is hard, Brandark," a woman whispered so softly it seemed as if she was not speaking to his ears but inside his very head. "I'm so sorry." Her voice was rich, smooth, and something about it resonated with him, as if he were his balalaika and all the strings had been plucked, and it was achingly almost in tune with something impossibly rich and wondrous.
And sad. It was the pain that was most in tune, that which was strangely most harmonious with him now. He'd heard this before, something beyond this voice in the most fevered fantastical moments of creation when he'd felt connected to a greater force. The strange harmony pulled at him, distracted his distant and wandering mind from the question of "what" and brought the half-formed question of "why" to dance on his lips. Thankfully the woman with the soothing hands needed only the shape of the question, since there was no way he could manage to push the words out.
Her hands were still cool, stroking slowly across his brow in a gentle gesture somewhere between a soothing caress and light, teasing tugs on his whole ear that kept him from drifting too far into despair. Callouses on the her slim hands seemed familiar, a pattern that he could almost make out, but her words -
Sweet gods, her words.
"I have lost a brother, too." It was not just the message, but the way she said it; a symphony of music trumpeting ancient loss and pain, swells of loneliness and an aching void carried by a bittersweet orchestra that was impossibly beautiful. It rang through him like a bell, silver sweet and sword sharp, somehow carrying an undercurrent hinting at combat, battles unimaginable. It was the most beautiful and most tragic thing he'd ever heard, a song lifting him up and holding him, letting him know that someone, something else truly knew, understood, and shared his pain.
This time, the tears didn't hurt as much.
She must have sung to him – he knew there was music, though played on what he did not know, nor did he care. It felt like peaceful, almost gentle hours or days, and he felt the hurt finally, softly, begin to ease.
Brandark opened tired eyes slowly, his ears giving a painful, inquisitive twitch. A slender human woman smiled at him gently, her brown eyes sad but caring. She gave another playful tug on his unwounded ear before standing. "We will meet again, Brandark. You're never truly alone. Remember that. Things will get better. Life will never be the same, it may not have the same joys, but it will get better than it is now."
Ah, the fever clearly had not totally broken, because she dissipated into motes of dancing lights that sparkled briefly before disappearing. Deciding that this was his body's way of telling him that even his hallucinations wanted him to rest, Brandark slumped back and let himself sleep.
He did not dream, at least. When consciousness came slowly to him, his bleary eyes found a dancing wisp of blue bobbing across the room. He stared muzzily at it for at least an hour, taking comfort in the warm glow it shed. When he finally blinked and rubbed his eyes clear, it was almost reassuring to find that his blue companion was a porthole, the bouncing blue actually the sea and sky shining brightly outside.
He'd made it to the ship. Brandark slumped back in relief. He'd made it to the ship – he hadn't hallucinated that, at least. Marfangers, and hopefully on the way to Hurgrun. Hope felt strange, but not unwelcome.
The ache he felt instead was strange, but not as bad as he thought it might have been. He recalled vague snatches of fever dreams – mostly music, but that was not too unusual. He might never be a bard, but music had always sustained him.
Damned leg wound. So much of this doesn't feel real. Never wished I'd been more hurt instead of less, I just....
He felt alone. He felt as if he could turn to his side – only with great pain – and see Bahzell there – but there was only an empty bunk. Somehow, whispers of a hallucinated symphony of shared loss kept the pain from being too great. Brandark felt hollow, but not empty. =*Things will get better*=, he reminded himself, shaking odd cobwebs from his head. And I won't let you down, Bahzell. "You did not die for nothing." He settled back with a sigh, eyes narrowed up at the ceiling. Bahzell had asked him to warn Bahnak, Hurgrun. As miracles went, it was a bit of a long shot, but Brandark Brandarkson was hardly about to let that stop him. The song inside him swelled, and he took in a deep breath. Time to see if he could summon his hosts – he had to warn the Horse Stealers. Brandark gave a firm nod. Bahzell hadn't died for nothing. Bahzell had died, and so Brandark had better damned be sure to live – it "wouldn't do at all, at all," to force Bahzell to come back from the dead just to kick his arse. His chuckle was rusty, but getting better. You would do it too, wouldn't you. He gave the ceiling a flippant salute with his ears, and called for room service.
~end~
