Alloran, Esplin, &c.
Hi, there. I'm not officially much of a writer - aside from the obligatory annual attempt at outlasting Nanowrimo - much less a writer of fanfiction, but I now mysteriously have a creative writing class and find myself tapping out Animorphs tales instead of writing on the assigned topics. This is the beginning of a story that’s a take on several different things, ranging from (vaguely) the Visser Three and Rachel challenges, to Ax's sudden declaration of "i <3 teh rush of battle!!1!" towards the end of #54 (figuratively, figuratively - and kudos to whoever posted the germ of that idea over at Animorphs), to my very favorite of the books, The Andalite Chronicles. It's not finished yet, but I would like to know someone else actually thinks it makes sense thus far. For reference, it's set during #54, somewhere between the end of chapter eight (war is over) and the start of chapter ten ("one year later"), but not so much during chapter nine (memorial).
Title: Wubbles (working title; will change)
Rating: er...let’s call it PG, just to be on the safe side.
Word Count: currently around 1,400; should weigh in around 6,000 when complete
Summary: Alloran is freed of Esplin, has somewhat twisted recollections of the past, and talks about Ax to the point that I feel the need to say that this is not slash!
Etc: Not slash! Not even AU. But afflicted with a terribly long-winded author, yes indeed.
This is based on what I go on about in this post (so thanks, everyone who responded!), although I don't necessarily recommend reading that unless you're utterly confused, and maybe not even then.
< Welcome back, War-Prince Alloran.>
I had never thought to hear that name - my name - spoken in tones of respect again. I was, after all, Alloran, Butcher of the Hork-Bajir; the blood-thirsty, grief-stricken, possibly insane War-Prince who had allowed himself to be infested by one of the Yeerk scum, who had given that megalomaniac known as Esplin Nine-Four-Six-Six Prime access all the secrets of the Andalite military and the ability to morph, who hadn’t even managed to kill himself during the entire length of his captivity despite numerous opportunities. I was Alloran the shamed, the shunned, the traitor. In a very real way, I was the true Abomination in the eyes of the Andalite people.
But I was also, for the first time in umpteen years, free. And this young aristh standing in the helm, trembling yet with the weight of his defiance, had welcomed me back.
The ways in which this universe works are strange. It was strange that Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill, of all people, should be my savior; strange that he should be so much like his brother Elfangor and yet so very different. He was trembling, yes, but he had still issued a challenge, had still supported for his human allies, and had accepted my help. He had not doubted me, had not sneered at me, had not even been able to kill me that long-ago day in the grassy Earthen field. At the time, I had cursed him his sensibilities, cursed him and felt doomed to be forever thwarted by sentimental fools like he and his brother. I had raged; even the Yeerk, once returned to his smug and lofty place about my brain, had been drawn into my madness and raved with me against Elfangor, against Aximili and his allies, against memories best forgotten and yet unforgettable and unknowable.
But now I was free. That thought kept returning to me, much the way its evil brother had run through my brain after my enslavement, sniggering and swaggering insidiously into all of my dreams of release, yet infinitely more welcome. It delighted me with its sheer potential.
I was free. It was real, yet not; it was an impossible dream, yet here I was, moving my stalks, whipping my tail, dreaming of running across the blue fields of my home, all without the mocking voice of the Yeerk overlord tormenting me and denying my existence as anything but an incredibly versatile host body. I was here, and he was in the human box that had contained the excellent flecked disks, never to torment me again.
I did not speak to him. I wanted to; wanted to shout and gloat and - if I was being completely honest - slice him into little Yeerk pieces. The human Jake, dubbed Prince by Aximili and respected as one of such rank, had said he was not to be harmed, yet I longed to avenge myself. I couldn’t imagine what form of justice these humans might dispense to their prisoner; they must have hated him almost as much as I did, yet they seemed reluctant to do any more harm, deflated by the aftermath of the bloody battle.
< What are they, these humans of yours?> I said quietly to Aximili. It had been so long since my voice had been projected in anything but a violent shout that I felt reluctant to speak to the room at large, certain I would sound the Visser they had fought against for so long. < What will they do now?>
Aximili regarded at me soberly, sadness and regret etched in every line of his body. < I do not know, War-Prince Alloran. They are my -- friends, but they have fought a long, bitter war they never expected to go on so long, or to require so much of them. I no longer know what they will or will not do.>
I looked at the humans, seeing signs of what Aximili spoke of. The Yeerk who had lived in my head had taken very little notice of human forms of expression, but I remembered, in a foggy, distant way, a journey long ago with two humans and two young arisths who had resented being shoved off on a low-level mission with me as much as I resented the implications of being given a crew of untrained nobodies and their pet aliens. I recalled how shocking it had been to be able to see the aliens’ emotions in their facial expressions, despite their strange rounded eyes and gaping red mouths. Now, looking at these human children - especially the silent boy who was also a bird - I remembered more clearly those humans, and their expressions of disappointment and grief.
It was for the girl.
