Trees Against The Sky - Chapter One
Title: Trees Against the Sky
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinficfor giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who is put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter 1-
He's hunting when he sees it fall, a bright streak of light against the starry darkness. Later on he will think of it as the night that changed everything, but not in this moment. Right now he stands still and watches it fall, flaming, and listens for the boom.
The impact site is close, easily within a day’s travel and off to the southwest. He waits just long enough to check in with the rest of the hunt before he’s heading off toward the dim horizon. They don’t need him, not in a hunting party of five others, so he drives himself across the terrain, not pausing to examine why it is that this sound, this smell on the wind has him in a panic, the blood rushing through his heart, knotting in his stomach.
It takes him about two hours to reach the site. It’s still smouldering, the grass around the wrecked hunk of metal having largely burned itself out in the dark. Fortunately, it’s the beginning of the wet season, so the grass is freshly damp, and he sees no signs of a brushfire. He double-checks before approaching, leaving his travois well away, just in case. Looks it over, thinks. Fear is a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it, because this…
He knows what this is.
It’s just like what brought him here.
A choked-off moan jolts him into wary alertness- of course, if it’s a star-ship of some kind, there was likely someone in it. He remembers vaguely that there are unpiloted drones that sometimes circle planets, but those are small, with just enough fuel to achieve a steady orbit. They wouldn’t make a fireball like this.
Or that sound.
He eyes the wreck dubiously. It’s flaming, and he is wearing little more than a waistcloth in deference to the summer heat. The sound comes again, trigging a flash of adrenaline in his veins and a vision of shooting stars that clouds his vision. The panic tugs at him, dragging him down, down. He forces it back, breathing slowly through his nose, desperately ignoring the stench of burning flesh and molten debris.
If there are any survivors (anyone like him), they won’t have long.
He shrugs his shoulders unconsciously, wraps his hands in the strips of leather which tie his pack, and begins to pick his way to the burning pile of debris.
The moaning is coming from a body near what must have been the front of the craft. The flames are licking very close, and a quick inspection immediately shows that there’s no helping this passenger. The passenger is human, male, and relatively young, Jim thinks. He leans in to get a closer look, and shudders, forcing down his gag reflex. The man’s whole lower body is crushed into his seat, and the faceplate of his helmet is splintered past seeing into or out. Jim thinks he may even already be unconscious, and simply moaning with the pain of his smashed limbs. Either way there’s no helping it - neither he, nor the village, can treat these kinds of wounds, but if the man is left in this condition, he’ll be burnt to death slowly and painfully. Jim leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of the man’s helmet, pausing to judge the amount of needed force.
“Sorry. For the best.”
One quick jerk, and the moans are silenced, the helmet resting gently now against the seat. The heat is beginning to singe the hairs on his arms, the flames jumping as they begin to devour what’s left of the cabin. Another body rests on the far side of the first, but a swift look tells Jim that this one is already mercifully gone.
He steps back, casting a critical eye over the front section. He knows there could still be fuel or other flammable and/or explosive elements left - the sooner he leaves the better.
He’d thought…he’d hoped…he doesn’t know what, really. He hadn’t stopped to think about the compulsion that drove him to the site, and now he can’t focus on the panic that’s skittering around his consciousness, making his hands shake and his eyes blur.
There’s no one here. Not anymore.
He’s untying the leather straps from his hands when he hears it - not a moan this time, but a word, or maybe two words, he’s not sure. He looks around warily - nothing moves. He stands, considering.
It can’t have come from the front part of the wreckage - that’s already engulfed in flames, and besides, he’s sure if there had been another body, he would have seen it. All the other pieces of the craft seem too small to hide another passenger, but…oh, there it is. Off to one side, so that it has been cast in shadow, lays another, smaller chunk of wreckage. One just big enough to conceal a wounded crew member.
Jim makes his way cautiously over, picking his way carefully in a wide berth of the immolated nose of the ship. There it is again, the sound light, but carrying, in the humid night. He reaches the side of the hidden debris and peers in.
The victim is unconscious, but living. His helmet is off, and the light from the flames casts flickering shadows over the harsh features of an alien face. Sharp-tipped ears and delicately-winged brows combine with the cut on his head oozing a steady green ichor to show that he is alien, other, not like the tribe. Not like Jim.
Jim leans in to get a better look.
