My one and only Crusade fic
It's been on my hard drive for two years, darn it, and I'm going to post it, even though JMS doesn't approve of fan fic on open forums. If it makes him feel better, in addition to the usual disclaimers of ownership, I promise not to sue him or cause him any other problems.
Fandom: Crusade
About 1300 words, rated G
Spoilers: through the unaired season 1 finale
Summary: Problems in Galen and Gideon's friendship resurrect old philosophical questions for Galen.
Warnings: This story may not fully make sense unless you're are familiar with--what else?--The Brothers Karamazov.
"Dreams of God, Love, and Dostoevsky"
Galen could hardly blame Matthew for avoiding him. For ten years, Galen had let his friend believe that his interest and his aid derived from friendship only, never hinting at how important a link the techo-mages considered Matthew in their efforts to understand Shadow tech. Inevitably, Matthew had seen the deception as betrayal.
He had not reacted with obvious anger, but then, his shows of anger were almost never obvious, any more than his shows of affection. It was that calm professionality and, every once in a while, that narrow stare that told Galen how firmly he’d been locked out.
Galen wanted to explain himself. Yes, he’d been commanded to keep an eye on Matthew, but there had been friendship too. In fact, save perhaps for Alwyn, Galen considered Matthew his closest living friend. But after so much deception, it was impossible to express that sentiment in a way that Matthew would believe. Thus, the loss of Matthew’s friendship had become one more weight Galen could not heave off, one of those tiny, persistent evidences of the perversity of the universe.
So Galen said nothing, and Matthew avoided him, limiting their conversation to the necessary order of business. Today, it was a round-table discussion of whether they should be diverting to Sirius II or to Iliatio or heading on to Rodia: complicated questions that kept defying resolution. By the time they finally gave up for the night, Galen had counted no less than four narrow-eyed stares. That night, sleep came hard, those stares playing over in his head.
#
“Ivan!” It was like a scene out of some ancient B movie. Isabelle was striding toward him, her mouth wide in an ecstatic grin, her hands outstretched in welcome.
“Alyoshka!” he called back to her, striding out to meet her in an exact mirror of her attitude.
Now that they were face to face, all was suddenly darker, graver. With an intensity bordering on anger, Galen said, “Tell me how you justify the ways of God to men?”
Isabelle gazed at him with compassion. Then, softly, she kissed his lips, like a brother. Like a savior.
#
He was walking with Matthew through a dim, empty corridor on Babylon 5. Suddenly, there was a body, shrouded on the floor.
Now the shroud was gone, and Galen, flabbergasted, saw himself looking down on Elric. But it couldn’t be Elric. His teacher was long dead. This must be some trick, some spell to deceive him. With a few furtive gestures, Galen activated the sensors that worked through his eyes. Amazingly, it was all correct: all the energy traces, the implants, the look of the face down to the pores was Elric. No one could have created a homunculus so perfect.
Galen knelt beside the figure. Elric was not breathing, yet Galen understood that this merely meant he was in stasis. He only needed to be awakened, and they would be back together.
Galen kissed him the forehead. “Elric,” he called softly. Nothing. “My teacher.” Nothing. “Magister mi,” he whispered. Nothing.
Of course! He needed an input of energy to break the stasis. He put his hand on Elric’s chest and pressed down gently, suffusing the body with warmth. “Resurge, magister,” he intoned. Elric inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.
“Galen,” he said in his same old, powerful voice.
Galen helped him into a sitting position. He knew he should be angry, but he couldn’t help but laugh.
“You!” he said, scarcely able to control the impulse to wag an accusatory finger at his teacher. “You pulled one over on me, you fox! You made me think you were really gone. That was Alwyn’s great death-pretense times ten or twenty at least!”
“You should know the blessed don’t decay,” Elric remarked obscurely.
“But I ought to have known you had it in you,” Galen finished. He found himself holding Elric’s hands in his own. They were soft, small hands, like Isabelle’s. He raised them to his lips and kissed them over and over methodically.
“I love you,” he said, the tears breaking through his voice. “I love you. Till the day I die, I will love you, my teacher, and strive never again to do you dishonor.”
#
He was standing on a sunlit terrace in the town where he’d grown up. And there, by the railing, was Isabelle again. He lunged at her and pushed her back hard against the railing.
“Stop hiding from me,” he said. “Just tell me, explain to me, tell me the truth: if you could weave the perfect universe out of the suffering and death of one innocent, would you? Would you?”
She met his eyes and answered, “No, I would not. But I am not the one to whom people will look on the last day and cry out, ‘Thou art just!’”
As she spoke she pointed up into the heavens like some eighteenth-century Shakespearean actor.
