From: lantillian@aol.com (Lantillian)
Date: 10 Feb 1999 00:02:49 EST
Makros paused before the ancient bulletin board, scratching his neatly trimmed beard and reflecting on what he was about to do. Kurgan had refused to endorse the biography, indeed the "historical fiction" as the men in the senate had described it. His research into the Clone Wars had been called unscholarly and morbid... His obsession with one man's battles had been called much, much worse.
Yet it seemed that here, in this place so far removed from the politics of Ilium and the graves of Vriande, someone might actually care the read the truth.
From the bottom of his heart, Makros prayed that Fandral would forgive him. Even the historian had a heart, had pride in his works... Even the archaeologist wanted to be read, in the end.
He attached a neatly printed excerpt from the fourth book, and departed in silence.
-----
Kurgan, Fandral.
0-4.
737265-3099.
S.E.R.E. training etches its lines deeply and clearly. In the face of adversity, it is these indelible markings that remain certain when other seeming certitudes are torn apart in chaotic upheaval.
Subject 2 floated in absolute sensory deprivation, shut off completely from the constant sights, smells, sounds, tastes and tactile sensations that allow for the human brain's construction of reality. Outside the Sorosuub SenseDEP chamber, a weary technician and two security guards listlessly awaited the changing of the 4-hour guard cycle in the ISS Subjugator's detention block. Inside, a man's life streamed heedlessly through his clawing
fingers.
Had it been years only? They seemed centuries, countless and sprinting gouts of time that came tripping and tumbling over one another, smashing over and over against and through a psyche that trembled with delirium. Twisted faces and unbelieving screams coupled with sunsets and children's laughter, the stinging vapours of a desolate battlefield somehow conflated with the sleepy comfort of air-dried linen... Fandral Kurgan's mind, what remained
of it, struggled weakly to make sense of the stampeding hallucinations. It had succeeded for eight days.
For the past three weeks, it had simply failed.
How many betrayals? How long the lies left buried? All but imperceptible whispers slipped through the audio inducers of the tank. Obligingly, the whirlwind of memories torn asunder and garbled parted, giving way to a dark cloud of twisted thorns...
How many betrayals? Too many.
* * *
Siera?
Oh, yes... Twice betrayed Siera... Swordsister drowned in the mud of Camden and the blood of waning light... Siera of Redwin, Warlord and Baron and Overlord all, Breaker of Gondar's Bonds... Swordsister betrayed, Siera Red.
Feadur was there at the last... A swirling shadow, Dweomerlord and Swordhand, Feadur fought at Camden. Swordbrother true. But not I. No crysknife did I raise to guard her flank... Not a thought.
I let her fight her own battles?
I let her die. But for my absence, Siera would yet breathe and Bane would sing through cloven air.
A crysknife more would have changed nothing?
A body more would have. Sinew and mooring offered in trade would win everything. They always do.
Did the rain muddy her eyes as the light waned from her vision, drawn by her life's blood all too eager to rejoin the all-forgiving earth?
Did she remember my name?
No... A Swordbrother as I is best forgotten, left to his self-involvement and hoped not to remind others of the nominal bond.
What filial love was shown as noble life fell in the churning mud?
I couldn't be there for her...
No, I couldn't. So much else was of greater import. Lies that lay buried for two decades could not another week remain so interred... What price the truth?
A few pints, surely no more.
Did he remember? Did Feadur wonder, or did he see the truth as clearly as Siera, that the Swordbrother Gray was neither sword nor brother nor fit to mourn?
Feadur always saw most clearly.
He knew.
And so he said nothing, but vanished to Naryathrond... To mourn in sightless night what I have remembered in the language of falsehoods...
How much is the truth worth?
A few pints, surely no more.
How did the rain sound as it drummed its staccato blankness into her cold features? Did tears mix with the downpour of a sky that wished to see no more?
Did the sword belt I sent her withstand the muck better than fingers caked with red andpinpricks in the curtain of night, Ramirez, or the fading last of the light I once knew?
* * *
One of the technicians shook his head sadly. For the hundredth time, Subject 2 was determined to swallow his own tongue. Precautions had been taken, of course -- just as he had no sensation, he'd been properly restrained in the SenseDEP tank to prevent any untoward accidents. What must that wretched soul be seeing to want to die so badly, and keep trying when he knows he cannot until we allow it? Master technical sergeant Reigh thumbed the
clear function on his keypad, and the monitor dismissed its routine alert of the subject's abortive effort at suicide.