He’s still alive - he must be tougher than the others, or else in a more protected position in the ship. Either way, he has survived, and could possibly continue surviving, if Jim can just get him out. His left leg is clearly badly broken, and Jim would lay real good odds on a head injury, but aside from that, he seems to be in relatively good shape, considering he just fell several miles in what amounts to a tin can. Jim climbs onto the wreckage, assessing. Yes - if he can lever the side wall of this compartment out just enough, he should be able to extricate this passenger from the seat. It’s going to hurt like bloody hell to move that leg, but with a little luck, the guy won’t remember it. It’s the blessing of head injuries, Jim thinks, and without further ado, begins hauling on the recalcitrant piece of metal sheeting standing between him and the alien.
It doesn’t take him long - fulcrums work the same way on any planet with gravity, and the debris yields quickly, leaving Jim to maneuver his travois into place. He grimaces. This is going to abort his hunting trip before he’s had a chance to catch anything, and if this alien is injured enough to need regular tending, it may be weeks before he gets out again. He has stores enough, but the thought of eating through them makes him nervous. He never likes to be low on food, not ever, but he can’t think of any way to help it, not right now. He clenches his jaw and unclips the belts holding the alien in place. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, he knows this is the only option. He can’t leave someone who might have a chance, give up on them before they’ve even begun. What if the villagers had given up on him? What if he’d been left to die?
He can’t stomach the thought, so he picks up the travois instead, shifting the balance between his hands. The alien will come with him, and if he dies, so be it. If not…well, then, they’ll see.
--
The alien does as well as could be hoped for, Jim thinks. There’s a moment when Jim is manhandling him onto the travois that the broken leg hits the ground with a thump and the alien screams, his eyes flying open to lock onto Jim’s. Jim’s breath catches, his gaze caught and frozen, but it only holds for a second before the dark eyes roll up and the alien is unconscious again, his limp form dead weight on the skins.
Jim straps him down, appropriating a nearby piece of metal to splint the leg. He doesn’t even try to straighten it - it’s too dark, and he needs to get out of here like yesterday, because he can hear the scavengers circling. He folds the alien’s arms across his chest, strapping him tightly across his waist, his thighs, his shoulders, and his ankles. He spares a thought for how deeply uncomfortable this will be for the poor victim, and then he’s off toward home, the travois dragging heavily behind him.
--
They make it as far as the river before dawn, reaching the twisting band of placid blue just as the sun is breaking over the horizon. Jim has a moment of trepidation as he looks at the rope and barge - the alien is heavier than he looks, dense with muscle on his wiry frame, and it’s been a long trek to get this far. He worries the barge will sink, but there’s no help for it - it’s the only way across. He pauses, considering, then unstraps the restraints from all but around the unconscious man’s chest - if something goes wrong, Jim should be able to snap that last one with his knife, then haul the limp form to shore. The alien turns, muttering, twitching his fingers in an obvious attempt at catching Jim’s hands. Jim slips easily out of his reach.
He drags the barge as far onto firm ground as he can while having it still tethered to the rope that spans the water. It takes a good space of time to wrestle the laden travois onto the simple stretch of wood and withy, but he manages. He’s covered in mud by the time he’s done, but it doesn’t matter at this point anyway. He shoves the raft as hard as he can into the water, grunting with exertion as it pulls free of the sucking muck.
There’s a scary moment when it rocks, and the unconscious passenger throws out an arm, making the barge dip and sink, but he manages to get them rebalanced after a lurching couple of seconds, and continues hauling them across the water, hand over hand on the rope.
After the river it’s only a matter of hours to reach his home - they make it in a decent amount of hours, arriving just as the full heat of the day is beginning to hit, and Jim drags them both into the shade, collapsing to lie and pant on his back. The leaves of the tree above him rustle reassuringly in the light breeze, and he closes his eyes in relief.
Jim’s dwelling sits a ways out from the edge of the village, which is itself situated at the base of a low-lying spine of mountains. A collection of large, thick-trunked trees arrange themselves at the edge of the foothills, sucking up the water as it runs down from the heights. It’s these trees that provide the supporting branches for the village itself, a group of around forty dwellings built between three and six heights off the ground. Wooden bridges connect the buildings, making it possible to remain above for days or weeks at a time.
When Jim was ready to build his own space, he selected a tree away from the others - a sprawling giant out on the edge of the grassland. It seemed right for him to be alone - he was different, after all, and as kind as the villagers have always been to him, he has no real place with them. No, better for him to be on the outside, where he can watch, where he can wait.