Pulling down her arm, Galen kissed her violently and hated himself. He wanted to apologize for handling her that way, but at the same time, his thoughts rang out defiantly, If God permits all this, then everything is permitted.
“I will not renounce those words,” he said, breaking away from her.
“Rebellion,” she breathed softly.
He shook his head. “Just handing back my ticket.”
#
Dureena was standing in the middle of one of the Excalibur’s halls.
“I don’t understand,” she said as Galen strode past her. “My people don’t rail against the injustices of some transcendent God. We praise the spirits of the rocks and the streams.”
“Your people are dead,” he reminded her.
At the dead-end of the hall, Isabelle was waiting. “I made you a tapestry,” she said.
He took her in his arms and held her close, unable to tell if he said the words or thought them: “I was wicked, Isabelle, but then, I found a true sister.”
She stepped back and smiled brightly. “Of course. My Elder instructs me to love all my brothers.”
Dureena was stamping her foot behind him in the rhythm of Ord’wu’s Third Symphony.
#
Galen awoke to the Third Symphony going off inside his head. He commanded it to stop -- and himself to stop using musical alarm calls. For a moment, he wondered where in his flyer he was going to find room to put up Elric. Then, as the fog cleared out of his head, it came to him that Elric was dead.
Fighting a headache, he got up and got ready to resume last night’s meeting.
By about noon, they had finally decided which of the probably-all-three-useless planets to explore first. After the others had filed out, Matthew kept on scribbling notes. Galen found himself still sitting there, watching.
Matthew ignored him.
Galen’s headache was nagging him. He rested his forehead in his hand and sighed.
Matthew glanced up neutrally. “You okay?”
“Bad night,” replied Galen with a little smile.
Matthew went back to his writing.
“Matthew?”
With the barest trace of reluctance, Matthew looked up. Yes, there it was: a narrow stare.
Galen’s heart rate rose a bit. “Matthew, I trust you are aware that I consider myself your friend.”
A curt nod. “Yes, I believe that,” he said, a plausible if imperfect attempt at sincerity of tone.
“I love you.”
Matthew froze, the stare etched on his face.
Galen continued, “I know that I have given you cause to doubt my judgment, my allegiance, even my motives, and it may be I will do so again. But please do not doubt my friendship, Matthew. Do not doubt my. . . love.”
Another second of frozen staring, then Matthew managed to snap his face back into motion. He glanced at the desk and back up nervously. “I -- uh -- Galen, I’m not sure what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” said Galen, rising. “The important thing, rather, is that I did.” He went out, relieved to feel the weight a little lightened.
Fandom: Crusade
About 1300 words, rated G
Spoilers: through the unaired season 1 finale
Summary: Problems in Galen and Gideon's friendship resurrect old philosophical questions for Galen.
Warnings: This story may not fully make sense unless you're are familiar with--what else?--The Brothers Karamazov.
"Dreams of God, Love, and Dostoevsky"
Galen could hardly blame Matthew for avoiding him. For ten years, Galen had let his friend believe that his interest and his aid derived from friendship only, never hinting at how important a link the techo-mages considered Matthew in their efforts to understand Shadow tech. Inevitably, Matthew had seen the deception as betrayal.
He had not reacted with obvious anger, but then, his shows of anger were almost never obvious, any more than his shows of affection. It was that calm professionality and, every once in a while, that narrow stare that told Galen how firmly he’d been locked out.
Galen wanted to explain himself. Yes, he’d been commanded to keep an eye on Matthew, but there had been friendship too. In fact, save perhaps for Alwyn, Galen considered Matthew his closest living friend. But after so much deception, it was impossible to express that sentiment in a way that Matthew would believe. Thus, the loss of Matthew’s friendship had become one more weight Galen could not heave off, one of those tiny, persistent evidences of the perversity of the universe.
So Galen said nothing, and Matthew avoided him, limiting their conversation to the necessary order of business. Today, it was a round-table discussion of whether they should be diverting to Sirius II or to Iliatio or heading on to Rodia: complicated questions that kept defying resolution. By the time they finally gave up for the night, Galen had counted no less than four narrow-eyed stares. That night, sleep came hard, those stares playing over in his head.
#
“Ivan!” It was like a scene out of some ancient B movie. Isabelle was striding toward him, her mouth wide in an ecstatic grin, her hands outstretched in welcome.
“Alyoshka!” he called back to her, striding out to meet her in an exact mirror of her attitude.
Now that they were face to face, all was suddenly darker, graver. With an intensity bordering on anger, Galen said, “Tell me how you justify the ways of God to men?”
Isabelle gazed at him with compassion. Then, softly, she kissed his lips, like a brother. Like a savior.
#
He was walking with Matthew through a dim, empty corridor on Babylon 5. Suddenly, there was a body, shrouded on the floor.
