Fic: Fall Through Horizon (Vir, gen)
Hello, all! I bring you fanfic that turned into a monster and devoured my free time.
Title: Fall Through Horizon
Characters: Vir, Cartagia
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: Mature for some imagery
Spoilers: through to mid-series 4
Summary: AU. Things always seem better than they are.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any sense. This is the first time I've written in the B5 universe, so I hope I didn't mess around with the characters too much.
***
Vir looks at the syringe in his hands.
If he had to be honest, he would have expected a thick stream of blood to have spilt along the needle. But there’s only the faint trace of red. The warmth along his knuckles, lingering after it had slid from Cartagia’s chest. Copper and steel and polish stinging his nose.
It’s almost bearable.
As Vir looks at the needle, the warmth begins to grow over his hand. He shifts his gaze and sees red, running up his arm, boiling over his skin. Blood covering his body. Cartagia’s blood seeping into his veins. He tastes copper and steel and rot and --
He wakes up.
--
Walking through Babylon 5 is like having your brain ripped through your ears.
This might need some explanation.
Grey and blue are the colours that stand out for Vir, and as he rounds a corner it’s like walking into the back of a mirror. There are shadows under his eyes, lips pinched, jaw clenched. It’s not a normal sort of day, but then nothing is when you’ve spent your week watching your life slide away.
There is a dream that keeps coming back to him. Every night. Every time his mind dips a little towards sleep. Here’s how it goes:
You’re a murderer.
He did believe Londo, who said it had been necessary. He’d believed himself when he’d said this was the right thing. He just never expected to have done it. Cartagia had looked so surprised to see Vir there, so surprised to have turned and faced a courtier who didn’t move. So surprised, when the syringe slammed into his chest, that his eyes grew wide, his mouth slackened, and for a scant moment, Vir could see his soul.
Vir shudders. It doesn’t change anything.
--
There’s a red haze around him. It feels like a welcome.
“What colour is the mix of everything?” asks a voice.
“Oh, well, red,” says Vir.
“I’m sorry? Red?”
“I suppose. Yes, red.”
“Wrong. Not red,” says the voice, closer, and with a mighty effort Vir lifts his head to see Cartagia peering at him through the body of a wine glass. “Not red,” he says again. “White.”
This is unexpected.
“But,” says Vir, eyebrows knotting in confusion, “white is covered in red. It’s full of it.”
Cartagia leans back and taps his lip. Vir can see that he’s tense in the way he’s making every tap a statement -- tap do not tap say tap that -- and Vir starts to worry about how Cartagia’s eyes have fixed on him. Almost as if to move would cause an avalanche.
Vir glances at the wine glass in his hand. It’s empty -- no, it’s just new. He hasn’t drunk from it yet. He risks a look at the sideboard, where a dozen clean glasses are lined up, row by row, each glass exactly the same size as the last.
“So,” says Vir, “we’ll have white wine, then?”
And Cartagia’s face breaks into a smile, his hands raise in worship, and he cries, “Excellent suggestion!” Vir feels the red haze dissipate, and he starts to smell fear and sweat and blood.
He wakes up.
--
“Ah, Vir,” says Londo, “sit down a moment.” Vir mutters a reply (at least, he hopes it’s a reply; for all he knows, he’s just said “Yellow canary bridge”) and Londo looks at him a moment, just looks, and Vir starts to unravel. Vir always thinks that Londo’s looking elsewhere, never focusing just on him, but that one look means more than Vir could have believed. He’s not going mad. He still exists. The rest of the world can still see him.
“I don’t believe I’ve come across any,” says Londo, breaking the moment.
“Er, well, yes. Not in winter.” Vir doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but he is relieved when Londo starts to laugh. Londo moves to the sideboard, where the glasses are arranged from smallest to tallest, glinting white. Vir looks away and swallows as he pours a glass.
