The BLTS Archive- Revisions #2: Don't Be Sorry by Ellen Milholland (pretyclose@aol.com) --- Archiving: Okay for ASC archivists and BLTS. Others, please tell me (as if anyone would want to archive this!). Author's notes: You have to pay kind of close attention to some points in this, and for that I apologize. I'm trying to make this user friendly, but it's tough. For the back-story to this that you might have missed, and yes, it does include some major details that are in this,check out a previous vignette I wrote called "All But Gone." I hope to make these stories into a series, employing my own sort of history for the Year of Hell as seen on Voyager, and not letting everyone just *forget* at the end. The date of 'All But Gone' is Day 63. Enjoy! Send feedback! --- I could have turned left I could have turned right But I ended up here." -'Intuition,' Natalie Imbruglia --- DAY 79 --- Sometimes, I look out of the view port in my Ready Room, and I think that maybe if I look long and hard enough, I'll be able to see all the way back home. To the place with familiar planets, and comforting constellations, with the light of Sol reflecting off of the blue-green waters of Earth's oceans. . . Maybe I think that if I look hard enough, I'll be able to look into the past. Maybe I could relive a time when I took things for granted, when pleasure was a daily event, when living felt *real*. This isn't real; this isn't living. This is Hell. We have found ourselves in a living Hell, and there is no escape, only bleak days behind and worse days ahead. We aren't really living now, only fighting and fixing through our days. Morale seems to be a distant, bitter memory, and camaraderie is something we lost a long time ago. We only seek to live another day, survive another battle, repair a conduit or recalibrate a system. We live for the weeks and the months, not for the moment. Does that make any sense? No, probably not. Nothing makes sense anymore. Not to me, at least. This senseless bloodletting, this senseless fighting. In a time when nothing makes sense, rationalizing the loss is difficult, if not impossible. We've lost so much, and there is no way to reclaim it. We can rebuild the ship, and reunite the crew, but we have lost more than we can replace. I've seen to the injured, the weak, the families of the dead. I've visited the bedsides of the dying in the middle of the night. I've murmured thanks, and I've stroked the hair of those who were beyond hope. I tried to give them something to believe in. I tried to assure them that they'd done their best, and that it was okay to go, now. I tried to tell them not to apologize. There are no apologies. This is no one's fault. And as I look out into the stars, I feel like they're accusing me. No one here is accusing me of anything . . . not verbally at least. But I think I can see the blame in their eyes, for getting them here, for not letting us turn back, for being so foolhardy to think that I could beat this foe. We're trying to regroup now. Sitting here in this nebula, repairing, refitting, licking our wounds before we face our enemy again. Our enemy, with the chroniton torpedoes and temporal shielding. Our enemy, with no remorse. Our enemy, which kills my friends and wounds my ship. I hate them. I think there was a time, long ago, when a young, fledgling officer thought she could get through life without hating anyone. An ensign, fresh from the academy, with a thirst for knowledge and a desire to explore the stars and unlock their mysteries. I think there was a time when I didn't understand what hate was. The worst part isn't the hating. It's looking into the eyes of young, frightened crew members and seeing the cold hatred in their eyes. What have I done to them? How have I changed them? What kind of people will they be when this is over? I was supposed to lead them and protect them, but they are not the same people now. They are not here now. They have taken to space in their shuttles and escape pods, and I can only hope to see them again one day. But I have faith, and I must hold on to that . . . for everyone's sake. Yes, I believe we'll make it through this. One way or another, I have to believe that we'll come out on the other end with a ship and a crew. Though the ship might be ragged and the crew small, I believe we can do it. I have to believe. I can't give up hope, now. I wonder if people can sense it? The bit of hope that sits inside of me and glows, keeping me alive. I don't know if I do a good enough job of instilling hope in my crew. They need me now if they need anything, and I'm bound and determined to see this through. Though we reside in the depths of Hell, I can still remember what happiness feels like, and that is the feeling I hold onto. I need to remember. Because if I forget . . . what's left? Empty deaths, empty promises, and nothing else. Without my memories, I am fighting a battle for nothing. What is a war without something to fight for? And that is