Good Advice
by
Dava Ellinger
mailto:dava_ellinger@yahoo.com
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Crichton straightened and replaced the fallen trinkets on their shelf. He began to pace the smooth bronze floor of Zhaan's
chamber, picking up the jars and gilded relics and putting them down again aimlessly, "I need some ... advice." He turned
to face the bed.
Zhaan sat with her long, silver-ringed hands folded in her lap, the silky blue fabric of her gown flowed over the gold-embroidered
cushions and pooled like water on the floor. Her rich voice was gentle, "I'm listening, John."
"Riddle me this." Crichton began to toy with the jeweled and gilded objects on Zhaans table. "We're lost, helpless, hopeless!"
A delicate glass vial broke in his fist. Zhaan's expression did not change as another memento disintegrated into pieces.
"Ow, damn," muttered Crichton as he extracted a bloody shard from his palm. Every way I turn all can I see is ... is darkness."
He placed the splintered glass on the table, shook out the pain, and turned to face her again "You told me once that time
and patience were the answer. But ..." he sighed, "I'm tired, Zhaan. I am not a hero, or a prince," he paused for a moment
and tapped nervously on the hilt of the pulse pistol strapped to his thigh, "... or even me". A hoarse whisper, "I don't know
who I am anymore."
"Do not abandon hope." Zhaan lifted her hands in a graceful gesture, "I found my way through darkness, and despair, and
you will too. The innocent Crichton I knew still lives. There is still a part of me in you, reaching for the light," she smiled
serenely, "and it is not so dark as you think."
Crichton smiled past unshed tears, "Saint Zhaan." He picked up another of Zhaan's trinkets, and slumped against the wall,
turning it round and round in his hands. "I just ... I don't ... I don't know how much longer I can go on." He sighed, "I've
lost everything, everything that I had back on Earth, everything I thought I had here ..." he closed his eyes for a moment,
"... even Aeryn," he opened his eyes and blew the dust off the tiny golden box in his hand, "even you."
His memories reached out a hand to him, "I would be here for you if I could, John."
As he reached out to take her hand the memory began to fade. "Oh, Bluey ... we need you so badly." He knelt on the floor,
the surface rough and blackened like the walls, littered with broken ornaments, and coated with dust. In the dark room, the
tears began to fall.
"Do not forget me, John."
"Forget her John!" Crichton felt the hard, leathery grip on his shoulder, and heard the hated whisper in is ear, "Forget
Zhaan, forget Aeryn ... Only I can help you."
"I told you to stay the hell away from me, Harvey!" Crichton dug his nails into his hand, where the wound still bled. "And
I don't want your help."
"Fine," the pooka withdrew his grip, "take your drugs, forget your pain, forget ..." his voice dripped with derision,"
love." He shooed away love like a swarm of gnats, "Drive it away! Only the wormholes matter now."
"Love ... ha ... love isnt easy to forget, even when we want to." Crichton stood up and walked to the door. "Which you
would know if you had ever loved anybody but yourself, you Sadistic prick! Pain, though ..." Crichton opened his fist, the
cut on his palm was already scabbing over, "it can be so easy. Go away Harve."
"Life is pain, John," Harvey sneered, "Anyone who says differently is selling something."
"Stop quoting," he grabbed Harvey by the throat, shaking him for emphasis, "stop rummaging around in my head," he pushed
the pooka away, "and get out!"
Harvey spread his hands and smiled in mockery
of friendship, "Oh, come now, John."
"OUT!" Harvey vanished.
Crichton walked away. The box sat forgotten on the floor, lid gaping. It was empty.
~end