He forces a smile to his face for the thirty minutes that Londo keeps him there, talking affairs of state, or rambling snippets of court intrigue. Vir nods his head until he starts getting dizzy. Londo’s quarters are warmer than usual, almost as if he’s set a small coal fire at Vir’s feet. And those damn glasses keep glinting at him. Vir finds himself nodding off during a short interlude into Vargas’s recent financial discrepancies, and jerks himself awake with a shout.
“It’s not a fire!”
There’s a pause as Vir tries to work out where he is and, more importantly, whether he’s on fire or not. He catches sight of Londo, of the wine that has sloshed over the side of the glass and onto the floor, a few drops of which are still making a small pitpitpit sound.
“Well,” Londo says eventually, “I am sure you are right.”
“I -- I’m sorry.”
“Get some sleep, Vir,” sighs Londo. “You look terrible, truly. This is no state for a serious conversation. Except, possibly, with a Narn; in your state, you could almost be on their level.”
Vir nods and goes to leave. He’s almost at the door when Londo says, “Oh, and Vir?” Vir turns. Londo isn’t looking at him. He’s speaking into his glass. “You must think better of yourself.”
But Vir doesn’t. In fact, he’d almost forgotten, and now it rushes back, and it’s twice as bad.
--
There’s nowhere else, thinks Vir, that you could walk into a room like this.
Vir, Cartagia, and Lyndisty are sitting by a rounded table. The room itself is also rounded, and covered in paintings. It gives the feeling of being surrounded. As Cartagia and Lyndisty talk, Vir takes a closer look at the paintings. A dozen pictures of life stare out at him. They’re oil paintings of the court’s grounds. Each one has something different to show and each one says it in the same way: here, the lovingly painted roses; there, the lovingly painted footpath, every one a dappled afternoon of peace.
“Oh, but my husband could never do such a thing!” Lyndisty is staring at Cartagia in abject horror. Pink rises to her cheeks as she fans herself. “He will tell you himself. Go on.” She looks at him expectantly. Vir half expects her to reach across the table and pat him on the head.
“I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“You see!” cries Cartagia. “He does not wish to embarrass his faithful wife, and so does not say anything to contradict her. Truly the mark of a gentleman!”
“You mean it?” Lyndisty looks at Vir with tears in her eyes. “You truly mean it? You are strong and wise, Vir, but I never imagined you to fall so far as to kill another! Who was he, Vir? What made you do it?”
Vir blinks. Kill someone? “But your family’s been killing Narns for decades!” he says, and feels his hand fly to cover his mouth. He can see despair and amusement warring in her eyes as she stares at him, and he’s not the least bit surprised.
“Narns are hardly people, dear husband,” she says. “I am very sorry, Emperor Cartagia, but I must go. Your company has been a delight, but I have much to think about and will need a moment to myself.”
“By all means,” says Cartagia. He’s raising a glass of wine to his lips -- red this time. For a moment, it hovers over his jaw and turns his face a burnt pink.
Lyndisty leaves. She doesn’t even look at Vir as she walks by. The door clicks shut and Vir waits until Cartagia has drained the glass. “Emperor Cartagia, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
“Oh, come, come. Women are always so shocked to hear of a man’s business. As if the end of another’s life is so important!” He laughs and leans forward, face suddenly still. “Between you and me, I would like to know about this killing business. Who was the poor fellow?”
“But you know, Emperor.”
“Do I?”
For a moment, Cartagia’s face slackens into a loose grin. His hand drops the glass. Wine spills onto the floor, and then Vir looks at Cartagia’s chest and sees that it’s not wine pooling on the floor, but blood. Blood seeping out of Cartagia’s chest. Blood running down his leg in rivulets, bubbling on the floor, seeping into the carpet. Cartagia’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Dooooooo Iiiiiiiiii?” he says. His body tips forward and he crashes into the table.
Vir blinks.
“Yes,” he says. Cartagia is looking at him, his head cocked and wineglass twirling between finger and thumb. Vir frowns. “Or … no. I’m not sure. I -- I don’t believe I have, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever killed anyone.”
“Really?” asks Cartagia. “Well, Vir, I must say I’m mildly disappointed. How does one learn anything these days without living on a battlefield? But then, we have been inside too long. Come, we have far too much to talk about.”
