Don't See Elysium -- holiday fic #8
This is for sabaceanbabe, who requested a Helo fic. Sorry this is late, sb, hope you like it. :)
Don't See Elysium
Fandom --Battlestar Galactica
Spoilers -- the mini-series
***
A cloud of dust, the sobs and anguished cries of the abandoned, and thin hope disappears into the yellowing sky. Helo wonders if he isn't dead yet.
In the ankle high grasses of his dead world, he wonders what it was all for. A life that lead to such an end as this? History and time for nothing? Did Sharon survive? What would her world be now that this one was gone? Was there anything? Could there be anything after this?
He walks away from the end of hope, moving from the milling lost, the surviving dead. His footsteps are dull on the suffering ground, distant rumbles of chaos roll over the fields and shake the trees. And he walks, and he wonders how hell could be worse than this?
Where is his river Lethe? Where will he find oblivion? Or will he be condemned to remember, some ever-walking ghost on a haunted globe?
On the first night he finds himself a hollow at the base of an ancient tree, and settles against the gnarled roots. When the eerie glow of fallout and fires drift down through the forest canopy, beautiful, unworldly wisps, he allows himself to believe he's slipped into some hazy fever dream. When he wakes, and a few distant bird calls reach his ear, he almost believes.
On the third morning there are no more birds.
The dream persists, though, and all around him is a river of fire. He walks on, hoping with each step, that he'll find some inspiration, some idea, some guidance, some wisdom. Or maybe he'll find the boatman and know he missed Elysium.
Get off this world, he tells himself. Get back to Galactica, he presses, and refuses to think that she might not still be there. The worlds could end, Cylons could crush these tiny spheres of humanity, but Galactica had to still be. And if she wasn't, then he was already dead, and if he was already dead, what harm was there in continuing on? So he takes another step.
The Cylons find him on the third day, and he runs. They follow, heavy feet crushing and bruising the ground even more. They destroy and destroy and destroy. He finds his tree, grabs up his pack, the last bits of life he has, and runs.
He hasn't seen another human for two days. He left a handful at a camp in a field the first night. He tried to get them to move on, to find cover, but they were lost to reason and, as one, set on him, trying to steal his weapon and his pack. He left them and looked back only once, hoping one or two might follow his advice. No one moved.
The Cylons whine behind him, they're faster than he is, but he's more maneuverable, and he jumps over fallen trees, slips down muddy gullies, and ducks around mossy boulders. He loses them down a ravine, and almost loses himself.
He hits the ground hard, jarring the tear in his leg, setting the blood flowing again. He wants to gasp in pain, but he's wedged under a shelf of rock, and up above the Cylons pace along the lip. He drops his pack and grabs his leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He holds his breath and prays. The Cylons' low hum chills him more than the brisk, damp air around him. Not even the hot flow of blood between his fingers makes him feel more alive than the machine thrum above him. After all, why would a dead man fear? He shakes himself out of the dream for the first time in three days.
The Cylons give up and he rewraps the bandage around his leg, finally giving in to a low grunt of pain. That done, he slips back against the rock and takes a deep breath of sweet, cool air. Sometimes, when he doesn't let himself notice the silence and unnatural stillness, it's hard to remember that his world is twisted and poisoned, he is no longer her son, and, but for a few precious vials in his pack, she will kill him.
It starts to rain, and his shelf of rock is enough to keep him dry for the night, so he rests. He'd love to start a fire, to soak in warmth again, it feels like a lifetime, but the Cylons on the ground and the Cylons in the air are watching. He imagines a million red eyes burning through the night.
Huddling back against the unyielding stone, he draws his good leg up against his chest, and stretches his injured one out, propping it on another nearby rock. He's not very comfortable, but he's now fairly certain he's not dead, not wandering in the afterworld, not in the green fields of Elysium, nor the eternal night of Hades.
Staring out into the rain-heavy gloom, he wonders. As a Colonial officer he has a duty to this world. A duty to fight his enemies, to protect his people. But, he's one man. He's one man on a dying world, his enemies are too numerous to overcome, and the people, those few left he hears crying out through the trees, have driven him off. He sighs and rubs a hand over weary eyes.
But he can't be alone. Galactica is still out there. and Sharon is still alive -- he refuses to believe otherwise. And, perhaps, there are other men like him alive on this world. Other hands to help bear this burden. He could find them.
His leg twinges, the cold settling on it, leaving a bone deep ache, and he closes his eyes. Three days and he's so, so tired already. The world around him is growing quieter with each passing hour. How long does he have? How long can he keep going alone? Where will he find those like him? Are they real or just a dream? And if he falls, will he find Elysium? Or will he be a ghost, bound to a world he couldn't save?
Despite the chill, exhaustion overcomes him. Mercifully, the heavy rain smothers the spectral lights and darkness creeps thickly towards him. He lets the gentle lie of hope wrap itself warmly around him, and when he sleeps he dreams of another world.
