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In the end, death was not the worst thing Kara had ever experienced. What came next was infinitely worse.
* *
She tries to make sense of her surroundings but all she can establish is the terrible void of static and the screaming, howling winds that assault her senses. She has always known that lying in the golden fields of Elysium with Zak was too much to hope for. No, her fate is bound in service elsewhere. She understands the punishments that she has garnered during her life. She understands the gods demand atonement, but what she doesn’t understand is this impossible nothingness that shouldn’t exist. And she wonders - what has she done to piss off hell?
It is unnatural, even unholy. She can feel in her very marrow that this is not a place of the gods, or even a place of waiting for the gods. This is a mimicry that should not be, and she absolutely should not be here. Rage flares bright within her as memory comes alive and she realizes her fate. Death. It bites forth like jagged glass. His hands on her neck. Her manic glee from the chamalla driving her to bait him. His blood dripping onto her skin as he leaned over her. And the unexpected numbness taking hold as it all just slipped away.
The currents swirl around her, crackling with disorienting energy, and she curses him for trapping her here like an animal. She wants to lash out, but she refuses to give into the gut-wrenching terror that threatens to consume her. So instead, she allows her anger to seethe because it is the only thing she has left to hold onto as she stares into the dizzying streams.
A shiver runs down her spine when she begins to realize she truly isn’t alone. The currents are conscious, wraith-like. They are cold and reptilian and alive with vile curiosity and seem ready to devour her very soul. So she stares them down holding on tight to that malice inside because just maybe, it will be enough to keep them at bay.
When she does look at them, they call out to her in a raw metallic language that she can’t understand, and the core of her being tells her that she doesn’t want to either. And she wonders if she has gone mad because in her viper, the winds have always been her allies.
The wraiths study her unceasingly. They anxiously reach to touch her, but then nervously glance away at the last second because her mind seems to be the one place they are not allowed to touch. Their presence stings with an icy fire that is bone-sharp and she finds it hard to focus, but eventually she begins to understand the one thing that is of value to them because it is glowing like a night-light in the back of her mind. The vision. It is what he coveted, and in turn what made him covet her.
She had rolled her eyes when Roslin sought her out and pressed the chamalla in her hands. It was supposed to be a simple donut run and certainly not worthy of scripture recitations. But Roslin was insistent. It seemed like yet another lunatic raving, so Kara had tuned out the covert instructions, but certain words managed to filter their way in: Temple. Arrow Bearer. Five. Eye. Vision. And then she crashed and the temple was in front of her, and she couldn’t ignore the pull of the gods as it all went to hell.
Leoben had been so smug when he reached the temple. Hindsight tells her why it had been so easy to get the drop on him. But what she doesn’t understand - after all of his proselytizing - how he could risk the vision in her death?
And then dread settles like ice in her veins as the wind patterns dancing before her eyes starts to make sense. They don’t want her to stay in this place. They want her to join them down the pathway to an even greater hell.
* *
“Admit it. You like this don’t you? I think you get off on dying.”
“Kara, all things have a greater purpose.”
“So you like the pain?” she asks with a feral grin.
He stills beneath her and stares up with unnerving intent. “Don’t you know? It’s the pain that brings me closer to you.” His voice is strangely reverent.
The chamalla burns through her veins and she finds herself giving into the euphoria and letting go of her inhibitions. She is so intent on pinning him underneath her that she has no problem pressing her advantage and rocking her hips to indulge his sick fantasies. Her hands slide over his torso, and the flat of the knife glints hungrily as it follows their path, yet he remains passively underneath her.
The blade caresses him as if it were the flat of her tongue. It delves into the tempting spaces between fabric and skin before quick jerks divest him of his shirt. She watches him with hard eyes and laughs at how he almost begs her for any concession of touch.
“You want it. You really want it you sick bastard” She had been joking before, but the now dawning realization shakes her to the core and viciously pleases her all at the same time. The blade is sharp against her thumb as she tests it. She rolls her hips again and feels him shift underneath her betraying his tenuous restraint. He won’t give her the satisfaction of giving into her tease, but a strangled exhalation still escapes.
“Kara, just because she taught you pain, does not mean it has to control you. Let it go.”
She should have expected the sucker punch, but it hits her between the shoulder blades all the same. This time she won’t let him touch her past. This time, she is the one holding the knife. She has caught the scent of his blood and will sink her teeth into him and devour that vulnerability. And then she will let him go, wounded, just for the sadistic pleasure of catching him again and again. But most of all, she wants to call him on this addiction to their endless circle.