Cartagia swings from seated to standing instantly and raises an eyebrow as Vir tries to follow. He leads the way out of the door. As Vir passes, he gives one final look at the paintings. A white, latticed archway hangs before him, and through the archway sits a bloodied sun.
He wakes up.
--
Sheridan rounds a corner and almost runs straight into Vir. They nod to each other as they pass. It’s not until Vir rounds that same corner that he hears Sheridan’s voice.
“Vir,” he says, “get some rest. You look like you need it.”
Vir smiles thinly. “I’m trying.”
--
The hallway. The syringe. The shouting.
Cartagia turns and crashes into Vir. The syringe goes deeply into his chest and Cartagia falls to the floor, hand pointing uselessly at himself.
“No!” cries a voice. Vir raises his arms and waves the syringe frantically at the approaching figure. “No,” says the voice again, and a man walks over and kneels besides Cartagia. He looks up at Vir. “You killed him.”
“Not again,” says Vir. He lowers his arms and focuses. There’s the supine form of Cartagia and the syringe in his hand and -- he takes a breath -- his own face looking up at him from the floor. A little more rounded, a little younger, but still the same. Vir stares at the kneeling man, who stares back at him.
“You’re not meant to kill him again,” says the younger Vir. “You need to remember this, Vir, you need to stop it!”
Everything looks fuzzy. He hears a shrieking start up in his mind. “I didn’t kill him!” he shouts. “I didn’t kill him!”
He looks at Cartagia’s body. His eyes are pointed towards the ceiling. Vir can almost fool himself to believe that Cartagia’s still alive when he sees the flicker of candlelight in his eyes. This is disgusting. He looks at the syringe in his hands and sees blood running down the length of the needle and pooling at its tip. It smells almost medicinal. His breath hitches, and he throws the syringe against the far wall where it clatters to a stop, leaving a sticky trail of blood.
“I’m so glad, Vir.”
Vir jumps, then looks down at Cartagia, who’s now sitting, supported by the younger Vir. There isn’t a crease in Cartagia’s fine white shirt, not a mark out of place. Young Vir is looking up at him with approval. “Help me to my feet,” says Cartagia, flapping a hand at young Vir. He gets onto his feet and smiles benevolently at Vir. “Maybe you are finally learning. And it is about time too! I am tiring of these little conversations. Now, tell me, how would you feel about killing a man?”
Vir feels like he’s speaking through treacle. “Kill a man, Emperor? I could never kill anyone.”
Cartagia claps. “Wonderful news!” He taps his lip. “I think it’s time to try again.”
He wakes up.
--
And they're back to the start.
Vir looks at his hands. He's standing in the wings, where he can hear Londo and Cartagia. They sound faint, wavering against his heatbeat, which is taking up all the room. A slow beat. A slow beat. He tries to focus. There's the whorl of his thumb and the scattered river across his hand. There are the blue veins, almost everywhere he can see. His hands are pink, then yellow, then an all-encompassing red.
He hears a thud as Londo's body hits the floor. And the happy twinkle of bright bloodied glass.
Vir steps out and sees Cartagia strangling Londo. Part of him is saying tend to Londo. Another part is screaming at him to run away. Most of him is looking at the glass.
He walks over to the syringe and, for a moment, considers picking it up. Londo needs it, doesn’t he? There’s a buzzing in his ears. Vir can’t quite understand it. What is happening? And why is there a syringe resting next to his foot? He kicks the syringe away. It twinkles as it rolls.
Cartagia turns to look at Vir. He says something, but Vir can’t hear it over the humming in his ears. “What?” he says, and is startled when Cartagia grabs his shoulders.
“Thank you!” shouts Cartagia into his ear. “I said thank you for saving my life!”
Vir smiles uncertainly and looks over Cartagia’s shoulder. There Londo stands, smiling and clapping. And behind him are a dozen other Centauri, all clapping as if it’s the end of a play. Vir smiles at them all as a shrieking starts up in his ears, almost blotting out Cartagia’s cries of thanks.
