SquidgeWorld Archive

Aftermath 1: Sting Of The Scorpion
A "Farscape" story
Written by Alison M. DOBELL


Ka'Dargo stood looking into the frosted chamber. So much had happened in such a short space of time that he was still coming to terms with the rollercoaster of emotions vying with each other in his hearts. When all the adrenal rush of action had finally died down it had left him with one emotion in the ascendant. Pain. His expression was sad, reflective. Sorry. Aeryn Sun, former PeaceKeeper and now dear to him as his own flesh, lay suspended in her chamber. He had never seen anyone in the grip of the Living Death before so did not know whether this was permanent or whether her very faint, fragile body signs would slowly slip beyond the range of their detection then be lost forever as she finally died. Irreversibly contaminated. Because of Crichton. Dead. Because of Crichton. Crichton. The odd strange human who had been thrust like an accident into their midst. Crichton. A being who had been mocked, denigrated, treated like some moronic greebol when he had first been brought aboard for questioning. Crichton. A man who had consistently shown them compassion, understanding and a spark of intelligence so bright that they had often mistaken it for a form of lunacy not genius. Crichton. Who loved without question, trusted without demanding anything in return. Crichton. Human. With a fragile strength that they had come to trust and rely on more and more as the walls of misunderstanding crumbled into knowledge shared, thoughts understood, and actions adjusted to move in tandem with the common good. Crichton. Human. Strange. Exotic. Decidedly odd. Trusting. Gentle. Caring. Smart. Annoying. Crichton. His friend.

He had failed them. Failed them all. For the love of Jothee. Knowing that his son was now safe, here with him, was bittersweet. He looked down and saw graphically what it had cost. The price Aeryn had unwittingly paid. Because of Crichton. Crichton. He remembered his euphoria when he and Aeryn had gone to rescue him from the clutches of the evil Scorpius. Even then he could see the deterioration. Crichton was not Crichton any more. At least. Not in the way they had come to know him. And yes. To love him. In the heat of that firefight he had tried to return to Scorpius and Aeryn had knocked him unconscious. Unwilling to have all their efforts be in vain.

They had brought him back. Unconscious but among friends again. Friends. He looked at the misted face of Aeryn Sun. White, so white her image shone as in death. Tears flowed silently down his face. Remembering. He had been so relieved when they had brought him back. His conscience eased now that they were all safe again. The thoughts had a bitter tang now. Safe. Because of Crichton. He did not know it then but Crichton was not safe. Would never be safe again. He tried to warn them. Tried to leave. Return to Scorpius. Make the chord that bound them in friendship break so that his friends could be free of him. Safe. Free of the taint and threat of Scorpius. They did not understand. And he, Ka D'Argo, was not even listening.

D'Argo leaned forward. Rested his forehead against the chamber, eyes out of focus as he remembered. He had been so frelling happy. An ecstasy of joy because he had his son back. Jothee. Because of Crichton. He could not wait to thank his friend. Could not wait to introduce his son to the man who had made it all possible. The cycles he had been parted from him. The ever present pain and longing to be reunited with his son. It had been a shock to see Crichton back on Moya. To realise that the man standing before him was falling apart before his eyes. Jothee had been alarmed and stepped back. He had been concerned, seen how his friend's hands trembled, his red rimmed eyes still raw from the torture of the Aurora Chair. In his eyes he saw the struggle, the pain, the horror of understanding that shone like a bleak winter in John Crichton's eyes. Shocked, D'Argo had put his hand up to the side of John's face, his thumb gently caressing his cheek as if this small action would give the human some measure of comfort, transmit to him the desire to ease his pain. To help him. A lifeline. Crichton had begged him to kill him. D'Argo had never heard him beg, never like that, never with such pain in his eyes, pleading for an end to something he was enduring that was beyond his own comprehension. He had refused, thinking that it was a momentary weakness. An after effect of the chair that would pass with time but he saw now his error. His grievous error. They were all paying the price. Because of Crichton. Because of him. His weakness not Crichton's.

