Things We Lost In The Crash
Sep. 11th, 2010 01:05 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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animorphslj So because last time I gave my boys (will my crazy love for Gafinilan and Mertil ever end? I don't really think so!) a lulzy bunch of random Andalite nonsense and references to Jeopardy! and Beyonce and The Bed Intruder Song... It's time for some terrible angst and torture. :D I just love that stuff, don't ye? Ahhh, favorite-character-torturing. Is there any more fun form of writing?
Title: Triage
Author: That freak Sylver, what the hell is she ON?
Summary: The crash that started it all. Gafinilan and Mertil are shipwrecked on a hostile planet, and they've lost nearly everything. In a lot of ways. But some things just can't be taken away.
Warnings: Blood, and lots of it. Severe character injury, involuntary amputation, guns and contemplation of honorable suicide, ending with some ridiculous but necessary cuteness... and ghey. :D
OH. And I'm sure ye guys know, but a djbala is an Andalite animal alluded to in a couple books, the first thing that a warrior learns to morph. They're never really described except for having six legs, and I picture them as looking a lot like a bush baby. :D To make this story even more weird/absurd/cute, here's my little reference muse - http://www.catsalter.co.uk/catsalter.co.uk/images/bush-baby-web.jpg
I hope ye enjoy. <3 I... actually kind of like how this one turned out.
(And if there's like, a weird sarcastic undertone that I don't normally write with, I BLAME WATCHING TOO MUCH M*A*S*H. I can never think about anything warlike ever again without giving it a Hawaiian shirt and a martini.)
# # #
Triage
They hit.
Then, nothing.
His head felt shattered into a million pieces. He watched everything fall apart on the back of his eyelids, and he couldn't wrench them open to make the awful knowledge go away. Part of him was dashed into a pulp against rock and steel, part of him drowned beneath miles of black ocean. And part of him hung weightless, suspended in a nebula of sweet quiet and sublime dark that asked nothing of him, embraced him in soft, comforting folds of peace and serenity...
And it was this part of him that heard Mertil calling his name.
<Gafinilan! Wake up, please, we have to – this isn't happening, this isn't supposed to – stop the bleeding, just stop the...>
Gafinilan squirmed in irritation. What the hell was Mertil doing here? Interrupting his... whatever this was? Ruining his precious rest. Everything was supposed to be quiet now. And Mertil wasn't supposed to be in this silent place, he knew that. He wasn't supposed to follow.
<Got to stop the bleeding, just – just stop, no, no, no!>
Damn it, Mertil! He didn't even have the energy to articulate it into thought-speak, but he knew his confusion and frustration were loud and clear – words weren't necessary. They always knew. Just like right now there was a flicker of something awful seeping into his mind - a sharpness, an edge, something was wrong...
But he couldn't latch onto it. He couldn't grab the words, grab the idea and make himself... do anything. He'd been through so much hell, done his duty to the end, and now it was so much easier to ignore it. Just for a moment. Didn't Mertil know how warm and safe it was here, without pain or fear? Didn't he see how much better it was to just let go and float for a while, than to go back to...
Wait.
Weapons fire. In the back of his mind, just minutes before, but it seemed like a lifetime. Alarms blaring in his ears, the universe spinning out of control outside the craft's window, as something blue blocked out the blackness of space, killed the stars. His hands flew over the controls to grab onto some small chance that they might not die – and Mertil shouting to brace for impact.
<Oh, God... it won't stop. It won't – wake up, wake up, don't make me do this alone, damn it!> And now the fear, the desperation was flooding into Gafinilan's brain, shocking him awake like a bucket of ice water – Mertil wasn't kidding, something was wrong. He was more important than a safe, quiet place and now there was a cold, suffocating weight in the pit of Gafinilan's stomach that meant it was about to get a whole lot worse -
Gafinilan forced one eye open against the crushing pain, while stars exploded in the back of his head.
At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Something made of steel was dented and torn like tissue paper and it swirled and danced in his woozy vision, its edges scorched with black – and slick, wet. Coated in fire-retardant fluid and foam. There'd been a fire...
It took more strength than he knew he had... but he managed to move his one open stalk eye, just rotate it half an inch.
He could see stars.
Cold and still and far, far out of reach, shining through a jagged tear in the ship's hull. The alloy was peeled back like some giant claw had raked it, revealing the conduits and hardware that made up the guts of the ship. But now sound was creeping back, slowly the ringing, rushing sound in his ears was subsiding, replaced by frightening silence, interrupted by electrical fizzes and a strange, irregular dripping... and panicked, ragged breathing.
<Mertil...> he managed to scrape his mind together enough to make the word, struggling to tap back into their perpetual link...
No answer. And that was more frightening than his screams, more disturbing than Gafinilan's disorientation – no reply, just a sense of increasing dread and panic.
Gafinilan took a deep breath (it felt like the first one he'd ever taken, lungs painfully sucking in the life to which he reluctantly returned) and focused all his stubborn, defiant willpower on just moving his stalk eye a little further, just to...
Mertil. His face turned at a strange angle – not looking at him, not saying anything. Holding very, very still – except for the terrible tremors that swept through him. Somehow he looked distorted, his head and shoulders hanging at a strange, unnatural angle... wrong. Cold and sharp as the stars above their broken ship...
Not Mertil. A reflection in something he couldn't -
That did it. Gafinilan wrenched his other three eyes open and lurched forward, grabbing at the floor and control console, hooves scrabbling behind him for some purchase to shove himself upright, but the deck was covered in something slippery, he couldn't get a grip on it. The world spun again, everything was a swirling mass of darkness and red emergency lights, he couldn't see -
<Gafinilan...>
And then he could.
Mertil, sprawled on the deck, gray and pale, face drained of all color, and drenched in cold sweat. And something else, something dark and wet that matted in his fur and hair, covered his hands and coated the deck, slick and tacky where it had just begun to dry. He slowly turned to look at Gafinilan, but didn't seem to recognize him. His eyes, wide and wild and staring, went right through him. And all the while he was desperately clutching something to his chest with both hands. Knuckles white and shaking, fingers clamping down over the severed stump, wretchedly trying to stem the flow.
It dangled like a dead thing.
And there was Mertil, looking at him with those terrible, faraway eyes – he wasn't there, there was nothing alive or present in them, Mertil didn't live there anymore -
<I have to stop the bleeding.>
Gafinilan couldn't think, his brain just couldn't make sense of the horror in front of him, could not accept or even begin to comprehend that Mertil's tail was gone, and left behind was this bloody, lifeless thing, this was not happening, this could not be happening, his tail could not be -
It was.
And before he knew what was happening, he was struggling across the small two-person cabin, slipping and half-falling in the blood on the deck. His legs didn't work right, terrible grinding pain shot up through them, one arm hung limp from the shoulder that didn't move anymore. But he wasn't thinking of that, he was just trying to crawl, drag himself over to Mertil-
<I'm here, I'm right here, let me help->
Gafinilan desperately looked around the disemboweled cabin for something, anything that could help them. A piece of cable for a tourniquet, some rag of fabric to wrap around it – whatever emergency supplies they had were in the back compartment, damn it, and the ruins of the ship... A huge piece of the console had been smashed loose on impact, it lay on the floor with jagged, sharp innards exposed; the way Mertil lay and the awful tracks of gashes and burns down his side and legs made it look like he'd just dragged himself out from underneath it. And it was from under that fallen mess of sharp edges and crushing weight that the trail of blood began. Gafinilan couldn't help following it back to its source, the dreadful thing that wasn't a tail anymore.
And it wasn't a clean cut. This was no surgical amputation, no neat and tidy removal of an infected limb past all other medical recourse.
Mertil's tail had been ripped off. Torn, crushed and dragged and ground into the deck like an insect under a hoof, until the sinews snapped and the flesh tore apart like wet paper.
But Gafinilan didn't have time to be shocked or traumatized – he didn't have the luxury of time. Neither did Mertil.
