Worship
(First posted August 7, 2002)
Rating:  G.
Disclaimer:  Farscape and all related characters are the creation of, and are owned by, the Jim Henson
Company and the SCI-FI Channel.  I have no intention of infringing on their ownership or making any profit from
their labors, but only wish to sooth the burning fever of my Farscape dementia.  
Spoilers/Time Frame:  This takes place right after the tag of “John Quixote”.  Everything up to that point is in
danger of spoilers.  

*  *  *  *  *

Sharp sting, eyes water and his head spins for an instant.  He stares at his fingers as they tingle and go slightly
numb, leading the way for the rest of his body.  The pain is gone at last; the everlasting ache that is his one
constant, his guide-star, his unwavering waypoint.  His feet strike the deck plates a little early, settling down with
a slap before his brain thinks they’re supposed to arrive, turning his slow journey through the corridors into a
careful negotiation.  He’ll get used to it, he supposes, eventually, if it will leave him free to reconsider his life.  

“I heard I was a princess.”  

The quiet hymn of his religion.  The monks chanting in his soul, singing to him of love, betrayal, hope, pain,
passion and loss.  He bowed before the altar one time too many, and the curtain was torn aside to reveal the
charlatan pulling the levers of his heart.  He doesn’t know how to live without his faith yet, but he will surely
learn.  He moves on as he walks, pulling himself further away from the source of his pain.

Religion, cult, faith, need, desire, love, warmth, Aeryn.  The dam bursts and he drowns.  He stops, leans a
shoulder against Moya’s warm rib, feeling the small vibrations working their way into the bones of his ears, the
constant signals which tell him she is swimming through space.  Cups his hands, sharp snort, chill burst in his
sinuses, pain fades before the dust powdering his mind.

Faith beggars logic.  She was his one requirement for life.  How does one renew one’s broken devotion?  He
considers the great religions.  Catholic, Baptist, Hindu, Muslim, Jew, Hari Krishna, Moonie?  Survivalist, luddite,
trekkie.  Jehovah’s Witness, Morman, Taoist, Presbyterian, jogger, shopper, shipper, hippie, drinker, druggie,
hugger, bingo player.  What do they have that he doesn’t?  His aim is lost, his path shrouded, his way in this
strange place a maze between thorn bushes.  Should he shave his head, stand on a street corner and pass out
flowers to find his way back to the certainty of a single constant in his life?  He will go to his quarters, bow down
in the direction of the nearest known nexus, and perform the most demeaning of obsecrations before an idol
representing his goddess, if only the graven image will speak to him and tell him how to renew his trust.

He can sing the liturgy by heart.

“Anno wormhole, anno domini, in the forever glowing love of Zhaan …”  The notes drop at the end.  Touch his
lips to the lips of his goddess and sing the rest of the refrain in a minor key, the agony of dutiful bondage
carried in crystal fragility on the quiet notes.  “Then what does that taste like?”  

The choir sings back the response.  “
Yesterday.”  

Another dusting of his sinuses and he can continue the service, but he is the skeptic in the last pew now,
singing the Amens and genuflecting, but not certain that anyone is listening.  Zeus has fallen from his airy
mount, and the faithful wail, knowing that their world has come to an end.   

Have you wasted my death and the death of so many others?”  He doesn’t know.  The answer eludes him,
engulfed somewhere in the thought-battering discomfort that lurks around every corner of his mind.  He can’t
find one without the other, and can’t endure the other to consider the one.  It doesn’t hurt now.  He’s happy with
that for the small moment, huddling in the dullness of his senses.  There’s no reason to relive the small touches
to discover if he’s wasted something precious.  No requirement to find memories of a curve of a hip, glint of a
smile, the warmth of a touch that left him thrilling, thoughts spilling into senselessness with his love.  

Dust his brain, down the drain, let him spiral into the place where he can think.  The air is thinner, the lights
brighter, and sounds sharper in this tenuous bubble.  He squeezes the bulb in his fist, letting its sharp joints dig
into his palm to make sure he’s still alive.  She’d given them something with one promise only to have it turn into
the Linda Blair purgative of all time, and he’s allowed her do it again.  A brain emetic, flushing out all data
without discrimination until he’s empty … and alone.  Holding himself carefully, certain that if he tips, he’ll spill it
out of its drug-built container and let it run back into his soul.    

High Andes candies.  Coca.  Climb to the pinnacle, paint yourself blue, chew the drug, have a vision, lead a
jungle crusade to destruction.  He won’t do that.  He sets the bulb down carefully, fingers not quite reaching as
far as he thinks they should.  He stares at it, waiting, knowing he doesn’t need it.  Quite yet.  He’ll just take it for
a little while, just a little longer.  

To dull the pain.  

To see the light.  

To find his sun.  


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