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Painful Symphony 5: Erosion
Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who just sat down next to you after singing that really sad song at Karaoke night.'
Erosion
Half-way to sliding onto the floor, her neck cricked where her head was still propped up by the back of the sofa, Elra scrunched up her face. She felt like she wanted to hug herself, to curl into a ball with her arms across her stomach like she would have around a bad case of indigestion, but it was something deeper inside her than her gut that ached. Listless, she lifted one heavy forearm and laid it across her eyes, feeling the chill points of tears on her cheeks.
None of them had moved much since returning from the debriefing. It hadn't been something they discussed. It was just that as soon as they got back to the nest, out of sight of the PAINFUL SYMPHONY's crew, behind the impenetrable armour of the 'PILOTS ONLY' sign on the door, Davin had gone limp, Crantz and Bochaw catching him and staggering to the battered old floral-print couch nearest the door. Vigong, for whatever reason, had gone to the kitchen chair someone had left out when the deployment orders had interrupted their session the previous afternoon.
Someone. It was hard even to think their name right now. Elra's eyes slid off the double-necked banjellion lying on the floor beside Vigong's ankle. In the rush, no-one had muffled the instrument, and its uncannily sensitive weaving of phosphor-bronze strings lay waiting for any sound to resonate with. It was tempting to believe that the banjellion had held onto the last notes of Tollex's lament the longest.
Elra had placed herself at the far end of the other sofa from them, pointedly leaving space for Tollex. Instead, her wingmate had hovered, first leaning on the back of the couch, then half-sitting on its arm for a while, then standing again, her hands never still. Finally she had gone to stand between the seats, close to Vigong's chair and the stack of drums Elra had been slowly collecting to make a kit of.
And she had sung. All Phonists sing in some way or other, even those without the capacity to vocalise; no-one could grasp music at the level needed to participate in a Phonic Link without being able to make music of their own breath. But few Phonists count their voices among their foremost instruments. Tollex did, and Elra had always loved her singing, whether in combat or at home in the nest.
The Old Shipper ballad that Tollex had sung for them, though, was like a sawblade being dragged back and forth through the centre of her chest. In it was the pain of a culture that had left behind Earth and humanity and been isolated in distant galaxies for centuries before reconnection. Somehow Tollex had transferred the full weight of that loss to the lost member of MARCH wing, the precisely-shaped silence in the middle of this room which was never silent.
It was hard to move. Her body still pouring viscously, slowly, off the couch cushion and down towards the floor, Elra looked at the wall behind Tollex, the cream bowl of the uplighter they'd salvaged and installed the previous year, up to the ceiling the wing had painted together after Davin had finally won his argument with Admiral Veen about their privacy. From where she lay, it was possible to convince herself that Norjatin was just over in the kitchen fixing drinks or something.
Finally, she met Tollex's eyes. The gentle lighting made deep shadows on her face that clouded her expression, and her stance was as martial as Elra had ever seen it. Feeling like she was rolling a boulder up a hill, Elra turned her head and looked at the empty place on the couch. When she looked back, Tollex had her head bowed. The muscles on the Old Shipper's bare forearms stood out above clenched fists.
Step rolling with stiffness, Tollex crossed to the sofa and lowered herself onto it. She sat forward, hands on her knees, legs together. Normally, her height and the breadth of her shoulders made the furniture look small, but her posture was so narrow and tentative that she seemed to shrink.
Elra reached out toward her wingmate, her arm flopping onto the cushions. At full reach, she could just about touch the wrinkles around the hip pockets of Tollex's flight suit. It felt cruel that they hadn't even had time yet to change out of their battle gear. The itches of being in uniform too long were beginning to pluck at Elra's awareness.
After a long time, Tollex reached down and took Elra's outstretched hand. She didn't seem to know what to do with it, though, just covering Elra's fingers with her own. Elra wriggled her fingers, trying to reciprocate the touch at least. It didn't help much. It was like the longing in Tollex's song, an absence that could not be completed. The perfect act of mourning for MARCH wing's lost member.