So she grinds down hard against his hips and revels at the slight break in his control. He arcs up against her seeking the warmth she is teasing him with. And since he is so willing to play this game, she decides it is time to teach him true pain. She splays her hand along his torso and feels his heart beat wildly beneath delicate skin. He is a blank canvas to her eyes, and like elegant calligraphy she proudly carves the letters into his chest. The blood blooms like ink leeching into porous paper, and his winces are discordant music to her ears.
**
Time has no meaning in this place. It just unravels before her in an endless stream. It numbs her to watch the ever-present static as the currents rush past her. The wraiths swarm around her thick as flies on the scent of blood, and the longer she watches them, the easier it is to recognize them and make sense of the complicated vortexes that they weave. And while she doesn’t want to, she slowly finds that there is a demented order to their insanity.
Still, she bristles every time one of the alien presences gets too close. Their strange mechanical whispers tell her that it can be so simple, and she wants to laugh at how easily they overlook the fatal flaw in their design. They fail to understand that the gods grant them only one life to succeed or fail with. Once it is over, fate can not be prolonged, because all roads will lead to the same end no matter how many times they are traveled.
These are the truths that she holds onto. Somewhere, her gods do exist, and the vision humming in the back of her mind is proof. And now that she is here – she knows that their endless reincarnations only serve to divorce them further from the gods because they will never receive communion in this place.
They skitter around her, feeding on her light, and she wants to scream until her lips crack open. So she focuses on what’s immediately in front of her – deflecting the unwanted scrutiny as they rush past. For all their curiosity and relentless urging, they do not stop their constant motion. Individual voices stand out - they are sharp and nervous, insistent and devoted, calculating and cunning, and strangely, maternal.
It is a long while before she takes notice of the other five - the ones that won’t approach her. They stand apart and do not get caught up in the dizzy machinations of the other wraiths. Instead, they wear time like a mantle and are not tempted by petty goals. A different knowledge burns inside of them and there is something decidedly familiar about their presence, but it does nothing to comfort her. They are a mystery and she wants to know why when she looks at them a faith that reflects her own is mirrored back at her. They may ultimately deceive her, but something prompts her to reach out, so she braves the treacherous currents and steps into the burning bright eye.
It is the Matriarch who approaches her with bold confidence and shrewd poise, and she thinks she can almost see an apology for what she is about to ask in her proud eyes. And when she speaks, Kara listens.
* *
He grimaces at the pain. His eyes are slightly unfocused, but still he allows her to mark him.
“How does it feel? I’ve seen the revulsion on your face when you stare at my tattoos. But you know what? I think secretly you are fascinated by them. Deep down, you wonder what it would be like. I think you want to be marked.”
“It’s a desecration against God to mutilate our bodies.”
His skin is clammy to her touch, and she savors each crimson line that she draws from his flesh.
“Well, since I’ve marked you, this time I think I’ll let you live. Even more, you’re gonna want to live. Because you want my mark on you. You want the reminder of me.”
“Are you finished?”
She smiles darkly at him. “It gets to you doesn’t it? Because you are so sure that you are supposed to guide me to my destiny, but in reality, you’re like all the others. You just want me to shut the frak up. And when I don’t listen, you want to hurt me. But you can’t.”
The blood trickles down his torso. It’s warm, and she drags her fingers through it, leaving messy trails before wiping the blood on her cheeks with two fingers like war paint. She cups his jaw with a vicious pressure that jams his neck back as she smears the blood on him as well.
“Admit it, you hate me for this. I can do this a thousand times. I can kill you a thousand times. And maybe I already have. But you can’t kill me because I’m not expendable.”
She knows she is pulling the monster’s tail, but her rage is pure and real and she just can’t let it go. And then a new thought dawns on her and she regards him with cold, calculating eyes.
“Tell me, did you ever die before you met me? Or is this what we are doomed to teach each other in every scripture-cursed reality before and after us.”
She can tell that her blasphemy gets under his skin, and she savors the small measure of triumph. She knows he hates to betray his patience, but cursing his god is an easy cheat.
“Your soul is important. You have a role to play, but this is the last time we can do this. You have to let this go,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, you want to make me find peace, do you? You want me to let go of my rage? Well, I find that this is the best way,” she says as she twists another letter into his skin.
