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Who is your Favourite Guest Rebel?

Avalon - (Project Avalon)
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5% [8 Votes]

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What Dreams May Come by Anniew

What Dreams May Come


It is not over. She is too ancient, too cunning to let it end here. She feels each separate strand of her power yield and melt, the pure white of oblivion spread. Yet her lust to live still reaches leech-like, forcing the tendrils of her dying spirit to latch on to one of the sentiences around her, lodging deep within his soul.

The sensuality of the merging almost overwhelms her. A basket of fruit glows; the vibrant orange, the deep green of shiny leaves. So hungry. Starving. Pain pulls at the shrunken stomach. Tantalising smells rise sharp, nose-tingling, like rain and sunshine on the skin. Firm texture yields in a small hand; the shape nestles smooth and cool in the hollow of his palm. He bites into the thin skin and she tastes sweetness through a deep, bitter tang; oval pips sliding around the tongue.

The flesh yields its reservoir of juice; honey and lemon run down the throat. Intoxicated, she knows the fierce temptation that makes him grab the basket. She feels the hand jerking him back, cruel fingers pressing into his arm, the accompanying blow to the ear. Unbelievable pain as the floor impacts with his cheek and a heavy boot cracks into the fragile rib cage. Tears and snot dribble from eyes, from nose, into a mouth choking and gulping. Cold cramps his legs and arms as he hunches on his hurt.

She understands that a thief is who Vila was, who he is now, who he will always be. There is no more here.

She slithers on to other prey…

...exulting as she is assailed by terror: shouts, metal too hot to touch, the nausea of uncontrolled spinning. A voice on an intercom: Section 4! Section 4! All units regroup. Attack run commencing in three minutes! I repeat... Attack run.... She feels the shuddering impact of the tail-end of an explosion. Burning, acrid fumes sear the lungs. Now a wail of sirens, next the cries of an inner voice: Get away, ignore the discipline of training, save yourself - desert! She burns with his shame as he runs; a heat rash ceaselessly pricking and irritating under his layers of cool reason.

Painfully, she feels the genesis of his fierce pride, thin but metal-tough, that drives him down a hero's path to cauterise his guilt. She sips the panic sweating from his skin, licks the fear that wars with honour, rolls in her mouth the self-disgust he hides.

Knows that Tarrant seeks to find his own betrayal in those who share his journey. He will offer her no safe lodging.

Again she probes the dark, seeking fresh stimuli. A Möbius strip of memories drifting aimlessly collides with her path, trapping her in its coils. Inside, she chews on scraps of sunlit childhood dreams; their slopes now emptied, lost. She feels again the lonely hunger to belong. Her voice tears on a choking cry: a name - Zelda - lost among the whirling detritus of a burning world. Isolated from those who understood, denied abruptly by the one who could have saved her, Cally has abandoned hope. Cally will provide her with nothing to draw from but the ashes of ash.

Starved among plenty she flees, questing blindly ...

... and snags a stream of glorious anger, spiralling up on thermals generated by its heat. Looks down and sees a mentor’s body, cooling, cold, splayed in loose abandonment, red splashing the white tunic. Feels the mouth stretching wide, distorted by a hurricane of grief; for him, for her father. Witnesses the killer's smile and thrills as misery resolves to flaming, white-hot hate. Pushing more deeply, she thrusts her tongue to savour the taste of her host and knows it for innocence. Dayna's revenge will fail and she will die unsatisfied. Dayna has nothing more to give.

Ravening, she licks the air again, catching elusive scents from a vitality, green and virginal but nectar-sweet. Greedily she follows the trail, inhales the satisfying complexity of the fragrance - its tainted base notes of ancient horror and vendetta maddening her with desire. Coolly, an independent mind slides shut a door and keeps her out. Soolin allows no merger. Soolin will choose to die unknown.

Homeless, her essence is nearly exhausted. Drained and weak, she has no choice left. Unwillingly, she permeates the prison of the mind she has already touched; a mind as cold as her tomb. She endures the days fuelled by adrenaline-sweet highs; the nights’ dark silences. There are no dreams here in which to hide, nothing to feast on. She gnaws on dry bones. He has barred and triple-barred his heart - against her, against all - but will not let her go. Lashed to his iron will, they must endure together.
She peeks through cracks, sniffs the exhalations of a dreadful sigh, inhales corrupted air. Famished, at last she rouses, struggles for release...

... and stumbles with him to a homely hearth; a soul warmed by the burning coals of dreams which flame defiantly despite the fractured memories, the splintered pain of his losses. She basks in the unfamiliar pleasure of ordinary things: a breath that tickles; friendship; fragile hopes. This honesty, a wish for right, belief - rich sustenance for her dwindling strength - offers her hope for life.

But even as she reaches out, she knows her spirit's warder cannot see the place set for him by this fire; she knows he will never let himself rest, feet-up, before the comfort of Blake's waiting warmth.

She cries out, knowing she has lost, yet willing him to trust, begging he will not fire.

Avon, let us live! I want to live...to live...


All original fan fiction hosted on Horizon is copyright to the individual authors. No attempt is being made to supersede any copyright held by the estate of Terry Nation, the BBC, B7 Media, Big Finish or any other licensees or holders of copyright on Blake's 7 material.


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