He had to get to the medical equipment, but he couldn't let go, and even if he did, the back of the ship was impassable. The emergency lights back there were failing, some vent was gushing white-hot steam, sparks and small electrical discharges hissed through the air, it was just a black tunnel of sharp, broken edges. And he couldn't, he didn't have time, Mertil was going to bleed to death now if he didn't -
Wrapping his hands around the dead thing, refusing to pull away from the warm blood on his hands. Mertil's blood, his horrified, overwhelmed brain screamed at him. And if it didn't stop -
<We'll get it stopped, it will be fine, there's – there's nothing->
And he couldn't bring himself to let go of the bloodied thing, and Mertil's hands that were clutching at him now, holding onto Gafinilan's wrists, not his ruined tail – wouldn't leave him now, not for an uncertainty, not when his whole body shuddered and froze at the thought of what would happen if he looked away for a moment-
He was still talking but didn't even know what he was saying, he was just trying to remember his training, let his brain go into autopilot – he knew the answer, he knew how to prevent blood loss, he had to, it was there in his mind, it had to be, because if it wasn't he might start to panic too, he might just start to scream and never stop -
<Just keep pressure on it, keep it on, it will stop-> It had to.
Gafinilan forced his thoughts into something coherent and tried to make it sound like he had the situation in control. And he did, he told himself, he was an experienced warrior, this was what he did, who he was, he was trained for situations exactly like this.
<I am but it's not working, it's getting worse, it's not there anymore->
<It's all right, I've got you, you're doing fine->
But not like this.
He'd been prepared for something terrible to happen to him, he'd been prepared and willing to sacrifice his life for his duty – not Mertil's! This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, this wasn't the blaze of glory he'd – not planned, he'd never admit that to himself, but accepted. The final act of heroism he'd envisioned... infinitely better than the alternative.
And he refused to let this happen, he refused to let any more of Mertil's life ooze from beneath his fingers and splash onto the floor -
Then he saw it.
The shredder must have – he didn't know where it came from, it must have been jarred loose from somewhere in the ship, but all that mattered now was that it was there and now it was in his hand, he adjusted it to the very lowest setting-
<Hold still.>
Mertil saw in an instant. Eyes locked on the shredder, once flying back up to his friend's face – but he didn't say a word. He fell very quiet, very still.
<You can bear this.> Gafinilan aimed more carefully than he had in his life. Right across the trauma, just a graze, not a direct hit, never. This would work, this was the only possible way they would make it out of this alive, he was saving Mertil, not -
<Just do it.>
He pulled the trigger.
And Mertil watched. He didn't close any of his eyes even as the shredder hummed to life, his numb gaze staying fixed on the horror unfolding at the end of his tail. Then the constrained flash and hiss – a terrible sizzle, the smell of burned flesh-
Mertil's tortured shriek was incoherent, a fresh cut of excruciation lashed over the older wound that was already starting to numb with the blood loss. Everything was opened again in an overwhelming rush of agony, he couldn't see, white flashbulbs erupted behind his eyelids; gravity disappeared and he was crashing against the ceiling, torn through the hole in the ship and somersaulting endlessly through a galaxy made of white-hot pain, forever. He couldn't grasp anything solid, anything that didn't just lead further into the blackness that threatened to swallow him up, he couldn't breathe -
And then there were arms tight around his shoulders, a hand on the back of his head, warm in his hair, against his ear. His face pressed against something warm and angular and soft and familiar, but he didn't know what it was, he didn't care, he just knew that he was being held together, slowly pieced back together by those arms, that were strong and constant and wouldn't let him go.
And someone was whispering, words breezing across his mind like a leaf on the surface of a troubled pond.
<It's over, it's done....> Gafinilan was talking again, saying comforting things Mertil didn't understand, they didn't mean anything. The words were gibberish; the only thing about them that mattered was who they came from.
That voice was the thin, fraying thread that Mertil slowly followed back to reality.
He opened his eyes... and forced himself to look down.
The bleeding had stopped. The shredder had cauterized the ruined limb, replaced the gushing blood with a layer of burned flesh. The fine blue fur had been seared off, the skin wrinkled and bubbled beneath it... but Gafinilan was right. He wouldn't bleed to death. It was over.
His labored, ragged gasps started ot calm, and he loosened his desperate vicegrip; Gafinilan slowly felt the circulation return to his arms. Mertil slumped against him, battered and nerveless and drenched in an awful cold sweat, despite the sick heat from the lifesaving burn.
And for a while, he was quiet. Ragdoll-limp against Gafinilan's chest, slowly getting his breath back, getting his head together, piecing together the bits of his mind scattered across the floor.
He slowly looked down at what had once been swift and deadly and beautiful in its sting.
<It's gone...> he said in a faint whisper.
And there was a long, long silence that left them alone in their own heads but never really, stunned and shattered views swirling around each other and becoming a whole greater than their sum as they struggled together to make sense of this. Make sense of any of it.
But then -
<Oh. Oh, wait. Wait!> Mertil struggled upright. And now there was an edge of hysteria in his mental voice, a horrible, bitter undertone as he raised his hand to point across the ship's conn. Pointed at the unassuming, unobtrusive object on the deck.
<There it is.>
Its gleaming severity was cold and clean, a sliver of brightness lost among the burned, battered wreckage of the ship. It lay on the floor like a crescent moon, plucked out of the sky and thrown to the ground like a piece of garbage.
Then the worst thing happened. Worse than the shredder burn, worse than the blood on the floor and walls, maybe even worse than the crash.
Mertil started to laugh. A gruesome, mirthless thing with just the slightest edge of hysteria, of becoming unhinged and undone that made Gafinilan's blood run cold. He hated that laugh, it made his hair stand on end and his stomach turn, he couldn't stand it for another moment-
<Mertil!> he said suddenly, only to interrupt that horrible thought-speak laugh like a death rattle. He didn't even have any idea what to say. Anything comforting now would be absurd – 'don't worry, Mertil, it's not so bad, it's just a tail! It's not as if you've lost something really important. It's not as if life won't ever be the same after this, and you might not even want to live it.'
For the first time he could remember, Gafinilan was at a loss. What to say, what to do...
<You're hurt... you need to morph.> the new vecol spoke dully, shaking Gafinilan from his reverie. He moved slowly, painfully away, lowering himself to lean against what was left of the control panel. He closed his main eyes, leaving the stalk eyes watching Gafinilan, looking dazed, lost. <It'll take care of... everything. You're hurting too. Then we can think about... what to do next.>
<That's ridiculous, it's nothing. I can last a good while longer.> He wouldn't leave his shorm now, not like this. Not when he'd lost a vital part of himself in so many ways – he didn't need to lose anything more. Not even for a moment.
<I'll be fine now.> Mertil's words fell flat; they were hollow, dead things that Gafinilan didn't know or trust. They had nothing of Mertil about them.
<Mertil, I will not->
<Fine! Think about it. You need to heal yourself, and in any case, we need to see where we are. Make sure we won't be – discovered. Need to see how bad the damage to the ship is... we have to focus.>
Gafinilan didn't trust this sudden onset of suspicious logic. Nobody could be that objective and clear after what he'd just been through. Not this fast, not this sure. This was wrong - almost as bad as his panic of before.
Looking at him, he found it hard to give a damn about the ship, or even what was going on in this strange solar system. There was enough damage lying here on the floor in a pool of blood. But Mertil was right – even if it was for the wrong reasons. This was triage, and now that they'd dealt with the most pressing trauma, it was time to move on to the next.
<You can morph. It's all right, you know.> No matter what Mertil might have lost in the last few minutes, his perception and insight into Gafinilan's plight was clearly still there. <You can... fix yourself.>
Gafinilan didn't answer. It was stupid, irrational, but the thought of morphing now and becoming himself again, whole and uninjured... a cold sliver of guilt stung in the bottom of his stomach. Why should he get to 'fix himself', when -
<Survivor's guilt doesn't become you.> Mertil said, almost deadpan – or maybe he just didn't have the energy to put any more emphasis into it. <You have more important things to do.>
Gafinilan's eyes narrowed. 'Survivor's guilt...' Mertil was talking about himself as if he were dead already. But he nodded. <All right, I'll take a look outside – I'll be right back.> Then he softened. Tried to resist the painful, sardonic cold that seeped into his mind like black oil through a cloth. Tried to send back some strength and optimism in return, hoped it got through. <I mean... I'll be right here.>
Again, no reply. Just the feeling of a resigned decision, and settling down to wait.