##
Don't See Elysium
Fandom --Battlestar Galactica
Spoilers -- the mini-series
***
A cloud of dust, the sobs and anguished cries of the abandoned, and thin hope disappears into the yellowing sky. Helo wonders if he isn't dead yet.
In the ankle high grasses of his dead world, he wonders what it was all for. A life that lead to such an end as this? History and time for nothing? Did Sharon survive? What would her world be now that this one was gone? Was there anything? Could there be anything after this?
He walks away from the end of hope, moving from the milling lost, the surviving dead. His footsteps are dull on the suffering ground, distant rumbles of chaos roll over the fields and shake the trees. And he walks, and he wonders how hell could be worse than this?
Where is his river Lethe? Where will he find oblivion? Or will he be condemned to remember, some ever-walking ghost on a haunted globe?
On the first night he finds himself a hollow at the base of an ancient tree, and settles against the gnarled roots. When the eerie glow of fallout and fires drift down through the forest canopy, beautiful, unworldly wisps, he allows himself to believe he's slipped into some hazy fever dream. When he wakes, and a few distant bird calls reach his ear, he almost believes.
On the third morning there are no more birds.
The dream persists, though, and all around him is a river of fire. He walks on, hoping with each step, that he'll find some inspiration, some idea, some guidance, some wisdom. Or maybe he'll find the boatman and know he missed Elysium.
Get off this world, he tells himself. Get back to Galactica, he presses, and refuses to think that she might not still be there. The worlds could end, Cylons could crush these tiny spheres of humanity, but Galactica had to still be. And if she wasn't, then he was already dead, and if he was already dead, what harm was there in continuing on? So he takes another step.
The Cylons find him on the third day, and he runs. They follow, heavy feet crushing and bruising the ground even more. They destroy and destroy and destroy. He finds his tree, grabs up his pack, the last bits of life he has, and runs.
He hasn't seen another human for two days. He left a handful at a camp in a field the first night. He tried to get them to move on, to find cover, but they were lost to reason and, as one, set on him, trying to steal his weapon and his pack. He left them and looked back only once, hoping one or two might follow his advice. No one moved.
The Cylons whine behind him, they're faster than he is, but he's more maneuverable, and he jumps over fallen trees, slips down muddy gullies, and ducks around mossy boulders. He loses them down a ravine, and almost loses himself.
He hits the ground hard, jarring the tear in his leg, setting the blood flowing again. He wants to gasp in pain, but he's wedged under a shelf of rock, and up above the Cylons pace along the lip. He drops his pack and grabs his leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He holds his breath and prays. The Cylons' low hum chills him more than the brisk, damp air around him. Not even the hot flow of blood between his fingers makes him feel more alive than the machine thrum above him. After all, why would a dead man fear? He shakes himself out of the dream for the first time in three days.
The Cylons give up and he rewraps the bandage around his leg, finally giving in to a low grunt of pain. That done, he slips back against the rock and takes a deep breath of sweet, cool air. Sometimes, when he doesn't let himself notice the silence and unnatural stillness, it's hard to remember that his world is twisted and poisoned, he is no longer her son, and, but for a few precious vials in his pack, she will kill him.
It starts to rain, and his shelf of rock is enough to keep him dry for the night, so he rests. He'd love to start a fire, to soak in warmth again, it feels like a lifetime, but the Cylons on the ground and the Cylons in the air are watching. He imagines a million red eyes burning through the night.
Huddling back against the unyielding stone, he draws his good leg up against his chest, and stretches his injured one out, propping it on another nearby rock. He's not very comfortable, but he's now fairly certain he's not dead, not wandering in the afterworld, not in the green fields of Elysium, nor the eternal night of Hades.
Staring out into the rain-heavy gloom, he wonders. As a Colonial officer he has a duty to this world. A duty to fight his enemies, to protect his people. But, he's one man. He's one man on a dying world, his enemies are too numerous to overcome, and the people, those few left he hears crying out through the trees, have driven him off. He sighs and rubs a hand over weary eyes.
But he can't be alone. Galactica is still out there. and Sharon is still alive -- he refuses to believe otherwise. And, perhaps, there are other men like him alive on this world. Other hands to help bear this burden. He could find them.
His leg twinges, the cold settling on it, leaving a bone deep ache, and he closes his eyes. Three days and he's so, so tired already. The world around him is growing quieter with each passing hour. How long does he have? How long can he keep going alone? Where will he find those like him? Are they real or just a dream? And if he falls, will he find Elysium? Or will he be a ghost, bound to a world he couldn't save?
Despite the chill, exhaustion overcomes him. Mercifully, the heavy rain smothers the spectral lights and darkness creeps thickly towards him. He lets the gentle lie of hope wrap itself warmly around him, and when he sleeps he dreams of another world.
##