(First posted November 28, 2008)
Disclaimer: The characters and universe of Farscape are the property of the Henson Co. I have not made
any profit off this little tale … with the possible exception of having a ton of fun writing it.
Time Frame: Post-PKWars.
Test Driver: I always regret this, but I have posted this story without running it past a beta-reader first. All
oversights, mistakes, and typogoophical errors are mine, and mine alone.
Starburst Challenge 29 (hosted by PK Giggles): Take something we see in Farscape that has no lines and
make it sentient. Ever wondered what Winona thinks when John's holding her? How about D'Argo's Qualta
Blade? Well here's your chance. Take something -- either belonging to your favorite character or not -- and
make it the central character.
* * * * *
My master is dead.
He was the only one who has ever suspected that I have a soul.
I served the father before him. We fought together with courage, honor and distinction. We survived the great
battle of Gohrak Nrah, and when it was over we stood amidst the heaps of dead and dying, surrounded by the
weary and weeping. He drove me into the earth, knelt before me in the way I have seen some face an alter; he
rested his forehead against my hilt, and offered up thanks to his gods that I had held true. But he never
directed his words toward me.
The father’s father wielded me at the Siege of Rekmek. For more than fifty days and nights, we fought
alongside hundreds of valiant warriors, beating back wave after wave of attackers. And when the gates were
opened at last, admitting the relief battalions, he cradled me in his arms, murmured kind words about my
service, and pressed his lips against my warm metal.
I fought to the end with the one who came before him, the grandfather’s father. He cursed the merciless
invaders with his final breath; blood-dripping hands swung and thrust me into the advancing wall of enemy flesh
with the last of his strength. We went down together -- he to be trampled in the melee, I to clatter against stone,
be kicked into a corner where I would rest until discovered the next day. He cherished me in the same way as
all of the others before him, but he never spoke to me as though I were alive.
My master is dead. I fear that no other will discover that I have a soul.
I would have preferred to die with him, spitting defiance in the face of the ones who came to kill him until we lay
as one, two objects cold and lifeless on the ground. I was sent away instead, thrust into the hands of one who
knows nothing of fighting. Despite the way she clutched me to her chest, my skin quickly grew cold as the
sounds of my master’s final battle raged in the distance.
I felt nothing but anguish and rage for a time, futilely railing against my fate. She may have sensed some
portion of the storm howling inside me, for the moment came when she raised me up high, drove me down with
all her strength, and allowed me to smite the table. Some would have shattered; some would not have
succeeded in piercing the hard metal surface. I focused my grief into strength, held fast, and never faltered.
I plunged deep. The scar will remain there for all time, telling all who see it that there was one other who loved
and cherished Ka D’Argo.
My master is dead. I have been delivered into the hands of the son.
I will serve him well, as I did all those who came and went before him. He is young, he is brave, and he shows
signs of wisdom. Perhaps with time he will learn to caress me with cloth and fingertips, and to talk to me,
whispering promises of future valor and the glory that lies in store for the entire luxan race.
The moment may come when he leans close, head turned, as though he expects to hear an answer.
My master is dead. I live to serve the son.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *