[Original Fic] Someone Else's Moon
Title: An Enemy to God
Universe: Original: Someone Else's Moon by Nezuko (nezumiko)
Genre(s): SciFi, BuddyFic, War, action/adventure
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
Word Count: 986
Notes: Written specifically for caer_awen's writing contest, this scene falls somewhere in the first third of my original sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Moon which I am s-l-o-w-l-y working on.
Grend had known, when he was packing his little bag of personal effects into his military duffle, that he was taking a risk. His sister had stood in his arched door, silent and grim as the sky outside, and fixed her tall younger brother with a glare.
"You're going to get yourself killed if they find those," she said.
Grend didn't answer.
"You know how it is," she persisted. "You know how Earthians think about us."
Grend carefully folded the little brass tripod, the hammered enameled dish, and the cones of spicy-smelling incense into their velvet-covered case, slipped that into an empty pouch of bitterweed chewing stimulant, and that into his toiletries kit. It looked unremarkable there, alongside his light-pulse razor, face cream, tooth cleaner, pills and powders, comb and hair ties, unguents and stimulants and narcoleptics, prophylactics and lubricants-all the things a man needed when he was away from home.
"Grend!" she said, and moved to take the packet back out.
"Don't, Lena," Grend said, and intercepted his sister's hand, holding it at the wrist.
"They're Imperials, Grend. Imperials. Do you have any idea what that means?"
Grend turned and pointed at the pile of neatly-folded, Imperial-grey uniforms sitting on his bed, waiting their turn to be packed into the duffle. How can you even ask me that? his gesture seemed to say.
"I..." Lena said, and her voice broke. She pulled away from her brother with a jerk. Her long, iron-grey hair bound in a thick rope of a braid slapped out in her wake and lashed across Grend's arm.
"Lena," Grend said turning after her.
"I don't want to be the one with Mother. I don't want to be there when she gets the comm that you're dead."
Grend sat down, pushing the piles of clothing and gear aside, and looked up at his sister's angry, frightened face. He reached out for her again, catching her smaller hands in his large, bony ones and pulled her to stand next to him. "Lena, what makes you so sure I'm not coming back? Did you ever think that maybe the reason I'm taking the Trilum is because I trust the spirits to keep me safe if I keep my commitments to them?"
"You and your bechtet observance!" Lena spat, swearing in the ancient tongue, but she didn't pull away. "Look how much good it's done you so far. You still got drafted. Do you have any idea how many hairs I burned praying for them to leave you here with us?"
"Is that how you got that bald patch?" Grend laughed, but the answering tears in Lena's eyes told him it wasn't a funny joke. "Lena... Sometimes the spirits have a plan for a man that even the Greatest Spirit cannot know until the truth plays out."
"Don't be quoting religion at me, Grendelion bil Machta'bren!" Lena raged. "I'll not have it. I was there when you were born."
"And how, Lenalion fey Machta'bren, is that supposed to make any difference to me at all?" Grend laughed, echoing his sister's use of his formal name.
Lena didn't answer for a moment, just looked helplessly at the paraphernalia of her brother's impending conscription spread out around him. "If you die, Grend, I won't forgive you," she said at last, and pulled her brother against her chest, wrapping strong, slim arms around his broad shoulders.
"Don't worry, Lenala," Grend answered, resting his head against his sister's shoulder. "I'm living forever. I've got plans. Didn't I tell you?"
ooo
It was that exchange with his sister that Grend thought of now, lying on a frozen sandy floor inside the barracks on Titan, and watching as a booted foot kicked first his Trilum set, sending delicate brass instrument and smoldering incense flying, then continued on to drive a steel-tipped toe into his ribs.
"Filthy Martian pagan!" a guttural voice shouted, to a chorus of harsh echoes.
"You're not gonna witch us with your demons!" another man swore, and another boot met the tender flesh of Grend's left flank.
Grend's hand lashed out, grabbing for a foot, sweeping it out from under the man with a sharp twist. He heard the knee crack, the man swear, but he didn't stop to tangle with his attacker. He was already trying to scuttle under a bunk, to protect himself, getting his knife out of its holster and into his hand, ready to strike back by the time the next blow landed.
They'd come in while he was praying. He always made sure to pray in solitude- setting up his Trilum and incense, burning a long silver hair plucked from his own head, muttering his swift prayers for safety, for mercy, for thanksgiving, for the dead-when he knew he was alone. He prayed late at night when all were sleeping, when he wouldn't be missed for the few moments his observations took. But today there had been no time. He'd taken a risk, slipping away to say his prayers while the platoon assembled to listen to one last briefing on their upcoming deployment. If they hadn't had a troopship coming for them in less than half a day, if there had just been more time... But they were going into battle. He'd judged it worth the risk.
And they'd caught him.
"Fucking Martian witch!" someone had shouted. "He's trying to curse us all!"
Rough hands had grabbed at his shoulders, at his hair, hauling him away from the corner where he knelt. Blows had landed before Grend could fight back, as a crowd of fellow soldiers surrounded him. It had been all he could do to curl into a defensive ball and protect his face and belly from their wrath.
Another boot caught him in the spine, and Grend whimpered, slashing with his knife, praying now for sanctuary from his own comrades. There were too many of them. And they were not, he could hear his sister's voice, worthy of the name comrade. They might all wear the same uniform, but these were Earthian Imperials.