Gafinilan cast about in his limited repertoire of morphs, and latched onto the first thing that came to mind. Something familiar and safe. The first animal he'd laid a hand on and acquired its DNA. A djbala, the first animal every morph-capable soldier experienced. Small, nonthreatening, warm and furry and comforting to the touch – and he certainly needed something comforting right now. The easy safety of the first morph, for those just dipping their hooves into this new technology. The small, cuddly warmth in the palm of his hand, the soft ears and six little wiggling paws. The big, buggy eyes peering curiously up at him, the tiny, sensitive nose that tickled his fingertips...
He tried to remember the quiet calm that came over it when it went into the trancelike acquisition state, tried to make himself do the same.
Then he began to shrink.
Gafinilan closed his eyes, and let the changes wash over him like a current of soothing water, closing his open wounds and healing heat and plasma burns. He didn't have the energy to pay any attention to the miracle of it all, the wondrous technology that had saved lives, that might save theirs still.
Of course, there were some wounds, some defects, that the morphing technology could not heal.
When he demorphed, he'd be himself again.
And the disease would still be there.
But then he found his worries began to shrink just as rapidly as his body was. The djbala's brain was beginning to join with his own. And it was happy.
The little animal was naturally calm and secure; it lived high in treetops eating the ever-present fruit and leaves, safe from nearly all natural predators. It wasn't used to worrying about much. All it ever really had to think about was what sweet and juicy thing it was going to eat next, whether or not it was time to sunbathe or wash its fuzzy whiskers. To this little being, everything was generally right in the world, and unless everything went straight to hell very fast, it didn't see the point in worrying its furry little head over much of anything.
A djbala didn't know what it was to be gunned down and stranded on an alien planet. It didn't know the cold, sinking hopelessness of watching and feeling its best friend bleed to death under its hands.
So Gafinilan let the djbala's brain have some reign. Let it take over just a little, borrow some of the animal's calm. Right now, he didn't mind being in someone, anyone else's head but his own. He let it tell him that everything was going to be all right, that he hadn't been made a liar yet, that there was still some fraying chance they might get out of this alive.
He opened his eyes, and he was very small. The ship's bulkheads soared above him like a canyon's wall, and something rough and black and rounded rose up next to him – Mertil's hoof. It took a moment for Gafinilan to get his bearings – but nothing compared to the smells.
Blood. The overpowering metallic sting on the insides of his nostrils – that disturbed the djbala's brain, but not enough. It didn't smell like its blood. But it could also smell sweat and fear and burned flesh, the awful odors bombarded his sensitive nose, he had to close his big, bulging eyes and shake his head, run his paws over his face to clear it.
Then he shoved the smell of blood and the cold weight of guilt into the back of his mind, and got down to business. Six paws easily navigating the charred and jagged metal, he scooted up the wall and out through the gash torn in the ship's hull – but he paused on the edge. Looked back, torn one last time.
<Do not move. Just stay right where you are.>
Mertil didn't respond with words, just a feeling of uncharacteristic dark sarcasm that permeated their constant link. Even unspoken, the message was clear – Oh, I'll be right here - where in the world would I go?
With difficulty, Gafinilan forced his buggy eyes away from the sight of his shorm laying in the wreckage of their lives... and emerged into the alien world.
It was night on this side of the rotating planet – a small point in their favor. Landing on a hemisphere where it was broad daylight would have really been problematic. The air was cool and fresh and filled with intriguing scents – but nothing the djbala recognized. Well, that made two of them. Smells of animals that had passed this way, and the pine of the enormous, needle-leafed trees rising up on all sides. Fog drifted around above his head, softening all the edges and diffusing the world in thin clouds.
It was silent. Unnaturally quiet – the impact of their ship into this forested area had frightened away all the animals that might have been nearby. No birds rustled in the trees, no curious land creatures came to investigate... but most importantly, there were no humans.
They were alone.
The logical part of Gafinilan's brain chalked up another point in their favor, even as a shiver ran down his furry little spine, and his stomach contracted. Alone. In these dark woods, on this entire planet, they were the only Andalites, maybe the first ever. He'd never been so alone. And the enormity of it, the overwhelming isolation -
But then, of course... he wasn't completely alone. Mertil was here. Waiting for him in the ship – so it was time to stop dwelling on horrifying realities, and make certain of just how horrifying they were.
Flattening his little body against the ground, sensitive ears and nose still straining for any hint of local predators (whether in the form of wild animals, or Hork-Bajir shock troops), he scurried to the closest tree, and started to climb. The djbala ran vertically as easily as it did across the ground, and it was comforting to have a specific task to focus on, even for a moment. He reached the top of the tree too soon.
Clung to the thin top branches, swaying back and forth in the air, and stared down at the world spread out below him. And above him hung the bright, single moon, stars tiny faint pinpricks of light in strange constellations. Just one more reminder of how alien this place was.
It was foolish, but he strained his eyes at those stars, looking for any minuscule flash of light. Half-hoping for any sign that the battle was continuing, that they hadn't been blown to dust in this strange solar system. But no – the stars were still and tranquil.
And below them the world was a dark, endless expanse of empty space carpeted with treetops. In 360 degrees, there was nothing – except a few twinkling lights far, far off, like stars below him. A human compound or city of some kind... but there were miles and miles of wilderness between them, their landing site was so remote, he couldn't think that any humans would take the time to investigate.
Of course, the humans weren't really what he was worried about.
But still, the news was as good as it could possibly be, and he scurried back down the tree to tell Mertil.
<Well, we could have landed in a much worse place,> he said, scrambling up the ship's outer hull and in through the tear. He didn't get an answer, so he continued, to fill the silence in his head. <We seem to be in a completely uninhabited -> he cut himself off, stopping dead. Staring, frozen.
Mertil was sitting upright now, in a different position than before. He'd dragged himself a short distance across the bridge, and picked something up.
As Gafinilan stared in horror, he turned it slowly around in one hand, looking at it from all angles. Eyes following the graceful curve, the razor-edge, the wicked tip... the mangled, dangling hunk of flesh. Mertil held it gingerly, almost reverently, like it was some relic, something sacred. Unwilling to let it go, as if he had the bizarre, futile idea of sticking it back on again.
That was bad enough. That alone made him want to scream, vomit, do anything but freeze here unable to move or speak or think -
But then he saw what was in the other hand. The second horror, and it was smooth and metallic and elegant. And Mertil looked from the abandoned blade to the shredder's streamlined barrel and slowly back again. Thoughtfully, considering...
<Put it down, Mertil.>
He gradually turned his head to look up at the Gafinilan-djbala, perched on the edge of the huge tear in the ship's hull, staring at him with its huge, globelike eyes. But while Mertil's two main eyes might have been looking back with a dull, disconnected look, his stalk eyes stayed fixed elsewhere – one on the blade, one on the gun. Gafinilan couldn't stand that look, it didn't belong on Mertil's face.
He hadn't felt fear when they'd been hit. Not really. Not for himself, anyway. After getting a diagnosis like Soola's Disease, other forms of death seemed to lose their edge. Honorable, quick, relatively painless ones. Of course, anything was relatively painless compared to the slow death from Soola's. Dying in battle was a bright and shining alternative, the possibility of that death – of any other death besides the inevitable – couldn't frighten him anymore.
But that look in Mertil's eyes, that gun, that chopped-off, sad thing in his hand... now Gafinilan was scared.
<...When you said 'think about what to do next', I didn't know this was what you meant.> A feeble joke, a weak attempt at shaking him out of his reverie.
Don't do this now, Mertil. You've always been the level one, the clear head. You've always been the one to bring me back down to solid ground when I got lost in a fog of duty and warrior's passion, you pointed me in the right direction when I couldn't see straight.
<Give me the gun.> He felt ridiculous saying it as a djbala, like a talking animal from a children's fable. As if he would pick it up in his tiny paws and deactivate it. Well, if that was what it took. He couldn't demorph, not yet. He wouldn't be in control of himself or what happened around him during those few, vulnerable seconds.
Still no reply. And for the first time, Gafinilan couldn't read what was going on in those eyes – and it was as if their link had been broken. There was nothing. Not even despair or hopelessness. Just a dull, heavy numbness and silence that was somehow worse than screaming.
<That isn't you.> He found himself saying. <That thing in your hand – it's not you. You are still here, Mertil, you haven't been destroyed – that's what matters.>
He didn't know where the words came from. Certainly not from his training, upon which he'd relied for everything else today. What he was saying went against everything he'd absorbed since before he could remember.
<You are more than a blade, Mertil.>
A tail was a second heart, it was better to lose a hand or an eye than your blade. You pledged your tail to your prince along with your honor and your life. Without one, there was no honor, there was no life. A vecol's suicide was an afterthought. A small social nicety, but a vital one.
And here Gafinilan was, talking his shorm out of this grace.
<Now give me the gun.>
Mertil didn't move for a few long moments. Then, slowly, he reached out, extended his arm as much as his aching bones and muscles would allow... and placed the shredder on the deck, below the djbala.
Djbalas didn't exactly sigh with relief, but Gafinilan might as well, as he dropped to the floor. He skirted the gun – didn't lay his paws on it, didn't make any move to touch it. He could trust now. But even so, maybe even subconsciously, he put himself between it and Mertil.
Who was looking down at him with something like amusement – maybe just at the absurdity of it all. A tail, a gun, and his best friend, who was now a fuzzy little creature telling him he still had something to live for.
<I wasn't thinking of using it, you know.> A grim smile. <Not seriously.>
Gafinilan didn't return it, didn't even blink. <But it crossed your mind.>
<It crossed my mind. For a moment or two. Then you poked your furry little head in.> Mertil turned all four eyes up to the djbala, who still hadn't moved a muscle. <Surely one's allowed one foolish, completely selfish thought every once in a while?>
Gafinilan wasn't amused. <Not one quite that foolish.>
There were a few long moments of silence. Then Mertil spoke – studiedly casually, measured in his nonchalance.
<I'm expected to do it, you know.>
Gafinilan frowned, didn't reply. Of course he knew.
<The final duty of any warrior is to die with honor, for his prince... or when he has outlived his ability to serve. They wouldn't look at it as selfish, it would be... a necessary virtue.>
<By your logic, I should start setting my affairs in order.> Gafinilan blinked all four eyes, slowly, bitterly enjoying the irony.
Mertil started. <No – that wasn't what I – don't talk like that. You know I->
<I know what you meant.> Gafinilan almost regretted the little barb – almost. But it proved his point. <But... these are very unusual circumstances. We are the only Andalites on this entire planet, this occupied enemy territory. And while this situation is rather... urgent, it is also unique. We have, in a way, penetrated the Yeerk defenses. We have a chance to do some damage from the inside. Strike a blow. It's also the duty of any warrior to do whatever he possibly can for his cause while he lives. There may well come a time when there is nothing left for us – and then we can talk about dying with honor. But not today.>
Mertil just watched him, and a tiny breath of amusement ghosted across their shared consciousness. Gafinilan had turned their traditional society's logic around on him. <Well. I suppose... I won't tell if you won't.> He gave a strange little smile. <I have to say, I did not expect you to be so – optimistic.> He took in a deep breath, let it out in a slow sigh and shake of his head. <What are we going to do?> He didn't sound entirely despairing – not yet. Just overwhelmed and disbelieving, unable to quite comprehend the nightmare from which he couldn't seem to wake.
Gafinilan had his answer ready, managed to say it passingly convincingly – although words could never mask the real feeling, there in their connection. <The fleet is still in the system, we haven't been beaten yet. We will repair the ship as best we can, and send out a distress signal.>
<And we'll be home by tomorrow.> Mertil spoke quietly, too tired to even inject it with the sarcasm it seemed to need. Instead it just sounded wistful, a final thread of hope.
<But no... You know what I mean.> he looked down at what an hour ago had been a brilliant, gleaming crescent, precise as a surgeon's scalpel, deadly as a scorpion's sting. And now it was a red, burned mound, the flesh seared and scabbed and starting to bubble and blister from the shredder's intense heat. He picked up the amputated, destroyed limb in his hands, actually held it – the pain was still too severe to move what was left of his tail by itself.
So he held it in his hands like a dead animal. Not a sacred relic, like he'd held the blade. Looked down at it as if it were detached even more than the amputated blade on the floor, like it belonged to someone else, and he didn't know himself anymore.
<I mean what... what in the world are we going to do now?>
Gafinilan didn't have an answer.
And suddenly he could barely keep his oversized djbala eyes open; he swayed on his perch. He was so overwhelmed with a wave of exhaustion, relief, the crash after the flood of adrenaline slowly drained away.
Without a word, he moved across the floor and crawled onto Mertil's hand. Up his wrist and forearm, onto his shoulder. Nestled in the soft depression between his shoulder and jaw, as comfortable as the djbala in its nest of leaves high in a treetop.
Gafinilan burrowed there into the blue fur, into the smell of him that blocked out the still-powerful scents of steel and blood and fear. And he felt himself calm as Mertil let out a slow breath, finally releasing the awful tension, finally letting himself breathe. Gafinilan did too – let himself enjoy the small bit of tranquility. The intimacy, a tenderness he would not have so easily allowed himself otherwise.
Mertil stroked, squeezed the soft little creature, trying to get his ragged, labored breath back. Slowly, he became calm and quiet, eyes closing, comforted by the animal's little heartbeat and warmth. Hours passed. Mertil's breathing grew slow and regular, matching the djbala's. Gafinilan's inner clock told him it was time to demorph – so he slowly became himself again. But he didn't speak, he didn't break the precious, momentary peace they'd somehow been blessed with. And he didn't move away.
When a faint orange-pink sunrise started to light up the ruined ship through the jagged tear, Mertil spoke. Gave voice to the thing that
Gafinilan had been pondering in the small hours of the night.
<Why are we still alive?>
For the first time that terrible night, Gafinilan had an answer. Maybe the first thing since the crash that he knew for sure. Calm and resolute, from the simple knowledge that they were together, the worst had not yet come to pass, and they were not yet separated.
<I don't know. But we're going to stay that way.>
Title: Triage
Author: That freak Sylver, what the hell is she ON?
Summary: The crash that started it all. Gafinilan and Mertil are shipwrecked on a hostile planet, and they've lost nearly everything. In a lot of ways. But some things just can't be taken away.
Warnings: Blood, and lots of it. Severe character injury, involuntary amputation, guns and contemplation of honorable suicide, ending with some ridiculous but necessary cuteness... and ghey. :D
OH. And I'm sure ye guys know, but a djbala is an Andalite animal alluded to in a couple books, the first thing that a warrior learns to morph. They're never really described except for having six legs, and I picture them as looking a lot like a bush baby. :D To make this story even more weird/absurd/cute, here's my little reference muse - http://www.catsalter.co.uk/catsalter.co.uk/images/bush-baby-web.jpg
I hope ye enjoy. <3 I... actually kind of like how this one turned out.
(And if there's like, a weird sarcastic undertone that I don't normally write with, I BLAME WATCHING TOO MUCH M*A*S*H. I can never think about anything warlike ever again without giving it a Hawaiian shirt and a martini.)
# # #
Triage
They hit.
Then, nothing.
His head felt shattered into a million pieces. He watched everything fall apart on the back of his eyelids, and he couldn't wrench them open to make the awful knowledge go away. Part of him was dashed into a pulp against rock and steel, part of him drowned beneath miles of black ocean. And part of him hung weightless, suspended in a nebula of sweet quiet and sublime dark that asked nothing of him, embraced him in soft, comforting folds of peace and serenity...
And it was this part of him that heard Mertil calling his name.
<Gafinilan! Wake up, please, we have to – this isn't happening, this isn't supposed to – stop the bleeding, just stop the...>
Gafinilan squirmed in irritation. What the hell was Mertil doing here? Interrupting his... whatever this was? Ruining his precious rest. Everything was supposed to be quiet now. And Mertil wasn't supposed to be in this silent place, he knew that. He wasn't supposed to follow.
<Got to stop the bleeding, just – just stop, no, no, no!>
Damn it, Mertil! He didn't even have the energy to articulate it into thought-speak, but he knew his confusion and frustration were loud and clear – words weren't necessary. They always knew. Just like right now there was a flicker of something awful seeping into his mind - a sharpness, an edge, something was wrong...
But he couldn't latch onto it. He couldn't grab the words, grab the idea and make himself... do anything. He'd been through so much hell, done his duty to the end, and now it was so much easier to ignore it. Just for a moment. Didn't Mertil know how warm and safe it was here, without pain or fear? Didn't he see how much better it was to just let go and float for a while, than to go back to...
Wait.
Weapons fire. In the back of his mind, just minutes before, but it seemed like a lifetime. Alarms blaring in his ears, the universe spinning out of control outside the craft's window, as something blue blocked out the blackness of space, killed the stars. His hands flew over the controls to grab onto some small chance that they might not die – and Mertil shouting to brace for impact.
<Oh, God... it won't stop. It won't – wake up, wake up, don't make me do this alone, damn it!> And now the fear, the desperation was flooding into Gafinilan's brain, shocking him awake like a bucket of ice water – Mertil wasn't kidding, something was wrong. He was more important than a safe, quiet place and now there was a cold, suffocating weight in the pit of Gafinilan's stomach that meant it was about to get a whole lot worse -
Gafinilan forced one eye open against the crushing pain, while stars exploded in the back of his head.
At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Something made of steel was dented and torn like tissue paper and it swirled and danced in his woozy vision, its edges scorched with black – and slick, wet. Coated in fire-retardant fluid and foam. There'd been a fire...
It took more strength than he knew he had... but he managed to move his one open stalk eye, just rotate it half an inch.
He could see stars.
Cold and still and far, far out of reach, shining through a jagged tear in the ship's hull. The alloy was peeled back like some giant claw had raked it, revealing the conduits and hardware that made up the guts of the ship. But now sound was creeping back, slowly the ringing, rushing sound in his ears was subsiding, replaced by frightening silence, interrupted by electrical fizzes and a strange, irregular dripping... and panicked, ragged breathing.
<Mertil...> he managed to scrape his mind together enough to make the word, struggling to tap back into their perpetual link...
No answer. And that was more frightening than his screams, more disturbing than Gafinilan's disorientation – no reply, just a sense of increasing dread and panic.
Gafinilan took a deep breath (it felt like the first one he'd ever taken, lungs painfully sucking in the life to which he reluctantly returned) and focused all his stubborn, defiant willpower on just moving his stalk eye a little further, just to...
Mertil. His face turned at a strange angle – not looking at him, not saying anything. Holding very, very still – except for the terrible tremors that swept through him. Somehow he looked distorted, his head and shoulders hanging at a strange, unnatural angle... wrong. Cold and sharp as the stars above their broken ship...
Not Mertil. A reflection in something he couldn't -
That did it. Gafinilan wrenched his other three eyes open and lurched forward, grabbing at the floor and control console, hooves scrabbling behind him for some purchase to shove himself upright, but the deck was covered in something slippery, he couldn't get a grip on it. The world spun again, everything was a swirling mass of darkness and red emergency lights, he couldn't see -
<Gafinilan...>
And then he could.
Mertil, sprawled on the deck, gray and pale, face drained of all color, and drenched in cold sweat. And something else, something dark and wet that matted in his fur and hair, covered his hands and coated the deck, slick and tacky where it had just begun to dry. He slowly turned to look at Gafinilan, but didn't seem to recognize him. His eyes, wide and wild and staring, went right through him. And all the while he was desperately clutching something to his chest with both hands. Knuckles white and shaking, fingers clamping down over the severed stump, wretchedly trying to stem the flow.
It dangled like a dead thing.
And there was Mertil, looking at him with those terrible, faraway eyes – he wasn't there, there was nothing alive or present in them, Mertil didn't live there anymore -
<I have to stop the bleeding.>
Gafinilan couldn't think, his brain just couldn't make sense of the horror in front of him, could not accept or even begin to comprehend that Mertil's tail was gone, and left behind was this bloody, lifeless thing, this was not happening, this could not be happening, his tail could not be -
It was.
And before he knew what was happening, he was struggling across the small two-person cabin, slipping and half-falling in the blood on the deck. His legs didn't work right, terrible grinding pain shot up through them, one arm hung limp from the shoulder that didn't move anymore. But he wasn't thinking of that, he was just trying to crawl, drag himself over to Mertil-
<I'm here, I'm right here, let me help->
Gafinilan desperately looked around the disemboweled cabin for something, anything that could help them. A piece of cable for a tourniquet, some rag of fabric to wrap around it – whatever emergency supplies they had were in the back compartment, damn it, and the ruins of the ship... A huge piece of the console had been smashed loose on impact, it lay on the floor with jagged, sharp innards exposed; the way Mertil lay and the awful tracks of gashes and burns down his side and legs made it look like he'd just dragged himself out from underneath it. And it was from under that fallen mess of sharp edges and crushing weight that the trail of blood began. Gafinilan couldn't help following it back to its source, the dreadful thing that wasn't a tail anymore.
And it wasn't a clean cut. This was no surgical amputation, no neat and tidy removal of an infected limb past all other medical recourse.
Mertil's tail had been ripped off. Torn, crushed and dragged and ground into the deck like an insect under a hoof, until the sinews snapped and the flesh tore apart like wet paper.
But Gafinilan didn't have time to be shocked or traumatized – he didn't have the luxury of time. Neither did Mertil.
He had to get to the medical equipment, but he couldn't let go, and even if he did, the back of the ship was impassable. The emergency lights back there were failing, some vent was gushing white-hot steam, sparks and small electrical discharges hissed through the air, it was just a black tunnel of sharp, broken edges. And he couldn't, he didn't have time, Mertil was going to bleed to death now if he didn't -
Wrapping his hands around the dead thing, refusing to pull away from the warm blood on his hands. Mertil's blood, his horrified, overwhelmed brain screamed at him. And if it didn't stop -
<We'll get it stopped, it will be fine, there's – there's nothing->
And he couldn't bring himself to let go of the bloodied thing, and Mertil's hands that were clutching at him now, holding onto Gafinilan's wrists, not his ruined tail – wouldn't leave him now, not for an uncertainty, not when his whole body shuddered and froze at the thought of what would happen if he looked away for a moment-
He was still talking but didn't even know what he was saying, he was just trying to remember his training, let his brain go into autopilot – he knew the answer, he knew how to prevent blood loss, he had to, it was there in his mind, it had to be, because if it wasn't he might start to panic too, he might just start to scream and never stop -
<Just keep pressure on it, keep it on, it will stop-> It had to.
Gafinilan forced his thoughts into something coherent and tried to make it sound like he had the situation in control. And he did, he told himself, he was an experienced warrior, this was what he did, who he was, he was trained for situations exactly like this.
<I am but it's not working, it's getting worse, it's not there anymore->
<It's all right, I've got you, you're doing fine->
But not like this.
He'd been prepared for something terrible to happen to him, he'd been prepared and willing to sacrifice his life for his duty – not Mertil's! This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, this wasn't the blaze of glory he'd – not planned, he'd never admit that to himself, but accepted. The final act of heroism he'd envisioned... infinitely better than the alternative.
And he refused to let this happen, he refused to let any more of Mertil's life ooze from beneath his fingers and splash onto the floor -
Then he saw it.
The shredder must have – he didn't know where it came from, it must have been jarred loose from somewhere in the ship, but all that mattered now was that it was there and now it was in his hand, he adjusted it to the very lowest setting-
<Hold still.>
Mertil saw in an instant. Eyes locked on the shredder, once flying back up to his friend's face – but he didn't say a word. He fell very quiet, very still.
<You can bear this.> Gafinilan aimed more carefully than he had in his life. Right across the trauma, just a graze, not a direct hit, never. This would work, this was the only possible way they would make it out of this alive, he was saving Mertil, not -
<Just do it.>
He pulled the trigger.
And Mertil watched. He didn't close any of his eyes even as the shredder hummed to life, his numb gaze staying fixed on the horror unfolding at the end of his tail. Then the constrained flash and hiss – a terrible sizzle, the smell of burned flesh-
Mertil's tortured shriek was incoherent, a fresh cut of excruciation lashed over the older wound that was already starting to numb with the blood loss. Everything was opened again in an overwhelming rush of agony, he couldn't see, white flashbulbs erupted behind his eyelids; gravity disappeared and he was crashing against the ceiling, torn through the hole in the ship and somersaulting endlessly through a galaxy made of white-hot pain, forever. He couldn't grasp anything solid, anything that didn't just lead further into the blackness that threatened to swallow him up, he couldn't breathe -
And then there were arms tight around his shoulders, a hand on the back of his head, warm in his hair, against his ear. His face pressed against something warm and angular and soft and familiar, but he didn't know what it was, he didn't care, he just knew that he was being held together, slowly pieced back together by those arms, that were strong and constant and wouldn't let him go.
And someone was whispering, words breezing across his mind like a leaf on the surface of a troubled pond.
<It's over, it's done....> Gafinilan was talking again, saying comforting things Mertil didn't understand, they didn't mean anything. The words were gibberish; the only thing about them that mattered was who they came from.
That voice was the thin, fraying thread that Mertil slowly followed back to reality.
He opened his eyes... and forced himself to look down.
The bleeding had stopped. The shredder had cauterized the ruined limb, replaced the gushing blood with a layer of burned flesh. The fine blue fur had been seared off, the skin wrinkled and bubbled beneath it... but Gafinilan was right. He wouldn't bleed to death. It was over.
His labored, ragged gasps started ot calm, and he loosened his desperate vicegrip; Gafinilan slowly felt the circulation return to his arms. Mertil slumped against him, battered and nerveless and drenched in an awful cold sweat, despite the sick heat from the lifesaving burn.
And for a while, he was quiet. Ragdoll-limp against Gafinilan's chest, slowly getting his breath back, getting his head together, piecing together the bits of his mind scattered across the floor.
He slowly looked down at what had once been swift and deadly and beautiful in its sting.
<It's gone...> he said in a faint whisper.
And there was a long, long silence that left them alone in their own heads but never really, stunned and shattered views swirling around each other and becoming a whole greater than their sum as they struggled together to make sense of this. Make sense of any of it.
But then -
<Oh. Oh, wait. Wait!> Mertil struggled upright. And now there was an edge of hysteria in his mental voice, a horrible, bitter undertone as he raised his hand to point across the ship's conn. Pointed at the unassuming, unobtrusive object on the deck.
<There it is.>
Its gleaming severity was cold and clean, a sliver of brightness lost among the burned, battered wreckage of the ship. It lay on the floor like a crescent moon, plucked out of the sky and thrown to the ground like a piece of garbage.
Then the worst thing happened. Worse than the shredder burn, worse than the blood on the floor and walls, maybe even worse than the crash.
Mertil started to laugh. A gruesome, mirthless thing with just the slightest edge of hysteria, of becoming unhinged and undone that made Gafinilan's blood run cold. He hated that laugh, it made his hair stand on end and his stomach turn, he couldn't stand it for another moment-
<Mertil!> he said suddenly, only to interrupt that horrible thought-speak laugh like a death rattle. He didn't even have any idea what to say. Anything comforting now would be absurd – 'don't worry, Mertil, it's not so bad, it's just a tail! It's not as if you've lost something really important. It's not as if life won't ever be the same after this, and you might not even want to live it.'
For the first time he could remember, Gafinilan was at a loss. What to say, what to do...
<You're hurt... you need to morph.> the new vecol spoke dully, shaking Gafinilan from his reverie. He moved slowly, painfully away, lowering himself to lean against what was left of the control panel. He closed his main eyes, leaving the stalk eyes watching Gafinilan, looking dazed, lost. <It'll take care of... everything. You're hurting too. Then we can think about... what to do next.>
<That's ridiculous, it's nothing. I can last a good while longer.> He wouldn't leave his shorm now, not like this. Not when he'd lost a vital part of himself in so many ways – he didn't need to lose anything more. Not even for a moment.
<I'll be fine now.> Mertil's words fell flat; they were hollow, dead things that Gafinilan didn't know or trust. They had nothing of Mertil about them.
<Mertil, I will not->
<Fine! Think about it. You need to heal yourself, and in any case, we need to see where we are. Make sure we won't be – discovered. Need to see how bad the damage to the ship is... we have to focus.>
Gafinilan didn't trust this sudden onset of suspicious logic. Nobody could be that objective and clear after what he'd just been through. Not this fast, not this sure. This was wrong - almost as bad as his panic of before.
Looking at him, he found it hard to give a damn about the ship, or even what was going on in this strange solar system. There was enough damage lying here on the floor in a pool of blood. But Mertil was right – even if it was for the wrong reasons. This was triage, and now that they'd dealt with the most pressing trauma, it was time to move on to the next.
<You can morph. It's all right, you know.> No matter what Mertil might have lost in the last few minutes, his perception and insight into Gafinilan's plight was clearly still there. <You can... fix yourself.>
Gafinilan didn't answer. It was stupid, irrational, but the thought of morphing now and becoming himself again, whole and uninjured... a cold sliver of guilt stung in the bottom of his stomach. Why should he get to 'fix himself', when -
<Survivor's guilt doesn't become you.> Mertil said, almost deadpan – or maybe he just didn't have the energy to put any more emphasis into it. <You have more important things to do.>
Gafinilan's eyes narrowed. 'Survivor's guilt...' Mertil was talking about himself as if he were dead already. But he nodded. <All right, I'll take a look outside – I'll be right back.> Then he softened. Tried to resist the painful, sardonic cold that seeped into his mind like black oil through a cloth. Tried to send back some strength and optimism in return, hoped it got through. <I mean... I'll be right here.>
Again, no reply. Just the feeling of a resigned decision, and settling down to wait.
Gafinilan cast about in his limited repertoire of morphs, and latched onto the first thing that came to mind. Something familiar and safe. The first animal he'd laid a hand on and acquired its DNA. A djbala, the first animal every morph-capable soldier experienced. Small, nonthreatening, warm and furry and comforting to the touch – and he certainly needed something comforting right now. The easy safety of the first morph, for those just dipping their hooves into this new technology. The small, cuddly warmth in the palm of his hand, the soft ears and six little wiggling paws. The big, buggy eyes peering curiously up at him, the tiny, sensitive nose that tickled his fingertips...
He tried to remember the quiet calm that came over it when it went into the trancelike acquisition state, tried to make himself do the same.
Then he began to shrink.
Gafinilan closed his eyes, and let the changes wash over him like a current of soothing water, closing his open wounds and healing heat and plasma burns. He didn't have the energy to pay any attention to the miracle of it all, the wondrous technology that had saved lives, that might save theirs still.
Of course, there were some wounds, some defects, that the morphing technology could not heal.
When he demorphed, he'd be himself again.
And the disease would still be there.
But then he found his worries began to shrink just as rapidly as his body was. The djbala's brain was beginning to join with his own. And it was happy.
The little animal was naturally calm and secure; it lived high in treetops eating the ever-present fruit and leaves, safe from nearly all natural predators. It wasn't used to worrying about much. All it ever really had to think about was what sweet and juicy thing it was going to eat next, whether or not it was time to sunbathe or wash its fuzzy whiskers. To this little being, everything was generally right in the world, and unless everything went straight to hell very fast, it didn't see the point in worrying its furry little head over much of anything.
A djbala didn't know what it was to be gunned down and stranded on an alien planet. It didn't know the cold, sinking hopelessness of watching and feeling its best friend bleed to death under its hands.
So Gafinilan let the djbala's brain have some reign. Let it take over just a little, borrow some of the animal's calm. Right now, he didn't mind being in someone, anyone else's head but his own. He let it tell him that everything was going to be all right, that he hadn't been made a liar yet, that there was still some fraying chance they might get out of this alive.
He opened his eyes, and he was very small. The ship's bulkheads soared above him like a canyon's wall, and something rough and black and rounded rose up next to him – Mertil's hoof. It took a moment for Gafinilan to get his bearings – but nothing compared to the smells.
Blood. The overpowering metallic sting on the insides of his nostrils – that disturbed the djbala's brain, but not enough. It didn't smell like its blood. But it could also smell sweat and fear and burned flesh, the awful odors bombarded his sensitive nose, he had to close his big, bulging eyes and shake his head, run his paws over his face to clear it.
Then he shoved the smell of blood and the cold weight of guilt into the back of his mind, and got down to business. Six paws easily navigating the charred and jagged metal, he scooted up the wall and out through the gash torn in the ship's hull – but he paused on the edge. Looked back, torn one last time.
<Do not move. Just stay right where you are.>
Mertil didn't respond with words, just a feeling of uncharacteristic dark sarcasm that permeated their constant link. Even unspoken, the message was clear – Oh, I'll be right here - where in the world would I go?
With difficulty, Gafinilan forced his buggy eyes away from the sight of his shorm laying in the wreckage of their lives... and emerged into the alien world.
It was night on this side of the rotating planet – a small point in their favor. Landing on a hemisphere where it was broad daylight would have really been problematic. The air was cool and fresh and filled with intriguing scents – but nothing the djbala recognized. Well, that made two of them. Smells of animals that had passed this way, and the pine of the enormous, needle-leafed trees rising up on all sides. Fog drifted around above his head, softening all the edges and diffusing the world in thin clouds.
It was silent. Unnaturally quiet – the impact of their ship into this forested area had frightened away all the animals that might have been nearby. No birds rustled in the trees, no curious land creatures came to investigate... but most importantly, there were no humans.
They were alone.
The logical part of Gafinilan's brain chalked up another point in their favor, even as a shiver ran down his furry little spine, and his stomach contracted. Alone. In these dark woods, on this entire planet, they were the only Andalites, maybe the first ever. He'd never been so alone. And the enormity of it, the overwhelming isolation -
But then, of course... he wasn't completely alone. Mertil was here. Waiting for him in the ship – so it was time to stop dwelling on horrifying realities, and make certain of just how horrifying they were.
Flattening his little body against the ground, sensitive ears and nose still straining for any hint of local predators (whether in the form of wild animals, or Hork-Bajir shock troops), he scurried to the closest tree, and started to climb. The djbala ran vertically as easily as it did across the ground, and it was comforting to have a specific task to focus on, even for a moment. He reached the top of the tree too soon.
Clung to the thin top branches, swaying back and forth in the air, and stared down at the world spread out below him. And above him hung the bright, single moon, stars tiny faint pinpricks of light in strange constellations. Just one more reminder of how alien this place was.
It was foolish, but he strained his eyes at those stars, looking for any minuscule flash of light. Half-hoping for any sign that the battle was continuing, that they hadn't been blown to dust in this strange solar system. But no – the stars were still and tranquil.
And below them the world was a dark, endless expanse of empty space carpeted with treetops. In 360 degrees, there was nothing – except a few twinkling lights far, far off, like stars below him. A human compound or city of some kind... but there were miles and miles of wilderness between them, their landing site was so remote, he couldn't think that any humans would take the time to investigate.
Of course, the humans weren't really what he was worried about.
But still, the news was as good as it could possibly be, and he scurried back down the tree to tell Mertil.
<Well, we could have landed in a much worse place,> he said, scrambling up the ship's outer hull and in through the tear. He didn't get an answer, so he continued, to fill the silence in his head. <We seem to be in a completely uninhabited -> he cut himself off, stopping dead. Staring, frozen.
Mertil was sitting upright now, in a different position than before. He'd dragged himself a short distance across the bridge, and picked something up.
As Gafinilan stared in horror, he turned it slowly around in one hand, looking at it from all angles. Eyes following the graceful curve, the razor-edge, the wicked tip... the mangled, dangling hunk of flesh. Mertil held it gingerly, almost reverently, like it was some relic, something sacred. Unwilling to let it go, as if he had the bizarre, futile idea of sticking it back on again.
That was bad enough. That alone made him want to scream, vomit, do anything but freeze here unable to move or speak or think -
But then he saw what was in the other hand. The second horror, and it was smooth and metallic and elegant. And Mertil looked from the abandoned blade to the shredder's streamlined barrel and slowly back again. Thoughtfully, considering...
<Put it down, Mertil.>
He gradually turned his head to look up at the Gafinilan-djbala, perched on the edge of the huge tear in the ship's hull, staring at him with its huge, globelike eyes. But while Mertil's two main eyes might have been looking back with a dull, disconnected look, his stalk eyes stayed fixed elsewhere – one on the blade, one on the gun. Gafinilan couldn't stand that look, it didn't belong on Mertil's face.
He hadn't felt fear when they'd been hit. Not really. Not for himself, anyway. After getting a diagnosis like Soola's Disease, other forms of death seemed to lose their edge. Honorable, quick, relatively painless ones. Of course, anything was relatively painless compared to the slow death from Soola's. Dying in battle was a bright and shining alternative, the possibility of that death – of any other death besides the inevitable – couldn't frighten him anymore.
But that look in Mertil's eyes, that gun, that chopped-off, sad thing in his hand... now Gafinilan was scared.
<...When you said 'think about what to do next', I didn't know this was what you meant.> A feeble joke, a weak attempt at shaking him out of his reverie.
Don't do this now, Mertil. You've always been the level one, the clear head. You've always been the one to bring me back down to solid ground when I got lost in a fog of duty and warrior's passion, you pointed me in the right direction when I couldn't see straight.
<Give me the gun.> He felt ridiculous saying it as a djbala, like a talking animal from a children's fable. As if he would pick it up in his tiny paws and deactivate it. Well, if that was what it took. He couldn't demorph, not yet. He wouldn't be in control of himself or what happened around him during those few, vulnerable seconds.
Still no reply. And for the first time, Gafinilan couldn't read what was going on in those eyes – and it was as if their link had been broken. There was nothing. Not even despair or hopelessness. Just a dull, heavy numbness and silence that was somehow worse than screaming.
<That isn't you.> He found himself saying. <That thing in your hand – it's not you. You are still here, Mertil, you haven't been destroyed – that's what matters.>
He didn't know where the words came from. Certainly not from his training, upon which he'd relied for everything else today. What he was saying went against everything he'd absorbed since before he could remember.
<You are more than a blade, Mertil.>
A tail was a second heart, it was better to lose a hand or an eye than your blade. You pledged your tail to your prince along with your honor and your life. Without one, there was no honor, there was no life. A vecol's suicide was an afterthought. A small social nicety, but a vital one.
And here Gafinilan was, talking his shorm out of this grace.
<Now give me the gun.>
Mertil didn't move for a few long moments. Then, slowly, he reached out, extended his arm as much as his aching bones and muscles would allow... and placed the shredder on the deck, below the djbala.
Djbalas didn't exactly sigh with relief, but Gafinilan might as well, as he dropped to the floor. He skirted the gun – didn't lay his paws on it, didn't make any move to touch it. He could trust now. But even so, maybe even subconsciously, he put himself between it and Mertil.
Who was looking down at him with something like amusement – maybe just at the absurdity of it all. A tail, a gun, and his best friend, who was now a fuzzy little creature telling him he still had something to live for.
