(TM) 169. Fragile.
... so very fragile.
We lost her.
He's fallen back on his old standby, working on his model ship. It's not working; he knew it wouldn't, but he has to do something. All too soon he will have to leave his sanctuary and face his crew again. When he does so his control must be solid, not frayed and badly on edge, his grief manageable and dignified, not this anguished shriek in his core that won't -- Shut -- UP!!
No ship .... We lost her.
He searches for resolution, or at least distraction. Instead he finds only the tiny figurine of Aurora that Kara gave him. A fresh start, she'd said, after placing it in his hands, not knowing-- surely she hadn't known --that their meeting was end, not beginning. They would never see each other again.
Her ship's in pie-- .... Her ship's in pieces.
The ship serves as the pilot's armor, hard and durable to protect the vulnerable human life within. But the insane pressure in the gas envelope of the planet below made all such adamant confidence as breakable as eggshells. And once her shell was cracked, anything that might have been left of Kara Thrace (if the explosion had spared anything) would have been smeared to basic components, vaporized by heat, pressure and winds of unimaginable force. He doesn't want to think of her fate, wants only to focus on keeping his hands steady as he fastens the little figure in her place on the prow, but he can see it so perfectly and the shriek is modulating to a howl and he can still hear Lee's anguished voice ...
No ship ...
He has to believe there was a Raider. Has to. The alternative, that he lost his heart's daughter to a hallucination, a phantom of her overstressed mind, is too horrible to contemplate. If her captivity on New Caprica and the unrelenting demands of their renewed flight-and-fight had jarred the fault lines already scoring her psyche into some catastrophic fracture ... then they'd all failed her, and she died for nothing.
No Dad, it's no use.
No use. The words reverberate through him as he stares at Aurora, the golden, winged girl. No frakking use. He feels the tears trickling over the lines etching his face, feels his jaw clench as his eyes roam upwards over his model, all proud lines and delicate workmanship ... he feels the roar building under his diaphragm.
Her ship's in pieces.
The roar erupts, not through his voice, but through his hands. His arms shoot out, hands ripping through spars and rigging, fingers snapping masts like the twigs they are. Teeth locked in a bitter snarl, he picks up the remains and flings them away, as hard as he can.
What he has spent years building, he destroys in mere seconds.
The roar spends itself ... and the sobs, inevitable as death, finally come. He bows his head.
We lost her.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 453
We lost her.
He's fallen back on his old standby, working on his model ship. It's not working; he knew it wouldn't, but he has to do something. All too soon he will have to leave his sanctuary and face his crew again. When he does so his control must be solid, not frayed and badly on edge, his grief manageable and dignified, not this anguished shriek in his core that won't -- Shut -- UP!!
No ship .... We lost her.
He searches for resolution, or at least distraction. Instead he finds only the tiny figurine of Aurora that Kara gave him. A fresh start, she'd said, after placing it in his hands, not knowing-- surely she hadn't known --that their meeting was end, not beginning. They would never see each other again.
Her ship's in pie-- .... Her ship's in pieces.
The ship serves as the pilot's armor, hard and durable to protect the vulnerable human life within. But the insane pressure in the gas envelope of the planet below made all such adamant confidence as breakable as eggshells. And once her shell was cracked, anything that might have been left of Kara Thrace (if the explosion had spared anything) would have been smeared to basic components, vaporized by heat, pressure and winds of unimaginable force. He doesn't want to think of her fate, wants only to focus on keeping his hands steady as he fastens the little figure in her place on the prow, but he can see it so perfectly and the shriek is modulating to a howl and he can still hear Lee's anguished voice ...
No ship ...
He has to believe there was a Raider. Has to. The alternative, that he lost his heart's daughter to a hallucination, a phantom of her overstressed mind, is too horrible to contemplate. If her captivity on New Caprica and the unrelenting demands of their renewed flight-and-fight had jarred the fault lines already scoring her psyche into some catastrophic fracture ... then they'd all failed her, and she died for nothing.
No Dad, it's no use.
No use. The words reverberate through him as he stares at Aurora, the golden, winged girl. No frakking use. He feels the tears trickling over the lines etching his face, feels his jaw clench as his eyes roam upwards over his model, all proud lines and delicate workmanship ... he feels the roar building under his diaphragm.
Her ship's in pieces.
The roar erupts, not through his voice, but through his hands. His arms shoot out, hands ripping through spars and rigging, fingers snapping masts like the twigs they are. Teeth locked in a bitter snarl, he picks up the remains and flings them away, as hard as he can.
What he has spent years building, he destroys in mere seconds.
The roar spends itself ... and the sobs, inevitable as death, finally come. He bows his head.
We lost her.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 453