The ship's clock promised another seventeen minutes of the intense boredom detention block was known for. And that was if the next shift actually arrived on the bounce.
Kav Reigh straightened and stretched his back, stifling a yawn.
A world away, four meters distant, Fandral's mind slipped screaming from its moorings and scattered to the whirling nightmare corners of gibbering shadow.
A sibilant whisper followed it.
-----
Fragments from the Rim [401378]
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: gnrtdrgoon@aol.com (GnrtDrgoon)
Date: 10 Feb 1999 01:04:41 EST
The Warlord happened by the posting boards this late hour, on his rounds in order to read the latest goings on and rambling of loud mouthed despots and such.
Flipping paper after paper, he comes across this one historical one about the Bishop. frowning, he pondered how his friend might feel about some of his life's story being placed for all to see. But as he read it, (After all, how could he resist?) he noticed simple things that possibly explained little tidbits of their conversation the other evening.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a habit he's picked up in recent times, he pondered whether or not to leave the partial Autobiography of Fandral Kurgan for all to see. With a slight frown, he tore the paper down, looking upon it. Carefully folding it, he placed it into a side pouch for safekeeping. He picked up a pen and paper, scribbing a short note, then tacked it to the boards in place of the one removed.
To the Gentleman who placed a Historical Referance regarding Fandral Kurgan, I ask this.
I would find it more proper to gain permission from him whom you write about to place anything regarding such an occurance upon these boards. To do so without said permission, would seem to tarnish his reputation, so to speak.
Thank you
*G*
After posting the message, G hoped it came across in a decent way, he ran his fingers through his hair and strode away, his thoughts on so many things.
Date: 10 Feb 1999 01:04:41 EST
The Warlord happened by the posting boards this late hour, on his rounds in order to read the latest goings on and rambling of loud mouthed despots and such.
Flipping paper after paper, he comes across this one historical one about the Bishop. frowning, he pondered how his friend might feel about some of his life's story being placed for all to see. But as he read it, (After all, how could he resist?) he noticed simple things that possibly explained little tidbits of their conversation the other evening.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a habit he's picked up in recent times, he pondered whether or not to leave the partial Autobiography of Fandral Kurgan for all to see. With a slight frown, he tore the paper down, looking upon it. Carefully folding it, he placed it into a side pouch for safekeeping. He picked up a pen and paper, scribbing a short note, then tacked it to the boards in place of the one removed.
To the Gentleman who placed a Historical Referance regarding Fandral Kurgan, I ask this.
I would find it more proper to gain permission from him whom you write about to place anything regarding such an occurance upon these boards. To do so without said permission, would seem to tarnish his reputation, so to speak.
Thank you
*G*
After posting the message, G hoped it came across in a decent way, he ran his fingers through his hair and strode away, his thoughts on so many things.
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: jonalyn@aol.com (Jonalyn)
Date: 10 Feb 1999 17:38:52 EST
She noticed an empty place on the cork, then came across G's note. She lifted a brow slightly then wandered off to speak with G'nort.
Date: 10 Feb 1999 17:38:52 EST
She noticed an empty place on the cork, then came across G's note. She lifted a brow slightly then wandered off to speak with G'nort.
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: lantillian@aol.com (Lantillian)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:19:42 EST
With a simple gesture, Makros stubbornly affixed a fresh copy of the excerpt to the corkboard.
How could anyone steal so poignant and revealing a truth, one that had taken countless months to piece together and form into words?
The Lantillian smoothed the edged of the replacement copy and smiles. It deserved to be known.
(He deserved to be heard.)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:19:42 EST
With a simple gesture, Makros stubbornly affixed a fresh copy of the excerpt to the corkboard.
How could anyone steal so poignant and revealing a truth, one that had taken countless months to piece together and form into words?
The Lantillian smoothed the edged of the replacement copy and smiles. It deserved to be known.
(He deserved to be heard.)
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: lantillian@aol.com (Lantillian)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:00:27 EST
Makros glanced at Gnort's missive, and shook his head in frustration.
Always the same persecution... Could they not see that the story *needed* to be told? There was no matter of consent or preference... History belonged to every being.
Makros Aeloran steadied his hand, and pinned the another excerpt of his four volume chronicle to the corkboard.
-----
The rain showed no signs of slowing down, and it seemed that all he did anymore was stare at the rain and the mud. There had been miraculous progress in the first months -- the return to motor control, the first words, the first steps. For a time, it had seemed that the Lieutenant Commander couldn't be kept down.
Then the rains came.