And he wonders at exactly which moment he woke up.
Title: Fall Through Horizon
Characters: Vir, Cartagia
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: Mature for some imagery
Spoilers: through to mid-series 4
Summary: AU. Things always seem better than they are.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any sense. This is the first time I've written in the B5 universe, so I hope I didn't mess around with the characters too much.
***
Vir looks at the syringe in his hands.
If he had to be honest, he would have expected a thick stream of blood to have spilt along the needle. But there’s only the faint trace of red. The warmth along his knuckles, lingering after it had slid from Cartagia’s chest. Copper and steel and polish stinging his nose.
It’s almost bearable.
As Vir looks at the needle, the warmth begins to grow over his hand. He shifts his gaze and sees red, running up his arm, boiling over his skin. Blood covering his body. Cartagia’s blood seeping into his veins. He tastes copper and steel and rot and --
He wakes up.
--
Walking through Babylon 5 is like having your brain ripped through your ears.
This might need some explanation.
Grey and blue are the colours that stand out for Vir, and as he rounds a corner it’s like walking into the back of a mirror. There are shadows under his eyes, lips pinched, jaw clenched. It’s not a normal sort of day, but then nothing is when you’ve spent your week watching your life slide away.
There is a dream that keeps coming back to him. Every night. Every time his mind dips a little towards sleep. Here’s how it goes:
You’re a murderer.
He did believe Londo, who said it had been necessary. He’d believed himself when he’d said this was the right thing. He just never expected to have done it. Cartagia had looked so surprised to see Vir there, so surprised to have turned and faced a courtier who didn’t move. So surprised, when the syringe slammed into his chest, that his eyes grew wide, his mouth slackened, and for a scant moment, Vir could see his soul.
Vir shudders. It doesn’t change anything.
--
There’s a red haze around him. It feels like a welcome.
“What colour is the mix of everything?” asks a voice.
“Oh, well, red,” says Vir.
“I’m sorry? Red?”
“I suppose. Yes, red.”
“Wrong. Not red,” says the voice, closer, and with a mighty effort Vir lifts his head to see Cartagia peering at him through the body of a wine glass. “Not red,” he says again. “White.”
This is unexpected.
“But,” says Vir, eyebrows knotting in confusion, “white is covered in red. It’s full of it.”
Cartagia leans back and taps his lip. Vir can see that he’s tense in the way he’s making every tap a statement -- tap do not tap say tap that -- and Vir starts to worry about how Cartagia’s eyes have fixed on him. Almost as if to move would cause an avalanche.
Vir glances at the wine glass in his hand. It’s empty -- no, it’s just new. He hasn’t drunk from it yet. He risks a look at the sideboard, where a dozen clean glasses are lined up, row by row, each glass exactly the same size as the last.
“So,” says Vir, “we’ll have white wine, then?”
And Cartagia’s face breaks into a smile, his hands raise in worship, and he cries, “Excellent suggestion!” Vir feels the red haze dissipate, and he starts to smell fear and sweat and blood.
He wakes up.
--
“Ah, Vir,” says Londo, “sit down a moment.” Vir mutters a reply (at least, he hopes it’s a reply; for all he knows, he’s just said “Yellow canary bridge”) and Londo looks at him a moment, just looks, and Vir starts to unravel. Vir always thinks that Londo’s looking elsewhere, never focusing just on him, but that one look means more than Vir could have believed. He’s not going mad. He still exists. The rest of the world can still see him.
“I don’t believe I’ve come across any,” says Londo, breaking the moment.
“Er, well, yes. Not in winter.” Vir doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but he is relieved when Londo starts to laugh. Londo moves to the sideboard, where the glasses are arranged from smallest to tallest, glinting white. Vir looks away and swallows as he pours a glass.
He forces a smile to his face for the thirty minutes that Londo keeps him there, talking affairs of state, or rambling snippets of court intrigue. Vir nods his head until he starts getting dizzy. Londo’s quarters are warmer than usual, almost as if he’s set a small coal fire at Vir’s feet. And those damn glasses keep glinting at him. Vir finds himself nodding off during a short interlude into Vargas’s recent financial discrepancies, and jerks himself awake with a shout.