And he was a Polar Martian.
Universe: Original: Someone Else's Moon by Nezuko (nezumiko)
Genre(s): SciFi, BuddyFic, War, action/adventure
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
Word Count: 986
Notes: Written specifically for caer_awen's writing contest, this scene falls somewhere in the first third of my original sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Moon which I am s-l-o-w-l-y working on.
Grend had known, when he was packing his little bag of personal effects into his military duffle, that he was taking a risk. His sister had stood in his arched door, silent and grim as the sky outside, and fixed her tall younger brother with a glare.
"You're going to get yourself killed if they find those," she said.
Grend didn't answer.
"You know how it is," she persisted. "You know how Earthians think about us."
Grend carefully folded the little brass tripod, the hammered enameled dish, and the cones of spicy-smelling incense into their velvet-covered case, slipped that into an empty pouch of bitterweed chewing stimulant, and that into his toiletries kit. It looked unremarkable there, alongside his light-pulse razor, face cream, tooth cleaner, pills and powders, comb and hair ties, unguents and stimulants and narcoleptics, prophylactics and lubricants-all the things a man needed when he was away from home.
"Grend!" she said, and moved to take the packet back out.
"Don't, Lena," Grend said, and intercepted his sister's hand, holding it at the wrist.
"They're Imperials, Grend. Imperials. Do you have any idea what that means?"
Grend turned and pointed at the pile of neatly-folded, Imperial-grey uniforms sitting on his bed, waiting their turn to be packed into the duffle. How can you even ask me that? his gesture seemed to say.
"I..." Lena said, and her voice broke. She pulled away from her brother with a jerk. Her long, iron-grey hair bound in a thick rope of a braid slapped out in her wake and lashed across Grend's arm.
"Lena," Grend said turning after her.
"I don't want to be the one with Mother. I don't want to be there when she gets the comm that you're dead."
Grend sat down, pushing the piles of clothing and gear aside, and looked up at his sister's angry, frightened face. He reached out for her again, catching her smaller hands in his large, bony ones and pulled her to stand next to him. "Lena, what makes you so sure I'm not coming back? Did you ever think that maybe the reason I'm taking the Trilum is because I trust the spirits to keep me safe if I keep my commitments to them?"
"You and your bechtet observance!" Lena spat, swearing in the ancient tongue, but she didn't pull away. "Look how much good it's done you so far. You still got drafted. Do you have any idea how many hairs I burned praying for them to leave you here with us?"
"Is that how you got that bald patch?" Grend laughed, but the answering tears in Lena's eyes told him it wasn't a funny joke. "Lena... Sometimes the spirits have a plan for a man that even the Greatest Spirit cannot know until the truth plays out."
"Don't be quoting religion at me, Grendelion bil Machta'bren!" Lena raged. "I'll not have it. I was there when you were born."
"And how, Lenalion fey Machta'bren, is that supposed to make any difference to me at all?" Grend laughed, echoing his sister's use of his formal name.
Lena didn't answer for a moment, just looked helplessly at the paraphernalia of her brother's impending conscription spread out around him. "If you die, Grend, I won't forgive you," she said at last, and pulled her brother against her chest, wrapping strong, slim arms around his broad shoulders.
"Don't worry, Lenala," Grend answered, resting his head against his sister's shoulder. "I'm living forever. I've got plans. Didn't I tell you?"
ooo
It was that exchange with his sister that Grend thought of now, lying on a frozen sandy floor inside the barracks on Titan, and watching as a booted foot kicked first his Trilum set, sending delicate brass instrument and smoldering incense flying, then continued on to drive a steel-tipped toe into his ribs.
"Filthy Martian pagan!" a guttural voice shouted, to a chorus of harsh echoes.
"You're not gonna witch us with your demons!" another man swore, and another boot met the tender flesh of Grend's left flank.
Grend's hand lashed out, grabbing for a foot, sweeping it out from under the man with a sharp twist. He heard the knee crack, the man swear, but he didn't stop to tangle with his attacker. He was already trying to scuttle under a bunk, to protect himself, getting his knife out of its holster and into his hand, ready to strike back by the time the next blow landed.
They'd come in while he was praying. He always made sure to pray in solitude- setting up his Trilum and incense, burning a long silver hair plucked from his own head, muttering his swift prayers for safety, for mercy, for thanksgiving, for the dead-when he knew he was alone. He prayed late at night when all were sleeping, when he wouldn't be missed for the few moments his observations took. But today there had been no time. He'd taken a risk, slipping away to say his prayers while the platoon assembled to listen to one last briefing on their upcoming deployment. If they hadn't had a troopship coming for them in less than half a day, if there had just been more time... But they were going into battle. He'd judged it worth the risk.
And they'd caught him.
"Fucking Martian witch!" someone had shouted. "He's trying to curse us all!"
Rough hands had grabbed at his shoulders, at his hair, hauling him away from the corner where he knelt. Blows had landed before Grend could fight back, as a crowd of fellow soldiers surrounded him. It had been all he could do to curl into a defensive ball and protect his face and belly from their wrath.
Another boot caught him in the spine, and Grend whimpered, slashing with his knife, praying now for sanctuary from his own comrades. There were too many of them. And they were not, he could hear his sister's voice, worthy of the name comrade. They might all wear the same uniform, but these were Earthian Imperials.
And he was a Polar Martian.