Watching through my eyes as the Visser stared, shocked, into the screen displaying his Blade Ship and its crew of traitorous Yeerks, I had seen a flash of yellow billowing from beneath a workstation along the far wall. An image had leapt unbidden into my mind of one of the aliens, a strange girl with unsightly long hair that same color, frowning as the idealistic aristh tried to explain quantum physics, or some other such ridiculous topic, to her. That girl seemed to haunt my memories, appearing in the oddest of places. I remembered her laughter, as Elfangor - again, Elfangor; always, Elfangor! - saw for the first time that I was infested. But how could that be? Why should a laughing alien child and a great warrior like Elfangor be present at such a moment? How had I lived, if Elfangor had seen me so, undefended in that moment of vulnerability? I remembered also her mind, that child - remembered feeling it beat back Esplin’s will, remembered the shock that somehow reverberated through our tiny circle as she proved herself our match...
But the girl was dead, now, killed by one of the few morph-capable Controllers she had left alive, killed in her own body as she lay mortally exhausted, wishing only to say good-bye to her human friends. Her human friends - and, strange as it may be, Aximili, not Elfangor - who now mourned her death; mourned, perhaps, all of the deaths.
The mysteriously morph-capable nothlit seemed most affected. He had returned to his bird form and now perched on one of the many bars attached to the walls of the craft. He seemed to glare an especial hatred at Esplin, as if he wanted, as I did, to strike the Yeerk where it lay, yet he made no move. I remembered his earlier venom as he had yelled: "He’s the one responsible for all of this!" pointing at me - at the Visser - wanting nothing more than to kill us himself. I remembered his tears as the female fought. I wondered if these humans felt bound to their prince as Aximili did, that they would aid in a plan they so clearly hated. I wondered why that strange girl was so important to the boy, and why he reminded me so of her. I thought of asking, but could not find the words to express all that I wanted to know.
Esplin had been so certain that these children were highly trained Andalite warriors, but now here they stood, uncertain and apparently unwilling to act. They did not seem triumphant, did not even seem to care that they had won. I understood, I thought; winning the war does not erase the past.
The messenger returned, his expression carefully neutral.
< Captain Asculan issues the following orders: Four Escafil Devices will be made available to aristh Aximili to use as he sees fit. Aristh Aximili is hereby elevated to the rank of Prince. Prince Aximili is appointed liaison between the Andalite fleet and the people of Earth.>
Aximili absorbed this information, impassive. I wondered if he would have reacted any differently had the orders been to strike his own head from his neck.
After a pause, he said,
< Thank the Captain for me. I will carry out my duties. My challenge is hereby withdrawn.>
The words were correct, but it was clear that they were naught but form. The humans looked just as morose as Aximili sounded. Even their leader, Prince Jake, was silent. They occasionally glanced at one another, or toward me and then quickly to the box that lay on the floor, but most often their eyes focused on the one who was not there: the brave female with the yellow hair.
Title: Wubbles (working title; will change)
Rating: er...let’s call it PG, just to be on the safe side.
Word Count: currently around 1,400; should weigh in around 6,000 when complete
Summary: Alloran is freed of Esplin, has somewhat twisted recollections of the past, and talks about Ax to the point that I feel the need to say that this is not slash!
Etc: Not slash! Not even AU. But afflicted with a terribly long-winded author, yes indeed.
This is based on what I go on about in this post (so thanks, everyone who responded!), although I don't necessarily recommend reading that unless you're utterly confused, and maybe not even then.
< Welcome back, War-Prince Alloran.>
I had never thought to hear that name - my name - spoken in tones of respect again. I was, after all, Alloran, Butcher of the Hork-Bajir; the blood-thirsty, grief-stricken, possibly insane War-Prince who had allowed himself to be infested by one of the Yeerk scum, who had given that megalomaniac known as Esplin Nine-Four-Six-Six Prime access all the secrets of the Andalite military and the ability to morph, who hadn’t even managed to kill himself during the entire length of his captivity despite numerous opportunities. I was Alloran the shamed, the shunned, the traitor. In a very real way, I was the true Abomination in the eyes of the Andalite people.
But I was also, for the first time in umpteen years, free. And this young aristh standing in the helm, trembling yet with the weight of his defiance, had welcomed me back.
The ways in which this universe works are strange. It was strange that Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill, of all people, should be my savior; strange that he should be so much like his brother Elfangor and yet so very different. He was trembling, yes, but he had still issued a challenge, had still supported for his human allies, and had accepted my help. He had not doubted me, had not sneered at me, had not even been able to kill me that long-ago day in the grassy Earthen field. At the time, I had cursed him his sensibilities, cursed him and felt doomed to be forever thwarted by sentimental fools like he and his brother. I had raged; even the Yeerk, once returned to his smug and lofty place about my brain, had been drawn into my madness and raved with me against Elfangor, against Aximili and his allies, against memories best forgotten and yet unforgettable and unknowable.
But now I was free. That thought kept returning to me, much the way its evil brother had run through my brain after my enslavement, sniggering and swaggering insidiously into all of my dreams of release, yet infinitely more welcome. It delighted me with its sheer potential.
I was free. It was real, yet not; it was an impossible dream, yet here I was, moving my stalks, whipping my tail, dreaming of running across the blue fields of my home, all without the mocking voice of the Yeerk overlord tormenting me and denying my existence as anything but an incredibly versatile host body. I was here, and he was in the human box that had contained the excellent flecked disks, never to torment me again.
I did not speak to him. I wanted to; wanted to shout and gloat and - if I was being completely honest - slice him into little Yeerk pieces. The human Jake, dubbed Prince by Aximili and respected as one of such rank, had said he was not to be harmed, yet I longed to avenge myself. I couldn’t imagine what form of justice these humans might dispense to their prisoner; they must have hated him almost as much as I did, yet they seemed reluctant to do any more harm, deflated by the aftermath of the bloody battle.
< What are they, these humans of yours?> I said quietly to Aximili. It had been so long since my voice had been projected in anything but a violent shout that I felt reluctant to speak to the room at large, certain I would sound the Visser they had fought against for so long. < What will they do now?>
Aximili regarded at me soberly, sadness and regret etched in every line of his body. < I do not know, War-Prince Alloran. They are my -- friends, but they have fought a long, bitter war they never expected to go on so long, or to require so much of them. I no longer know what they will or will not do.>
I looked at the humans, seeing signs of what Aximili spoke of. The Yeerk who had lived in my head had taken very little notice of human forms of expression, but I remembered, in a foggy, distant way, a journey long ago with two humans and two young arisths who had resented being shoved off on a low-level mission with me as much as I resented the implications of being given a crew of untrained nobodies and their pet aliens. I recalled how shocking it had been to be able to see the aliens’ emotions in their facial expressions, despite their strange rounded eyes and gaping red mouths. Now, looking at these human children - especially the silent boy who was also a bird - I remembered more clearly those humans, and their expressions of disappointment and grief.
It was for the girl.
Watching through my eyes as the Visser stared, shocked, into the screen displaying his Blade Ship and its crew of traitorous Yeerks, I had seen a flash of yellow billowing from beneath a workstation along the far wall. An image had leapt unbidden into my mind of one of the aliens, a strange girl with unsightly long hair that same color, frowning as the idealistic aristh tried to explain quantum physics, or some other such ridiculous topic, to her. That girl seemed to haunt my memories, appearing in the oddest of places. I remembered her laughter, as Elfangor - again, Elfangor; always, Elfangor! - saw for the first time that I was infested. But how could that be? Why should a laughing alien child and a great warrior like Elfangor be present at such a moment? How had I lived, if Elfangor had seen me so, undefended in that moment of vulnerability? I remembered also her mind, that child - remembered feeling it beat back Esplin’s will, remembered the shock that somehow reverberated through our tiny circle as she proved herself our match...
But the girl was dead, now, killed by one of the few morph-capable Controllers she had left alive, killed in her own body as she lay mortally exhausted, wishing only to say good-bye to her human friends. Her human friends - and, strange as it may be, Aximili, not Elfangor - who now mourned her death; mourned, perhaps, all of the deaths.
The mysteriously morph-capable nothlit seemed most affected. He had returned to his bird form and now perched on one of the many bars attached to the walls of the craft. He seemed to glare an especial hatred at Esplin, as if he wanted, as I did, to strike the Yeerk where it lay, yet he made no move. I remembered his earlier venom as he had yelled: "He’s the one responsible for all of this!" pointing at me - at the Visser - wanting nothing more than to kill us himself. I remembered his tears as the female fought. I wondered if these humans felt bound to their prince as Aximili did, that they would aid in a plan they so clearly hated. I wondered why that strange girl was so important to the boy, and why he reminded me so of her. I thought of asking, but could not find the words to express all that I wanted to know.
Esplin had been so certain that these children were highly trained Andalite warriors, but now here they stood, uncertain and apparently unwilling to act. They did not seem triumphant, did not even seem to care that they had won. I understood, I thought; winning the war does not erase the past.
The messenger returned, his expression carefully neutral.
< Captain Asculan issues the following orders: Four Escafil Devices will be made available to aristh Aximili to use as he sees fit. Aristh Aximili is hereby elevated to the rank of Prince. Prince Aximili is appointed liaison between the Andalite fleet and the people of Earth.>
Aximili absorbed this information, impassive. I wondered if he would have reacted any differently had the orders been to strike his own head from his neck.
After a pause, he said,
< Thank the Captain for me. I will carry out my duties. My challenge is hereby withdrawn.>
The words were correct, but it was clear that they were naught but form. The humans looked just as morose as Aximili sounded. Even their leader, Prince Jake, was silent. They occasionally glanced at one another, or toward me and then quickly to the box that lay on the floor, but most often their eyes focused on the one who was not there: the brave female with the yellow hair.