He blinks back the pain, and underneath there is pity and she hates it. “Kara, there are some lessons even you will learn.”
She finishes her final cut and watches the blood slide down and pool on the floor. She can’t resist. She knows she has him worked up, and it’s too easy to play with fire, so she rocks her hips again in a steady rhythm. “Tell me how you want this,” she says, her voice low and husky. “Tell me how you need this. Tell me how you get off on this. Because death is intimate, and you love this intimacy. Come on, Leoben; tell me how you lie awake at night, dreaming of the moments when I kill you.”
She can see the conflicting emotions brought by the need to deny the small spark of truth in her words versus the selfish desire to grab hold of any token of understanding that she offers.
“You can’t stand it, can you? I can kill you over and over but you only get once. And in the deepest darkest moments that software doesn’t acknowledge exists, you can’t wait to hurt me. The need is so strong you can taste it.”
She is so caught up in her new assessment of the situation that she misses when he stills beneath her. She misses the coiling power behind his eyes. She misses his tells even though she should know them all too well.
Like a breaker has been tripped, he sits up abruptly, unseating her from his lap. And faster than she can think, he has flipped her over, pinning her with his knees on her shoulder.
“Kara that’s where you are wrong. It has always been my purpose to deliver you unto God. But you need not be afraid. God lives in all of us. And I told you, we’d see this through to the end.” He cups her face in his hands and jerks her head abruptly sideways with a sickening crunch. At first, the pain is blinding, but then it is nothing. The bile starts to rise and she realizes her whole body has gone numb.
“Our time left together is short. Remember you are special. Great things will happen from your influence. Hold onto the truths that have been revealed to you.” He leans down to whisper his final thoughts against her lips. “We will be together again. Death is only the beginning of this journey.”
She tries to scream in defiance, but no air is forthcoming. Of all the fiery deaths and brilliant explosions that she has imagined, she never once dreamed she would lose control of her fate away from the cockpit.
He gets up quickly, moving her like a rag doll to the center of the great eye on the temple floor. It comes alive with white light. He grabs a bowl that he has prepared and tilts her head back, dripping the thick and potent drug down her throat. The bitterness makes her eyes water and her mind swim, and the last thing she remembers before death claims her is his slow and measured voice.
“Heavenly Father, take the soul of Kara Thrace into your hands. Watch over her in this time of darkness and guide her to her destiny. Instill in her the preciousness of life and wipe her soul clean.”
**
“It’s taking too long,” she says as she hovers at the edge of the circle.
“There is no precedent for this. She is chosen. She will come back to us,” he responds with the eerie calm he always wears.
“Yes, but at what cost?” Simon replies stoically as he monitors the next vessel. “This is a delicate process with many opportunities for complications. If it were just the new body, it would be much simpler, but we have no way to predict how this might affect the human mind.”
Leoben just smiles and says, “That’s why we have to have faith. God is testing us in this.”
“But she is gonna fight it any way she can.” Sharon says with concern.
“She may need our help.”
“You’re just looking for an excuse to do that again.”
“And you think she will respond you?” She shoots back, quick to deflect the issue.
“Sharon and Kara were friends once.”
But Leoben just ignores the Five and the Three as they jostle for position. He smoothes his hand over Kara’s brow and says with a confident note of finality, “She will join us. It is her destiny.”
**
She comes away so full of dangerous knowledge that it is nearly bursting inside of her. She still doesn’t trust the other ones, but she thinks there is an understanding. They have an agenda too, and though it is still shrouded in mystery, her gut tells her that it is much more in line with her own. There is so much at stake - she can’t afford to frak this up. Or rather, if she does this right, she can frak things up perfectly.
It’s her choice, but it is a mockery of free will. It’s her opportunity to choose her own damnation. She could choose to stay here, try to deny them, and pray that they don’t have a way to crack open her soul. Or she could take their unnatural path and fight to live another day. She has never been one to go quietly into the night, but the thought of consciously surrendering to him makes her skin crawl.
She knows without a doubt that this can’t be her end. Privately, she says a prayer to Artemis for the strength of a good hunt. She knows the goddess would remind her that it is her duty to protect the vision. And it is her duty to deliver it to the twin of reason, because the knowledge can not die with her. She isn’t meant to spend eternity in this godsless place, and she knows she would sell her soul for the boon of a few pomegranate seeds in hell. She just tries not to think how Leoben has already fed them to her.