The floor of his house is wide and clean - hewn planks of wood meticulously smoothed and anchored in the lower branches. The main platform is approximately five lengths square, with a smaller, secondary platform a little lower and to the side for waste. The walls are lattice work, closely enough woven to keep out most of the birds and all of the tree-climbers, but wide enough to allow full air circulation. Four corner poles and four center poles support a thatched roof piled high and tied tight to wick off the monsoon season rains. Each wall holds its own woven blind to be raised or lowered depending on temperature and light needs, creating a solid walled structure, or an airy platform as needed.
He is proud of it. He built it himself with no help, a labor of many weeks. But it has been worth it, to have this small thing to call his own.
The alien groans again, and Jim looks at him consideringly. He is proud of his home, yes. But right now he may be even prouder of the pulley system he rigged to haul heavy cuts of meat up to his living space. Because at the moment? This alien is a particularly heavy cut of meat.
--
“So?”
The man shrugs eloquently, lifting his palms up in the universal gesture of ambivalence before dropping them down between his crossed legs.
“Dunno, kid. Never seen anything like him before. He’s not one of us.” He runs a deceptively lazy orange eye over the prone alien, then over Jim. “Not one of you, either. Who can say?” He reaches over to poke a finger into the sleeping alien’s side, his pupils shrinking to a suspicious slit when the alien moans. “We got his leg set, that’s the important piece. His head…either it’ll fix or it won’t. You said he’s been under how long?”
“At least a full day.”
“Yeah. He may wake up. He may not.”
The man shrugs again, making the bones on his shirt front rattle with the motion. He rises stiffly to his feet, stomping to work out the kinks.
“I’ll leave you some roots for the pain. If he wakes up, start him on small doses - we have no idea how he’ll react. If there’s no obvious problem, up the dosage until it seems to have an effect. That’s the best I can tell you, kid. Keep him watered. Try not to get your hopes up.”
Jim nods in agreement, forcing himself to ignore the body in the corner of his house.
“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”
“You do that. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Bones.” Jim grins, pulling the door curtain out of the way for the man to descend. “You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The man waves a disgruntled hand. “Take care of yourself, kid. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Jim rolls his eyes, but nods. He can hear the man muttering to himself, the sounds interspersed with the rattling of his tunic decoration as he stomps down the circular stairs. One last harrumph, and Bones is gone.
Now? It’s just Jim and the alien.
Chapter Two
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinficfor giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who is put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter 1-
He's hunting when he sees it fall, a bright streak of light against the starry darkness. Later on he will think of it as the night that changed everything, but not in this moment. Right now he stands still and watches it fall, flaming, and listens for the boom.
The impact site is close, easily within a day’s travel and off to the southwest. He waits just long enough to check in with the rest of the hunt before he’s heading off toward the dim horizon. They don’t need him, not in a hunting party of five others, so he drives himself across the terrain, not pausing to examine why it is that this sound, this smell on the wind has him in a panic, the blood rushing through his heart, knotting in his stomach.
It takes him about two hours to reach the site. It’s still smouldering, the grass around the wrecked hunk of metal having largely burned itself out in the dark. Fortunately, it’s the beginning of the wet season, so the grass is freshly damp, and he sees no signs of a brushfire. He double-checks before approaching, leaving his travois well away, just in case. Looks it over, thinks. Fear is a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it, because this…
He knows what this is.
It’s just like what brought him here.
A choked-off moan jolts him into wary alertness- of course, if it’s a star-ship of some kind, there was likely someone in it. He remembers vaguely that there are unpiloted drones that sometimes circle planets, but those are small, with just enough fuel to achieve a steady orbit. They wouldn’t make a fireball like this.
Or that sound.
He eyes the wreck dubiously. It’s flaming, and he is wearing little more than a waistcloth in deference to the summer heat. The sound comes again, trigging a flash of adrenaline in his veins and a vision of shooting stars that clouds his vision. The panic tugs at him, dragging him down, down. He forces it back, breathing slowly through his nose, desperately ignoring the stench of burning flesh and molten debris.
If there are any survivors (anyone like him), they won’t have long.
He shrugs his shoulders unconsciously, wraps his hands in the strips of leather which tie his pack, and begins to pick his way to the burning pile of debris.
The moaning is coming from a body near what must have been the front of the craft. The flames are licking very close, and a quick inspection immediately shows that there’s no helping this passenger. The passenger is human, male, and relatively young, Jim thinks. He leans in to get a closer look, and shudders, forcing down his gag reflex. The man’s whole lower body is crushed into his seat, and the faceplate of his helmet is splintered past seeing into or out. Jim thinks he may even already be unconscious, and simply moaning with the pain of his smashed limbs. Either way there’s no helping it - neither he, nor the village, can treat these kinds of wounds, but if the man is left in this condition, he’ll be burnt to death slowly and painfully. Jim leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of the man’s helmet, pausing to judge the amount of needed force.