New tears washed away the old but he was oblivious. His hearts ached. Oh Aeryn, I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I should have listened to Crichton. He stepped slowly away from the chamber and started to walk back to his cell, hardly aware of his surroundings, his feet taking him automatically to his quarters without any conscious effort on his part. He knew only that he had to explain it to Chiana. He was still in shock. Body and mind numb. All the joy in his hearts now turned to a wasteland. Ashes in his mouth. Ashes that burned him with the acrid, sour taste of loss. How can you grieve when they are not dead? He felt as if he was already walking through a funeral pyre. One he had helped to build. When he got to his cell he failed to take in the fact that two bodies stirred not one. Chiana sat up, eyes wide with alarm. Jothee sat up next to her and paled with fear. His father would kill him. The same thoughts seemed to be going through Chiana's mind but D'Argo paid them no heed. He was alone in his misery. Still in shock. He sat on a stool not even looking at them. Chiana realised something was terribly wrong and scrambled out of bed, dressing in a fit of flying fingers. Jothee was too stunned to think of covering up or hiding himself. His eyes locked on his father's bowed figure. Sensing his deep pain and sorrow and not understanding any of it.

"I failed them, Chiana. They will die because of me. My selfishness."

Chiana was dressed now. Went to him. Her eyes full of concern and upset by his pain. "Don't talk like that. There was nothing you could do. How could you know?"

He raised his eyes to hers. "I could have listened to Crichton."

She tried to laugh it off. "Since when have you listened to Crichton?"

Her words hurt him. His words came out small, tinged both with sorrow and guilt. "I know."

He got up. Alarmed, Chiana tilted her head, trying to read what was in his mind. Worried for him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to see him."

Chiana shook her head, the threat of tears forming in her eyes. "No. That's not a good idea. What can you do? Why torture yourself?"

"I have to go."

"Then I'll come with you."

D'Argo looked at her. "No. Stay here."

He left quietly. Chiana watched him go then heard Jothee speak her name from the bed. She looked back at him, torn between the desire he roused in her and her guilt at what she was doing. She pushed the guilt aside. What use did it ever serve a Nebari? She managed a smile for Jothee, was happy to see it wipe away the consternation that had been building on his face. Jothee was fun. His enthusiasm, his youth appealing to her own sometimes childish impulses. She climbed across the bed to him.

D'Argo now took a different route. His shoulders braced, his footsteps firm if reluctant. He viewed it as a duty born of a debt of honour that he could never repay. Because of Crichton. He lay on the operating table where they had found him. Drifting in and out of consciousness but alive. If it could be called that. Rygel had wanted to disconnect him but Zhaan had been afraid. Finding the alien surgeon murdered and Crichton with the top of his head opened out with pieces of brain tissue cut out and a black stringy web criss crossing his cerebelum she had been worried that they could accidentally do much more harm. So they had found a way to bring him back to Moya the way they had found him and what he had seen then gave him night terrors. Seeing him again like this was an obscenity he would not visit even on his enemies. Yet Crichton was not an enemy. Far from it. Far far from it. He understood now. Things that he should have taken in much earlier. Things his friend had tried to teach him but his own impatience had prevented him from listening properly. Inwardly digesting the wisdom of his dearest friend. Zhaan was not with him at the moment. She had gone to her apothecary to try to come up with some way to reverse the procedure. To give him back some of what he had lost. Restore function, repair the damage. D'Argo looked at him, too sad for tears. "I'm sorry, John." He whispered.

He walked round to the head of the bed, looked for a long time at the face of his friend. Gently touched the side of his face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. Crichton trembled slightly then opened his eyes. /Oh God, he's awake/ But D'Argo could not look away. Could not leave him now. Crichton did not try to speak. He knew he would not be able to make any sense anyway. The speech centre of his brain had been completely frelled. His eyes locked on to D'Argo's. He could see the same plea in his eyes. D'Argo could feel his hearts breaking. He was sorry. So frelling sorry. He should have done as Crichton had asked before. But how do you take the life of a friend? One to whom you owe so much? How do you do that and live with yourself afterwards? Those same questions had a different ring now. How can you not do this for him? Take him out of this misery? This pain that was not of his own making? /He knows/ Thought D'Argo painfully. /He knows that he killed Aeryn. But he doesn't know about the Living Death. He can't know that/ He wondered what to do. Whether he should tell him. But to what end?