What it was that he saw in the churning mud as it flowed down the cobblestone path, choking the sewer ditches at times, was beyond her. At least he was maintaining himself, if mechanically... Uniform crisp, chin shaved blue, regular meals. It left her more time to pore over the new registry for Bravo Company, 2nd SOG -- her unit, now, and her responsibility. There was so little left of the 2nd Special Operations Group since the flight from
Yavin and the long retreat that more than half of the company colours would have to be retired for a time... No warm bodies left to fill the table of operations.
Naresh Kir looked up from her datapad, and saw the same face staring out the same window at the same rain. What was he seeing behind those eyes? What had he seen for that month in sensory deprivation?
She sighed quietly, and stretched her shoulders and back in a rippling motion. This assignment was beginning to look harder than it had once seemed, but the prize was also that much more valuable than ever before.
Fandral Kurgan continued to stare out into the churning mudwaters in the street, where a lifetime of whispers and accusations lingered just outside of earshot. For the hundredth time that day, as Ensign Kir looked back to her datapad, the Bishop watched a blood-caked hand, slender fingers grasping for a lost hilt, slide beneath the mud.
-----
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:00:27 EST
Makros glanced at Gnort's missive, and shook his head in frustration.
Always the same persecution... Could they not see that the story *needed* to be told? There was no matter of consent or preference... History belonged to every being.
Makros Aeloran steadied his hand, and pinned the another excerpt of his four volume chronicle to the corkboard.
-----
The rain showed no signs of slowing down, and it seemed that all he did anymore was stare at the rain and the mud. There had been miraculous progress in the first months -- the return to motor control, the first words, the first steps. For a time, it had seemed that the Lieutenant Commander couldn't be kept down.
Then the rains came.
What it was that he saw in the churning mud as it flowed down the cobblestone path, choking the sewer ditches at times, was beyond her. At least he was maintaining himself, if mechanically... Uniform crisp, chin shaved blue, regular meals. It left her more time to pore over the new registry for Bravo Company, 2nd SOG -- her unit, now, and her responsibility. There was so little left of the 2nd Special Operations Group since the flight from
Yavin and the long retreat that more than half of the company colours would have to be retired for a time... No warm bodies left to fill the table of operations.
Naresh Kir looked up from her datapad, and saw the same face staring out the same window at the same rain. What was he seeing behind those eyes? What had he seen for that month in sensory deprivation?
She sighed quietly, and stretched her shoulders and back in a rippling motion. This assignment was beginning to look harder than it had once seemed, but the prize was also that much more valuable than ever before.
Fandral Kurgan continued to stare out into the churning mudwaters in the street, where a lifetime of whispers and accusations lingered just outside of earshot. For the hundredth time that day, as Ensign Kir looked back to her datapad, the Bishop watched a blood-caked hand, slender fingers grasping for a lost hilt, slide beneath the mud.
-----
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: jonalyn@aol.com (Jonalyn)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:44:23 EST
She pauses to peruse the history. She'd spoken with G'nort of his missive. She had her scribe make a fair copy, then tacked a note to the cork below the excerpt.
G'nort.
Afore thee thin' ta remove th' do recall our speakin' 'o th' old soldier, aye?
Jona.
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:44:23 EST
She pauses to peruse the history. She'd spoken with G'nort of his missive. She had her scribe make a fair copy, then tacked a note to the cork below the excerpt.
G'nort.
Afore thee thin' ta remove th' do recall our speakin' 'o th' old soldier, aye?
Jona.
-
DoS Archive
- Archivist
- Posts: 30701
- Joined: Mon Feb 16, 2004 8:27 am
From: gnrtdrgoon@aol.com (GnrtDrgoon)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 02:29:18 EST
No, G'nort wasn't upset about this. He just wondered how it would look should Bishop see his life sent for all to see. But the more he thought about it, and reading Jona's response, and with what Lupton said in the Arena earlier in the evening, G was thinking that if the people could see what kind of man Fandral Kurgan was, that perhaps they could learn something.
Maybe they would try to be better than they are, as people.
Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he thought of Bishops words. "My time has come and gone."
Perhaps not. Perhaps not just yet.
Date: 11 Feb 1999 02:29:18 EST
No, G'nort wasn't upset about this. He just wondered how it would look should Bishop see his life sent for all to see. But the more he thought about it, and reading Jona's response, and with what Lupton said in the Arena earlier in the evening, G was thinking that if the people could see what kind of man Fandral Kurgan was, that perhaps they could learn something.
Maybe they would try to be better than they are, as people.
Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he thought of Bishops words. "My time has come and gone."
Perhaps not. Perhaps not just yet.