“Sorry. For the best.”
One quick jerk, and the moans are silenced, the helmet resting gently now against the seat. The heat is beginning to singe the hairs on his arms, the flames jumping as they begin to devour what’s left of the cabin. Another body rests on the far side of the first, but a swift look tells Jim that this one is already mercifully gone.
He steps back, casting a critical eye over the front section. He knows there could still be fuel or other flammable and/or explosive elements left - the sooner he leaves the better.
He’d thought…he’d hoped…he doesn’t know what, really. He hadn’t stopped to think about the compulsion that drove him to the site, and now he can’t focus on the panic that’s skittering around his consciousness, making his hands shake and his eyes blur.
There’s no one here. Not anymore.
He’s untying the leather straps from his hands when he hears it - not a moan this time, but a word, or maybe two words, he’s not sure. He looks around warily - nothing moves. He stands, considering.
It can’t have come from the front part of the wreckage - that’s already engulfed in flames, and besides, he’s sure if there had been another body, he would have seen it. All the other pieces of the craft seem too small to hide another passenger, but…oh, there it is. Off to one side, so that it has been cast in shadow, lays another, smaller chunk of wreckage. One just big enough to conceal a wounded crew member.
Jim makes his way cautiously over, picking his way carefully in a wide berth of the immolated nose of the ship. There it is again, the sound light, but carrying, in the humid night. He reaches the side of the hidden debris and peers in.
The victim is unconscious, but living. His helmet is off, and the light from the flames casts flickering shadows over the harsh features of an alien face. Sharp-tipped ears and delicately-winged brows combine with the cut on his head oozing a steady green ichor to show that he is alien, other, not like the tribe. Not like Jim.
Jim leans in to get a better look.
He’s still alive - he must be tougher than the others, or else in a more protected position in the ship. Either way, he has survived, and could possibly continue surviving, if Jim can just get him out. His left leg is clearly badly broken, and Jim would lay real good odds on a head injury, but aside from that, he seems to be in relatively good shape, considering he just fell several miles in what amounts to a tin can. Jim climbs onto the wreckage, assessing. Yes - if he can lever the side wall of this compartment out just enough, he should be able to extricate this passenger from the seat. It’s going to hurt like bloody hell to move that leg, but with a little luck, the guy won’t remember it. It’s the blessing of head injuries, Jim thinks, and without further ado, begins hauling on the recalcitrant piece of metal sheeting standing between him and the alien.
It doesn’t take him long - fulcrums work the same way on any planet with gravity, and the debris yields quickly, leaving Jim to maneuver his travois into place. He grimaces. This is going to abort his hunting trip before he’s had a chance to catch anything, and if this alien is injured enough to need regular tending, it may be weeks before he gets out again. He has stores enough, but the thought of eating through them makes him nervous. He never likes to be low on food, not ever, but he can’t think of any way to help it, not right now. He clenches his jaw and unclips the belts holding the alien in place. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, he knows this is the only option. He can’t leave someone who might have a chance, give up on them before they’ve even begun. What if the villagers had given up on him? What if he’d been left to die?
He can’t stomach the thought, so he picks up the travois instead, shifting the balance between his hands. The alien will come with him, and if he dies, so be it. If not…well, then, they’ll see.
--
The alien does as well as could be hoped for, Jim thinks. There’s a moment when Jim is manhandling him onto the travois that the broken leg hits the ground with a thump and the alien screams, his eyes flying open to lock onto Jim’s. Jim’s breath catches, his gaze caught and frozen, but it only holds for a second before the dark eyes roll up and the alien is unconscious again, his limp form dead weight on the skins.
Jim straps him down, appropriating a nearby piece of metal to splint the leg. He doesn’t even try to straighten it - it’s too dark, and he needs to get out of here like yesterday, because he can hear the scavengers circling. He folds the alien’s arms across his chest, strapping him tightly across his waist, his thighs, his shoulders, and his ankles. He spares a thought for how deeply uncomfortable this will be for the poor victim, and then he’s off toward home, the travois dragging heavily behind him.