There was no way of telling whether Aeryn would ever come out of it. Or whether one day her heart would simply stop. No. There was only one thing he could do now. He could do what one warrior did for another on the field of battle when his wounds were too grievous to mend. He could end it. Give him in death the peace denied to him in life. It was fitting. A warrior's end for a man who had more than earned it. Something flickered in Crichton's eyes, he was not sure what. D'Argo paused and looked at him more closely, still gently stroking his cheek, not sure what comfort he could give before the end. Then impossibly, Crichton smiled. It was such a small thing, gentle and knowing and oddly wise just like him. D'Argo shut his eyes painfully. He knew what D'Argo was intending. This was his only way of thanking him. Thanking him! He was the one who should be thanking Crichton.

What in hezmana had he ever done to deserve such a noble friend? One he would now repay with death.

The Qualta blade rose slowly. Crichton looked at him calmly. Patient. Eyes so alien yet knowing so much. Such wisdom in such a young race it was a marvel to D'Argo. He started to murmur the songs of release, the prayers for the dead and the dying. The warrior's song of Olgat Non. Memories of his father returning from battle. Wounds worn proudly like a badge of honour. Strong. Magnificent. He inverted the blade at the top of its' arc. Crichton closed his eyes and waited for the end. D'Argo paused, tears blinding him and needing to blink them back so that his aim would be true. He did not want his friend to suffer one microt of pain more than was absolutely necessary. He leant forward and kissed Crichton's cheek softly. Crichton opened his eyes. "I will see you again in death, my friend. Never more to be parted as we are in life. And we will dance to the Shilquohns of Mar-ganeth Tan. On the lands of my birth we will make many songs, the feast of the warriors shall be ours, and our enemies shall be banished to hezmana far from the sound of our rejoicing."

Crichton nodded. It was the only movement he could manage. D'Argo gripped the Qualta blade more tightly, unleashing the last words of the rite of release and passage just as another voice cut through the ritual like fire through ice. "D'Argo! Don't!"

Crichton closed his eyes. Frustrated. Wedded to his agony, unable to express his thoughts, feelings, desires. Unable to tell them what he needed or how frelling sorry he was. For everything. Seeing D'Argo he knew that the big luxan at least understood. Finally. He was not so sure he would ever be able to convince Zhaan that letting him go was the right thing to do. He had killed Aeryn. They should let him go now so he could join her. A life for a life.

Zhaan pushed D'Argo back. Her eyes full of concern rather than anger, but determined nonetheless that he should not harm Crichton.

"Do not interfere, Zhaan."

"No, D'Argo, it is *you* who must not interfere."

His look hardened. "I have to do this. Had I listened to John before and put him out of his misery Aeryn would not have died. John would not have been reduced...to this."

Zhaan was shaking her head. "Aeryn is not dead, D'Argo."

"The Living Death is not life, Zhaan."

"No it's not, but her life signs are getting stronger."

D'Argo was so surpised he lowered his blade. His eyes searched Zhaan's. Was she lying? No. He saw only truth staring back at him. Amazing, beautiful, truth. He hugged her then remembered Crichton. They turned and looked down at their friend. His eyes were closed as he struggled with emotions he could not express. He opened his eyes and tears ran down his face. Zhaan felt her own emotion complimenting his, her gentle voice trying to ease his pain, his sorrow, all the suffering he had endured at the hands of Scorpius. "It wasn't your fault, John. Aeryn doesn't blame you. None of us do."

That was it. He could not take any more. He squeezed his eyes shut, sobs wracking his body while a spark of joy re-ignited in a heart he did not think would ever beat with hope again. A tiny, fragile thing. What did it matter if they could do no more for him? Aeryn was alive! Alive! If he could have got up off that table he would have hugged and kissed Zhaan. Hell. He would even have kissed D'Argo....



********** T H E E N D **********