<I wasn't thinking of using it, you know.> A grim smile. <Not seriously.>
Gafinilan didn't return it, didn't even blink. <But it crossed your mind.>
<It crossed my mind. For a moment or two. Then you poked your furry little head in.> Mertil turned all four eyes up to the djbala, who still hadn't moved a muscle. <Surely one's allowed one foolish, completely selfish thought every once in a while?>
Gafinilan wasn't amused. <Not one quite that foolish.>
There were a few long moments of silence. Then Mertil spoke – studiedly casually, measured in his nonchalance.
<I'm expected to do it, you know.>
Gafinilan frowned, didn't reply. Of course he knew.
<The final duty of any warrior is to die with honor, for his prince... or when he has outlived his ability to serve. They wouldn't look at it as selfish, it would be... a necessary virtue.>
<By your logic, I should start setting my affairs in order.> Gafinilan blinked all four eyes, slowly, bitterly enjoying the irony.
Mertil started. <No – that wasn't what I – don't talk like that. You know I->
<I know what you meant.> Gafinilan almost regretted the little barb – almost. But it proved his point. <But... these are very unusual circumstances. We are the only Andalites on this entire planet, this occupied enemy territory. And while this situation is rather... urgent, it is also unique. We have, in a way, penetrated the Yeerk defenses. We have a chance to do some damage from the inside. Strike a blow. It's also the duty of any warrior to do whatever he possibly can for his cause while he lives. There may well come a time when there is nothing left for us – and then we can talk about dying with honor. But not today.>
Mertil just watched him, and a tiny breath of amusement ghosted across their shared consciousness. Gafinilan had turned their traditional society's logic around on him. <Well. I suppose... I won't tell if you won't.> He gave a strange little smile. <I have to say, I did not expect you to be so – optimistic.> He took in a deep breath, let it out in a slow sigh and shake of his head. <What are we going to do?> He didn't sound entirely despairing – not yet. Just overwhelmed and disbelieving, unable to quite comprehend the nightmare from which he couldn't seem to wake.
Gafinilan had his answer ready, managed to say it passingly convincingly – although words could never mask the real feeling, there in their connection. <The fleet is still in the system, we haven't been beaten yet. We will repair the ship as best we can, and send out a distress signal.>
<And we'll be home by tomorrow.> Mertil spoke quietly, too tired to even inject it with the sarcasm it seemed to need. Instead it just sounded wistful, a final thread of hope.
<But no... You know what I mean.> he looked down at what an hour ago had been a brilliant, gleaming crescent, precise as a surgeon's scalpel, deadly as a scorpion's sting. And now it was a red, burned mound, the flesh seared and scabbed and starting to bubble and blister from the shredder's intense heat. He picked up the amputated, destroyed limb in his hands, actually held it – the pain was still too severe to move what was left of his tail by itself.
So he held it in his hands like a dead animal. Not a sacred relic, like he'd held the blade. Looked down at it as if it were detached even more than the amputated blade on the floor, like it belonged to someone else, and he didn't know himself anymore.
<I mean what... what in the world are we going to do now?>
Gafinilan didn't have an answer.
And suddenly he could barely keep his oversized djbala eyes open; he swayed on his perch. He was so overwhelmed with a wave of exhaustion, relief, the crash after the flood of adrenaline slowly drained away.
Without a word, he moved across the floor and crawled onto Mertil's hand. Up his wrist and forearm, onto his shoulder. Nestled in the soft depression between his shoulder and jaw, as comfortable as the djbala in its nest of leaves high in a treetop.
Gafinilan burrowed there into the blue fur, into the smell of him that blocked out the still-powerful scents of steel and blood and fear. And he felt himself calm as Mertil let out a slow breath, finally releasing the awful tension, finally letting himself breathe. Gafinilan did too – let himself enjoy the small bit of tranquility. The intimacy, a tenderness he would not have so easily allowed himself otherwise.
Mertil stroked, squeezed the soft little creature, trying to get his ragged, labored breath back. Slowly, he became calm and quiet, eyes closing, comforted by the animal's little heartbeat and warmth. Hours passed. Mertil's breathing grew slow and regular, matching the djbala's. Gafinilan's inner clock told him it was time to demorph – so he slowly became himself again. But he didn't speak, he didn't break the precious, momentary peace they'd somehow been blessed with. And he didn't move away.
When a faint orange-pink sunrise started to light up the ruined ship through the jagged tear, Mertil spoke. Gave voice to the thing that
Gafinilan had been pondering in the small hours of the night.
<Why are we still alive?>
For the first time that terrible night, Gafinilan had an answer. Maybe the first thing since the crash that he knew for sure. Calm and resolute, from the simple knowledge that they were together, the worst had not yet come to pass, and they were not yet separated.
<I don't know. But we're going to stay that way.>
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Date: 2010-09-11 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-11 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-11 04:42 pm (UTC)<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
THERE ARE NO WORDS TO EXPRESS WHAT I FEEL RIGHT NOW. EXCEPT THAT BEFORE I COULDN'T DECIDE TO POST THE MORE SAD FIC OR THE MORE FLUFF ONE. I THINK THIS ANSWERS MY QUESTION.
Preview? :D
Mertil stepped off the Dome Ship and dug his hooves into the lush blue-green grass. It wasn't his home scoop, but it was still home, in a way, and there was absolutely nothing like the taste of home, although Gafinilan swore he was juust being sentimental, and the grass tasted the same whether it grew on a Dome Ship or the Home World.
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Date: 2010-09-11 05:40 pm (UTC);___; YEEEESS PLOX. FLUFF IS SO NECESSARY. YEESS. <3
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Date: 2010-09-11 07:50 pm (UTC)Well, it started out fluffy, but now it wants to turn into the fic where Gafinilan is diagnosed with Soola's disease. D: Should I let it?
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Date: 2010-09-12 07:48 am (UTC)... There's always room for fluff later. :3
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Date: 2010-09-12 02:40 pm (UTC)Okay back to writing now.
P.S. MAKING MORE CINAMMON BUNZUH BECAUSE THE LAST BATCH (FIRST I'VE EVER MADE BTW) DIDN'T TURN OUT THE WAY I WANTED, AND THIS BATCH LOOKS EVEN LESS GOOD. IDK, THEY'RE STILL RISING SO MAYBE THEY WILL LOOK UGLY BUT TASTE BETTER. I AM NOT MUCH INTO BAKING EXCEPT FOR COOKIES AND BROWNIES; THOSE ARE HARD TO SCREW UP. ALTHOUGH I HAVE SCREWED THEM UP IN THE PAST.
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Date: 2010-09-12 09:24 pm (UTC)Fhghhg yer making my mouth actually water, even at the thought of screwed-up bun-zuh. THEY DON'T NEED TO BE PERFECT. THEY ARE ALREADY WONDERFUL. :D
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Date: 2010-09-12 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 09:23 pm (UTC)Oh dude, titles are HARD. xD I generally never think of them until the fic is completely done. Sometimes I like song titles, especially of songs I was listening to as I wrote, because they often have the same emotional bent.
If I did that with this fic, it's name could be-
"Fix You"
"Brothers on a Hotel Bed"
"In the Deep"
"Into Dust"
"Compliante De La Butte"
Any of those would work, actually. But I just liked "Triage" because it had more of an urgent, traumatic quality instead of these, which are all kind of melancholy and calm and pretty.
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Date: 2010-09-12 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 07:51 am (UTC)Yeah - I dunno, I know everyone would know how it turned out, 'cause yeah, CANON, xD - but I figured it had to have crossed his mind at some point, and there had to be a time that the decision was made.
And I just... in my head-canon at least, Mertil's always been the more level, optimistic one. And even though we've had a whole book of him kicking ass, I thought that having Gafinilan be the 'stronger', more grounding one here was just an interesting dynamic to play with.
... God, I keep thinking I couldn't possibly get any geekier. xD BUT THEN I DO.
THANK YOU. <3
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Date: 2010-09-12 04:11 pm (UTC)THE INTERNET IS THE PLACE FOR GEEKERY.
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Date: 2010-09-12 09:24 pm (UTC)GEEKERY AND LAVS. :D
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Date: 2010-09-13 12:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-13 02:02 am (UTC)