Fic: The True Shepard - Part 1
Title: The True Shepard - Part 1
Characters/pairings: Laura/Lee
Rating: R (overall), PG (this chapter)
Word count: ~1350
Summary: : Do not go to sleep, but guard on all sides the flock committed to you. Season 1 and 2.0 AU, by way of turning the religious overtones up to 11.
A/N: Unbeta'ed, at present. Prompt from
deborah_judgeat
bsg_epics. Title and summary from Fulcher of Chartres’s account of the Council of Clermont, trans. Oliver J. Thatcher.
Though the Adama household was hardly a religious one, they did attend ceremonies on high holy days when Lee was a small child. At Mom’s insistence, he suspects; they didn’t have many other regular traditions that drew Dad home from the base.
What memories he has of those visits are fragmented and faded: Mom shaking him and Zak awake before dawn; walking up the steps to the Temple of Zeus, with Dad’s warm, strong hand engulfing his; the priest’s voice soaring in a paean; votive offerings piled before fragrant candles at the foot of a great carved plinth stretching into the darkness above.
He remembers best the yearly unveiling of an ancient fresco of the Twelve Lords, their power and beauty evident despite the centuries muting once-bright colors. Before Zeus’ stern gaze and Hera’s benevolent smile, his young heart beat hard in wonder.
Then his father left for the sky, and his mother for the bottom of a bottle, and there were no more temple visits.
Except one, without his parents’ knowing. Lee dragged Zak to a service the first Great Festival after Dad got the freighter job. They watched a priestess lead the pharmakos through the crowded sanctuary, and reached to touch the hands of the ritual effigy as it passed on its way to the pyre. He lit three sticks of incense at the altar, each for an aspect of the Sky-Father.
Zeus who guides the fates, bring Dad home, to me and Mom and Zak, he mouthed. Keep our family whole. Help me be strong in his absence, until he returns.
The divorce came three years later.
For the next two decades, Lee didn’t step foot in a temple or pray, save for Zak’s funeral. If an arrow-thought shot upward to whatever god might deign to receive it, or if an answer drifted back down, he never noticed.
---
On the day the Cylons rained fire upon the worlds, Lee invoked the gods in earnest, for one passing moment.
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said a small man in a garish jacket, his relief palpable in the dark of the transport’s cargo bay as Lee climbed down from his broken Viper.
He quirked a brow, as those words should’ve been his - if not for the passenger liner coming to his rescue, he’d still be adrift in that useless crate - but the man, who introduced himself as Aaron Doral, spared him the trouble of asking for a sitrep.
“The passengers aboard - about two-fifty or so - they’re not in full-blown panic yet, but the confusion’s growing. More and more are demanding updates and access to the wireless,” Doral explained as they wended their way toward the cockpit. “The captain’s got his hands full flying the ship, and now some up-jumped teacher with delusions of power is handing out orders. We need someone qualified in charge, Captain. We need your help.”
Lee nodded, half-listening, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Babysitting civilians wasn’t the challenge he would’ve expected to face during a Cylon war. Yet he swore an oath to defend the Articles and the Colonies, so defend them he would, wherever and whenever.
Just outside the first-class cabin, he paused, took in a breath, and pushed aside the heavy curtain.
But no sharp-voiced, grasping harridan greeted him when he entered. Instead a stately, self-possessed calm wrapped around him like a fragrance that filled the whole space, its source the red-haired woman seated at the far end. Though she was bent studiously over some diagram, everyone in the room was drawn to her and by her, like minor spheres captured by a star, or lesser spirits before a Lord of Kobol - the white-armed goddess, resplendent in beauty and power.
For a span of heartbeats, Lee was once more the child before the fresco. He stood gaping, took in her every gesture, strained to catch each nuance of her voice. At her small smile his heart leapt, and when she addressed him, he had no idea what he said in response.
Then she left. He blinked hard, coming back to himself.
“Lady’s in charge,” Lee said to a dumbstruck Doral, and followed her.
---
In the middle of what would become routine insanity, Lee found himself boarding a Raptor for Colonial One. This time when he entered the first-class cabin, the President was alone, standing before a whiteboard bearing a single number.
“Captain Apollo,” she said, turning to him with a beatific smile. “Thank you for coming.”
Automatically he replied, “Madame President, it’s good to see you,” but the words were true, and he smiled in return. Then his mind drew a blank on why he was here. Gods, he was off his game today.
Roslin must have seen something of this on his face. “You look tired,” she remarked. “Are you getting enough rest?”
He almost gave her the standard reassurances, but stopped for some reason. “Not really,” he admitted. “Between the never-ending crises and adjusting to a new job and a new ship…” Lee shrugged in resignation. “Boomer finding water was a nice break for us. Maybe it’s a sign things will calm down a bit.”
“I hope so as well. The whole crew of Galactica more than deserves it.”
He nodded in polite acceptance. “Thank you, sir.”
She wasn’t finished with the inquiry, though. “But it’s not just the constant state of emergency that’s wearing you down, is it, Captain?” Lee’s eyebrows shot up. “You were in charge of the mission that destroyed the Olympic Carrier.”
Memories of the recurring nightmares and his latest flashback sprang up unbidden. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he blurted, forgetting where he was for a moment. Then he looked up into her eyes as he recalled himself with an indrawn breath. “But a man… has to accept responsibility for his actions. He doesn't second-guess the choices he makes. He lives with them. Every day.”
The President never changed her knowing expression, except to raise her brows a few skeptical degrees. Her lips pursed in consideration, and then she removed her glasses, her gaze shifting from gentle regard to something at once new and familiar like a rediscovered photograph. “Did you ever take part in the ceremonies on Thargelia?”
“Apollo’s Great Festival?” Lee echoed, slightly taken aback at the change in subject and her use of the holiday’s ancient name. Then he saw the connection, and kept his mouth from twisting into a smirk. “Not since I was a kid. But I don’t believe in ritual scapegoats, anyway. There’s no justice in the original practice, it doesn’t absolve you from consequences, and frankly it’s - kind of barbaric. Especially the versions that involved public stoning and death.”
She gave him a teacher’s smile. “It does look that way to our modern eyes, doesn’t it? But there’s a reason we still observe it today, in a more palatable form. The pharmakos isn’t really about justice, or consequences. It’s about the chance to remember and learn from your mistakes, without the crushing burden of guilt. Catharsis.”
Lee looked away, turning Roslin’s words over in his head. “Do - Do you think we made a mistake?” he asked at last, his focus back on her face.
“I don’t know,” she said, a sad cast to her smile. “In some traditions, people would write their sins on potsherds, and press them into the pharmakos’ hands, back when it was still a human instead of an effigy. I don’t have any broken pots, or a pharmakos to give pieces to, but I do have this.” And she drew out a slip of paper with “Olympic Carrier” written in neat script. He stared at it for a long moment, before she returned it to her pocket.
Then she announced: “I have a request.”
Her words were still ringing in his ears when he returned to Galactica’s hangar deck. Captain Apollo. Personal advisor to the President of the Colonies. Exhortation and expiation. Lee didn’t know why Laura Roslin had granted him these, but he would do all he could to deserve her faith in him.
Part 2
Characters/pairings: Laura/Lee
Rating: R (overall), PG (this chapter)
Word count: ~1350
Summary: : Do not go to sleep, but guard on all sides the flock committed to you. Season 1 and 2.0 AU, by way of turning the religious overtones up to 11.
A/N: Unbeta'ed, at present. Prompt from
deborah_judgeat
bsg_epics. Title and summary from Fulcher of Chartres’s account of the Council of Clermont, trans. Oliver J. Thatcher.
Though the Adama household was hardly a religious one, they did attend ceremonies on high holy days when Lee was a small child. At Mom’s insistence, he suspects; they didn’t have many other regular traditions that drew Dad home from the base.
What memories he has of those visits are fragmented and faded: Mom shaking him and Zak awake before dawn; walking up the steps to the Temple of Zeus, with Dad’s warm, strong hand engulfing his; the priest’s voice soaring in a paean; votive offerings piled before fragrant candles at the foot of a great carved plinth stretching into the darkness above.
He remembers best the yearly unveiling of an ancient fresco of the Twelve Lords, their power and beauty evident despite the centuries muting once-bright colors. Before Zeus’ stern gaze and Hera’s benevolent smile, his young heart beat hard in wonder.
Then his father left for the sky, and his mother for the bottom of a bottle, and there were no more temple visits.
Except one, without his parents’ knowing. Lee dragged Zak to a service the first Great Festival after Dad got the freighter job. They watched a priestess lead the pharmakos through the crowded sanctuary, and reached to touch the hands of the ritual effigy as it passed on its way to the pyre. He lit three sticks of incense at the altar, each for an aspect of the Sky-Father.
Zeus who guides the fates, bring Dad home, to me and Mom and Zak, he mouthed. Keep our family whole. Help me be strong in his absence, until he returns.
The divorce came three years later.
For the next two decades, Lee didn’t step foot in a temple or pray, save for Zak’s funeral. If an arrow-thought shot upward to whatever god might deign to receive it, or if an answer drifted back down, he never noticed.
---
On the day the Cylons rained fire upon the worlds, Lee invoked the gods in earnest, for one passing moment.
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said a small man in a garish jacket, his relief palpable in the dark of the transport’s cargo bay as Lee climbed down from his broken Viper.
He quirked a brow, as those words should’ve been his - if not for the passenger liner coming to his rescue, he’d still be adrift in that useless crate - but the man, who introduced himself as Aaron Doral, spared him the trouble of asking for a sitrep.
“The passengers aboard - about two-fifty or so - they’re not in full-blown panic yet, but the confusion’s growing. More and more are demanding updates and access to the wireless,” Doral explained as they wended their way toward the cockpit. “The captain’s got his hands full flying the ship, and now some up-jumped teacher with delusions of power is handing out orders. We need someone qualified in charge, Captain. We need your help.”
Lee nodded, half-listening, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Babysitting civilians wasn’t the challenge he would’ve expected to face during a Cylon war. Yet he swore an oath to defend the Articles and the Colonies, so defend them he would, wherever and whenever.
Just outside the first-class cabin, he paused, took in a breath, and pushed aside the heavy curtain.
But no sharp-voiced, grasping harridan greeted him when he entered. Instead a stately, self-possessed calm wrapped around him like a fragrance that filled the whole space, its source the red-haired woman seated at the far end. Though she was bent studiously over some diagram, everyone in the room was drawn to her and by her, like minor spheres captured by a star, or lesser spirits before a Lord of Kobol - the white-armed goddess, resplendent in beauty and power.
For a span of heartbeats, Lee was once more the child before the fresco. He stood gaping, took in her every gesture, strained to catch each nuance of her voice. At her small smile his heart leapt, and when she addressed him, he had no idea what he said in response.
Then she left. He blinked hard, coming back to himself.
“Lady’s in charge,” Lee said to a dumbstruck Doral, and followed her.
---
In the middle of what would become routine insanity, Lee found himself boarding a Raptor for Colonial One. This time when he entered the first-class cabin, the President was alone, standing before a whiteboard bearing a single number.
“Captain Apollo,” she said, turning to him with a beatific smile. “Thank you for coming.”
Automatically he replied, “Madame President, it’s good to see you,” but the words were true, and he smiled in return. Then his mind drew a blank on why he was here. Gods, he was off his game today.
Roslin must have seen something of this on his face. “You look tired,” she remarked. “Are you getting enough rest?”
He almost gave her the standard reassurances, but stopped for some reason. “Not really,” he admitted. “Between the never-ending crises and adjusting to a new job and a new ship…” Lee shrugged in resignation. “Boomer finding water was a nice break for us. Maybe it’s a sign things will calm down a bit.”
“I hope so as well. The whole crew of Galactica more than deserves it.”
He nodded in polite acceptance. “Thank you, sir.”
She wasn’t finished with the inquiry, though. “But it’s not just the constant state of emergency that’s wearing you down, is it, Captain?” Lee’s eyebrows shot up. “You were in charge of the mission that destroyed the Olympic Carrier.”
Memories of the recurring nightmares and his latest flashback sprang up unbidden. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he blurted, forgetting where he was for a moment. Then he looked up into her eyes as he recalled himself with an indrawn breath. “But a man… has to accept responsibility for his actions. He doesn't second-guess the choices he makes. He lives with them. Every day.”
The President never changed her knowing expression, except to raise her brows a few skeptical degrees. Her lips pursed in consideration, and then she removed her glasses, her gaze shifting from gentle regard to something at once new and familiar like a rediscovered photograph. “Did you ever take part in the ceremonies on Thargelia?”
“Apollo’s Great Festival?” Lee echoed, slightly taken aback at the change in subject and her use of the holiday’s ancient name. Then he saw the connection, and kept his mouth from twisting into a smirk. “Not since I was a kid. But I don’t believe in ritual scapegoats, anyway. There’s no justice in the original practice, it doesn’t absolve you from consequences, and frankly it’s - kind of barbaric. Especially the versions that involved public stoning and death.”
She gave him a teacher’s smile. “It does look that way to our modern eyes, doesn’t it? But there’s a reason we still observe it today, in a more palatable form. The pharmakos isn’t really about justice, or consequences. It’s about the chance to remember and learn from your mistakes, without the crushing burden of guilt. Catharsis.”
Lee looked away, turning Roslin’s words over in his head. “Do - Do you think we made a mistake?” he asked at last, his focus back on her face.
“I don’t know,” she said, a sad cast to her smile. “In some traditions, people would write their sins on potsherds, and press them into the pharmakos’ hands, back when it was still a human instead of an effigy. I don’t have any broken pots, or a pharmakos to give pieces to, but I do have this.” And she drew out a slip of paper with “Olympic Carrier” written in neat script. He stared at it for a long moment, before she returned it to her pocket.
Then she announced: “I have a request.”
Her words were still ringing in his ears when he returned to Galactica’s hangar deck. Captain Apollo. Personal advisor to the President of the Colonies. Exhortation and expiation. Lee didn’t know why Laura Roslin had granted him these, but he would do all he could to deserve her faith in him.
Part 2