why I stay with my ship. That is the reason I know I will die on this bridge, if I need to, the reason why I know I could never abandon Voyager. This ship is as much a part of this crew as any other crew member. She needs me, and I need her. There are only a few of the senior staff left these days. Tuvok's still here, although his blindness has changed him. It's a subtle difference, and I can only tell because I've known him for so very long. But these last months have taken their toll on him as a person. He's struggling to keep his balance. And there's Seven. Oh God, I wish she didn't have to witness this. In trying to teach her the beauty of humanity, the amazing things one can accomplish as an individual, the wonderful opportunities she has here on Voyager . . . she had to witness this war. She had to see the universe at its very worse. I wish I could explain to her. . . I never meant for this to happen. I was trying to save her, not destroy her. But her beauty is undiminished, and she is steadfast. At first, an unwilling member of my crew, she is now one of the most loyal. She is fighting a war that never seemed to be hers to begin with, but she's got the fire in her. And she's learning now, if not ever before. Learning the atrocities of war, about friendship, and about the give and take of life. Tuvok has come to depend on her, and in some ways, she on him. The Doctor's always underfoot, but it's a comfort to have him here, with the constant casualties. Even he has become more somber, now. Sometimes, I think his face looks drawn, but then I remember that he is a hologram. Holograms don't have stress, do they? Though I don't think they do, his eyes look tired, and I feel that he, too, is learning about war in the worst possible way. We're making it through each day, and sometimes I can't understand why. In some ways, everything's different, but in others, nothing's changed. But this ship hasn't been the same ever since Chakotay died . . . and B'Elanna, too, of course. But Chakotay's was a much more personal death. . . His death broke my heart. He was much more to me than I tried to let on to the crew, but I suspect many knew of our relationship anyway. He was my escape, my lover. Without him, I was strong, but with him, I was stronger. When he died, my walls started crumbling and everything threatened to collapse in on top of me. But I must stay strong, for the crew. They need my strength. B'Elanna died that day, too, at Chakotay's side. B'Elanna's death affected Tom Paris very deeply. I know how he loved her. I know how he cared for her. I could see it in his face when she was pronounced dead. Might as well have pronounced him dead, too, I suppose, because he hasn't been the same since. There's no gleam in his eyes now. There are no lighthearted jokes. There is only pain now, and loss, and regret. But we have no time for these things, and so I'm trying to move on. If nothing else, Tom and I both know, there is no time for any of that now. No time to remember, no time for "could haves" or "would haves". Harry was kidnapped months ago by the Krenim, along with another ensign who was on the bridge at the time. And I can only imagine what's been done to them while we hide in this nebula. They may be dead now, but we must find them. With so much loss, the chance of reclaiming even a single life makes the risk worth it. But I can't feel sorry for myself. If I did, I might not live another day. I have to keep my eyes to the stars, and my thoughts on getting my crew back and getting home. Telling them to jump ship was possibly the most painful order I've ever given. To tell my crew that to stay would be to die. . . perhaps it touched me so deeply because I know it's true. But I keep telling myself that I will survive, that we will all survive. I need to remember. I've come to find support from a most unlikely source. Yes, Tuvok is perhaps my closest friend, and I could tell him anything. But he cannot help me, now. Though I know he feels emotion, he cannot be my listening ear through this. I need someone who can identify with me, on a level that Tuvok can't. I've found that someone in the form of one Tom Paris. He's lost so much, and he's gained so very little. But he doesn't complain, and he listens. Oh God, he'll just sit and listen to me for hours. I've never told anyone of our secret meetings, in what's left of my quarters, late at night . . . neither of us sleep much anyway. And I tell him of my fears and of my anguish, and he tells me of his, and we are supporting each other. For brief moments, when he's holding my hand and calling me Kathryn, I can almost imagine that everything's alright again. I can almost forget the war, the death, the loss. Almost. And looking out this view port, I can feel his eyes on my back, and I turn to face him. "I'm sorry," I say. "Don't be," he says back. "Thank you," I say, after a long pause. "Oh," he says, and his voice is very soft, "you're most welcome." --- The End