--
They make it as far as the river before dawn, reaching the twisting band of placid blue just as the sun is breaking over the horizon. Jim has a moment of trepidation as he looks at the rope and barge - the alien is heavier than he looks, dense with muscle on his wiry frame, and it’s been a long trek to get this far. He worries the barge will sink, but there’s no help for it - it’s the only way across. He pauses, considering, then unstraps the restraints from all but around the unconscious man’s chest - if something goes wrong, Jim should be able to snap that last one with his knife, then haul the limp form to shore. The alien turns, muttering, twitching his fingers in an obvious attempt at catching Jim’s hands. Jim slips easily out of his reach.
He drags the barge as far onto firm ground as he can while having it still tethered to the rope that spans the water. It takes a good space of time to wrestle the laden travois onto the simple stretch of wood and withy, but he manages. He’s covered in mud by the time he’s done, but it doesn’t matter at this point anyway. He shoves the raft as hard as he can into the water, grunting with exertion as it pulls free of the sucking muck.
There’s a scary moment when it rocks, and the unconscious passenger throws out an arm, making the barge dip and sink, but he manages to get them rebalanced after a lurching couple of seconds, and continues hauling them across the water, hand over hand on the rope.
After the river it’s only a matter of hours to reach his home - they make it in a decent amount of hours, arriving just as the full heat of the day is beginning to hit, and Jim drags them both into the shade, collapsing to lie and pant on his back. The leaves of the tree above him rustle reassuringly in the light breeze, and he closes his eyes in relief.
Jim’s dwelling sits a ways out from the edge of the village, which is itself situated at the base of a low-lying spine of mountains. A collection of large, thick-trunked trees arrange themselves at the edge of the foothills, sucking up the water as it runs down from the heights. It’s these trees that provide the supporting branches for the village itself, a group of around forty dwellings built between three and six heights off the ground. Wooden bridges connect the buildings, making it possible to remain above for days or weeks at a time.
When Jim was ready to build his own space, he selected a tree away from the others - a sprawling giant out on the edge of the grassland. It seemed right for him to be alone - he was different, after all, and as kind as the villagers have always been to him, he has no real place with them. No, better for him to be on the outside, where he can watch, where he can wait.
The floor of his house is wide and clean - hewn planks of wood meticulously smoothed and anchored in the lower branches. The main platform is approximately five lengths square, with a smaller, secondary platform a little lower and to the side for waste. The walls are lattice work, closely enough woven to keep out most of the birds and all of the tree-climbers, but wide enough to allow full air circulation. Four corner poles and four center poles support a thatched roof piled high and tied tight to wick off the monsoon season rains. Each wall holds its own woven blind to be raised or lowered depending on temperature and light needs, creating a solid walled structure, or an airy platform as needed.
He is proud of it. He built it himself with no help, a labor of many weeks. But it has been worth it, to have this small thing to call his own.
The alien groans again, and Jim looks at him consideringly. He is proud of his home, yes. But right now he may be even prouder of the pulley system he rigged to haul heavy cuts of meat up to his living space. Because at the moment? This alien is a particularly heavy cut of meat.
--
“So?”
The man shrugs eloquently, lifting his palms up in the universal gesture of ambivalence before dropping them down between his crossed legs.
“Dunno, kid. Never seen anything like him before. He’s not one of us.” He runs a deceptively lazy orange eye over the prone alien, then over Jim. “Not one of you, either. Who can say?” He reaches over to poke a finger into the sleeping alien’s side, his pupils shrinking to a suspicious slit when the alien moans. “We got his leg set, that’s the important piece. His head…either it’ll fix or it won’t. You said he’s been under how long?”
“At least a full day.”
“Yeah. He may wake up. He may not.”
The man shrugs again, making the bones on his shirt front rattle with the motion. He rises stiffly to his feet, stomping to work out the kinks.
“I’ll leave you some roots for the pain. If he wakes up, start him on small doses - we have no idea how he’ll react. If there’s no obvious problem, up the dosage until it seems to have an effect. That’s the best I can tell you, kid. Keep him watered. Try not to get your hopes up.”
Jim nods in agreement, forcing himself to ignore the body in the corner of his house.
“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”
“You do that. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Bones.” Jim grins, pulling the door curtain out of the way for the man to descend. “You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The man waves a disgruntled hand. “Take care of yourself, kid. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Jim rolls his eyes, but nods. He can hear the man muttering to himself, the sounds interspersed with the rattling of his tunic decoration as he stomps down the circular stairs. One last harrumph, and Bones is gone.
Now? It’s just Jim and the alien.
Chapter Two