Word Count: 452
Date: 5th Oct 05
Summary: A Lord of Kobol contemplates the end.
Spoilers/Disclaimers: Not much unless you havent seen the mini...
For the record: I do not own, nor do I claim ownership of characters or concepts from Battlestar Galactica.
The sun beats down upon my weathered, beaten face as I cry, tears rolling swiftly down my cheeks as I behold the city that was once the greatest bastion of my children.
Caprica City .
Its towering, magnificently arrogant sky-scrapers, the sinuous, almost ethereal beauty of the curving, wavy forms of the new mixed in with the blunt, harsh but strong forms of the old.
Once, all were strong, alive, buzzing, now they are all blackened, dead, decaying, their guardians slain so cruelly and hatefully by the agents of the Fallen One.
This should not have been, he should not have been able to escape his prison of old, and yet, he did, because I lapsed, because for a mere eye blink against the fabric of the universe I turned my back, thinking all was safe.
I failed, I held a sacred trust, granted to me by the one who is truly eternal and I failed. Was bad enough that I allowed the 13 th to break off and then was complacent when their guardian was corrupted, Was bad enough that I did little as one by the one the others left, seeking adventures and existences more meaningful then our appointed task as guardians.
But to allow all that I had surveyed, all that I was responsible for, to die? Taken away, destroyed, defiled by the Dark One?
No, I have failed, I am failure.
Somehow I still, feel them, weak, almost pitifully so, and ever more distant, but I feel the tug that tells me that someone, somewhere is calling my name, whispering, beseeching, sobbing out their woes and asking, crying for my assistance.
Some must have survived, but how? The dark servants attack was swift, merciless, to fast by far for even one such as I to react, not across the whole of the twelve surviving colonies.
And there is a whispering in their words, a single name spoken more and more often in such hoping, beseeching, pleading and demanding tones, a word I have not heard in eons, a word that speaks to my mind of childhood, of beginnings, of where I was born, and where I was ended and made formless.
If some survive, if for whatever reason they have decided to return to the origin, then my duty has not been stolen from me, then I still; have a chance to make amends, to complete my dusty and perhaps earn my salvation.
If that is to be so, then they need to guided, eased along their path to Earth.
And somehow, somewhen, I must discover how to kill one of us, how to kill a man I once called brother.
I, Lord Apollo, must kill Kobol.