Erosion
And oh, for I am going, though I do not know the way,
For the last star that could guide me has been swallowed by the day,
So I reach ahead with fingers that are numbed by the cold,
Where the light from my home sun is a million years old.
Half-way to sliding onto the floor, her neck cricked where her head was still propped up by the back of the sofa, Elra scrunched up her face. She felt like she wanted to hug herself, to curl into a ball with her arms across her stomach like she would have around a bad case of indigestion, but it was something deeper inside her than her gut that ached. Listless, she lifted one heavy forearm and laid it across her eyes, feeling the chill points of tears on her cheeks.
None of them had moved much since returning from the debriefing. It hadn't been something they discussed. It was just that as soon as they got back to the nest, out of sight of the PAINFUL SYMPHONY's crew, behind the impenetrable armour of the 'PILOTS ONLY' sign on the door, Davin had gone limp, Crantz and Bochaw catching him and staggering to the battered old floral-print couch nearest the door. Vigong, for whatever reason, had gone to the kitchen chair someone had left out when the deployment orders had interrupted their session the previous afternoon.
Someone. It was hard even to think their name right now. Elra's eyes slid off the double-necked banjellion lying on the floor beside Vigong's ankle. In the rush, no-one had muffled the instrument, and its uncannily sensitive weaving of phosphor-bronze strings lay waiting for any sound to resonate with. It was tempting to believe that the banjellion had held onto the last notes of Tollex's lament the longest.
Elra had placed herself at the far end of the other sofa from them, pointedly leaving space for Tollex. Instead, her wingmate had hovered, first leaning on the back of the couch, then half-sitting on its arm for a while, then standing again, her hands never still. Finally she had gone to stand between the seats, close to Vigong's chair and the stack of drums Elra had been slowly collecting to make a kit of.
And she had sung. All Phonists sing in some way or other, even those without the capacity to vocalise; no-one could grasp music at the level needed to participate in a Phonic Link without being able to make music of their own breath. But few Phonists count their voices among their foremost instruments. Tollex did, and Elra had always loved her singing, whether in combat or at home in the nest.
The Old Shipper ballad that Tollex had sung for them, though, was like a sawblade being dragged back and forth through the centre of her chest. In it was the pain of a culture that had left behind Earth and humanity and been isolated in distant galaxies for centuries before reconnection. Somehow Tollex had transferred the full weight of that loss to the lost member of MARCH wing, the precisely-shaped silence in the middle of this room which was never silent.
It was hard to move. Her body still pouring viscously, slowly, off the couch cushion and down towards the floor, Elra looked at the wall behind Tollex, the cream bowl of the uplighter they'd salvaged and installed the previous year, up to the ceiling the wing had painted together after Davin had finally won his argument with Admiral Veen about their privacy. From where she lay, it was possible to convince herself that Norjatin was just over in the kitchen fixing drinks or something.
Finally, she met Tollex's eyes. The gentle lighting made deep shadows on her face that clouded her expression, and her stance was as martial as Elra had ever seen it. Feeling like she was rolling a boulder up a hill, Elra turned her head and looked at the empty place on the couch. When she looked back, Tollex had her head bowed. The muscles on the Old Shipper's bare forearms stood out above clenched fists.
Step rolling with stiffness, Tollex crossed to the sofa and lowered herself onto it. She sat forward, hands on her knees, legs together. Normally, her height and the breadth of her shoulders made the furniture look small, but her posture was so narrow and tentative that she seemed to shrink.
Elra reached out toward her wingmate, her arm flopping onto the cushions. At full reach, she could just about touch the wrinkles around the hip pockets of Tollex's flight suit. It felt cruel that they hadn't even had time yet to change out of their battle gear. The itches of being in uniform too long were beginning to pluck at Elra's awareness.
After a long time, Tollex reached down and took Elra's outstretched hand. She didn't seem to know what to do with it, though, just covering Elra's fingers with her own. Elra wriggled her fingers, trying to reciprocate the touch at least. It didn't help much. It was like the longing in Tollex's song, an absence that could not be completed. The perfect act of mourning for MARCH wing's lost member.