Ultimately, she gives into forward motion. She uses the data provided to her, realizing that once she starts down this path she may never be herself again. It is a risky gamble and she knows it, but she would rather trust in the cards because at least they always provide the opportunity to bluff what can’t be trumped. And since she was never whole in the first place, what’s one more fracture in the frakked up psyche of Kara Thrace.
This time, though, she sure as hell doesn’t want to remember before. She can’t bear to be trapped again. No memory would be a blessing compared to slowly dying inside while all of your freedoms are systematically stripped away as the days drag endlessly on. If she has a bastardized choice then it is this: she won’t remember. It’s the only way to truly protect herself.
She marshals her courage and reaches out for the code, feeling her way into its pathways. The wraiths hum with approval, and the path assimilates itself in front of her as she draws upon this newly imparted knowledge. The code is still twisted insanity, but she understands its rhyme and reason enough to see where things can go wrong. So she looks within herself and starts twisting the data and breaking the links.
Things start to unhinge in the back of the mind and she feels wildly drunk, unsettled, as fragmented thoughts lose the ability to complete themselves. She brutally divorces mind from memory, corrupting everything in her wake. It is excruciating, but the knife is sinful, and she has always been addicted to it. She warps some meanings and overwrites others, all the while purposefully forgetting the one who holds the key.
Her actions become sluggish, and it takes so much effort just to continue on. Eventually when it is all a broken jumble, the only thing left to do is give in to the current and let it pull her under and rest in the satisfaction of surrender.
Their howls assault her as they divine her purpose, and their true malevolence emerges as they try to tear at her. She might even be lost if not for the one who claims kinship and steps as a shield. But it is too late, the damage is done, and they can only shriek in frustration and wait for her next move.
When she lets go, she is hit by the rush of the winds, sucked into the updraft and soaring with an insane speed. It’s elemental and exhilarating, this release, and somewhere deep inside her she knows that flying has always been her lifeline. It’s so searingly beautiful that she wonders how she could ever have denied herself this.
Her soul feels lighter, freer. There is grace in flight, absolution from the weight that keeps her down. She knows this – even if her mind can no longer connect the sensation back to permanent experience. She knows she has become untethered, and in the end, the rush takes it away. She is finally free and she thinks she could ride the winds forever until she is jerked out of the air.
* *
The light is piercing. It stings as she gasps and chokes trying to relieve the burning pressure in her lungs. Nervous hands flutter over her, and voices murmur soft encouragements. They tell her to slow down, to breathe. Panic sets in as her airways lock up, and she has to force herself to stifle the choking reflex and wait for her throat to clear before she can gulp in a breath.
She coughs and pants, but slowly the rhythms of life return. She becomes aware and the voices take shape. “Kara,” they speak in hushed awe.
It is too much effort to move, so she lies there in the warm liquid and lets them take care of her. Everything is tingling and so overwhelming, but the warmth cocoons her as she shivers at the myriad of new sensations that wash over her. The voices tell her to take it slow and they seem to know so much. She tries to look around and acknowledge them but her vision won’t track. The voice to the left has taken her hand and laces his fingers through hers.
She turns to him and gradually begins to focus on his adoring face and how he raises her hand to his lips. “I’m glad you’re back.”
They look at her with joy, as if she is a precious new thing, and she wonders if she ever provided so much joy in her life before. She waits for her mind to latch onto something, but it is strangely blank, and while she knows she should be concerned by this, her mind can’t find purchase on anything to grapple with. It is as if the pathway is closed, and it takes too much energy to test that barrier. The world is a bright shiny future before her, so she focuses on the present and listens to the prickle down her spine that tells her not to ask them about before.
It’s easy. Too easy as one day bleeds into the next. Occasionally she catches a glimpse of other things – dark, gracefully curved lines on her arm or the feel of her stomach plummeting in her throat from defying gravity. Sometimes it is the phantom feeling that she should be soaring with the missing half of her soul. And sometimes it is a surprisingly vicious need to revel in bravado and exertion.
But as intriguing as those visions are, she doesn’t question them. Instead she is content to laze away the sunny afternoons in a field with her chin resting on his chest as the warm breezes play over their naked skin. Her fingers absentmindedly trace the puckered red ridges of a healed scar that bears her name. And something about the scar never fails to reach deep down inside and pull a smile to her face.
Fini
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