Now the shroud was gone, and Galen, flabbergasted, saw himself looking down on Elric. But it couldn’t be Elric. His teacher was long dead. This must be some trick, some spell to deceive him. With a few furtive gestures, Galen activated the sensors that worked through his eyes. Amazingly, it was all correct: all the energy traces, the implants, the look of the face down to the pores was Elric. No one could have created a homunculus so perfect.
Galen knelt beside the figure. Elric was not breathing, yet Galen understood that this merely meant he was in stasis. He only needed to be awakened, and they would be back together.
Galen kissed him the forehead. “Elric,” he called softly. Nothing. “My teacher.” Nothing. “Magister mi,” he whispered. Nothing.
Of course! He needed an input of energy to break the stasis. He put his hand on Elric’s chest and pressed down gently, suffusing the body with warmth. “Resurge, magister,” he intoned. Elric inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.
“Galen,” he said in his same old, powerful voice.
Galen helped him into a sitting position. He knew he should be angry, but he couldn’t help but laugh.
“You!” he said, scarcely able to control the impulse to wag an accusatory finger at his teacher. “You pulled one over on me, you fox! You made me think you were really gone. That was Alwyn’s great death-pretense times ten or twenty at least!”
“You should know the blessed don’t decay,” Elric remarked obscurely.
“But I ought to have known you had it in you,” Galen finished. He found himself holding Elric’s hands in his own. They were soft, small hands, like Isabelle’s. He raised them to his lips and kissed them over and over methodically.
“I love you,” he said, the tears breaking through his voice. “I love you. Till the day I die, I will love you, my teacher, and strive never again to do you dishonor.”
#
He was standing on a sunlit terrace in the town where he’d grown up. And there, by the railing, was Isabelle again. He lunged at her and pushed her back hard against the railing.
“Stop hiding from me,” he said. “Just tell me, explain to me, tell me the truth: if you could weave the perfect universe out of the suffering and death of one innocent, would you? Would you?”
She met his eyes and answered, “No, I would not. But I am not the one to whom people will look on the last day and cry out, ‘Thou art just!’”
As she spoke she pointed up into the heavens like some eighteenth-century Shakespearean actor.
Pulling down her arm, Galen kissed her violently and hated himself. He wanted to apologize for handling her that way, but at the same time, his thoughts rang out defiantly, If God permits all this, then everything is permitted.
“I will not renounce those words,” he said, breaking away from her.
“Rebellion,” she breathed softly.
He shook his head. “Just handing back my ticket.”
#
Dureena was standing in the middle of one of the Excalibur’s halls.
“I don’t understand,” she said as Galen strode past her. “My people don’t rail against the injustices of some transcendent God. We praise the spirits of the rocks and the streams.”
“Your people are dead,” he reminded her.
At the dead-end of the hall, Isabelle was waiting. “I made you a tapestry,” she said.
He took her in his arms and held her close, unable to tell if he said the words or thought them: “I was wicked, Isabelle, but then, I found a true sister.”
She stepped back and smiled brightly. “Of course. My Elder instructs me to love all my brothers.”
Dureena was stamping her foot behind him in the rhythm of Ord’wu’s Third Symphony.
#
Galen awoke to the Third Symphony going off inside his head. He commanded it to stop -- and himself to stop using musical alarm calls. For a moment, he wondered where in his flyer he was going to find room to put up Elric. Then, as the fog cleared out of his head, it came to him that Elric was dead.
Fighting a headache, he got up and got ready to resume last night’s meeting.
By about noon, they had finally decided which of the probably-all-three-useless planets to explore first. After the others had filed out, Matthew kept on scribbling notes. Galen found himself still sitting there, watching.
Matthew ignored him.
Galen’s headache was nagging him. He rested his forehead in his hand and sighed.
Matthew glanced up neutrally. “You okay?”
“Bad night,” replied Galen with a little smile.
Matthew went back to his writing.
“Matthew?”
With the barest trace of reluctance, Matthew looked up. Yes, there it was: a narrow stare.
Galen’s heart rate rose a bit. “Matthew, I trust you are aware that I consider myself your friend.”
A curt nod. “Yes, I believe that,” he said, a plausible if imperfect attempt at sincerity of tone.
“I love you.”
Matthew froze, the stare etched on his face.
Galen continued, “I know that I have given you cause to doubt my judgment, my allegiance, even my motives, and it may be I will do so again. But please do not doubt my friendship, Matthew. Do not doubt my. . . love.”
Another second of frozen staring, then Matthew managed to snap his face back into motion. He glanced at the desk and back up nervously. “I -- uh -- Galen, I’m not sure what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” said Galen, rising. “The important thing, rather, is that I did.” He went out, relieved to feel the weight a little lightened.