May As Well Be, Day 28: The Sound of Silence
“Stay with me, we’re almost through this,” Tavrien’s voice was just above a whisper. Fighting waves of nausea and light-headedness from the damage she’d sustained during the fight to the Citadel beam. The urge to lay where she was, win or lose, was overwhelming.
Anderson made the push to the beam and sprawled heavily wounded on the ground beside her. His breathing sound hoarse, ragged, full of fluid, “You did good, child. You did good. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Her eyes closed against the pain and dizziness, concentrating on keeping her breath shallow, pulling air in hurt too badly. Broken ribs were a definite possibility besides the myriad of smaller injuries she had to have. The battle continued to rage in the distance, ship debris floating between the stars, the flash of light from explosions blinding. It was the best view in the house. Ships moved with silent intention, like a dance choreographed with no music but the beating of hearts, and the battle-cries of all fighting to counted the steps. Within the observation deck, nearby machinery continued to whir and click, but the room sounded oddly quiet.
“Anderson?”
The undignified slump he’d been in was more pronounced, head drooping to one side, his chest no longer struggling to rise and fall in jerky movements. When he didn’t respond, Tavrien choked back a sob. The whole situation had to be a bad dream, they’d made it this far, moments away from saving the whole damned galaxy, and she hadn’t been strong enough at the end of things. Swallowing thickly, eyes stinging with unshed tears, she slowly repositioned herself nearer him.
“Sir?” Precious moments ticked by without a response, and her breath caught, shuddering deep within her chest. She moved to hold him, no longer caring to keep her hand pressed firmly against her side, applying pressure to the angry wound where she’d been unable to stem the flow of blood. She felt cold, numb, yet a flush rose to her cheeks, sweat began to bead at her upper lip and forehead, ears ringing. Anxious that what was logical, but her heart was denying, was the truth.
Her bloody, sticky prints smeared onto his uniform, painted his skin with grotesque warpaint as she held him close. This man had given so much of his time, knowledge, and kindness to her. He’d been as much a father to her as any man could be, and his dying breath was used to praise her. Throat constricting with grief, she cried. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, her mournful cries shattering the stillness, breaking the silence.