“It’s not a fire!”
There’s a pause as Vir tries to work out where he is and, more importantly, whether he’s on fire or not. He catches sight of Londo, of the wine that has sloshed over the side of the glass and onto the floor, a few drops of which are still making a small pitpitpit sound.
“Well,” Londo says eventually, “I am sure you are right.”
“I -- I’m sorry.”
“Get some sleep, Vir,” sighs Londo. “You look terrible, truly. This is no state for a serious conversation. Except, possibly, with a Narn; in your state, you could almost be on their level.”
Vir nods and goes to leave. He’s almost at the door when Londo says, “Oh, and Vir?” Vir turns. Londo isn’t looking at him. He’s speaking into his glass. “You must think better of yourself.”
But Vir doesn’t. In fact, he’d almost forgotten, and now it rushes back, and it’s twice as bad.
--
There’s nowhere else, thinks Vir, that you could walk into a room like this.
Vir, Cartagia, and Lyndisty are sitting by a rounded table. The room itself is also rounded, and covered in paintings. It gives the feeling of being surrounded. As Cartagia and Lyndisty talk, Vir takes a closer look at the paintings. A dozen pictures of life stare out at him. They’re oil paintings of the court’s grounds. Each one has something different to show and each one says it in the same way: here, the lovingly painted roses; there, the lovingly painted footpath, every one a dappled afternoon of peace.
“Oh, but my husband could never do such a thing!” Lyndisty is staring at Cartagia in abject horror. Pink rises to her cheeks as she fans herself. “He will tell you himself. Go on.” She looks at him expectantly. Vir half expects her to reach across the table and pat him on the head.
“I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“You see!” cries Cartagia. “He does not wish to embarrass his faithful wife, and so does not say anything to contradict her. Truly the mark of a gentleman!”
“You mean it?” Lyndisty looks at Vir with tears in her eyes. “You truly mean it? You are strong and wise, Vir, but I never imagined you to fall so far as to kill another! Who was he, Vir? What made you do it?”
Vir blinks. Kill someone? “But your family’s been killing Narns for decades!” he says, and feels his hand fly to cover his mouth. He can see despair and amusement warring in her eyes as she stares at him, and he’s not the least bit surprised.
“Narns are hardly people, dear husband,” she says. “I am very sorry, Emperor Cartagia, but I must go. Your company has been a delight, but I have much to think about and will need a moment to myself.”
“By all means,” says Cartagia. He’s raising a glass of wine to his lips -- red this time. For a moment, it hovers over his jaw and turns his face a burnt pink.
Lyndisty leaves. She doesn’t even look at Vir as she walks by. The door clicks shut and Vir waits until Cartagia has drained the glass. “Emperor Cartagia, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
“Oh, come, come. Women are always so shocked to hear of a man’s business. As if the end of another’s life is so important!” He laughs and leans forward, face suddenly still. “Between you and me, I would like to know about this killing business. Who was the poor fellow?”
“But you know, Emperor.”
“Do I?”
For a moment, Cartagia’s face slackens into a loose grin. His hand drops the glass. Wine spills onto the floor, and then Vir looks at Cartagia’s chest and sees that it’s not wine pooling on the floor, but blood. Blood seeping out of Cartagia’s chest. Blood running down his leg in rivulets, bubbling on the floor, seeping into the carpet. Cartagia’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Dooooooo Iiiiiiiiii?” he says. His body tips forward and he crashes into the table.
Vir blinks.
“Yes,” he says. Cartagia is looking at him, his head cocked and wineglass twirling between finger and thumb. Vir frowns. “Or … no. I’m not sure. I -- I don’t believe I have, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever killed anyone.”
“Really?” asks Cartagia. “Well, Vir, I must say I’m mildly disappointed. How does one learn anything these days without living on a battlefield? But then, we have been inside too long. Come, we have far too much to talk about.”
Cartagia swings from seated to standing instantly and raises an eyebrow as Vir tries to follow. He leads the way out of the door. As Vir passes, he gives one final look at the paintings. A white, latticed archway hangs before him, and through the archway sits a bloodied sun.
He wakes up.
--
Sheridan rounds a corner and almost runs straight into Vir. They nod to each other as they pass. It’s not until Vir rounds that same corner that he hears Sheridan’s voice.
“Vir,” he says, “get some rest. You look like you need it.”
Vir smiles thinly. “I’m trying.”
--
The hallway. The syringe. The shouting.
Cartagia turns and crashes into Vir. The syringe goes deeply into his chest and Cartagia falls to the floor, hand pointing uselessly at himself.
“No!” cries a voice. Vir raises his arms and waves the syringe frantically at the approaching figure. “No,” says the voice again, and a man walks over and kneels besides Cartagia. He looks up at Vir. “You killed him.”
“Not again,” says Vir. He lowers his arms and focuses. There’s the supine form of Cartagia and the syringe in his hand and -- he takes a breath -- his own face looking up at him from the floor. A little more rounded, a little younger, but still the same. Vir stares at the kneeling man, who stares back at him.
“You’re not meant to kill him again,” says the younger Vir. “You need to remember this, Vir, you need to stop it!”
Everything looks fuzzy. He hears a shrieking start up in his mind. “I didn’t kill him!” he shouts. “I didn’t kill him!”
He looks at Cartagia’s body. His eyes are pointed towards the ceiling. Vir can almost fool himself to believe that Cartagia’s still alive when he sees the flicker of candlelight in his eyes. This is disgusting. He looks at the syringe in his hands and sees blood running down the length of the needle and pooling at its tip. It smells almost medicinal. His breath hitches, and he throws the syringe against the far wall where it clatters to a stop, leaving a sticky trail of blood.
“I’m so glad, Vir.”
Vir jumps, then looks down at Cartagia, who’s now sitting, supported by the younger Vir. There isn’t a crease in Cartagia’s fine white shirt, not a mark out of place. Young Vir is looking up at him with approval. “Help me to my feet,” says Cartagia, flapping a hand at young Vir. He gets onto his feet and smiles benevolently at Vir. “Maybe you are finally learning. And it is about time too! I am tiring of these little conversations. Now, tell me, how would you feel about killing a man?”
Vir feels like he’s speaking through treacle. “Kill a man, Emperor? I could never kill anyone.”
Cartagia claps. “Wonderful news!” He taps his lip. “I think it’s time to try again.”
He wakes up.
--
And they're back to the start.
Vir looks at his hands. He's standing in the wings, where he can hear Londo and Cartagia. They sound faint, wavering against his heatbeat, which is taking up all the room. A slow beat. A slow beat. He tries to focus. There's the whorl of his thumb and the scattered river across his hand. There are the blue veins, almost everywhere he can see. His hands are pink, then yellow, then an all-encompassing red.
He hears a thud as Londo's body hits the floor. And the happy twinkle of bright bloodied glass.
Vir steps out and sees Cartagia strangling Londo. Part of him is saying tend to Londo. Another part is screaming at him to run away. Most of him is looking at the glass.
He walks over to the syringe and, for a moment, considers picking it up. Londo needs it, doesn’t he? There’s a buzzing in his ears. Vir can’t quite understand it. What is happening? And why is there a syringe resting next to his foot? He kicks the syringe away. It twinkles as it rolls.
Cartagia turns to look at Vir. He says something, but Vir can’t hear it over the humming in his ears. “What?” he says, and is startled when Cartagia grabs his shoulders.
“Thank you!” shouts Cartagia into his ear. “I said thank you for saving my life!”
Vir smiles uncertainly and looks over Cartagia’s shoulder. There Londo stands, smiling and clapping. And behind him are a dozen other Centauri, all clapping as if it’s the end of a play. Vir smiles at them all as a shrieking starts up in his ears, almost blotting out Cartagia’s cries of thanks.
And he wonders at exactly which moment he woke up.